I have never been so relieved to see a wooden cabin in my life, and that includes the time I got caught in a hailstorm on the Yorkshire Moors. The drive from Oslo to Sjusjoen had been straightforward enough, or so I thought, until my phone decided that "straightforward" was far too boring and sent me down what I can only describe as a logging track that definitely wasn't on any map I recognised. There I was, in a hire car that was far too sensible for its own good, crawling past pine trees and wondering if I'd somehow driven into a fairytale, albeit one written by someone with a grim sense of humour.

The mishap, because there always is one with me, came when I finally spotted what I thought was our cabin. I marched up with the key code ready, feeling rather pleased with myself, only to discover I was trying to unlock the neighbour's shed. The actual neighbour, a lovely chap called Arne who appeared to be in his seventies and built entirely from wool and practicality, found this absolutely hilarious. He pointed me three doors down, still chuckling, and I trudged off with what dignity I could muster. First impressions, I told myself, are terribly overrated anyway.

When I did finally locate the right place, everything shifted. The cabin sat there looking thoroughly unbothered by my confusion, all warm timber and proper Norwegian simplicity. Stepping inside felt like exhaling after holding your breath for hours. The living area had that particular smell of wood and clean air that you simply cannot replicate, however many scented candles you burn at home. Huge windows framed the trees and the distant hint of lake, and I stood there like a complete fool, just staring.

My family arrived properly the next morning, having sensibly flown while I made a road trip of it. The children immediately declared the loft bedroom "the best room in the world," which was generous given they'd spent approximately forty seconds in it. My partner, rather more observant, noticed the proper fireplace first and began planning an evening fire with the kind of intensity usually reserved for military operations. I didn't have the heart to mention that I'd already tried and failed to light it the previous night, eventually giving up and wearing two jumpers instead.

What struck me most, once we'd settled in properly, was how quickly the cabin imposed its own rhythm. No rushing, no grand plans, just the simple business of being somewhere peaceful. We walked to the nearby lake on that first full morning, boots squelching pleasantly through damp earth, and the children spent an hour throwing stones while I sat on a rock and properly looked at the sky for what felt like the first time in months. Arne waved from his actual property as we passed, and I waved back with perhaps too much enthusiasm, still slightly embarrassed.

The kitchen became our headquarters in a way that never happens at home. Cooking simple meals, arguing over who was washing up with the kind of low-stakes bickering that actually feels companionable, lingering over tea while the light changed outside. Someone had left a pack of proper Norwegian waffle mix in the cupboard, and we made an absolute mess of the first batch before getting the hang of the iron. The children ate them with brown cheese, which I still cannot entirely reconcile with my understanding of what cheese should be, but they were happy and that was rather the point.

By the third day, I realised I hadn't checked my work emails once. This wasn't virtue, I should be clear, it was simply that the cabin and its surroundings made such things feel absurd, like worrying about a tax return during a particularly good dream. We spent our time walking the local trails, returning to warm the chilled bits of ourselves by the fire that my partner had indeed mastered, playing card games with rules we made up as we went along, and occasionally just sitting in the kind of comfortable silence that families don't often manage.

I thought about that wrong shed a few times, usually while grinning to myself. There's something rather freeing about beginning a holiday with a small, harmless humiliation. It sets a tone of not taking oneself too seriously, of accepting that things will go slightly awry and that this is perfectly fine. Arne, I noticed, always seemed to be pottering about when we passed, and I suspect he rather enjoyed having something to tell his wife about the confused Englishman.

Leaving was harder than expected. The children did that thing where they suddenly declare they live here now, as if property ownership works on emotional attachment alone. I took one last look at the view from those big windows, the trees and the sky and the particular quality of light that makes Norwegian landscapes feel somehow more real than other places. We'd done nothing remarkable, really, just existed in a lovely spot for a while, and yet it felt like exactly enough. I locked the door correctly this time, double-checked, and drove away far more slowly than necessary, already plotting when we might return and whether I could perhaps avoid any shed-related incidents on the next visit.