I should have known the holiday had truly begun when I managed to leave my house keys in the front door, all the way back in Milton Keynes. There they sat, dangling in the lock, while my family and I sailed up the M1 dreaming of Swedish lakes and proper coffee. My wife spotted the spare set in my rucksack after we'd already paid the airport parking, which felt like a small victory until I realised I'd also packed three left wellies and no right ones for our youngest. Still, we were off. That counts for something.

The journey to Sundbyholm was surprisingly painless after that. A quick hop to Stockholm, then a train that trundled through pine forests and past red wooden houses so perfectly Swedish I half-expected a moose to salute us at every crossing. By the time we reached Eskilstuna, I was already unwinding in that particular way you only manage on a proper family break, where the biggest decision looming is whether to have meatballs for lunch or dinner.

The cottage sat near Lake Malaren, and I will confess I stood in the driveway for a good minute just breathing it in. The air had that clean, slightly sharp quality that makes British air feel, in retrospect, like you've been inhaling through a sock. Our place was one of those traditional Swedish holiday homes, all wooden cladding and sensible Scandinavian design, with a veranda that practically begged for a cup of tea and a bit of nothing-doing.

My first impression, once I'd stopped gawping at the trees, was how immediately liveable it all felt. None of that anxious hovering you do in fancier accommodation, worrying about which sofa you're allowed to sit on. The kitchen had actual wooden spoons that had seen actual use. The living room had books in Swedish that I couldn't read but found weirdly comforting, like borrowed wisdom from someone else's grandmother. My daughter discovered the fireplace and asked if we could have it on immediately, despite it being August and roughly the temperature of a warm bath outside.

I unpacked badly, as is my tradition, leaving a trail of cases and confused belongings through every room. My wife found me twenty minutes later, still trying to work out the hob and muttering about induction technology being the downfall of simple living. She made me a coffee from the machine I'd failed to operate, and we stood on that veranda together while the children investigated the garden with the serious concentration of small people mapping new territory.

The lake glimmered through the trees, and somewhere a bird made a noise like a squeaky bicycle. I felt that particular shift happen, the one where your shoulders drop and you remember that nothing urgent needs doing for several days. My keys were safe in someone else's lock, my wellies were comically mismatched, and I was standing in Sodermanland with a coffee I hadn't made myself, watching my family discover a new patch of the world.

That evening we walked down to the water's edge as the light stretched long and golden across the lake. The children threw stones with more enthusiasm than skill. I thought about how I'd rushed through packing, rushed to the airport, rushed through the whole year probably, and how this place seemed to slow everything to walking pace without even trying.

We ate simple food that first night, bread and cheese and tomatoes that actually tasted of something, sitting out until the mosquitoes politely suggested we move indoors. I fell asleep to the sound of proper quiet, the kind that makes you realise how much noise you normally carry in your head.

Some holidays announce themselves with drama and spectacle. This one simply opened its door, handed me a comfortable chair, and waited for me to catch up. I was already half in love with Sundbyholm, and we hadn't even had breakfast yet.