'It's in Sweden, near the coast...'

When it comes to spontaneity and travel, I wouldn’t say I’m a natural. I pore over countless guidebooks for weeks and tut disparagingly at other tourists who arrive knowing nothing about their destination.
But perhaps they’ve got the right idea. Does it really matter if you don’t know there’s a collection of medieval tankards in the local museum? Surely it’s more about soaking up the atmosphere of a place? On a city weekend getaway, is ignorance really bliss…?

It’s painfully early on Saturday morning and I’m winging my way towards Gothenburg on a flight booked just yesterday afternoon. The rules are simple: no guidebooks, no visits to the tourist centre, no pre-trip research or bookings. I can rely only on a map, my pioneering instinct and locals’ recommendations. In my notebook I have written down everything I already know about Gothenburg:

1. It’s in Sweden.
2. It’s on the coast. 

And then I draw a blank. Feeling decidedly out of my knowledge comfort zone I seek solace in the inflight magazine, lead feature: ‘A Long Weekend in Gothenburg’. Damn. I stuff my banned literature back in the seat pocket and resort to staring out of the window as a toytown of coastal villages and forested islands comes into view through the clouds.

Just over an hour later, I’m dispatched at Gothenburg’s central station with my map. In a stroke of genius I have picked up a business traveller’s map – in terms of city attractions it gives away nothing, unless I develop an urge to see the Convention Centre or Volvo HQ. My first attempt to escape the central station hordes ends in disaster when I dive down a series of ever-quieter side streets to find myself in an eerie network of locked-up office buildings. So much for pioneering instinct – I’ve headed straight for the business district.

I backtrack to the station and head into a café to consider my next course of action. An unsuspecting man sits next to me, and instantly regrets it. Within seconds my map is out and I’m quizzing him on his favourite bits of Gothenburg while he looks wistfully at his newspaper. All credit to him, Per is a true gentleman and patiently points me towards the old district of Haga, writes down a restaurant recommendation  (‘for special occasions’, apparently) and gives me a quick lesson in how to say ‘please’ and ‘thank-you’ in Swedish.

Fortified with my insider knowledge and smoked salmon sandwich, I march through the shops and over a geranium-laden bridge where a gaggle of tourists glides below me on a canal-boat tour (far too predictable). I cross an elegant park lined with mansion houses, through the leafy churchyard of the Hagakyrkan and find myself in the kind of street that I’d hoped I would find. 

Nygata runs through the heart of the Haga district – a meandering thoroughfare lined with red-brick buildings and wooden houses painted the colour of buttermilk. Antique shops bristle with Scandinavian knick-knacks and florists spill over onto the pavement with crates of daisies. I spend a happy afternoon browsing through shelves of old books and dusty clocks, then stop at a street café where a dog sleeps at my feet.

It’s at this point I realise I should think about finding a place to stay. 

I won’t go into too much detail about the three hours that follow. Suffice to say they involve five fruitless recommendations (all full), nine enquiries at random hotels I stumble across (also all full), at least 10km of wandering and one momentous sense of humour failure. At 7pm, I crack, and dash into an internet café for some emergency phone numbers.

The youth hostel on Vegagatan isn’t quite what I had in mind, but for £46 I have a spotless, Ikea-filled apartment in a posh part of town, round the corner from a leafy park and some great-looking bars. And then there’s Kristian, the chatty Gothenburger behind reception, worth the £46 alone.

“Head to the island of Skäret,” he whispers conspiratorially. “It’s only half an hour on the ferry but it feels like another world.” Kristian tells me there’s only one guesthouse on the island, so I phone, braced for more disappointment.

But this time I strike gold – tomorrow night a room with an ocean view is all mine. On a roll, I call up Per’s restaurant recommendation (this feels like a special occasion) and yes! they can squeeze me in for this evening. Things are looking up.