I have to admit, I had never heard of Sjusjoen before booking this trip. I found it on the NOVASOL website, saw a cosy-looking cabin in Hedmark, Norway, and thought, why not? It looked like the perfect base for some summer walking. What I did not anticipate was how spectacularly I would mess up the journey there.

It started at Oslo airport. I had hired a car, loaded my rucksack with what I considered sensible hiking gear, and set off with the confidence of a man who had briefly glanced at a map three days earlier. The plan was simple: drive north for a couple of hours, follow the signs, arrive in time for a late afternoon stroll. Instead, I spent forty-five minutes circling a roundabout near Hamar because my phone decided that "Sjusjoen" was actually three different places, none of which were the one I wanted. I finally stopped at a petrol station where a very patient woman explained, in excellent English, that I had been driving in the wrong direction for twenty minutes. I bought an overpriced chocolate bar out of sheer embarrassment and turned around.

By the time I reached the cabin, the late afternoon light had turned golden and forgiving. The place sat among birch trees with a view across rolling terrain that made my earlier stress feel rather silly. I stepped out of the car, stretched my legs, and immediately tripped over the doorframe. My walking boots, which I had put on at the petrol station to feel more prepared, were apparently two sizes too ambitious for precise footwork. I lay on the gravel for a moment, looking up at the Norwegian sky, and thought: well, this is going well.

The cabin itself was exactly what I needed. Wooden walls that smelled of pine, a small kitchen where I made a terrible cup of coffee, and a deck where I sat until the mosquitoes politely suggested I move indoors. I had planned an ambitious coastal hike for the following morning. Coastal, I kept telling myself, because I had read somewhere that Norway had coasts. Hedmark, as it turns out, does not really do coasts. It does forests, and lakes, and more forests. My coastal hike became a lakeside wander, which became a woodland trail, which became me standing at the edge of a marsh wondering if my walking boots were actually waterproof.

The weather had looked promising when I checked three different apps that morning. By midday, a warm breeze had turned into something more assertive, and clouds the colour of old dishwater gathered overhead. I had packed for Mediterranean sunshine. I had not packed for Norwegian unpredictability. I found shelter under a spruce tree and ate my sandwich while rain patterned around me. There was something almost funny about it, huddled there in my inadequate jacket, watching my grand plans dissolve into damp reality.

What struck me, though, was how little it mattered. The path I eventually took, once the rain softened to a drizzle, wound through terrain that felt properly wild without being threatening. I passed no other walkers, just the occasional bird call and the sound of my own boots on pine needles. The warm weather returned by late afternoon, steam rising from the path, and I walked until my legs felt honestly tired for the first time in months.

That evening, back at the cabin, I sat on the deck again with a slightly better cup of coffee and watched the light linger. My mishaps felt like part of the place now, not interruptions but introductions. I had arrived lost, bruised, and underdressed, and Sjusjoen had simply waited for me to catch up. Some holidays give you what you expect. This one, I realised, was going to keep offering what I actually needed.