Sweden gets many things right. Holiday cottages – in my personal experience – are not one of them. My husband and I are currently deciding where to go for our summer holiday. The choices are: a house with a pool in the beautiful Andalucian mountains, surrounded by lemon trees, charming restaurants and stunning vistas; or a terrible annex in a swampy field in south Sweden. At almost twice the price.

“This doesn’t sound right,” my husband exclaims, genuinely confused. “They’re charging a cleaning fee, but still expect guests to do the cleaning, be out of the house by 7am, and bring all their own bedding and towels.” He clicks through picture after picture, hoping to find just one angle of one room that doesn’t resemble a 1970s crime scene. “This place says it sleeps four,” he continues. “But it looks like three of the beds are actually a wooden platform above the toilet…”

Parking, electricity, rowing boat featured in the ad, views of rowing boat featured in the ad are not included in the price. But there will be a shelf of tatty games missing most of their pieces, a cupboard that smells of mouse, a (decent) cheese-slicer and a drawer containing a few pens, a mystery key and half a stick of mosquito repellent. And you’re guaranteed to come away with a new understanding of just how flat pillows can be. It’s hard not to be left with the feeling that the hosts really don’t want anyone to come.

So, who does come? Danes, as it turns out, who leave glowing reviews. Which begs the question: are Danish guests charmed by something I’m tragically unable to see? Or are their holiday cottages even worse than ours?

Maria Smedstad bio

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