Getting to Froevi took roughly forever and a bit, if I am honest. I had been dreaming of a proper Swedish escape for months, and there I was, finally trundling through Orebro county with a hire car full of snacks and misplaced optimism. The satnav had given up somewhere near Karlstad, so I was navigating by instinct and a crumpled printout that I now suspect was upside down. The mishap came at a petrol station about twenty minutes from the property. I hopped out, stretched my legs, and managed to lock the keys in the boot. With the engine running. In my defence, I had been awake since four that morning, and the coffee from Arlanda had long since deserted me. A very patient attendant named Lars helped me call for assistance, and I spent forty minutes leaning against the pump pretending I had meant to stop for this long anyway.

By the time I actually pulled onto the gravel track leading to Froevi, the sun was doing that golden, slanting thing that makes everything look like a film set. The cottage sat among proper Swedish woodland, not the manicured sort you see in brochures but the real, mossy, slightly mysterious kind. Birch trees everywhere, their white bark catching the light, and the faintest smell of pine drifting through the open car window. I sat there for a moment, engine off, just taking it in. The key was in a lockbox, which I fumbled with due to still being mildly traumatised by the boot incident, but eventually the door swung open and I stepped inside.

The first thing that struck me was the warmth. Not temperature warmth, though the underfloor heating was doing its job nicely, but the feeling of a place that someone had actually thought about. The living area had these enormous windows looking straight out into the trees, and I found myself standing there like a lemon, bags still in the car, just staring. The kitchen was proper Scandinavian simplicity, all clean lines and everything in its place, but not aggressively minimalist. I could see myself actually cooking there, which is saying something given my usual holiday approach of cheese and whatever bread is nearest.

I dumped my stuff in the nearest bedroom, which had that lovely faint scent of wood and fresh linen, and immediately went to explore the terrace. The outdoor furniture was still out, slightly damp from morning dew, and I wiped a chair with my sleeve and sat down. A squirrel appeared on a branch overhead, gave me the once-over, and decided I was beneath contempt. Fair enough, I thought. I had arrived flustered and ridiculous, and this place was already quietly insisting that none of that mattered.

The lake was a short wander down a proper path, not one of those misleading tracks that peters out into brambles. The water was still, reflecting the trees and the pale sky, and I stood on the little wooden jetty feeling rather pleased with myself despite everything. There is something about Swedish lakes that makes you feel you have stumbled onto a secret, even if thousands of people have stood in exactly the same spot.

Back at the cottage, I made tea with the provided kettle and sat by the window as the light faded. The trees turned silvery, then dark, and somewhere an owl started up. I thought about my frantic morning, the locked keys, the upside-down map, and how I had worried this trip would feel rushed and wrong. Instead, Froevi had caught me like a safety net. I was already plotting which window seat would be mine for the week, already half in love with the quiet. Some arrivals are chaos, and some, against all odds, become exactly what you needed.