The thing about driving to Hemsedal is that you convince yourself you've packed sensibly, that you're a proper organised adult this time round. I had my thermals, my walking boots, three different weights of fleece, and a smug little nod to myself as we left Oslo. Four hours later, somewhere past Gol, I realised I'd left my actual shoes on the kitchen table in Walthamstow. Just... sat there. My partner gave me that look, the one that says "I love you but also how are you alive," and I spent the rest of the journey in bright orange hiking socks and supermarket clogs from a petrol station in Nesbyen. Ten pounds of neon rubber dignity. I named them Gerald.

We arrived at the cabin as the afternoon sun was doing that low, golden thing it does in late September, painting the valley in shades of honey and rust. The place sits up on a gentle slope with proper views down toward the river, and I stood there in Gerald, clutching a cup of tea I'd made in approximately ninety seconds, feeling like I'd accidentally wandered into someone else's peaceful life. The air had that clean, thin quality that makes London feel like a fever dream you once had. I kept breathing deeply, ostentatiously, until my partner asked me to stop doing my mindfulness noises.

The cabin itself is one of those proper Norwegian wooden numbers, all angles and sensible design, warm in a way that British houses simply refuse to be. We dumped our bags and I immediately claimed the window seat, a deep nook with cushions and a view of nothing much except grass, distant hills, and occasionally a sheep with boundary issues. I had brought four books and finished none of them, which I consider the mark of a successful holiday. There's something deeply luxurious about reading the same paragraph three times because you keep looking up to watch a cloud not doing anything in particular.

Our first morning, we walked down to the river, which took roughly twenty minutes at the pace of people who have nowhere to be. The path winds through birch woods where the leaves were just turning, that particular yellow that makes you understand why people paint landscapes. I stood on a rock and felt briefly like a Romantic poet, then nearly slipped into the water because Gerald has the grip of a politician's handshake. We turned back before reaching anything you could call a destination, which felt exactly right.

The village of Hemsedal itself is small and unhurried, a handful of shops and a supermarket where we bought bread, brown cheese, and enough chocolate to embarrass ourselves at the till. There's a cafe that does decent coffee and doesn't seem to mind if you sit for an hour with a single cup, watching locals chat in that effortless Scandinavian way that makes you wish you'd paid attention in languages. We didn't do the ski slopes, obviously, being spectacularly off-season, but you can see them waiting up there, patient and white, like a promise you might come back to keep.

Most days followed a rhythm so gentle it barely qualified as rhythm. Wake late, make coffee, argue mildly about whether to go for a walk or simply move to the outdoor seating. The cabin has a terrace where the sun hits from mid-morning until it disappears behind the ridge, and I became territorial about my corner of it, like a cat with a favourite windowsill. I read, I napped, I developed strong opinions about the particular shade of green on the hillside opposite. My partner took to calling me "the sheriff of doing nothing," which I accepted with the dignity of my office.

One afternoon, walking back from the village with supplies, I stopped on the track and just stood there. No reason. The sun was warm on my face, the valley stretched out quiet and ordinary and completely enough. I thought about how I'd spent months craving exactly this, this permission to be still, and how I'd nearly missed it by worrying about whether I was doing the holiday properly. Gerald squelched companionably. I decided that doing nothing properly was, in fact, the whole point.

We left after a week, me in my clogs, slightly more weathered, significantly less hurried. I still haven't bought proper shoes.