The treehouse in Sweden looked divine: a spherical flying saucer twinkling from a snow-coated pine forest. On the property’s slick website, meals were cast as “Swedish delicacies” and adventures like dog-sledding and dinner in an ice hut looked dreamy. Of course, no seasoned reporter would rely on a website. The destination had been reviewed glowingly by The Guardian, Travel + Leisure and Architectural Digest. This, and that the hotel was listed on the boutique hotel booking site Mr & Mrs Smith, convinced me that this remote spot near the Arctic Circle would make a thrilling vacation for my family of four.

Boy, was I wrong. We had booked the property’s newest treehouse, slated to be complete in time for our December visit. It wasn’t. Since flights were paid for, we opted for the property’s guesthouse, at a staffer’s suggestion. When we turned up, my heart sank.

The guesthouse was a time-worn hostel tricked out with 1930s-era lingerie and dusty vintage shoes. The low-rent boudoir theme extended to our rooms: peeling wallpaper, musty curtains and ancient table lamps casting just enough light to confirm that, yes, those were dead bugs in the ceiling fixtures. A group of pungent young men (cigarettes, sweat and wild game?) camped out in a common area next to us — disconcerting as the locks to our rooms were broken.

At this point, I expressed displeasure with the Bates Motel situation and began weighing options. Could we grit our teeth and enjoy the Arctic activities? A dinner of rubbery moose under the goggle-eyed gaze of a creepy doll collection forced the decision: We’d ditch this Nordic nightmare by first light.