I have never been so grateful for a thermos of tea in my entire life. There I was, trundling north from Stockholm Central on a train that felt older than some of the Viking artefacts I'd gawked at the previous afternoon, clutching my flask like a lifeline. The mishap? I'd managed to leave my proper winter coat on the luggage rack of the Arlanda Express. One moment I was admiring the frost on the window, the next I was watching my only decent layer disappear towards the city centre on an entirely different train. Brilliant start, that.

By the time I reached Bergshamra, the February afternoon was already dimming to that particular Swedish blue-grey that makes four o'clock feel like midnight. The Roslagen countryside lay under perhaps six inches of snow, untouched in places, and my inadequate fleece was no match for the Baltic chill sneaking in from the east. I found myself doing that peculiar British thing of pretending I wasn't freezing, shoulders hunched, breath clouding, while I fumbled with the key box at the Carlberg property.

The cottage sat among birch trees stripped bare for winter, their pale bark luminous against the gathering dark. A single light burned in the window, left on by the letting agency I presumed, and I cannot adequately describe the relief of that small yellow square. Inside, the wooden interior smelled of pine and something faintly smoky, perhaps from summers past. The air held that particular stillness of a place long closed against the cold.

I spent my first twenty minutes simply standing on the threshold, warming my hands on a radiator that clanked with the enthusiasm of an elderly relative. The darkness outside was absolute now, the sort that makes you understand why Scandinavians become so obsessed with lighting candles. I found eleven of various sizes and lit them all, transforming the place into something almost aggressively hygge, if you'll forgive the borrowed word.

The kitchen revealed a small stash of emergency supplies left by previous guests or perhaps the owners: coffee, some dubious-looking stock cubes, and a tin of cinnamon biscuits that I opened immediately. The kettle boiled with a roar that seemed to satisfy some primitive need. I stood at the window with my tea, watching snow begin to fall again, fat silent flakes that would add another layer by morning.

What struck me, once I'd stopped shivering and feeling sorry for myself, was how completely the season had shaped this first impression. In summer, Bergshamra would arrive as brightness and birdsong, the nearby archipelago waters inviting and blue. Now, in deepest winter, the same place offered something more demanding and, I suspect, more rewarding. The darkness forced a slowness I rarely allow myself. The cold made every warmth, every candle flame, every sip of tea feel earned rather than given.

I fell asleep early, wrapped in every blanket I could find, to the sound of snow sliding from the roof in soft thuds. The next morning would bring proper exploration, perhaps a walk to the frozen shoreline I'd spotted on the map, certainly more tea and that strange winter light that photographers chase. But those first hours, shaped so entirely by February's particular character, established something important. I had not come to conquer Stockholm's countryside or tick off sights. I had come, quite accidentally, to surrender to a season.