I should have known the sat nav was up to no good when it tried to send me through what looked suspiciously like someone's back garden. There I was, bouncing along a gravel track in Varmland, convinced I was minutes from my Vase holiday home, only to find myself face to face with a very unimpressed looking sheep and a dead end. The sheep, I must say, handled the encounter with considerably more dignity than I did.

Three-point turn, mild swearing, and twenty minutes of backtracking later, I finally spotted the proper turn. The Vase itself sat tucked among birch and pine, a proper red wooden affair with white trim that looked exactly like the sort of place where nothing much happens and everything wonderful happens at once. I parked up, stretched legs that had gone stiff from five hours of driving from Gothenburg, and promptly tripped over my own rucksack trying to get a photo of the place for my sister. The gravel, it turns out, is not forgiving.

The owner had left the key in a little wooden box with a combination lock, which I managed to open on the third attempt after realising I'd been reading the code upside down. Inside, the smell of pine and something faintly herby hit me immediately. The kitchen was compact but properly equipped, and someone had left a small pile of local brochures on the table. I flicked through them, already planning my coastal walks along Lake Vanern, which I'd read was only a short drive away. The weather forecast on my phone showed nothing but sunshine and twenty-degree days. I practically swaggered out onto the little wooden deck with a cup of tea, feeling terribly outdoorsy and prepared.

That first evening, I walked down to the nearest bit of shoreline, maybe ten minutes on foot through a path that started promisingly wide and quickly narrowed to something requiring actual concentration. The lake stretched out grey-green and vast, with small islands dotting the horizon. I stood there feeling properly smug about my life choices, watched a couple of sailboats drift past, and made ambitious mental lists of all the hiking I would do.

The morning brought rain. Not dramatic rain, but the sort of persistent drizzle that seems personally offended by your plans. I stood at the kitchen window in my walking boots and waterproof that suddenly seemed less confident, watching the birch trees do that shivering thing they do. The forecast had, with typical helpfulness, updated overnight. Sunshine was now scheduled for approximately never.

I made more tea. I read one of the brochures cover to cover, learning more than I needed about local fishing permits. By midday the drizzle had softened to something almost walkable, so I set off anyway, telling myself this was character building. The path to the coast had turned properly muddy, and within minutes my boots were making that squelching sound that announces to the world you have made poor decisions. A family passed me going the other way, all in proper waterproof trousers, looking at me with the sort of sympathy usually reserved for the obviously underprepared.

I walked for an hour, maybe two. The lake in grey weather has a different quality entirely, less postcard and more properly wild. The islands disappeared into low cloud. Somewhere a gull made a noise like a disgruntled referee. I found a rock to sit on, ate a squashed sandwich, and got rained on with what I can only describe as commitment. My phone, when I checked it, had given up on the forecast entirely and was showing a little cloud with a question mark.

Back at the Vase, I peeled off wet layers and made what I told myself was a well-earned dinner. The wood burner, which I'd ignored in favour of outdoor adventure, suddenly became my best friend. I sat in front of it in borrowed socks, feeling the warmth creep back into my feet, and laughed at myself a bit. There's something about being slightly defeated by weather that strips away any pretence of being the capable walker you imagined. I wasn't conquering nature. I was a person in damp trousers eating pasta and being grateful for central heating.

The next morning brought actual sunshine, the sort that makes everything look slightly apologetic for the previous day. I walked again, the same path, and it was almost unrecognisable. The mud had firmed, the views opened up, and I found myself on a proper rocky outcrop with the lake stretching blue and glittering in front of me. A couple of other walkers nodded as they passed, and we shared that particular look of people who have earned good weather through suffering.

I spent four more days doing much the same. The weather continued its little game, swinging between glorious sunshine and sudden showers that sent me scurrying for tree cover or back to the Vase. I never quite managed the long coastal hike I'd originally planned, the one that would have made a proper story. Instead I did bits of it, sections here and there, learning which paths dried quickest and which viewpoints were worth a soaking.

On my last morning, I sat on that wooden deck with a final cup of tea, watching mist rise off the grass. My walking boots were still slightly damp from the day before. My rucksack sat packed by the door, and I felt that particular sadness of leaving a place that has quietly become familiar. The sheep incident, the upside-down combination, the mud, the unexpected beauty of grey days on the lake. None of it was the holiday I'd planned. It was better, I think, though I wouldn't have admitted that on the second day of rain.

I locked up, returned the key to its little box, and drove away slowly, already forgetting which turnings to avoid. The sat nav, I noticed, was suggesting a scenic route. I ignored it, stuck to the main road, and smiled all the way to Karlstad.