I have never been so grateful for a satnav in my entire life. There we were, trundling through the winding lanes of Akershus in our hire car, convinced we were moments away from our holiday let at Mjermen in Vestre Sundby. The sun was blazing, the fjord was glinting through the trees, and I was feeling terribly smug about my navigational skills. Then the road turned to gravel, then to something that can only be described as "optimistic mud," and finally to a dead end featuring one very confused sheep and a shed that definitely was not our waterfront cabin. Turns out I had punched in the postcode with the enthusiasm of a man who believes all Norwegian addresses are merely suggestions. Forty minutes, one slightly tense marital discussion, and a three-point turn that would have failed any driving test, and we finally found the proper turning.

The first glimpse of the place made every wrong turn worth it. The cabin sat there with that particular Scandinavian modesty, all clean lines and enormous windows, as if it had simply grown out of the rocks beside the water. I practically tumbled out of the car, still laughing at our misadventure, and stood on the little wooden deck breathing in air that tasted of pine and salt and something indefinably fresh. My wife remained in the passenger seat for a deliberate extra minute, I suspect purely to make a point about my directions, but even she emerged eventually wearing the beginnings of a smile.

We dumped our bags with the chaotic energy of people who have been in transit since dawn and immediately flung open every door and window. The place flooded with light and that soft breeze that comes off the water. I made the obligatory cup of tea - because some British instincts survive even the most determined holiday - and carried it outside in my socks, already committing the cardinal sin of mixing indoor footwear with outdoor living. The deck warmed beneath my feet. A small boat bobbed at the private jetty. Somewhere across the water, a motor puttered with the unhurried rhythm of someone who has absolutely nowhere urgent to be.

That first afternoon set the template for everything that followed. We did not unpack properly. We did not plan excursions. We simply sat, and watched the light move across the fjord, and felt our shoulders drop from somewhere up near our ears to their proper anatomical positions. I had brought three books and made it through perhaps twelve pages of the first one, not from lack of interest but because every paragraph seemed to invite a pause, a stare at the water, a lengthy consideration of whether another biscuit might be in order.

The local shop, a few minutes' drive away, became our most ambitious daily outing. We would potter down for supplies with the solemn purpose of people undertaking serious provisioning, then spend twenty minutes examining the cheese selection with the intensity of art critics. The woman behind the counter began to recognise us, I suspect as "the English who buy too many cardamom buns." We did not care. Each bun was eaten slowly, outdoors, with coffee that went cold because we forgot to drink it.

There was a path along the shoreline that we walked exactly once, at sunset, when the water turned to beaten gold and the mosquitoes emerged with their own dinner plans. We retreated to the deck, slapping our ankles and laughing at our own delicacy, and agreed that vigorous exercise was entirely overrated. The next morning I attempted a swim from the jetty, yelped at the temperature, and retreated to a sun-warmed rock like a particularly lazy lizard. My wife did not even attempt it, citing wisdom and self-preservation.

By day three I had stopped checking my watch. By day four I had genuinely forgotten what day it was, and this felt like the profoundest achievement of my adult life. We cooked simple meals, drank wine that did not need to be special, and let the sun mark the passing hours across the living room floor. Once, a neighbour waved from a passing boat, and we waved back with the easy camaraderie of people who have all chosen the same excellent nothing.

I have had holidays where I raced between sights, where I returned home needing another holiday to recover. This was the opposite in every way. Leaving felt like being gently woken from a particularly good nap, reluctant and slightly disoriented. I packed my unread books with no regret whatsoever. Some experiences, I have decided, are measured not in what you do but in what you deliberately do not do, and our days at Mjermen were gloriously, unapologetically full of absolutely nothing at all.