I had been awake since half four in the morning, survived a flight where the person in front reclined their seat before we'd even left Gatwick, and managed to navigate Arlanda Airport with all the grace of a sleep-deprived giraffe. So when the taxi finally dropped me outside the Groedinge in Stockholm, I was ready to collapse into anything resembling a horizontal surface.

That was the plan, anyway. What actually happened was that I stepped out of the car, stretched my legs with a theatrical groan that made the driver chuckle, and promptly watched my wheeled suitcase execute a perfect escape down the sloping driveway. I gave chase, of course, flapping my arms and muttering apologies to a bemused Swedish couple walking their dog. The case had enough momentum to reach the bottom and wedge itself against a rather handsome wooden fence, where it rocked gently as if pleased with itself. Not my most dignified arrival, but certainly a memorable one.

The Groedinge itself stopped my embarrassment in its tracks. It is one of those traditional Swedish wooden houses, painted that deep Falun red that seems to glow against the greenery, with white trim around the windows and a little porch that practically demands you sit on it with a cup of something warm. Mine was tucked into a quiet residential pocket of the city, close enough to feel connected but far enough that the trees outnumbered the people. After the concrete and announcements of the airport, the stillness felt almost theatrical, like someone had pressed a mute button I hadn't realised I needed.

I fumbled with the lockbox for longer than I care to admit, my cold fingers refusing to cooperate while a blackbird somewhere in the garden provided a running commentary of disapproval. When the key finally turned and the door opened, I was hit by that particular smell of wood and clean linen that only proper holiday homes seem to manage. The owners had left the heating on low, and the whole place felt like someone had anticipated my arrival with a hug.

The interior was simple in the best Scandinavian way. Light wooden floors, a compact kitchen that still managed to look inviting, and windows that framed the garden like deliberate paintings. I dumped my bags with the relief of a traveller who has finally stopped moving, then immediately felt guilty about the dumping and arranged them more neatly against the wall. Old habits.

I made myself explore before succumbing to the sofa, as if earning rest through minor effort. The bathroom was spotless with one of those heated towel rails I always promise to install at home and never do. The bedroom had crisp white bedding that made me want to hibernate. But it was the living area that caught me properly, with its little wood-burning stove and a basket of logs waiting like a challenge. I have never successfully lit a fire in my life, but I felt an unexpected determination swelling in my chest. Stockholm had already surprised me with a runaway suitcase; perhaps I could surprise myself back.

I did not light the fire that evening. I made tea instead, found a blanket, and sat on the porch watching the light fade through the birch trees. The dog-walking couple passed again and waved, and I raised my mug with the confidence of someone who absolutely belonged there. The air smelled of pine and distant cooking. Somewhere, a neighbour was practising piano, the notes drifting through the gardens with the unhurried pace of a place that knows how to do evenings properly.

My first impression of Stockholm, filtered through this little red house and my own ridiculous arrival, was of a city that does not rush to impress you. It simply is, comfortably and beautifully, and trusts you to catch up at your own speed. I sat there until the mosquitoes politely suggested I move indoors, already certain I had chosen exactly the right place to properly arrive.