I have never been so grateful to see a ferry timetable in my entire life. After driving from Bergen through what felt like an endless series of tunnels and bridges, I arrived at the Austevoll ferry terminal only to realise I had been following the wrong postcode for a solid forty minutes. My phone, in its infinite wisdom, had decided that "Austevoll" and "a completely different island with a similar name" were basically the same thing. They are not. They are emphatically not. I had to backtrack past the same sheep three times, each encounter more awkward than the last, before finally reaching the correct jetty with five minutes to spare.

The ferry crossing itself was glorious, though. Ten minutes of pure, uncomplicated beauty. The sort of scenery that makes you forget you have just humiliated yourself in front of rural Norwegian livestock. Islands everywhere, little red houses clinging to rocky outcrops, and water so clear you could probably count the fish if you had better eyesight and fewer existential worries.

The holiday home was one of those traditional wooden places that Novasol seems to specialise in, all weathered cladding and reassuring solidity. I dumped my bags with the theatrical exhaustion of someone who had definitely not just sat in a car for several hours, then immediately investigated the kitchen. This, I had decided, would be a trip about food. Proper local food, cooked properly, by me, a person whose culinary expertise peaked at a passable spag bol during university.

My first evening was supposed to feature pan-fried mackerel, purchased from a small harbour-side seller I had researched extensively. What I had not researched was "how to fillet a mackerel without creating something that resembles a crime scene." The fish was beautiful, silver and firm and obviously fresh. My attempt to prepare it was less beautiful. After twenty minutes of muttered swearing and some genuinely creative knife work, I produced something that was technically edible but emotionally devastating. I ate it anyway, sat on the little wooden deck with a glass of supermarket white wine, and decided that tomorrow would be different.

Tomorrow was not different. Not fundamentally.

I had planned to visit the local fish market, which operates on certain mornings depending on the catch and, I suspect, the mood of the fishermen. I arrived at what I believed was the correct time to find three men drinking coffee from thermos flasks and absolutely no market whatsoever. Turns out "Wednesday" in my notes meant "the other Wednesday." The men were kind enough not to laugh directly at me, though one did offer me a cup of coffee that tasted strongly of diesel and solidarity.

Defeated but determined, I drove to the nearest proper shop, which stocked an impressive array of local cheeses, cured meats, and something called "lutefisk" that I decided to admire from a respectful distance. I bought brown cheese, because you cannot visit Norway without buying brown cheese, and some local lamb sausages, and enough potatoes to suggest I was preparing for some kind of agricultural emergency.

That evening I made a proper meal. The sausages, fried slowly with onions I had softened in butter. The potatoes, boiled and then roughly crushed with more butter and some dill I found growing wild near the property. A simple mustard sauce that I constructed through trial and error and one small fire alarm incident. I ate it outside again, because the light at that latitude in late summer goes on forever, and everything tasted of salt air and quiet accomplishment.

The next morning I finally caught the proper fish market, which consisted of two tables and a scale and some of the best seafood I have ever encountered. I bought langoustines, still twitching, and a piece of cod that weighed roughly the same as a modest housecat. That evening I attempted a fish stew, based on something I half-remembered from a television programme and a recipe I found on my phone with one bar of signal. It was magnificent. Or possibly I was just hungry and relieved and slightly drunk on local beer. Either way, I wrote the approximate recipe on the back of a ferry receipt, which I have since lost, which feels appropriate.

By my final day I had established something of a routine. Morning coffee on the deck, watching the small boats come and go. A walk to forage for berries, which grew in ridiculous abundance along the paths. Then a slow preparation of whatever I had acquired, accompanied by podcasts and the occasional visit from a neighbour's cat who had decided I was worth tolerating for dairy products.

My last meal was breakfast, which I stretched into something approaching lunch through sheer stubbornness. Brown cheese on proper Norwegian bread, with jam made from berries I had picked myself. Coffee brewed in a pot I had initially mistrusted but came to love with the fervour of the converted. I sat there for an hour after finishing, watching the water, thinking about absolutely nothing in particular.

I left the kitchen cleaner than I found it, which felt important. Took the ferry back with time to spare, because I had learned at least one lesson. The sheep were nowhere to be seen, presumably having filed a formal complaint about my earlier behaviour. I drove back to Bergen full of good food and slightly bruised pride and a genuine affection for a place that had let me cook badly, then better, then almost well, without ever making me feel like a stranger.