I thought I'd nailed the packing for our Smaland trip until I realised, somewhere past Linkoping, that my walking boots were still sitting in the hallway at home. Not tucked in the boot of the car, not hiding under a seat. Properly at home, next to the umbrella stand, presumably having a laugh about it. My partner gave me that look - you know the one, fond exasperation mixed with mild despair - and I spent the next hour of motorway convincing myself that trainers would be absolutely fine for coastal hiking. They would not, as it turned out, be absolutely fine. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

The journey to Rafshagen had already been a proper adventure. We'd flown to Copenhagen and hired a car, because apparently I enjoy stressing about foreign road signs and unexpected toll bridges. The drive across the Oresund Bridge was genuinely spectacular though, that sudden shift from Danish flatness to Swedish forests feeling like crossing into another world entirely. By the time we reached Kalmar, my thighs were sticking to the rental seats and I'd developed an unhealthy relationship with a bag of salty liquorice I'd bought at a service station.

Rafshagen itself appeared down a narrow track that our sat-nav clearly considered more suggestion than instruction. The holiday home sat among birch trees with that particular Scandinavian modesty - nothing showy, just clean lines and enormous windows that seemed to drink in the surrounding green. I was out of the car before we'd properly stopped, stretching my legs and immediately being attacked by a cloud of enthusiastic midges. Welcome to Sweden in July.

The key was in a lockbox, which I fumbled with for an embarrassing length of time while my partner unloaded cases. The door opened onto a smell of pine and something faintly citrus - those little domestic details that instantly make a place feel cared for. The living area was all pale wood and practical furniture, the kind that says "yes, please do put your feet up" rather than "admire me from a respectful distance." I made straight for the deck, shoving the glass door open with my shoulder.

That's when the weather announced itself properly. We'd arrived in sunshine, warm enough that I'd already rolled my sleeves up with optimistic abandon. But standing on that wooden deck, looking out towards where I knew the coast lay beyond the trees, I watched a bank of grey advance across the sky with the determined pace of someone who knows exactly what they're about. The temperature dropped maybe ten degrees in as many minutes. My partner joined me, cup of tea in hand, and we stood there in mutual silent appreciation of our poor life choices.

"We'll walk tomorrow," I announced, with the confidence of someone who hadn't checked a forecast. "Proper coastal hike. The Kalmar Strait's supposed to be gorgeous."

The rain started that evening, gentle at first, then settling into a persistent drumming against those enormous windows that made the whole house feel like a boat. I lay in bed listening to it, trainers already mocking me from the corner, wondering if the weather would break by morning.

It didn't. Not properly. The next three days brought what I can only describe as meteorological indecision - bright intervals that tempted you out, followed by sudden showers that sent you scurrying back. We attempted a walk to the nearest stretch of coast, a couple of kilometres through woodland that smelled intoxicatingly of warm resin and damp earth. My trainers lasted approximately forty minutes before the path turned muddy and I found myself sliding about with the grace of a newborn giraffe. We reached a rocky outcrop above the water just as the heavens opened properly, and huddled under a stunted pine like a pair of drenched squirrels.

Here's the thing though, and I say this with the wisdom of someone who spent a week in inadequate footwear - that unpredictable weather forced a pace I didn't know I needed. We walked shorter stretches, more often, rather than marching determinedly towards some distant viewpoint. We stopped at a tiny beach where the water was that impossible Baltic clarity, cold enough to take your breath but irresistible on the warmer afternoons. We found a cafe in a nearby village, nothing fancy, just excellent coffee and a proprietor who tolerated my attempts at Swedish with patient amusement.

By day four, I'd borrowed a pair of wellies from a neighbour who appeared to find my situation genuinely tragic. The walking transformed completely. We covered the coastal path east of Rafshagen properly then, through meadows thick with wildflowers and along rocky shores where the pines grew at impossible angles. The weather still couldn't commit - sun, cloud, brief showers, repeat - but I stopped minding. There's something about walking in changeable conditions that keeps you present, alert to shifts in light and wind, rather than plodding towards a destination with your head down.

One evening, the clouds cleared with theatrical timing around eight o'clock. We walked down to a small harbour we'd discovered, the water glassy and still, the sky turning that particular Nordic pink that seems to last for hours. My feet were damp despite the wellies, my legs tired from a week's accumulated wandering, and I stood there thinking about those abandoned boots at home with something approaching gratitude. Sometimes the wrong preparation leads you somewhere unexpected. Sometimes you need to slide about in inappropriate trainers to appreciate borrowed wellies and uncertain skies.

We left Rafshagen on a morning that promised actual sustained sunshine, which felt almost like a joke by that point. I drove away with wet shoes in a plastic bag and a list of paths we hadn't finished, already plotting excuses to return. The Oresund Bridge was just as spectacular heading south, though I barely noticed, too busy replaying that harbour evening in my head. Next time, I told myself, I'd pack properly. But part of me knew I probably wouldn't. The mishaps have their own way of making the memories stick.