Getting to Hemsedal was meant to be straightforward. I had the sat nav, a printed map as backup because I do not trust technology, and a boot full of groceries from the big Coop in Gol. What I did not have, apparently, was any understanding of Norwegian road signs in late afternoon light. I took what I thought was a shortcut, ended up on a gravel track that seemed to lead nowhere but increasingly determined sheep, and finally arrived at the cabin two hours later than planned, slightly shaken, very dusty, and with a tub of skyr that had definitely seen better days.

The cabin itself made up for it immediately. Proper timber walls, that particular smell of woodsmoke and mountain air, and a kitchen that actually looked like someone cooked in it rather than just photographed it for a brochure. I dumped my bags, put the kettle on, and started investigating my food supplies with the enthusiasm of a contestant on one of those cooking shows where they give you five random ingredients and expect miracles.

My first self-catering attempt was a humble pasta situation. I had grabbed what I thought was a nice chunk of local cheese at that Coop, only to discover back at the cabin that it was actually a particularly aggressive brown cheese, the caramel kind that Norwegians apparently put on everything. I stood in that kitchen, holding this wobbly slice of brunost, genuinely uncertain whether it belonged in a savoury dinner or on a pudding. In my tired state, I crumbled some in anyway. The result was... educational. Not entirely unpleasant, but deeply confusing to my British palate. I ate it all, obviously. Waste not, want not, and there was no Deliveroo for miles.

The next morning, I made proper amends with breakfast. The cabin had a decent frying pan and I had eggs from a little farm honesty box I had spotted on my accidental detour. Those eggs, fried in proper butter with some decent bread I had thankfully not ruined, eaten looking out at proper mountains through the window. That was the moment I forgave myself the brown cheese incident. Some mistakes lead you to better things, even if those better things are just correctly identified ingredients.

I walked into Hemsedal village proper later that day, partly to orient myself, mostly to find more suitable cheese. The local Spar had a surprisingly good selection, and I spent an embarrassing amount of time chatting to the woman at the till about fish. She recommended the rakfisk, which I politely declined, having read enough about fermented trout to know my digestive courage has limits. I did buy some proper gravlax though, and more of that excellent bread, and a jar of cloudberry jam that cost more than I care to admit but tasted like something from another, better world.

Back at the cabin, I got ambitious. The kitchen had good knives, a solid hob, and I was determined to cook something that honoured the location rather than just surviving it. I made a fish soup with local trout, cream, and dill, following a recipe I found on a faded leaflet in the cabin's information folder. It was not perfect. I put too much cream in, got distracted by the view halfway through, and the potatoes went slightly mushy. But eating it, sat at that wooden table with a glass of decent but not fancy white wine, I felt genuinely pleased with myself. There is something about cooking in an unfamiliar kitchen, with unfamiliar ingredients, that makes even mediocre results feel like achievements.

The following days settled into a pleasant rhythm of market visits, failed experiments, and small victories. I found a bakery in the village that did excellent cardamom buns, slightly stale by afternoon but perfect with coffee back at the cabin. I attempted to make proper Norwegian waffles in a pan because the cabin did not have a waffle iron, producing something that was technically a waffle in the same way a pancake is technically a crepe. I ate them with that expensive cloudberry jam and felt no regret.

My final evening, I kept it simple. Good bread, good cheese correctly identified this time, some local cured meats, and a beer from a microbrewery I had discovered in the village. I sat on the cabin's little deck as the light went, eating slowly, thinking about how I had arrived flustered and dusty with ruined skyr, and was leaving with slightly expanded waistline and genuinely improved cooking confidence.

Some holidays are about seeing sights. This one became about seeing what I could manage with unfamiliar tools and occasional poor judgement. The mountains were spectacular, obviously. But I think I will remember the brown cheese incident just as fondly.