I should have known the sat nav was having a laugh when it directed us down what I can only describe as a glorified sheep track somewhere past Elverum. There we were, two Brits in a hire car, convinced we were about to become a local legend about tourists who vanished into the Norwegian wilderness. My partner Dave was muttering about turning back while I stubbornly insisted the cottage was "just round the next bend." Three bends later, we admitted defeat, reversed half a mile to a proper road, and arrived at the Savalen nearly an hour late, frazzled and in desperate need of a cuppa.

The cottage itself was an absolute dream, though. Proper timber construction, red paint flaking just enough to look charming rather than neglected, and a kitchen that immediately made me want to cook everything. I am not, by any stretch, a competent cook. My usual repertoire at home runs to beans on toast and the occasional disastrous stir-fry. But something about that kitchen with its solid wooden worktops and the view of Savalen lake through the window made me believe I could be the sort of person who whips up hearty Norwegian meals from local ingredients.

Our first evening, we walked to the local Spar in Savalen village, which is barely five minutes away. I had grand plans. Reindeer stew, I announced, would be our inaugural feast. The woman at the till was wonderfully patient as I pointed at various vacuum-packed meats with what I can only describe as desperate optimism. I emerged with reindeer meat, some mysterious root vegetables I couldn't name in English let alone Norwegian, and a jar of something called "surkal" that I later discovered was fermented cabbage. Dave looked at my haul with the expression of a man who has just watched his partner commit to a terrible mistake.

The reindeer stew was, in all honesty, edible. That is the highest praise I can offer. The meat itself was beautiful, rich and gamey, but I had been far too heavy-handed with whatever dried herbs I'd found in the cottage cupboard. Dave chewed heroically and declared it "rustic," which is partner-code for "I will be eating a lot of bread with this." The surkal remained unopened that night, sitting in the fridge like a jar of regret.

Morning brought salvation in the form of breakfast. We had stocked up on proper Norwegian brunost, that caramel-brown cheese which looks alarming and tastes like sweet, fudgy heaven. Fried up with some local eggs and dense rye bread from the Spar, it was the sort of breakfast that makes you forgive yourself for last night's culinary crimes. I ate three slices of that cheese and felt no shame whatsoever.

By day three, I had developed what Dave termed "market fever." There is a small farmers' market that sets up near Savalen on certain days, mostly local producers selling their wares from the backs of vans and small stalls. I bought cloudberries, those amber jewels of the Nordic wilderness, at a price that made Dave wince. I bought smoked trout from a man who spoke no English and communicated entirely through enthusiastic gestures. I bought a lump of dried fish that I later had to Google to identify properly.

That evening, I attempted pan-fried trout with a cloudberry sauce. The fish was magnificent, fresh and smoky and falling apart on the fork. The cloudberry sauce was my downfall. I had read somewhere that cloudberries pair well with cream, which is true, but I had not accounted for their intense tartness. The result was something that puckered the mouth in a way I can only describe as aggressive. Dave suggested it might work better as a dessert, and I had to concede he had a point.

What saved us throughout the week was the simplicity of proper Norwegian cabin cooking. We learned to let the ingredients speak for themselves. Fresh trout, simply grilled with butter and dill from a pot on the windowsill. Rye bread with brunost and a slick of good jam. Boiled new potatoes with nothing but salt and a knob of butter. The cottage had a proper coffee pot, and I became religious about brewing strong black coffee each morning, drinking it on the small wooden deck while mist rose off the lake.

I did have one small victory. On our final evening, I made a proper lapskaus, that thick Norwegian stew of meat and root vegetables, using a recipe I had found scribbled in a notebook in the cottage kitchen drawer. It was not elegant. It was not photogenic. But it was hearty and warming and exactly what we needed after a day of walking around the lake in drizzle that had turned to proper rain. Dave had two bowls and did not once reach for extra bread.

The jar of surkal, I should confess, remained in the fridge when we left. Some culinary mountains are too steep to climb. But I packed the remaining brunost in our luggage, wrapped carefully in layers of clothing, and smuggled it back to Sheffield where it lasted approximately forty-eight hours before I had eaten the lot standing at my own kitchen counter, remembering that view of Savalen lake and wondering when we might return to try again.