I have never been brilliant with directions, which is how I found myself standing in a petrol station forecourt near Kalmar, frantically waving my phone at the sky and trying to persuade Google Maps that I had not, in fact, driven into the Baltic Sea. The hire car was making that disapproving ticking sound cars make when they have been running too long, and my partner was doing that thing where they smile very patiently and say "no, no, you're doing fine" in a tone that suggests I absolutely am not.

We were looking for Rockneby, a little coastal spot in Smaland where we had booked a traditional Swedish holiday cottage through Novasol. The plan was simple: a week of walking, coastal wandering, and pretending we were the sort of people who owned boats. The reality, so far, involved a missed turning, a deeply confusing roundabout, and me confidently declaring "this looks right" approximately four times in succession.

The cottage itself appeared suddenly, tucked down a gravel track between pine trees and granite outcrops, and I felt that immediate relief of arriving somewhere that looks exactly like the photographs. Red wooden cladding, white trim, a little deck that seemed to hover over a garden thick with blueberry bushes and that particular Swedish stillness that makes you want to whisper. We dumped our bags and did what every British person does on holiday: made a cup of tea and stood in the doorway assessing the weather.

It was glorious. Twenty-two degrees, that soft Scandinavian light that makes everything look slightly golden, and a breeze coming off the water that carried the smell of seaweed and warm rock. We had packed for every eventuality because we are British and deeply pessimistic about sunshine, so I was wearing three layers and carrying a waterproof the size of a sleeping bag. My partner looked at me, looked at the sky, and suggested we attempt the coastal path immediately before I melted.

The walking around Rockneby is understated and rather lovely. The coastline here is not dramatic cliffs or sweeping beaches but something more intimate: rocky inlets, little coves where you can sit on sun-warmed granite and watch the water, paths that weave between woodland and shore. We headed east toward the water, following a narrow trail that my phone assured me existed though the map was mostly a suggestion. The undergrowth was thick with ferns and the last of the wild strawberries, and every so often the trees would open up and there would be the sea, flat and glittering, with the Oland bridge a thin grey line on the horizon.

I was feeling terribly pleased with myself. The mishap of the journey was forgotten. I had even removed one layer. We found a perfect sitting-rock and produced our packed lunch with the self-satisfaction of people who had definitely planned this rather than panic-bought sandwiches at the same petrol station where I had earlier been directionally humiliated.

Then the weather turned.

Not gradually, not with warning, but with that particular Scandinavian efficiency that feels almost personal. One moment we were basking; the next, a wind arrived from somewhere near the Arctic carrying grey clouds that stacked up like dirty plates. The temperature dropped what felt like ten degrees in as many minutes. My partner, who had sensibly brought a proper jacket, watched me wrestle back into my three layers plus emergency waterproof with the expression of someone trying not to laugh at a toddler.

We walked back rather more quickly than we had walked out, the coastal path now slick with sudden rain, the granite darkening, the sea turning that milky green it gets before a proper storm. I slipped on a wet root and performed an elaborate recovery dance that I felt sure deserved some kind of score. My partner did not offer one.

By the time we reached the cottage, we were soaked and ridiculous and laughing, and I understood something I should have known from the start. The weather here does not care about your plans. The walking is wonderful precisely because it is not predictable, because the same path in sunshine and in sudden rain becomes two entirely different places. We spent the evening damp and slightly humbled, drinking wine on that little deck while the storm passed overhead and the pine trees dripped onto the gravel below.

The forecast for the week was changeable. I decided not to check it too carefully. Some things, I have learned, are better approached with layers and low expectations.