So there I was, convinced I was the sort of person who could navigate Norway with nothing but a rental car and misplaced confidence. The journey from Oslo to Norefjell had been going swimmingly until I realised, somewhere past Honefoss, that I'd been following the sat nav's cheerful instructions for the best part of twenty minutes with the fuel light glaring at me like a disappointed parent. Cue a frantic detour to a petrol station where I attempted to ask for diesel in what I can only describe as "restaurant menu Norwegian" and ended up buying a suspicious amount of brunost cheese by accident. Still, we made it to Norehammern eventually, slightly traumatised but remarkably well-stocked on caramelised whey products.

The first thing that struck me about the place was the silence. Not the awkward, oppressive sort you get in a lift, but a proper, generous quiet that made me immediately want to do absolutely nothing with it. The cabin sat there looking terribly pleased with itself, all wooden cladding and enormous windows that seemed to exist purely to frame the landscape like a particularly smug postcard. I stood on the terrace with my ridiculous cheese and just breathed. The air had that thin, sharp quality you only really get at altitude, and somewhere in the distance I could hear what I later learned was probably just a stream, but at the time I decided was the sound of my blood pressure finally dropping to normal levels.

I had brought books. So many books. The sort of ambitious stack you assemble when you imagine yourself as a person who reads serious literature in wild places, rather than someone who falls asleep three pages in with a crick in their neck. The sunshine that first afternoon was almost embarrassingly perfect, slanting across the terrace in that golden way that makes everything look like an advertisement for a better life. I positioned myself in a deck chair with every intention of tackling at least the first chapter of something worthy, then promptly spent forty minutes watching a beetle navigate a crack in the woodwork. It was magnificent.

The days that followed settled into a rhythm so gentle it barely qualified as a rhythm at all. Morning coffee on the terrace, watching the mist do its slow burn off the hills. A wander down to the lake, which was close enough to reach without any real effort and far enough to feel like a minor expedition. I took to swimming in the mornings, which sounds terribly invigorating until I confess that my version of swimming involves a great deal of floating and occasional panicked splashing when something touched my foot. The water was that particular Norwegian temperature that makes you feel briefly heroic and then very much alive.

I did venture to the local shop a couple of times, developing an unearned sense of belonging as I nodded at the same elderly man who seemed permanently stationed outside with an ice cream. Once I walked to a nearby viewpoint, though "walked" perhaps overstates the athleticism involved; it was more of a purposeful amble with frequent sitting breaks. The view was absurdly beautiful in that Norwegian way that makes you slightly angry at your own country for not trying harder.

What I loved most, I think, was how the cabin itself encouraged this magnificent laziness. The kitchen was designed for simple meals assembled slowly, with more breaks than strictly necessary. The living room had that particular quality of Scandinavian light that makes reading feel like a virtuous activity rather than the avoidance tactic it so clearly was. I found myself napping without guilt, something I have never managed in London without a sense that I should probably be answering emails or learning a language or at least worrying productively.

On my final morning, I sat with my coffee and watched the sun climb over the ridge opposite, and I thought about how I'd arrived with all these notions of what a proper holiday ought to involve. Hiking boots I'd worn once. A camera I'd used mainly to photograph that beetle. Plans for day trips that had seemed essential in the planning and completely unnecessary in the doing. The cheese, incidentally, had proved surprisingly excellent with flatbread and a certain acquired desperation.

I left Norehammern with sand in my shoes from the lake, a slightly embarrassing tan line from where I'd failed to rotate properly, and the profound realisation that doing very little, done properly, is actually rather a lot.