I should have known the holiday was going to be eventful when I tried to board the wrong ferry at Slussen. There I stood, waving my booking confirmation at a bemused deckhand, only to discover I was attempting to sail to Vaxholm on the archipelago tour boat rather than the local commuter ferry. Forty minutes of scenic backtracking later, I finally arrived at the proper dock, clutching a takeaway coffee that had gone cold and a rather bruised ego.

The cottage itself was an absolute charmer, tucked into a quiet corner of Vaxholm with that distinctive red paint and white trim that makes Swedish summer houses look like they've wandered out of a children's storybook. I dumped my bags with the enthusiasm of someone who had been travelling since dawn and immediately set about investigating the kitchen. This, I had decided, was going to be a trip about food. Proper food. None of this grabbing a sad sandwich at the airport nonsense.

My first self-catering attempt came that very evening. I had stopped at the ICA supermarket near the ferry terminal, filling my basket with what I thought were sensible provisions. The herring looked straightforward enough, and I had grand plans for a traditional Swedish supper. What I had not accounted for was my complete inability to read Swedish cooking instructions on the back of the potato packet. I stood in that cottage kitchen, phone translator in one hand, a peeler in the other, wondering why the humble potato had become so complicated. The resulting dish was edible, just about, though I suspect the herring was meant to be served cold rather than whatever temperature my pan had achieved. I ate it on the little wooden deck with a glass of surprisingly decent box wine, watching the light fade over the water, and decided that culinary perfection was overrated.

The morning market in Vaxholm town centre became my daily pilgrimage. It was not enormous, nothing like the grand food halls of Stockholm proper, but it had that particular magic of small Scandinavian markets where everything feels impossibly fresh and the vendors actually want to chat. I became slightly obsessed with the bread stall, returning each day for a different loaf. The sourdough was exceptional, proper chewy stuff with a crust that could withstand a small maritime accident. I would carry it back to the cottage still warm, tearing off chunks as I walked, feeling very much like a local though almost certainly looking very much like a tourist.

My cooking improved marginally as the week progressed, though this was largely due to simplification rather than skill. I discovered that local new potatoes needed little more than butter and dill, that smoked salmon required absolutely no intervention from me whatsoever, and that cloudberry jam on thick rye bread constituted a perfectly acceptable lunch. The cottage kitchen, compact but well-equipped, saw me produce a decent gravad lax after a helpful demonstration from the fishmonger, though I did manage to set off the smoke alarm during the sugar-curing process. The neighbours, I noted, were very polite about the whole incident.

One evening I treated myself to dinner at a harbourside restaurant, partly for research purposes and partly because my own efforts had begun to feel like hard work. I ate perfectly cooked Arctic char with roasted root vegetables, watching the ferries come and go, and made mental notes that I knew I would never successfully recreate. Some things are best left to professionals.

By the end of the week, my fridge contained the remains of a very good cheese, half a jar of lingonberry compote, and some pickled vegetables of uncertain origin. I packed them into my bag for the journey home, along with a loaf of that sourdough and a renewed appreciation for the simple pleasure of feeding oneself slowly, messily, and without any particular plan. The ferry back to Stockholm departed on time, and I was on the correct one. Small victories, as they say, taste the sweetest.