I have never been brilliant with directions, which is how I ended up attempting to launch a kayak into what I confidently told my partner was "definitely Alfjorden" only to discover it was a particularly ambitious puddle in a farmer's field. The actual fjord, it turned out, was two hundred metres to the left and considerably more impressive.

We had driven up from Bergen that morning, winding through the sort of scenery that makes you wonder why anyone bothers with the Mediterranean. Mountains rising straight from black water, little red houses clinging to hillsides like barnacles, and tunnels that feel like descending into the underworld. I had insisted on navigating, which my partner accepted with the weary resignation of someone who has watched me get lost in a supermarket.

The holiday home itself sat tucked into the landscape near Alfjorden in Sveio, Hordaland, the kind of place you would never find unless you were specifically looking for it. Which, given my track record, felt almost miraculous. A traditional Norwegian cabin, weathered wood, grass on the roof that made me want to stroke it like a pet. The sort of understated beauty that sneaks up on you.

We dumped our bags and did what any sensible person does when arriving somewhere new: wandered off without a map, phone deliberately left behind. The path started proper enough, gravel giving way to compacted earth, then to something that might generously be called a sheep track. We followed it because it went downhill, and I have always believed that gravity is the most reliable navigator.

That is how we found the boathouse. Not the one near our cabin, but an older structure, half-sunk into the shoreline, moss growing thick on its northern face. No path led to it anymore, not really. Someone had moored boats here decades ago, judging by the iron rings rusted into the rock. We sat on a flat stone and watched a heron work the shallows, the bird patient in a way I have never managed. The silence was not empty; it was full of small sounds. Water lapping, something mechanical clicking from a distant farm, wind moving through birch leaves like paper.

Getting lost again the next morning, we stumbled onto a clearing where someone had once kept bees. The hives were collapsed now, rotted wood and faded paint, but wildflowers had taken over the space with enthusiastic chaos. My partner, who knows about such things, identified several varieties I have already forgotten the names of. I remember the colours though, and the smell, honey-sweet and green.

The thing about accidental discoveries is that they resist planning. We found a swimming spot, rocky and awkward, where the water dropped off suddenly cold and clear. Found a viewpoint where two valleys met, not dramatic enough for any guidebook but precisely right for eating squashed sandwiches and feeling pleased with ourselves. Found a small waterfall that sounded like constant applause, hidden in trees so thick we had to duck and weave like children playing a game.

Each time we thought we were heading somewhere specific, we ended up somewhere better. Or at least, somewhere that felt like ours. That is the trick of it, I think. The places you plan to visit belong to everyone. The places you find by mistake, by poor navigation and stubborn refusal to turn back, those places belong to you.

On our last evening, we tried to retrace our steps to the bee clearing. Failed completely, naturally. Found something else instead, a shelf of rock above the water where someone had left a single weathered chair, facing west. We took turns sitting in it, ridiculous and solemn, watching the light change over Alfjorden until the mosquitoes drove us back.

I still cannot read a map properly. My partner still lets me try. Some things you do not improve because the failures become the whole point.