I had been driving for what felt like fourteen hours, though the sat-nav stubbornly insisted it was only six, when I finally crossed the bridge into Stromstad and promptly took the wrong exit. This would have been merely annoying had I not, in my delirium, reversed into a bollard outside a petrol station. The bollard was fine. My dignity was not. A man filling up his Volvo watched the whole thing with the kind of polite, frozen expression only Scandinavians can manage, then offered to help me navigate the final stretch. I accepted, obviously.

The cottage sat tucked into a slope above the water, red wooden walls glowing improbably in the late evening sun. My host had left the key in a small metal box near the door, which I fumbled with for several minutes, convinced I had been sent the wrong code. I had not. The door swung open to reveal a kitchen that smelled faintly of pine and the previous guest's coffee, and I stood there with my rucksack still on, suddenly too tired to move.

What struck me first was the light. Even at half past nine, it poured through the windows with an almost aggressive cheerfulness, bouncing off the pale wooden floors and making the whole place feel like a photograph from one of those lifestyle magazines I pretend not to browse. I had intended to unpack immediately, to establish order, to be the sort of person who hangs clothes in wardrobes rather than living from a suitcase. Instead I found myself on the small balcony, clutching a mug of tea I had not remembered making, watching a boat drift past with an outboard motor that sounded like an angry lawnmower.

The cottage was compact without being cramped, the sort of space that forces you to be tidy through architecture rather than willpower. A narrow staircase led to a sleeping loft where the ceiling sloped dramatically, guaranteeing I would bang my head at least once during the week. I noted this with the fatalism of someone who has banged their head in many lofts. Downstairs, the kitchen opened onto a living area with a wood-burning stove that looked decorative but apparently functioned, and windows that framed the water like a painting I had not paid for.

I had brought food from Gothenburg, sensible things like bread and cheese and something claiming to be herring in a jar. The herring stayed in the fridge, judged silently. The cheese did not survive the first hour. I ate it standing at the counter, still in my driving clothes, watching the sky turn that particular shade of blue that lingers for hours at this latitude. A neighbour's cat appeared on the balcony, assessed me with visible disappointment, and left.

The bathroom was surprisingly modern, all white tiles and excellent water pressure, which I tested with a shower that lasted approximately three times longer than necessary. Wrapped in a towel that was slightly too small, I explored the small bedroom with its two single beds pushed together in that very European way that always makes me feel I am staying in my grandparents' spare room.

By the time I crawled into bed, the light had finally begun to fade, though never completely. I lay there listening to water lapping somewhere below, too tired to sleep, too content to mind. Somewhere in the distance, a seagull made a noise like a disgruntled referee. I smiled, despite myself, and pulled the thin duvet higher.

The bollard, I decided, had been worth it.