I have always believed that the best holidays begin with something going slightly wrong, if only to give you a story worth telling later. Our trip to Fagerfjell in Buskerud, Norway, proved this theory beyond all doubt.

The journey from the UK had been one of those typically ambitious affairs that seemed reasonable enough when planned from the comfort of one's sofa. A flight to Oslo, a train to Drammen, then a hire car for the final slog up into the mountains. By the time we reached the winding roads of Buskerud, my partner was navigating with the intensity of a bomb disposal expert while I made unhelpful comments about the scenery. "Look, a moose warning sign," I offered, as if this qualified as useful local knowledge.

The mishap, when it came, was spectacularly small yet perfectly timed. We had stopped at a petrol station in Gol to stock up on supplies, and in my wisdom I had purchased what I believed to be a large bottle of orange juice. It was only upon arriving at the cabin, unpacking our bags with the triumphant air of people who had conquered Norwegian public transport, that I discovered my error. I had bought something called "appelsinbrus," which turned out to be fizzy orangeade of such extraordinary sweetness that my first sip caused actual physical recoil. My partner laughed for approximately ten minutes. I kept the bottle as a warning to future generations, or perhaps as a trophy of my own incompetence.

Fagerfjell itself revealed itself slowly, which I now understand is rather the point of these mountain places. The cabin sat at roughly 850 metres above sea level, surrounded by the kind of landscape that makes you feel simultaneously insignificant and peculiarly content with that insignificance. The drive up had taken us through birch forests giving way to more rugged terrain, the kind where you half expect to see a troll emerging from behind a boulder, probably complaining about the traffic.

Our first impression of the property was dominated by the view. The cabin faced southwest across Hallingdal, and the afternoon light was doing that particular Norwegian thing where everything appears slightly more vivid than physics should allow. I stood on the terrace clutching my ridiculous fizzy drink and felt something shift in my chest, a loosening of the particular tension that accumulates from too much time in cities and too little time anywhere else.

The cabin itself was solid and unpretentious, the sort of place built for function rather than architectural statement. Wooden construction, naturally, with that particular Scandinavian talent for making simplicity feel intentional rather than economical. The interior smelled of pine and something else I could not identify, perhaps just the accumulated presence of previous guests who had also stood at the windows and forgotten whatever they had meant to do next.

I found myself reflecting, as I unpacked with deliberate slowness, on how poorly I had prepared for stillness. My default holiday mode involved lists and objectives, museums to visit and restaurants to book. Here the available activities were walking, perhaps some fishing if we obtained permits, and otherwise simply existing in proximity to beauty. It felt almost transgressive, this absence of scheduled improvement.

My partner discovered the wood-burning stove and immediately began what would become a three-day campaign to master it. The first attempt filled the cabin with smoke and our lungs with coughing, yet even this felt appropriate somehow, a small domestic drama against the vast indifference of the mountains.

By evening we sat with proper drinks, watching the light fade across the valley. The orangeade remained unopened, a fluorescent monument to my limitations. I would not have traded it for anything.