I should have known the holiday was going to be eventful when I tried to fill up the hire car with diesel in Oslo and spent a good five minutes wrestling with a charging cable for electric vehicles. Turns out I had pulled into the wrong bay entirely, much to the amusement of a local chap who kindly pointed out that my VW Golf was not, in fact, a Tesla. Not my finest moment, and certainly not the relaxed start I had envisioned for our week in Trysilfjellet.

The drive from Oslo took about two and a half hours, winding through forests that grew thicker and more imposing with every mile. By the time we reached Hedmark, the landscape had opened into something altogether more gentle - rolling hills, scattered farms with red wooden buildings, and that particular quality of Norwegian light that makes everything look slightly unreal, as though someone has turned up the saturation just a touch too high.

Our cabin sat on the slopes of Trysilfjellet, one of those traditional timber constructions that manages to be both rustic and rather smart at the same time. The sort of place where you half expect to find a pair of antique skis mounted above the fireplace, and indeed, there they were. I unpacked our bags with what I considered admirable efficiency, though my partner noted that I had somehow managed to bring three novels and only one pair of proper walking socks. Priorities, I told her. She was not convinced.

The first morning arrived with sunlight pouring through the bedroom window at an hour that felt almost indecent. I made coffee in the small kitchen, carrying my mug out onto the wooden deck in bare feet, which was a mistake. Norwegian mornings in early autumn carry a particular bite, and I performed an undignified little dance back indoors that I maintain was entirely necessary for warmth. My partner, sipping her tea with irritating composure from the doorway, said nothing. Her expression said plenty.

We did very little that first day, and it was glorious. I read on the deck until the sun moved round and forced me to shift my chair, then read some more in the new position. We walked perhaps twenty minutes to a small lake nearby, its surface so still it looked as though you could step out onto it. I did not attempt this, having learned my lesson about assumptions in Norway. We sat on a rock and watched a pair of ducks conduct what appeared to be a minor domestic dispute. My partner suggested they reminded her of us trying to assemble flat-pack furniture. I chose to find this charming rather than accurate.

The days developed their own gentle rhythm. Morning coffee on the deck, wrapped in blankets like a pair of elderly eccentrics. A stroll to the local shop for supplies, where I practised my halting Norwegian on a patient woman who clearly spoke perfect English but humoured me nonetheless. Afternoons with books, occasionally interrupted by the decision to move to a different spot for a change of scenery. The cabin had a small sauna, which we used with the enthusiasm of people who have suddenly remembered that doing very little is surprisingly tiring.

I found myself noticing things I normally rush past. The particular sound of wind through pine needles, which is different from wind through deciduous trees - sharper, more urgent. The way the light changed across the hillside throughout the day, shifting from gold to silver to something approaching violet as evening approached. The smell of woodsmoke from a neighbouring cabin, so evocative that I briefly considered taking up smoking a pipe before remembering that I do not smoke pipes, or indeed anything.

There was a moment on our third day, sitting on that rock by the lake again, when I realised I had not checked my phone in over twenty-four hours. Not through any deliberate digital detox, but simply because there had been nothing I wished to know that was not immediately present. The ducks had resolved their disagreement. The sun was warm on my face. My book was rather good. What more information did I require?

We explored the immediate area without any particular ambition, finding a marked trail that wound through birch forest and opened occasionally onto views across the valley. I am not a serious walker, and this suited me perfectly - enough gentle exertion to justify another evening in the sauna, not so much that it interfered with the fundamental business of doing very little. We found a small cafe near the ski lift base, closed for the season but with a honesty box and thermos left out for passing walkers. I left far too much money and felt virtuous for the remainder of the afternoon.

The evenings were for cooking simple meals, for cards played badly, for that particular contented tiredness that comes from fresh air and no obligations. I finished two of my three novels and started the third with the comfortable certainty that I would not finish it, that some things are better left incomplete, a promise to return.

On our final morning, I performed my cold-feet dance once more, this time deliberately, for the ritual of it. My partner laughed, properly this time, and brought me a second blanket. We sat in silence as the sun cleared the treeline, warming the deck, warming us, making the world feel briefly perfect and perfectly still.

I think that is what I will remember most. Not the mishaps, not the small adventures, but the quality of stillness we found there, the pleasure of days unhurried and unmeasured, of being present in a place that asked nothing of us but our attention.