I have never been particularly good with ferries, and my trip to Helsingborg proved this in spectacular fashion. We had driven down from Gothenburg, full of excitement about our week in Skane, and I had insisted on taking the Helsingborg ferry across from Denmark just for the experience. Twenty minutes of mild seasickness later, I stepped off the boat convinced I was a hardened sailor, only to realise I had left our entire bag of snacks and my daughter's favourite stuffed rabbit on the passenger deck. The dash back up the gangplank, arms windmilling, shouting apologies in broken English to bemused Danish crew members, is not something my family will let me forget in a hurry. The rabbit was retrieved, dignity less so.

The cottage sat on the edge of town, a proper Swedish affair with pale wooden cladding and a garden that seemed to have been arranged by someone with a very relaxed attitude to straight lines. My first impression, after the rabbit debacle, was how gloriously quiet everything felt. Not the oppressive quiet of an empty house, but the settled hush of a place that knows exactly what it is. The key was in a little lockbox, which I fumbled with for longer than necessary, still slightly flustered and harbouring a faint suspicion that the ferry crew were watching from binoculars across the water.

Stepping inside, the smell hit me immediately - that particular Scandinavian combination of wood, something faintly herby, and the ghost of a thousand previous family breakfasts. The kitchen was compact but somehow generous, the sort of space that makes you want to attempt proper cooking rather than rely on the emergency pasta you packed. My wife headed straight for the coffee maker, a ritual I have learned not to interrupt. The children discovered the garden within approximately forty seconds, drawn by what I can only describe as an extremely confident apple tree that had deposited fruit across the lawn with cheerful abandon.

I found myself standing in the living room, still clutching the rabbit, feeling that particular shift that happens when a holiday proper begins. The furniture was simple, unfussy, the kind that does not mind sandy feet or spilled juice. Large windows framed a view of greenery that seemed almost aggressively verdant, as if Skane was showing off slightly. I had worried, briefly, that a cottage holiday might feel too basic, too far removed from the city breaks we usually favoured. That worry dissolved somewhere between noticing the well-stocked bookshelf and watching my son attempt to climb the apple tree with the reckless optimism of a child who has never properly fallen out of anything.

The bathroom was spotless, heated floors included, which felt like an almost decadent touch. I may have stood there longer than necessary, enjoying the warmth against my ferry-chilled feet, reflecting on how quickly I abandon my usual standards of stoic endurance when comfort presents itself. We are none of us quite as hardy as we pretend, and there is something genuinely restorative about admitting this in a Swedish bathroom with excellent water pressure.

By evening, we had established our pattern without discussion. The children ran between garden and kitchen, my wife produced something excellent from the local shop in Raa, and I sat on the small terrace with a beer, watching the light do that prolonged Scandinavian fade that never quite seems to end. The rabbit sat beside me, slightly damp, a veteran now of international waters. I thought about the ferry, the ridiculous dash, the gentle absurdity of family holidays where nothing goes quite to plan and everything works out regardless. Helsingborg had not asked me to be competent, or organised, or anything other than present. I was more than happy to oblige.