I have never been so grateful to see a red wooden house in my life, and that includes the time I got lost in Ikea for three hours. The drive from Gothenburg had been straightforward enough, or so I thought until I realised my phone had been directing me to a Broddetorp in entirely the wrong county. There I was, triumphantly pulling into a farmyard near Skane, wondering why the lake in the photos had mysteriously become a pigsty. The farmer was lovely about it. His pigs, less so.

Three hours and one extremely quiet car journey later, we finally found the right Broddetorp, perched sensibly near Lake Hornborgasjon where it actually belonged. My partner did not say "I told you so," but she radiated it silently from the passenger seat. Our children had moved through boredom into that glazed state where they would probably accept any form of parental incompetence as normal.

The cottage sat among birch trees with that particular Scandinavian red that makes everything look like it belongs on a biscuit tin. A proper wooden deck wrapped around the front, and someone had left the outdoor furniture cushions stacked neatly under a waterproof cover. I appreciated this enormously. It suggested people who understood that British families arrive with unrealistic expectations about alfresco dining and need all the encouragement they can get.

Inside smelled of pine and something faintly vanilla, which turned out to be a candle rather than an actual baking situation. The disappointment was brief. The kitchen had everything arranged with that Swedish practicality that makes you feel slightly ashamed of your own cupboards at home. Pots hung in size order. The kettle sat next to a proper coffee maker and a box of filters, because of course it did. I immediately made tea using the wrong method and could feel the house judging me gently.

The living area opened onto the deck through glass doors, and suddenly the whole point of the place became obvious. Lake Hornborgasjon stretched out beyond the trees, grey and silver in the late afternoon, with that particular stillness that makes you lower your voice without meaning to. Our youngest pressed her nose to the glass and asked if we could swim in it. I said yes, technically, while privately noting that "technically" would become my most-used word this holiday.

The bedrooms were upstairs under sloping ceilings that punished anyone over five foot eight. I spent the first evening with a developing bruise on my forehead and a renewed appreciation for my ancestors, who were apparently all under five foot six and built for this sort of architecture. The children's room had twin beds with patchwork quilts that looked handmade, and they fell asleep almost immediately, exhausted by travel and parental navigation failures.

That first evening, we sat on the deck with mugs of something warm, watching the light change over the water. My partner observed that she could hear herself think for the first time in months. I did not mention that this was partly because I had stopped talking, terrified of revealing another catastrophic error. A woodpecker started up somewhere in the trees, rhythmic and insistent, like nature's own comedy drumroll.

I kept waiting to feel disappointed, or at least to notice what was missing. No television signal to speak of. The WiFi existed in theory more than practice. The nearest shop required actual planning. Yet sitting there, nursing my tea and my bruised forehead, I found myself not minding at all. The children had already started a game involving pine cones and elaborate rules they refused to explain. My partner was reading an actual physical book she had brought "just in case," which now seemed prophetic.

The mishap with the wrong Broddetorp had cost us an afternoon and most of my dignity, but it had also stripped away any remaining pretence that I was in charge of this holiday. I was not. The cottage was. The lake was. The woodpecker, definitely. And I was surprisingly content with this arrangement, bruises and all, ready to be told what to do by a red wooden house and whatever slow, simple days it had planned for us.