I should have known the holiday was going to be eventful when I tried to unlock the wrong cabin. There we were, me and my partner, standing in the drizzle outside a perfectly nice little stuga in Arjang, jiggling a key that absolutely refused to turn, while I muttered increasingly creative things about Swedish engineering. Fifteen minutes of this performance. Fifteen minutes of growing indignation. Then a friendly neighbour wandered over and gently pointed out that our actual cabin was two doors down, hidden behind a rather strategically placed birch tree. Same colour, same style, same general aura of Scandinavian modesty. I laughed, but only after checking nobody had filmed it.

The drive up from Karlstad had been gorgeous in that low-key, Swedish way. Endless forests, the occasional glimpse of a lake, and a brief stop at a petrol station where I spent an embarrassing amount on what I can only describe as a cinnamon bun the size of my face. I ate the whole thing before we even reached Arjang, leaving a trail of sugar across the hire car that would haunt us for days.

But the cabin. Our actual cabin. It was immediately, overwhelmingly about food. The kitchen was the heart of the place, all warm wood and surprisingly decent knives, with a view over the garden that made even washing up feel contemplative. The owners had left a little welcome basket with local honey, some crispbread, and a handwritten note suggesting we try the fish shop in town. I photographed everything like a proper modern tourist, then spent twenty minutes trying to work out the induction hob.

That first evening, we walked into Arjang proper, which took all of twelve minutes. The town has a quiet confidence about it, nothing showy, but we found a small supermarket that stocked more varieties of pickled herring than I thought mathematically possible. I bought three jars on principle, plus some potatoes, dill, and a lump of Vasterbotten cheese that cost more than I care to admit. Back at the cabin, I attempted a traditional Swedish supper with the enthusiasm of a man who had watched approximately one cooking programme. The potatoes were slightly underdone. The herring arrangement was what an art critic might call naive. But sitting there with the cheese slowly reaching room temperature on a wooden board, watching the light fade over the garden, it tasted like absolute triumph.

The following morning revealed the cabin's proper secret: a proper Swedish coffee maker and a stash of grounds that smelled like liquid ambition. I made a pot so strong it practically growled, then wandered down to the local bakery in a caffeine haze that rendered me nearly fluent in pointing and smiling. We returned with proper limpa bread, more of those dangerous cinnamon buns, and something involving cardamom that I ate in three bites without entirely identifying.

The self-catering rhythm established itself quickly. Breakfasts stretched into lunches. We found a farmers market operating from what looked like someone's generous driveway, where I bought mushrooms that the seller had foraged herself, or so she claimed with a wink that may have been friendly or may have been commentary on my pronunciation of karljohanssvamp. I bought them anyway. Back at the cabin, they became a creamy sauce over pasta that I will think about on my deathbed.

By day three, I had become insufferable about local sourcing. My partner caught me explaining to the mirror that we really should be eating more seasonally. The cabin's barbecue saw action with local sausages that snapped satisfyingly, served with a salad of tomatoes that actually tasted of something, which I realise is a low bar but one I have learned not to take for granted.

The mishap with the wrong cabin became our running joke, retold over every meal with increasing embellishment. By the final evening, I had apparently tried to break in through a window and offered to redecorate. None of this happened, but it felt true to the spirit of the thing.

We left with fuller waists, a jar of that honey finished, and a genuine sadness about leaving that kitchen behind. Some holidays are about seeing things. This one was about eating them, slowly, with questionable technique and absolutely no regrets.