I have to admit, I was rather pleased with myself for packing so efficiently for our trip to Sjusjoen in Hedmark, Norway. One modest rucksack, a pair of decent boots, and what I firmly believed was a thoroughly researched weather app. The journey from Oslo had been properly lovely, winding through forests that grew progressively more dramatic until I felt we'd slipped into one of those Nordic crime dramas, minus the actual crime. My partner drove while I navigated, which was our first error. My second was announcing with complete confidence that the forecast showed "wall-to-wall sunshine for the entire week."

We arrived at the cabin in high spirits, chuckling about a petrol station sandwich I'd managed to demolish with spectacular inelegance somewhere near Hamar. The property sat amongst birch and pine with that satisfying Scandinavian neatness, all red wood and white trim, with a view across rolling terrain that made me want to stride out immediately. I bounded from the car, rucksack in hand, ready to conquer whatever trails awaited.

Within forty minutes of our arrival, I was standing in a sudden downpour that can only be described as biblical in its enthusiasm. The blue sky I'd been admiring had vanished behind bruised-looking clouds that seemed to have materialised from nowhere. My so-called waterproof jacket proved itself to be merely water-resistant in the most charitable interpretation, and I squelched back to the cabin with the kind of wounded pride that only a British person soaked in unexpected rain can truly muster.

The following morning brought proper sunshine, and with it a stubborn determination to make good on my walking ambitions. The area around Sjusjoen offers a proper network of trails, and we set out towards what locals call the higher ground, where the terrain opens into something approaching moorland character. I use "higher ground" advisedly; this isn't mountainous by any stretch, but there's a satisfying roll to the landscape that gives you the impression of effort rewarded.

What struck me most was how the weather became our constant companion and occasional adversary. We'd set out in brilliant sunshine, layers shed and optimism high, only to find ourselves pulling on waterproofs as clouds gathered with theatrical speed. By the third day, I'd developed a peculiar relationship with my pack, which contained at minimum three different clothing configurations at all times. My partner found this hilarious, particularly my insistence on checking the sky every few minutes like some amateur meteorologist who'd already been proved comprehensively wrong.

We found a rhythm eventually, choosing shorter circular routes that allowed quick retreat if necessary. The trail towards the small lake to the north became a favourite, not for any dramatic viewpoint but for its practicality. When the sun emerged, which it did with genuine generosity between the showers, the birch leaves caught the light in that particular northern way that makes everything seem briefly enchanted. We'd find a rock, produce our increasingly squashed sandwiches, and feel rather pleased with our adaptability.

There was a moment on our final proper walk when I stopped, somewhat breathless on a gentle incline that I shall blame on altitude rather than fitness, and recognised something in my own stubbornness. I'd planned this trip around long, ambitious hikes, picturing myself striding confidently through pristine conditions. Instead, I'd spent much of it slightly damp, frequently retreating, and learning to appreciate smaller excursions. The landscape hadn't changed to accommodate me; I'd had to adjust my expectations to meet it.

We did manage one genuinely glorious afternoon, walking a trail that wound through forest before emerging onto more open ground where blueberries grew in profusion. The sun stayed, improbably, for hours. We picked more than was sensible, fingers stained purple, and returned to the cabin feeling like proper explorers rather than people who'd spent much of the week scurrying from precipitation.

I left Sjusjoen with my waterproofs finally living up to their name, a slightly improved attitude towards meteorological humility, and the certain knowledge that I'd return. Next time, however, I shall pack an additional pair of socks and maintain a dignified silence about any forecast until the week is complete.