I had barely stepped off the ferry from Stockholm when my suitcase decided to make its own way down the gangplank and straight into the harbour. One minute I was waving goodbye to the captain, the next I was watching my best socks bob away on the waves while a very patient local gentleman fished them out with a boathook. That little comedy set the tone for the whole stay at the cosy place on Vaermdoe, just a short hop from the city centre.

The chap who rescued my luggage turned out to be Lars, who runs the little kiosk by the jetty. He insisted on walking me to the house himself, chatting the whole way about how he had once tried to teach his dog to fetch the morning paper but the dog had decided the paper was better used as bedding. By the time we reached the front door I already felt less like a tourist and more like someone who had simply arrived home late.

Inside, the sitting room looked out over the water and the neighbour, a retired teacher called Ingrid, popped round within ten minutes with a plate of cinnamon buns still warm from the oven. She explained that she liked to greet every new face on the street because “otherwise how will we know who needs an extra chair at midsummer?” We ended up sitting on the little deck while she told me about the time the local brass band had practised in her garden and frightened away every seagull for three streets.

Later that evening I wandered down to the small supermarket to pick up milk. The woman behind the till, whose name badge said “Maja, chief of everything,” asked where I was from and then spent five minutes giving me precise directions to the best cinnamon bun bakery, even though it was only two minutes away. She also warned me that the seagulls there were “professional thieves” and advised keeping one hand on my pastry at all times.

The next morning I met old Mr Eriksson while I was trying to work out how the recycling bins worked. He demonstrated the correct lids with the seriousness of a university lecturer, then asked if I played cards. Before I knew it I had promised to join their Thursday evening game at the community hut, even though I still could not tell a spade from a club. Mr Eriksson patted my shoulder and said newcomers were always welcome, especially if they brought biscuits.

By the end of the first full day the little mishap with my suitcase felt like the best thing that could have happened. Every time I stepped outside I bumped into someone who had already heard the story and wanted to add their own version of how they would have rescued the socks. It turned a simple arrival into a string of conversations that made the place feel instantly familiar. I caught myself smiling at complete strangers on the ferry back, wondering which of them might end up telling me where the best buns were hiding next time.