The drive up from Karlstad had been going so well until I confidently followed my sat nav down what I can only describe as a gravel path masquerading as a road. There I was, pootling along in my hire car, convinced I was taking the scenic route to Arjang, when the track narrowed to roughly the width of a determined badger and my front left wheel found a pothole with theatrical enthusiasm. The thud was so dramatic I actually apologised aloud to the vehicle. Reversing out in a panic, I managed to spray gravel across what I later realised was someone's carefully raked driveway. A man in wellies appeared from nowhere and watched me with the patient expression of someone who has seen this exact scene approximately four hundred times before. I wound down my window, offered a mortified wave, and he simply pointed back the way I'd come with a small, kind smile. "Tourist season," he said, though I suspect he said it in Swedish and my brain supplied the subtitle.

Proper directions secured from a petrol station in town, I finally found the turning for Traettlanda and wound my way through pine forest to the property. The cottage sat among birch trees with a view down towards the water, red wooden walls glowing in the late afternoon sun, and I felt that particular relief of arriving somewhere that looks exactly as hoped. I dumped my bags with theatrical exhaustion and immediately set out to explore, because the weather was glorious and I am fundamentally incapable of sitting still in a new place.

The shoreline path runs right from near the property, winding along the edge of what locals call the bay but what my British sensibilities kept wanting to term a lake. I walked for an hour that first evening, the light turning golden across the water, passing the occasional summer house with its little jetty and rowing boat. Everything smelled of pine and warm stone. I saw a heron lift off from the reeds with that indignant flap they do, as if personally offended by my presence. I took approximately seventy photos of the same view, each one feeling essential at the time.

I had grand plans for the following days. The map I'd picked up showed a longer coastal route heading south, maybe four hours round trip, and I packed my rucksack with the serious expression of someone about to conquer substantial wilderness. The morning was already warm when I set out, sun bouncing off the water, and I strode along feeling magnificently outdoorsy. This, I told myself, is what I needed. Proper walking. Proper Swedish nature. I had even applied sunscreen, which for me represents unprecedented organisational competence.

Three hours in, the sky behind me had turned an interesting colour. I kept glancing back, performing that particular mental negotiation where you convince yourself that dark clouds are probably heading somewhere else entirely. The first fat drops hit as I was on the most exposed section of path, nowhere near shelter, and the warm-weather adventure I had anticipated rather suddenly became a warm-weather sprint. The rain came down with the enthusiasm of a turned-on tap. I was soaked through in approximately ninety seconds. My expensive walking boots, so carefully chosen, proved about as waterproof as a colander. I squelched back to the cottage looking like something that had been fished from the lake itself, leaving a trail of water on the wooden floor that took genuine effort to mop up.

The irony, of course, is that I spent the next two days in glorious sunshine. I walked the same route again, drier and wiser, and found myself almost grateful for the soaking. There's something about experiencing a place in its moods that makes the pleasant moments feel earned rather than merely given. I sat on the rocks with a coffee, watching the water, and thought about how I always arrive places with such rigid expectations. The walk becomes the plan; the plan becomes the point. The rain had simply removed my option to be impressive about any of it.

On my final morning I took a shorter stroll to a little beach I'd discovered, more shingle than sand, and paddled in water that was cold enough to remind me I was definitely still in Scandinavia despite the sunshine. A family was setting up for a swim, grandmother to toddler, all treating the temperature as perfectly reasonable. I admired their Viking constitution and retreated to dry land.

Driving away, I took the correct road this time, gravel-free and dignified. The man in wellies was nowhere to be seen, presumably having moved on to witness other people's minor calamities. I left with wet boots drying on newspaper in the back, seventy nearly identical photos, and the particular peace that comes from a place that let me arrive chaotic and depart slightly less so.