I have never been so grateful to see a red wooden house in all my life. Twelve hours after leaving Gatwick, there I stood in the middle of Smaland, Sweden, clutching a broken suitcase handle and a very damp map, wondering how I had managed to get lost on a road with exactly one turn.

The journey itself had been smooth enough. Flight to Stockholm, train to Linkoping, then a hire car that smelled faintly of fish and optimism. I had been feeling terribly pleased with myself for navigating the E22 without incident. The sat nav had other ideas, of course, sending me down a gravel track that grew progressively more apologetic until it simply stopped at a field of confused-looking sheep. I reversed for what felt like three miles, hit a puddle of spectacular proportions, and arrived at the Vimmerby holiday home with one shoe squelching and my dignity in tatters.

The owners, a lovely couple called Lars and Ingrid, were waiting on the porch. They did not laugh at my state, which I found almost more embarrassing. Ingrid simply handed me a towel and said, "The lake is warmer than you would think," as if damp English tourists arrived every Tuesday.

The house itself was everything the photographs had promised and somehow more. Traditional red timber, white trim, a proper porch with two wooden chairs that looked like they had been waiting specifically for me. Inside smelled of pine and something baking, which Ingrid admitted was an apple cake she had left as a welcome. I ate a slice standing at the kitchen window, watching the light move across the garden, and felt something in my chest unclench for the first time in months.

That first afternoon, I did almost nothing. This was the point, I reminded myself. I had come to Smaland specifically to stop achieving things. I sat in one of those porch chairs with a novel I had been carrying unread since March. Every twenty minutes or so, a butterfly would land on the lavender bush nearby, perform whatever business butterflies consider urgent, and depart. I found this completely gripping.

The garden sloped gently down to a small jetty, and I wandered there in bare feet, still in my one dry sock. The lake lay flat and silver, bordered by forest that looked almost impossibly green. A single rowing boat was tied up, oars neatly stowed. I did not take it out. The possibility of rowing was enough.

Lars had mentioned a village shop about two kilometres away, and I walked there the next morning at a pace that would have horrified my London self. The road wound through forest, dappled with light, and I passed perhaps three cars in forty minutes. The shop sold everything from fresh herring to woollen socks, and I bought bread, cheese, and a jar of cloudberry jam purely because the label looked cheerful. The woman behind the counter asked if I was staying "at the red house," which apparently required no further identification. She was right, of course.

Back at the house, I established a routine of magnificent laziness. Morning coffee on the porch, watching the mist lift off the water. A slow walk to the jetty with my book. Reading two chapters, napping, reading one more chapter, considering a swim, deciding against it, feeling triumphant about having considered it. Lunch was whatever required no cooking. Afternoon brought the sun around to the garden's best spot, and I would drag a blanket there like a cat seeking warmth.

I did explore, but gently. A path through the woods led to a smaller lake where someone had left a rope swing, presumably decades ago, now frayed and wonderful. I sat on the bank and watched dragonflies argue over territory. Another day I cycled to a nearby farm where they sold eggs and honesty-box strawberries, and I ate the entire punnet on the return journey, juice staining my fingers like a small crime.

The mishap with my suitcase had forced me to travel light, which turned out to be a gift. Three t-shirts, two books, one slightly heroic pair of walking sandals. I stopped checking my phone after the second day, not through virtue but because there was simply nothing I wanted to know from elsewhere.

On my final morning, I woke early and took that rowing boat out for the first time. The lake was perfectly still, and I rowed badly but happily to the middle, then let the oars rest. The sun was already warm on my neck. A fish jumped somewhere, the sound carrying across the water like a punctuation mark. I thought about all the holidays where I had rushed from sight to sight, collecting experiences like stamps, and I laughed at myself a little. Here I had done almost nothing, and it had been everything.

Ingrid found me back on the porch later, still in my damp sandals, finishing the last of the apple cake. She asked if I had enjoyed my stay. I told her I had barely moved for a week, and she nodded as if this were the highest possible praise. She was not wrong.