I should never have trusted my phone's GPS to navigate the backroads of Hedmark. There I was, halfway up what I can only describe as a glorified tractor path, convinced I was minutes from the Savalen holiday home I'd booked for the week. The sat nav had cheerfully announced "you have reached your destination" while I stared at a shed full of what appeared to be very surprised sheep. Three-point turn on a slope designed by someone with a grudge against vehicles? Don't mind if I do.

The actual arrival, when it finally happened, felt like stumbling into one of those hidden corners you never plan for but somehow end up treasuring most. I'd taken a wrong turning after the sheep incident, another after a confusing junction near a red barn, and found myself winding along the edge of Savalen lake with no signal and absolutely no idea where I was. The light was doing that particular Norwegian thing, low and golden and stretching everything into long shadows across the water. I pulled over simply because I couldn't bear not to, and sat there like a proper tourist with my flask of coffee, watching a couple of kayakers drift silently past.

That unplanned stop set the tone for everything that followed. The holiday home itself, when I eventually found it tucked among birch trees with a view down to the water, felt less like a destination and more like a happy accident. I'd booked it for the fishing, if I'm honest. The website mentioned a boat and the promise of perch and trout. What I hadn't anticipated was how quickly I'd abandon any structured plan in favour of simply wandering without purpose.

The morning after arrival, I set out with every intention of finding the marked trail to what the brochure called a "scenic viewpoint." Missed it entirely. Walked straight past the sign, too busy watching a woodpecker hammer away at a dead pine. Found myself instead on a narrow track that seemed to follow a stream, the kind of path that makes you wonder if you're trespassing or if it even matters. The stream led to a small clearing where someone, years ago, had built a rough wooden bench facing a miniature waterfall. No plaque, no viewpoint marker, no other walkers. Just the sound of water and the occasional flash of a wagtail darting across the rocks. I sat there for two hours, doing absolutely nothing productive, and it was probably the best part of the whole trip.

Getting properly lost became my daily ritual. One afternoon I took the boat out, fully intending to fish the deeper water near the eastern shore. The wind had other ideas, pushing me sideways until I gave up and let it deposit me somewhere I hadn't planned. What I found was a tiny cove, barely twenty metres of shingle, where the water had carved interesting shapes into the rocks and someone had long ago built a small fire pit. I didn't catch a single fish that day. Made a terrible attempt at lighting a fire with damp birch bark, ate my packed lunch huddled against a boulder, and felt genuinely pleased with myself.

There's something particular about the landscape around Savalen that rewards this kind of aimlessness. The forests aren't dramatic in the way of western Norway's fjords, nothing postcard-perfect to frame and filter. Instead it's all subtle gradients, the way the birch gives way to spruce, the unexpected clearings where the light falls differently. I found a marshy area one morning, my boots thoroughly soaked through inattentiveness, where the cloudberries were just beginning to ripen. Stood there like a fool, eating them warm from the sun and getting bitten by insects I couldn't see, feeling absurdly wealthy.

The gentle self-reflection came later in the week, during another unplanned stop. I'd driven out hoping to find a particular bakery mentioned by the property's guest book, took a wrong turning at a junction I still cannot identify on any map, and ended up on a gravel road that terminated at a small cemetery overlooking the lake. The stones were old, weathered, many with names I couldn't pronounce properly. I sat on the low wall and watched a rain shower pass across the water, the kind that stays in one place while the sun continues elsewhere. It struck me then how much of my ordinary life is spent avoiding exactly this, the unplanned pause, the moment without objective or measurable outcome. I'd travelled to Norway to fish, to achieve something concrete I could mention back home, and instead had spent a week collecting nothing more than wrong turnings and unexpected clearings.

My final accidental discovery came on the last morning. Determined to find a particular spot I'd passed in the car, I set out on foot from the holiday home, took what I was certain was the correct path, and found myself after an hour in a small meadow I'd never seen before. Wildflowers I couldn't name, a view of the lake from an unfamiliar angle, complete silence except for a buzzard somewhere overhead. I never did find the spot I'd been looking for. Left the meadow reluctantly, found my way back by following the water's edge rather than any path, and packed my bags with the strange satisfaction of someone who has failed at navigation comprehensively and repeatedly.

The drive home to the airport was the only journey I completed without a single wrong turning. Felt almost wrong, if I'm honest. Like arriving somewhere exactly as planned misses half the point entirely.