I have never been so relieved to see a wooden veranda in my life. After six hours of driving from Gothenburg, which included a forty-five minute detour because I confidently misread a sign pointing to Trollhattan, I finally pulled up to our Hattestad Berghem cottage with the sort of hunger that makes you consider eating the steering wheel.

The detour, by the way, was entirely my fault. My partner had suggested we stop for directions at a petrol station near Vanersborg. I, in my infinite wisdom, declared that I had "a feel for these Swedish roads now" and pressed on. Twenty minutes later we were photographing a very nice church in someone else's village, neither of us willing to admit we were lost until our stomachs growled in unison like a poorly rehearsed choir.

The cottage itself looked promising from the outside, all red timber and white trim, the sort of place that whispers "I have a well-equipped kitchen and excellent proximity to local produce." The key was in the lockbox as promised, and I fumbled with it like a man trying to open a childproof medicine bottle while wearing oven gloves. Inside, the kitchen did not disappoint. Proper gas hob, decent knives, a fridge that actually got cold. I have stayed in enough self-catering places to know that "fully equipped" often means "two bent forks and a saucepan with mysterious stains." This was the real deal.

We had planned to cook that first evening using supplies from a supermarket in Uddevalla, but the detour had put us behind schedule and the shops were closing. Desperate times. I remembered passing a small farm shop somewhere in the vicinity of our unintended church visit, so we drove back along increasingly narrow lanes until we found it again, by some miracle still open. I bought eggs that still had straw on them, a lump of Vasterbotten cheese that the owner cut from a wheel the size of a tractor tyre, and some smoked fish that he simply called "local" with a shrug that suggested I was foolish for asking what kind.

Back at the cottage, I attempted my first proper Swedish meal. The fish went under the grill, the eggs became a rough omelette with the cheese grated over it, and I opened a packet of crispbread I found in a cupboard. It was not sophisticated. It was, however, eaten in near silence apart from the occasional satisfied noise that I am glad no recording device captured. The kitchen window looked out towards woodland, and somewhere in the dusk I could hear what I chose to believe was a friendly badger rather than something that would feature in a Scandinavian crime drama.

The following morning I was up early, determined to find proper provisions. The cottage information folder mentioned a Saturday market in a nearby village, and I drove there with the enthusiasm of a man who has smelled cheese once and now considers himself a connoisseur. The market was small, perhaps eight stalls, but I found potatoes still dusty from the field, carrots with their tops on, and a woman selling jars of pickled herring in three varieties. I bought all three, obviously. She also had cloudberry jam, which I had read about but never tasted. It cost more than I expected and tasted like something between apricot and caramel, which is to say absolutely worth it.

That afternoon I attempted proper Swedish cooking. I found a recipe for pyttipanna in a book at the cottage, which is basically a hash of potatoes and meat and whatever else needs using up. I used the market potatoes, some diced ham from a local butcher I had tracked down, and an onion that made me cry with such theatrical intensity that my partner asked if I was having some kind of emotional breakthrough. The dish itself was rustic, which is my preferred way of describing food that looks a mess but tastes excellent. We ate it with a fried egg on top and the cloudberry jam on the side, which I now understand is not traditional but should be.

By day three I had developed what I can only describe as a cottage kitchen swagger. I was making proper coffee in the stovetop pot, buying butter from the farm shop as if I had been doing it my whole life, and referring to "popping to the market" as though this were my regular Saturday routine rather than a holiday affectation. I attempted kanelbullar using a recipe I found online, and they emerged from the oven looking like something a child might make for a school project. We ate them anyway, warm and misshapen, with the sort of greed that proper baking deserves regardless of appearance.

The local lake, apparently good for swimming, remained entirely unswum by me. I was too busy planning meals, too occupied with the rhythm of marketing and cooking and eating that had somehow become the entire point of the holiday. On our final evening I made a simple supper of the remaining cheese, some fresh bread from a bakery I had discovered in a village whose name I still cannot pronounce, and those pickled herrings, which we ate on the veranda as the light faded.

I had arrived hungry and slightly lost, and I left full and only moderately directionally challenged. Some holidays change your perspective. This one mainly changed my waistline, and I cannot pretend to regret it.