We set off from Gothenburg airport with a car full of optimism and a sat nav that promised a straightforward hour and a half to our Lidkoeping cottage. Somewhere near the halfway mark the bag of cinnamon buns we had bought for the journey slid off the back seat and exploded across the footwell, leaving us sticky fingered and laughing like children who had been caught raiding the biscuit tin. By the time we pulled up outside the little red wooden house the buns were a distant memory and our stomachs were rumbling in earnest.

The cottage sat in a quiet residential street just a short walk from the centre, and the first thing that struck me was how the evening light turned the pale timber walls almost pink. We dragged our cases inside, flicked on the kettle, and immediately began planning what on earth we were going to eat. The fridge was empty, the cupboards contained nothing but a jar of instant coffee and some salt, so we grabbed our jackets again and headed out in search of supplies before the shops closed.

Lidkoeping’s pedestrianised high street felt wonderfully compact, with a couple of small supermarkets and a bakery still open. We loaded up on crispbread, cheese, smoked salmon and a bag of new potatoes, then realised we had forgotten anything to cook them in. A quick detour to the hardware shop solved that, and we returned with a shiny new saucepan that felt far too grand for two tired travellers. Back at the cottage the kitchen proved surprisingly well equipped, and we spent the next hour chopping, boiling and arguing gently over how much dill counts as “plenty.”

The next morning we wandered down to the Saturday market that sets up near the harbour. Stalls offered everything from cloudberry jam to fresh herring, and we came away with a paper cone of sugared almonds and a lump of Vaesterbotten cheese that the seller insisted we try on the spot. Sitting on a bench overlooking the water, we decided the cheese tasted faintly of nuts and regret, the latter because we had already finished the entire piece before remembering we needed it for lunch.

By the third evening we had grown ambitious. We attempted to recreate a simple pyttipanna using leftovers and a rather optimistic amount of butter. The result was edible if not elegant, and we ate it straight from the pan while watching the sun set over the rooftops. It was in that moment, scraping burnt bits from the bottom, that I realised how little the actual cooking mattered compared with the quiet satisfaction of making do in a place that felt immediately like home.