The drive up to Tempelseter in Buskerud was going brilliantly until I confidently followed my sat-nav down what I can only describe as a glorified tractor path. There I was, in a hire car that definitely did not have the clearance for Norwegian farm tracks, wedged between two particularly judgmental-looking sheep who seemed to find my predicament far more entertaining than I did. Twenty minutes of careful reversing and some creative swearing later, I found the actual road. The sheep won that round.

I arrived in late September, that awkward shoulder season when summer has properly packed its bags but winter hasn't quite worked up the courage to arrive. The birch trees surrounding the cabin were doing that spectacular Nordic thing where half the leaves have turned butter-yellow and the other half seem to have given up entirely, carpeting the ground in a crunchy golden layer that made every footstep feel slightly theatrical. The air had that particular quality of being sharp enough to wake you up properly but not so vicious that you resent leaving the car. I stood there with my door open, one foot still inside, just breathing it in until I realised I looked like someone in a mediocre car advert.

Tempelseter itself sits at that perfect elevation where you feel you've earned the view without needing to pretend you're a serious hiker. The cabin is proper Norwegian mountain style, all dark timber and sensible proportions, the kind of building that looks like it has opinions about weatherproofing. I fumbled with the key box for longer than I'd care to admit, my fingers already adjusting to temperatures they weren't accustomed to, and stepped inside to that particular hush that wooden buildings seem to hold.

The first thing that struck me was the light. September days in Buskerud are already shortening noticeably, and the sun was sitting lower than I was used to, streaming through the windows in these thick, honey-coloured bands that made everything look slightly nostalgic even though I'd only just arrived. I kept switching lights on and off unnecessarily, unable to decide whether the natural gloaming was atmospheric or just gloomy. The cabin settled the matter by being genuinely warm and welcoming, with that particular smell of wood and slightly damp wool that I now realise I associate entirely with being on holiday somewhere sensible.

I made the predictable mistake of immediately wanting to be outside again. The terrace was properly cold now, that damp-cold that gets into your bones if you're not dressed for it, but I perched there with a cup of tea that went from piping to lukewarm in approximately four minutes. The valley below was doing its autumn thing magnificently, layers of colour stretching down towards the lower slopes where the farmland still held onto proper green. A mist was starting to gather in the lowest parts, the kind that makes everything look slightly mysterious without actually obstructing your view of anything important.

What I hadn't properly anticipated was how much the season would dictate the rhythm of things. By half past six it felt like evening. By eight I was genuinely ready to think about bed, my body completely confused by the light and the fresh air and the general sense of having been transported to a place where circadian rhythms apparently still function properly. I kept checking my phone to confirm that yes, it really was that time, feeling slightly ridiculous but also weirdly pleased by it.

The morning brought frost on the windscreen and a sky so clear it felt almost aggressive. I scraped the car with a credit card because of course I hadn't brought a proper scraper, standing there in inadequate gloves, watching my breath cloud and dissipate while the valley gradually revealed itself below. The late September sun took its time reaching the cabin, and when it finally did, it carried almost no warmth, just this thin, bright presence that made everything look extraordinarily sharp and defined.

I found myself moving differently, slower and more deliberately, conscious of the shortening days in a way I never am at home. Every walk felt slightly urgent, as if I needed to store up enough outdoor time before the light failed. The trails around Tempelseter were properly muddy now, that autumn mud that sucks at your boots and makes you choose your path more carefully than you would in high summer. I slipped once, dramatically, on a root I absolutely should have seen coming, and sat there on the damp ground laughing at myself while a crow observed from a nearby birch with what I can only describe as professional detachment.

There's something about arriving somewhere in the in-between seasons that strips away any pretence. You can't pretend you're there for the peak summer hiking or the proper winter skiing. You're just there for whatever the place actually is, on that particular day, in that particular light. Standing on the terrace as the afternoon faded into something properly cold, watching the first stars appear in a sky that was already deepening towards that particular blue that only happens in northern autumns, I felt that rare thing of being exactly where I was supposed to be, even if I'd arrived via a route that had briefly involved livestock judgment.

The sheep, I should mention, were entirely unbothered when I passed them again the next morning, properly on the correct road this time. Seasonal indifference, I suppose. Or perhaps they'd simply moved on to watching someone else's navigational humiliation. Either way, I had the distinct sense that Tempelseter and its surrounding hills would continue their slow autumn transition with or without my observation, the birch leaves continuing their descent, the frost creeping incrementally lower each morning, the light retreating towards winter at its own patient, inevitable pace. I was merely borrowing a brief, chilly, magnificent moment of it, and that felt like more than enough.