I have to admit, I had never heard of Sjusjoen before I booked the trip. I was searching for somewhere quiet, somewhere with proper fresh air, and somewhere my phone might finally stop pinging. Hedmark, Norway seemed to fit the bill. So I packed my walking boots, a optimistic selection of t-shirts, and set off with visions of gentle coastal strolls and perhaps a nice picnic by the water.

The journey from Oslo was straightforward enough, though I did manage to get spectacularly lost in Lillehammer. I had stopped for petrol and somehow convinced myself I could take a shortcut. Forty minutes later I found myself in a supermarket car park staring at a fjord that definitely was not on my route. A very patient local pointed me back toward the E6, and I arrived at the cabin two hours later than planned, slightly frazzled and in desperate need of a cup of tea.

The cabin itself was a proper timber affair, all warm wood and big windows looking out toward the lake. I dumped my bags, made that tea, and stepped onto the deck with my mug. The view was something else. Rolling hills, thick forest, and water so still it looked like glass. I had planned my whole trip around walking. I had printed maps, highlighted routes, even bought one of those hydration packs that makes you look like you are attempting Everest. I was going to do the coastal path, the forest trail, the ridge walk. I was going to become one with nature.

The next morning I woke to brilliant sunshine. I practically skipped down to the lake path in my shorts and trainers. The first hour was glorious. Birds everywhere, the smell of pine, that particular quiet you only get when you are properly away from everything. I stopped on a rocky outcrop and felt terribly pleased with myself. Look at me, I thought, a walker now. A person who walks.

Then the weather turned.

Not gradually, not with any polite warning. One minute I was basking in twenty-degree warmth, the next the sky had gone a peculiar bruised colour and the wind was trying to remove my hat. I checked my phone. No signal, obviously. The map I had printed was now dissolving slightly in my pocket from the sudden humidity. I turned back, but the path I had been following seemed to have multiplied into several very similar-looking alternatives. I picked one and walked briskly, trying to look like someone who knew exactly where they were going.

The rain started properly about ten minutes later. Not English drizzle, which I could have handled with some dignity. This was Norwegian rain, vertical and enthusiastic. My t-shirt became pointless. My trainers began making squelching noises. I passed what I thought was a turning I recognised, then realised it was not, then realised I had absolutely no idea where I was in relation to anything. The coastal walk I had planned was now a soggy stumble through increasingly thick undergrowth while I muttered apologies to various plants I kept walking into.

I found a small shelter, basically a wooden lean-to that someone had built for exactly this situation, and stood there shivering for twenty minutes. The rain eased eventually, and I emerged to find the sun had returned, turning everything steamy and green and impossibly vivid. I followed a stream downhill, reasoning that water probably knew where the lake was, and eventually stumbled back to the cabin looking like I had been dragged through a hedge backwards. Which, in fairness, I nearly had.

I stood under a hot shower for a very long time. Then I made another cup of tea and sat on the deck again, watching the weather do another little dance across the hills. I had planned to be this accomplished hiker, striding along coastlines with perfect hair and a sense of purpose. Instead I had got lost in a wood, frightened a squirrel, and discovered that my waterproof jacket was not, in fact, waterproof.

But here is the thing. That evening, as the light went golden and the lake settled back into its mirror state, I felt oddly content. The cabin had a little fire pit, and I sat out with a blanket and a beer, still slightly damp, and watched the sky do its late-summer fading. I had not done the walks I planned. I had not become a person with perfect hair and a sense of purpose. But I had, in my own bumbling way, experienced something real. The weather had done what weather does, and I had done what I do, which is underestimate it and then adapt badly and then laugh about it afterwards.

The next few days I kept things simpler. Shorter loops, checked forecasts, packed actual waterproofs. I walked to a nearby viewpoint, easy and clear, and sat there for an hour just watching the light change. I found a little swimming spot where the water was cold enough to remind me I was alive, and waded in up to my knees like the coward I am. I walked through forests in morning mist and came back to the cabin for long lunches and afternoon naps.

I never did become that impressive hiker. But I did learn to read the sky a bit better, to pack a proper jacket, and to accept that sometimes the best stories come from the walks that do not go to plan. I left Sjusjoen with wet boots, a slightly bruised ego, and a genuine affection for a place that had shown me its beauty without making it easy. I will be back. With better maps. And definitely more socks.