I have never been so grateful for a wrong turn in my life. There I was, trundling along what I was absolutely convinced was the road to our holiday let in Vaesterlanda, Lilla Edet, when the tarmac simply gave up. Just stopped. Turned into a gravel track that grew narrower and more determined with every metre. My partner gave me that look. You know the one. The "Shall I check the map?" look that really means "You've done it again, haven't you?"

I had done it again. The sat nav had been politely suggesting a turn three miles back, but I'd been admiring a particularly handsome red farmhouse and missed it entirely. Typical.

We bumped along through birch woodland, the hire car making sounds I'd never heard before, until the track spat us out at a tiny clearing with a wooden signpost pointing in three directions. None of them mentioned Vaesterlanda. A woman was walking a dog that looked like it might be part moose, and she pointed us toward a path through the trees that she said would bring us out near the Gota Alv river. "Follow the water," she said, as if this were perfectly normal driving advice.

We followed the water. And somehow, after twenty minutes of what felt like a gentle nature documentary, we emerged onto a small road that actually had a sign for our cottage. The relief was immense. But here's the thing - that accidental detour had shown us something wonderful. A hidden stretch of forest, completely empty, with light filtering through the canopy in that particular Swedish way that makes everything look slightly magical.

The cottage itself, when we finally arrived, was tucked among pine trees with a view across the water that made the whole wrong-turn business feel like fate rather than incompetence. But I couldn't stop thinking about that accidental path. The next morning, I suggested we try to find it again on foot. My partner raised an eyebrow but humoured me.

We never did find the exact same spot. But we found others. A small jetty where someone had left a rowing boat, apparently abandoned, with wildflowers growing through its floorboards. A clearing where blueberries grew so thickly we ate ourselves slightly sick. A rocky outcrop above the river where we sat for an hour watching a heron fish, neither of us speaking because it seemed rude to interrupt.

Lilla Edet itself, when we wandered into the proper village later, was charming in that understated Swedish way. A proper bakery with cardamom buns that ruined all other pastries for me. A hardware shop that also sold ice cream, because why wouldn't it? But it was the unplanned moments that stuck. The path that led nowhere obvious until it suddenly led somewhere perfect.

On our third day, we deliberately got lost again. Took a track that headed inland from the cottage, no destination in mind, just curiosity. It climbed gradually through mixed woodland, then emerged into open farmland with views across rolling countryside I hadn't expected. Vastra Gotaland isn't dramatic, not in the way of mountains or coastlines. It's quietly, persistently beautiful. The kind of place that rewards wandering.

We found a small lake, no name on any map we later checked, with a single wooden bench facing the water. Someone had built it there, presumably for their own enjoyment, and left it for whoever happened by. We happened by. Sat for hours. Swam briefly and rather bravely, given the temperature. Dried in the sun on that bench, feeling like we'd discovered something secret.

The holiday became a series of these discoveries. Each morning we'd set out with vague intentions and poor navigation, and each afternoon we'd return with some small treasure. A mushroom that a local confirmed was edible and delicious. A stream where the water ran so clear you could count the stones. A hillside of wild strawberries that stained our fingers and our expectations of what fruit should taste like.

I started to wonder how much I'd missed in other holidays, clinging to itineraries and recommended routes. There's something about the slight anxiety of not knowing exactly where you are that sharpens the senses. Every turning becomes possibility. Every unexpected view feels earned.

Our final evening, we attempted to recreate that first accidental drive. Took the same wrong turn deliberately, followed the same gravel track. It wasn't the same, of course. The light was different, our expectations were different. But we found a new path instead, one we'd missed before, leading down to a tiny beach on the river where we watched the sunset paint the water in colours that seemed almost excessive.

Driving back to Gothenburg airport, I found myself hoping for another wrong turn. Some new track to explore, some hidden corner we'd never find again. The sat nav stayed silent, efficient, correct. We made our flight with time to spare.

But I keep thinking about that unnamed lake, that abandoned boat, that jetty with the wildflowers. The best bits of Sweden, I reckon, are the bits you weren't supposed to find. The bits you only find when you're slightly lost, slightly foolish, and entirely open to whatever turns up.