I should have known that twelve hours of driving, a ferry crossing, and a questionable service station hot dog would end with me trying to unlock someone else's holiday cottage. There I stood at midnight in Hollviken, jiggling a key in a door that stubbornly refused to budge, while my partner hissed "are you sure this is it?" with increasing frequency. The cottage looked right. The name matched. But the key? Decidedly wrong. Turns out I had wandered three doors down in my bleary state, lured by identical red timber cladding and the universal Swedish commitment to sensible architecture. The actual cottage, when we found it, had a far more welcoming key box and, crucially, the correct house number.

The mishap set the tone nicely. We tumbled through the door of our proper Hollviken/Naset cottage laughing rather than bickering, which felt like a small marital victory worth noting. The first thing that struck me was the smell. Not the musty fug you sometimes get in holiday lets that have been sealed up for weeks, but something cleaner. Pine, perhaps, or just the ghost of previous guests who had actually opened windows. The heating had been left on low, and the place radiated that particular Scandinavian warmth that makes you want to shed layers immediately and pad about in socks.

I did exactly that, abandoning my shoes with the theatrical relief of someone who had been wearing them for fourteen hours. The living area opened up before me, all light wood and uncluttered surfaces, with windows that even in darkness promised something interesting beyond them. I could hear the sea. Not dramatically, not crashing against cliffs, but that steady, patient rhythm that tells you water is nearby and has absolutely no intention of going anywhere.

The kitchen demanded investigation despite the hour. I am one of those people who judges holiday accommodation primarily by its cooking facilities, a habit that has led to disappointment in French gites and unexpected joy in Spanish apartments. This one passed inspection with flying colours. Proper knives, more than one saucepan, and a coffee maker that looked like it meant business. I ran my hand along the counter and found it spotless, which I mention only because I have developed a sixth sense for the places where cleaners have done a cursory wipe versus the ones where they have actually cared.

My partner had already located the bedroom and was making noises of approval. I found him standing in the doorway of what would be our room, pointing mutely at the ceiling. Skylight. A generous one, currently showing nothing but black sky and what might, if you squinted optimistically, be a star. We stood there like idiots, necks craned, too tired to properly appreciate it but knowing somehow that we would.

The bathroom offered underfloor heating, which I discovered by accident when I wandered in barefoot seeking the loo. That glorious moment of unexpected warmth against cold feet ranks among the great small pleasures of travel, up there with finding your luggage first on the carousel or getting the last pain au chocolat. I may have stood there longer than strictly necessary.

By the time we had done our cursory tour, opened every cupboard with the nosiness of people who would definitely not snoop in a friend's house but feel entitled in a rented one, and made the obligatory cup of tea with teabags we had brought from home like the hopeless Brits we are, it was past one in the morning. We collapsed onto the sofa, too wired to sleep, too exhausted to properly function, and watched the darkness beyond the windows begin its slow, barely perceptible shift toward something lighter.

I remember saying something profound like "this was worth it" before my partner started snoring gently beside me. The mishap with the wrong door already felt like the opening anecdote of a good trip rather than an ominous beginning. The cottage had that rare quality of immediate rightness, the sense that you could settle here without the usual adjustment period of working out which tap runs hot and where the light switches hide. Hollviken had us, slightly confused, very tired, and entirely ready for whatever the morning would bring.