The drive from Oslo to Fla in Buskerud was meant to take about ninety minutes, which in my head translated to "plenty of time to pop to the shops before dinner." What I had not accounted for was my own spectacular talent for getting flustered at Norwegian roundabouts. Three times I circled the same one near Drammen, each lap accompanied by increasingly desperate muttering and a growing conviction that the sat nav had personally taken against me. By the time I finally shot off down the correct exit, I was forty minutes behind schedule, slightly sweaty, and absolutely ravenous.

I pulled up at the cabin just as the light was starting to soften over the valley, and my first impression was that I had somehow wandered into one of those glossy Scandinavian lifestyle magazines. The red wooden exterior, the tidy little porch, the glimpse of water through the trees. It was almost irritatingly picturesque. I fumbled with the key box, dropped the code sheet in a puddle, and stood there laughing at myself while the local birds provided what felt like a very judgmental soundtrack.

The kitchen, when I finally got inside, was compact but properly equipped. Not the sort of holiday let where you open a drawer and find one bent fork and a can opener from 1973. Proper knives. A decent frying pan. I immediately started making grand plans about all the Norwegian cooking I was going to attempt, as if I had any idea what that actually meant beyond "probably fish."

My first evening was a triumph of lowered expectations. I had grabbed supplies from a Meny in Hokksund on my way through, mostly because I recognised the logo and panicked slightly in the aisles. The result was a dinner of decent bread, some very nice brown cheese that I kept slicing too thick because I could not work out if I actually liked it or was just being polite to myself, and a packet of reindeer meatballs that I managed to burn on the outside while leaving suspiciously cool in the middle. I ate them anyway, standing at the kitchen window, watching the light fade over the Drammenselva river. There are worse ways to spend an evening.

The next morning I was determined to do better. The local shop in Fla village, just a few minutes' walk, turned out to be one of those brilliant small Norwegian grocery stores that punches well above its weight. I bought fresh eggs, proper butter, and some local ham that the woman behind the counter recommended with the kind of confidence that brooks no argument. Back at the cabin, I made what I can only describe as a respectable attempt at a proper Scandinavian breakfast. Boiled eggs with the little egg cups I found in the cupboard. Crispbread with cheese. Coffee that I brewed slightly too strong because I got distracted by a squirrel having what appeared to be an existential crisis on the porch railing.

Lunch became my favourite meal of the day. I would walk down to the water's edge with a packed sandwich, usually involving whatever I had cobbled together from the fridge. One memorable afternoon I attempted to recreate something I had seen in a cafe window in Oslo, layering smoked salmon with dill I had bought on a whim and some kind of soft cheese that I later realised was probably meant for baking. It was messy, slightly warm from being in my pocket too long, and genuinely one of the best things I have eaten. There is something about eating outside, with the sound of water and the particular quality of Norwegian summer light, that makes even my amateur efforts taste like proper cooking.

I did venture to a local bakery in a nearby town, though I will not pretend I found it without another sat nav mishap that took me down what I am fairly certain was a farm track. The cardamom buns were worth every anxious moment of reversing. I bought four, ate one in the car park like a feral animal, and saved the rest for breakfast the next morning. They did not last until the next morning. I ate the second one at midnight, standing in the cabin kitchen in my socks, unable to sleep and unable to resist.

By my fourth day, I had developed a routine that felt almost embarrassingly domestic. Morning trip to the local shop for whatever looked good. Afternoon attempt at something ambitious that usually ended in moderate compromise. Evening meal eaten slowly, with a glass of wine and the growing realisation that I was genuinely relaxing in a way I do not manage at home. One night I tried to make a fish soup using a recipe I found on my phone, got confused between metric and imperial measurements, and produced something that was either a bold rustic stew or a complete disaster depending on your generosity of spirit. I ate two bowls and felt enormously pleased with myself.

The self-catering aspect of the cabin, which I had initially worried might feel like a chore, became the absolute heart of the holiday. There was something deeply satisfying about planning meals around what I could find locally, about the small triumph of making something decent in an unfamiliar kitchen, about the ritual of shopping and chopping and eating slowly without any rush to be anywhere else.

On my final morning, I made one last breakfast with the dregs of my supplies. The last egg, the end of the bread, a scraping of brown cheese that I had finally decided I did genuinely enjoy. I sat on the porch with my coffee, watching the mist lift off the water, and felt that particular holiday sadness of knowing you will soon be back to supermarket meal deals and eating at your desk.

I left the cabin cleaner than I found it, which is more than I can say for my dignity at that roundabout in Drammen. The drive back to Oslo was straightforward, almost suspiciously so, as if the roads were mocking my earlier struggles. I stopped at the same Meny on the way back and bought more of those cardamom buns to take home. They were finished before I reached the airport.