I should have known the holiday was off to a classic start when I confidently loaded our suitcases into the hire car at Orebro Airport and promptly drove the wrong way down a one-way street. My wife gave me that look. The children found it hilarious. A man on a bicycle shook his head with the kind of weary sympathy only Scandinavians can muster. We were, against all odds, still in one piece and heading roughly toward Motala.

The drive from Orebro took about an hour, winding through forests that looked like they had been lifted straight from a postcard. Tall pines, the occasional red wooden house, and light that seemed to hang in the air differently somehow. Cleaner, perhaps. We stopped once for petrol and I attempted to pronounce "Motala" to the attendant, who politely corrected me three times before giving up and simply pointing at the map.

Arriving at the cottage felt like stepping into one of those slow television programmes the BBC sometimes shows when they have run out of ideas. The property sat quietly among trees, a traditional Swedish wooden house painted in that distinctive falun red with white trim. A small garden, slightly overgrown in the charming way that suggests nature is winning but not by much. The key was exactly where the instructions said it would be, which already put this holiday ahead of several previous disasters.

I fumbled with the lock, dropped the key once, and finally shouldered the door open with rather more drama than necessary. The interior smelled of wood and something faintly citrusy, perhaps from the cleaning products or perhaps just from being closed up in Swedish summer air. The children bolted past me, arguing instantly over who would claim which bedroom. My wife walked slowly through the living area, running her hand along the wooden dining table, and I could see her shoulders dropping by degrees. The journey mishaps were already fading.

The cottage had that particular quality of being properly equipped without being fussy. A kitchen with enough pots and pans to actually cook in, rather than the usual holiday home selection of one bent saucepan and a mysterious spatula. Windows that opened outward, letting in proper air and the sound of birds that I could not identify but found immediately soothing. A small television that looked like it had been there since approximately 2008, which we agreed was probably for the best.

I made tea with the electric kettle, standing at the kitchen window and watching a squirrel perform what I can only describe as acrobatics on a nearby fence. The tea tasted of nothing remarkable, yet I remember it more clearly than many supposedly better cups. There is something about that first hot drink in a new place, when the journey is finally over and the holiday proper has not yet begun.

My wife joined me, leaning against the counter, and we listened to the children discovering the garden. Shouts of discovery, complaints about insects, the universal soundtrack of family holidays. We had done nothing yet. Seen nothing of the town, walked none of the nearby paths, eaten no local food. But standing there in that simple kitchen, with my wrong-way driving still fresh in memory and the afternoon light falling through pine branches, I felt that particular contentment that comes from having arrived exactly where you needed to be, even if you took the scenic route to get there.