I have to be honest with you: when I booked a cabin in Hemsedal, I had visions of myself gliding down pristine slopes like some sort of budget James Bond. What I got instead was a July heatwave, a boot full of ski gear I never unpacked, and a sat-nav that confidently directed me down a farm track where I had a tense standoff with a sheep who clearly owned the road. The mishap that really set the tone, though, happened five minutes from the property. I spotted what I thought was the turning, accelerated with misplaced confidence, and promptly buried the front wheels in a gravel ditch. A passing local in a tractor pulled me out without a word, just a patient nod that said everything about British drivers in Norway.

The cabin itself, when I finally reached it, was worth every sheep-related delay. Perched on a hillside with views that made me forget my embarrassment, it had that satisfying Scandinavian simplicity: pale wood everywhere, a kitchen that made me want to cook properly for once, and a terrace where I spent my first evening just staring at mountains that looked too perfect to be real. I had packed for polar conditions. The weather had other ideas.

By morning, the warm spell had settled in with almost rude persistence. Twenty degrees, clear skies, not a snowflake in sight. My carefully planned skiing holiday was, frankly, ruined. I stood on that terrace in a borrowed t-shirt, feeling slightly ridiculous, before deciding that sulkiness was unbecoming and walking boots were better than nothing.

Hemsedal in summer reveals itself slowly. I started with the obvious trail up Grondalen, figuring I would ease myself in. Within half an hour I was sweating profusely, cursing my lack of fitness, and stopping every few minutes to pretend I was admiring the view rather than gasping for air. The valley opened up beautifully though: green slopes, wildflowers I could not name, and silence so complete I could hear my own heartbeat. A family passed me going the other way, the children practically running, the parents looking sympathetic in that universal way of people who have witnessed middle-aged struggle before.

The weather turned playful on my second day. I had set out for a longer loop towards Tuv, trusting the morning sunshine, when clouds rolled in with theatrical speed. By early afternoon I was caught in proper rain, the kind that finds every gap in supposedly waterproof clothing. I squelched back to the cabin, changed everything, and watched the storm pass from the dry sanctuary of that wooden terrace. The mountains looked even better afterwards, washed clean, with mist clinging to the higher slopes like something from a painting I could not afford.

I adapted. Mornings became my serious walking time, before the heat built or the weather changed its mind. I explored lower trails through birch forest, found a lake where I swam with more enthusiasm than grace, and discovered that Norwegians have a word for everything I was experiencing but I was too proud to keep asking for translations.

By the end of the week, my abandoned ski gear had become a running joke with myself. I would open the car boot, see it sitting there pristine and unused, and laugh. The walking had become the point without me noticing. My legs ached in unfamiliar places. I had a farmer's tan of ridiculous proportions. I had also, accidentally, had exactly the holiday I needed rather than the one I had planned.

The sheep, I should mention, was waiting on my departure, standing in the same spot like a sentinel. I drove past slowly, with exaggerated care, and could have sworn it looked disappointed.