Right, so picture this: I am somewhere in the middle of nowhere, Vaermland, surrounded by more trees than I have seen in my entire life, and I am clutching a carrier bag containing six eggs, a lump of cheese I cannot pronounce, and a very questionable sausage. This is not how I imagined my arrival at Arvika Vaestra Sund would go. But we will get to the food. Oh, we will get to the food.

The journey from Karlstad had been mostly me smugly admiring the lakes, feeling terribly at one with nature, right up until I realised I had absolutely no idea where the actual house was. My phone signal had done that thing where it pretends to exist but absolutely does not. I drove past the turning three times. Three. The third time, a very patient local in a Volvo waved me down and, through a combination of pointing and what I think was mild amusement at my rental car, set me right. I arrived at the red wooden house with the sort of relief you normally reserve for finding a toilet after a long motorway journey.

Now, the kitchen at Arvika Vaestra Sund is genuinely lovely. Properly Swedish, all clean lines and surprising amounts of light, with a hob that looked far more competent than I am. I had grand plans. Grand plans. I was going to cook like a local, eat like a local, probably develop some sort of foraging habit by day three. The reality was that first evening, standing in that kitchen, I realised my shopping efforts in Arvika town had been somewhat overambitious and also completely disorganised.

See, I had found the ICA supermarket and got carried away. There was Vaesterbotten cheese, which I kept calling "the good yellow one" in my head. There was filmjoelk, which I bought purely because it looked interesting and then had absolutely no clue what to do with. There was that sausage, which I later learned was probably falukorv, and which I attempted to fry with potatoes in a way that can only be described as "enthusiastic but misguided." I set off the smoke alarm. In a wooden house. In the middle of silent, peaceful Vaermland. The shame was profound. I opened every window and stood outside in my socks, eating slightly burnt sausage and pretending this was all part of the experience.

Breakfast the next morning was where things started to turn around. I had found a local bakery in Arvika, nothing fancy, just that sort of place where everything looks like someone's grandmother made it while genuinely caring about your wellbeing. Proper kanelbullar, still faintly warm, with that perfect cardamom note that makes you wonder why British cinnamon buns are such a sad disappointment in comparison. I ate three on the drive back, which definitely counts as a balanced meal when you are on holiday. I told myself this repeatedly.

The self-catering element became a sort of gentle challenge. I walked to the nearby lake one morning, because that is what you do in Varmland, you walk to lakes, it is basically the law. I saw people fishing and immediately decided I too would eat fresh fish. I did not catch any fish. I went back to the ICA and bought frozen fish instead, which felt like admitting defeat but also like being sensible. I made a fish soup with potatoes and dill, standing at that lovely window looking out at actual proper forest, and I felt briefly like a competent adult. It lasted until I tried to make knaeckebroed from a packet mix I found and produced something that resembled edible roofing material.

Lunch became my favourite meal. Simple, no pressure. Just crispbread, that cheese I finally learned to pronounce approximately, some herring I bought feeling brave, and tomatoes that actually tasted of something because Swedish summer tomatoes are secretly showing off. I would eat this on the little outdoor area, watching nothing much happen in the best possible way, occasionally being judged by birds.

By my final evening, I had settled into something approaching competence. I made pyttipanna with leftover potatoes and that falukorv, properly this time, with a fried egg on top and a dollop of ketchup in a small well of the potato hash, which I believe is the traditional way and which I definitely did not invent to feel better about myself. It was good. It was really good. I sat there with my slightly too large portion, in the long evening light that Vaermland does so beautifully, and thought about how I had come here planning to cook like I knew what I was doing, and instead had stumbled through a week of small disasters and unexpected victories, and somehow that was exactly the right way to do it.

I left the filmjoelk unopened in the fridge. Some mysteries are not meant for everyone.