I set off from the ferry with the satnav confidently promising twenty minutes to Skogshyddan, yet somehow ended up on a gravel track that narrowed until the wing mirrors brushed the pines. When the wheels finally crunched onto the proper drive I was grinning like an idiot, convinced the place would be every bit as peaceful as the photos. My first proper welcome came from the neighbour, an elderly chap called Lars who was already leaning on his fence with a mug of coffee. He peered at my number plate, then at me, and asked in slow English whether I had managed to get lost on purpose.

Within minutes he had introduced his wife, Maj, who appeared with a plate of cardamom buns still warm from the oven. They both seemed delighted that someone from England had chosen their quiet corner of Soedermanland rather than heading straight for Stockholm. While I unpacked the car they quizzed me about British weather, football, and whether we really put vinegar on chips. I answered as best I could, trying not to laugh when Lars insisted that real pickled herring would sort out any homesickness.

By the time the kettle had boiled for a second round, another neighbour wandered over, a woman called Anna who ran the tiny kiosk at the end of the lane. She wanted to know if I needed milk or bread and offered to leave a bag by the door each morning. In return she asked whether I could teach her dog to stop chasing squirrels; apparently the creature had already destroyed three garden gnomes this summer. We stood chatting while the dog in question lay snoring at our feet, completely uninterested in redemption.

Later that evening Lars reappeared with a small folding chair and a thermos of blueberry soup. He settled beside the porch and told me about the local fishing competition that happened every August on the lake just beyond the trees. The prize, he said proudly, was a plastic Viking helmet spray-painted gold. I asked whether anyone ever caught anything worth eating and he shrugged, admitting the real fun was the post-competition sausage barbecue.

What struck me most was how quickly these brief exchanges turned the cottage from a simple rental into somewhere that already felt known. I had arrived expecting silence and instead found myself part of an ongoing conversation that wandered from weather forecasts to the correct way to stack firewood. Sitting there with the scent of pine and warm buns still in the air, I realised my only real plan for the week was to keep listening.