I have never been so grateful to see a wooden cabin in my life, and that includes the time I got caught in a surprise downpour at Latitude festival. The drive up to Haglebu from Oslo had been straightforward enough, right up until I decided my sat nav knew better than the road signs and sent me down what I can only describe as a track more suited to determined goats than a Vauxhall Corsa hire car. Three miles of increasingly creative Norwegian profanity later, I emerged onto proper tarmac with a newfound respect for undercarriage protection and absolutely no dignity whatsoever.

It was late September when I arrived, that liminal week when summer has definitely packed its bags but winter has not quite committed to showing up. The birch trees surrounding the cabin were having their annual identity crisis, half still clinging to yellow leaves like a toddler refusing to hand over a favourite toy, the rest already bare and slightly apologetic about it. The air smelled of damp earth and woodsmoke from somewhere distant, that particular autumn scent that makes you want to put on a jumper you have not owned since 2007.

The cabin itself sat in a small clearing with what I later discovered was a genuinely spectacular view of the valley below, though on arrival I could see perhaps twenty metres before the low cloud simply gave up and stopped bothering. This turned out to be rather wonderful. There is something deeply comforting about being enveloped by weather, about the world shrinking to the immediate vicinity of a warm building while outside everything goes soft and grey. I found myself not remotely disappointed by the lack of panoramic vistas. The weather had made the decision for me: this would be an interior sort of holiday.

The first evening required the lighting of the wood-burning stove, not for atmospheric Instagram purposes but because the temperature had dropped to something my British bones recognised as "jumper weather" and my Norwegian hosts apparently considered "possibly time to locate socks." I am not a competent fire starter. I spent forty-five minutes nurturing what I can only describe as a sullen glow, feeding it increasingly desperate combinations of kindling and newspaper while it regarded me with the contempt of a cat being asked to perform a trick. Eventually something caught properly, and I sat there feeling disproportionately proud of achieving what humans managed consistently for roughly the previous million years.

What struck me most about that first night was how the season shaped every small decision. In summer I would have been out exploring until ten at night, making the most of endless daylight. In deep winter I would have embraced full hibernation mode, perhaps skiing if feeling ambitious. But this in-between time created its own rhythm. I walked briefly in the afternoon during a break in the rain, finding the ground surprisingly soft underfoot, the paths empty of other walkers. Everyone else had sensibly chosen a more committed season. I had accidentally stumbled into something quieter, more provisional.

By evening the cloud had lowered further until the cabin felt almost marooned, a small warm island in a sea of grey. I cooked badly, drank decent wine, and watched the fire with the particular intensity of someone who has recently wrestled it into existence and now feels responsible for its continued wellbeing. Somewhere outside, autumn was happening in its unhurried Norwegian fashion. I was exactly where the season wanted me: indoors, slightly damp, unexpectedly content, and absolutely not attempting to navigate any more goat tracks until morning.