I have never been so grateful to see a wooden shed in my entire life.

The drive to Sjusjoen from Oslo had been one of those journeys that starts with cheerful optimism and gradually erodes into something approaching madness. Six hours, two wrong turns, and one spectacular argument with a sat nav that seemed convinced Hedmark was merely a suggestion rather than an actual county. By the time we turned onto the final forest track, my partner and I had exhausted all topics of conversation, all travel sweets, and nearly all patience with one another.

Then came the mishap. In my eagerness to stretch my legs, I flung open the car door with rather too much enthusiasm. Out tumbled my rucksack, scattering its contents across the gravel like some peculiar roadside jumble sale. My woolly hat rolled under the car. My phone skittered towards a ditch. And my carefully packed sandwiches, which I had been saving for our arrival, landed cheese-side down in a puddle that I can only assume had been waiting there since the last ice age. I stood there in the silence of the Norwegian forest, watching my lunch slowly disintegrate, and wondered whether the holiday insurance covered emotional damage.

But then I looked up. And up. And properly up.

The cabin sat nestled among birch and pine, its red paint glowing faintly in the late afternoon light that filters through Scandinavian trees at that particular angle that makes everything look slightly magical. A proper hytte, with a little porch and windows that seemed to wink at us. Smoke curled from the chimney, which I later discovered was some automatic feature the letting agency had arranged, but in that moment felt impossibly welcoming, as if someone had known we were coming and lit a fire just for us.

I fished my phone from the ditch, wiped the cheese from my boot, and trudged towards the door with what dignity I could muster.

The key was in the lockbox exactly where promised, though I managed to drop that too, naturally. Inside, the smell hit me first, that particular combination of seasoned timber and something faintly smoky that no candle company has ever successfully replicated. The living area opened up before us, all exposed beams and windows framing nothing but forest. A proper wood-burning stove squatted in the corner, looking like it had stories to tell. I immediately pictured myself beside it, looking rugged and contemplative, though in reality I knew I would probably just burn my sock while trying to dry it.

The kitchen was compact but surprisingly well-equipped, and someone had left a small packet of coffee and a note wishing us welcome in slightly formal English. I found this touch absurdly moving after our ordeal, standing there in the quiet with my damp feet and ruined sandwiches, feeling unexpectedly looked-after by strangers.

My partner wandered upstairs, making appreciative noises about the bedrooms. I remained rooted to the spot, watching the light change through the trees, listening to the particular silence of a place where human noise is the exception rather than the rule. Somewhere in the distance, a bird made a sound I could not identify. The heating clicked on with a reassuring hum.

I thought about the journey, the argument, the puddle, the cheese. I thought about how I had nearly suggested we abandon the whole thing and book a city break instead. And I felt that particular humbling that travel sometimes brings, when the world gently reminds you that discomfort is usually temporary, but the good moments settle in and stay.

My partner called down to ask if I was planning to stand there all evening. I was not. But I might have stood there a moment longer than necessary, letting the quiet work its way through me, already feeling the journey recede into something we would laugh about later.

We had arrived. The sandwiches were lost, but everything else, miraculously, was just beginning.