The thing about driving to Smaland is that you think you've prepared, and then the sat nav decides you've had quite enough of tarmac thank you very much. We'd been on the road from Gothenburg for about three hours when ours cheerfully directed us down what I can only describe as a gravelly suggestion between two forests. My partner, ever the optimist, said it would be "character building." I said something less printable when the hire car's undercarriage scraped for the third time.

We were aiming for a little place near Kvillsfors, just south of Vetlanda, a red wooden cottage we'd booked through Novasol. The photos had shown a proper Swedish idyll - lake nearby, forest everywhere, the sort of place where you expect to see a moose peer through the window judging your coffee choice. What the photos hadn't conveyed was how spectacularly easy it is to miss the turning when you're too busy arguing about whether that noise was the exhaust or merely the car giving up on life entirely.

We overshot by roughly four miles before realising our error. Four miles doesn't sound much until you're on roads where passing places feel like an afterthought and every junction looks identical. By the time we doubled back, found the proper track, and crunched up to the cottage, I was ready to embrace the nearest tree and never let go.

Then we stepped out of the car, and something peculiar happened. The silence hit us first - not the oppressive sort, but the kind that makes you aware you've been talking nonsense for hours. The cottage sat among birch and pine, red paint glowing against all that green, with a glimpse of water through the trees that turned out to be Lake Lillasjon. Our mishap with the sat nav had made us arrive later than planned, which meant the evening light was doing that magical Swedish thing where everything looks slightly golden and forgiving.

I stood there with my ridiculous wheelie case, still vibrating from the gravel road, and felt that particular holiday sensation of everything unnecessary dropping away. The cottage was simple in the best way - proper wood stove, kitchen that smelled faintly of previous occupants' coffee, a deck that demanded immediate occupation with a cup of tea. We dumped our bags and did exactly that, watching the light change over the water and occasionally pointing at birds we couldn't identify.

The next morning, still jet-lagged and waking at an embarrassing hour, I took a wander while my partner snored contentedly. Without any plan whatsoever, I found a path behind the cottage that wasn't on any map we'd seen. It led through birch woodland to a small clearing where someone, years ago, had placed a rough wooden bench facing the lake. I sat there like a trespasser, waiting to be moved on by officialdom, until it became clear that nobody was coming and this was simply a spot that existed for whoever happened upon it.

That became our pattern over the days that followed - deliberate aimlessness. We'd set out after breakfast with vague notions, then abandon them the moment something interesting appeared. A track that looked promising. A clearing with mushrooms we didn't dare pick. Once, a small beach on the lake where we swam despite the water's enthusiasm for reminding us we were alive.

The area around Kvillsfors isn't exactly undiscovered, but it's not polished for visitors either. We found a farm shop by following a hand-painted sign that looked older than I was, bought cheese from a woman who spoke approximately twelve words of English and communicated mainly through expressive hand gestures. We got properly lost on a forest road that petered out into nothing, had to reverse for nearly a mile, and laughed until we cried.

By the end of the week, that sat nav mishap felt less like frustration and more like introduction. We'd arrived flustered and slightly broken, and Smaland had simply waited for us to catch up with its pace. Some places reward intention; this one, we found, rewards the willingness to go slightly wrong and see what turns up.