I thought I was being terribly organised, plotting our route to Austevoll with military precision. Sat-nav charged, ferry times checked, a carefully curated playlist called "Fjord Vibes" ready to go. What I had not accounted for was my own spectacular ability to misread a timetable. We arrived at the ferry terminal a full hour early, smug as you like, only to discover I'd booked the wrong day entirely. The next sailing was in three hours. My partner gave me that particular look - the one that says "I love you but honestly" - and we spent the interval eating overpriced hot dogs in a car park, watching seagulls argue over chips. Not the romantic start I'd imagined.

The crossing itself, when it finally happened, made up for everything. Hordaland's coastline unfolded like someone had cranked the saturation up too high, all jagged rocks and water so blue it looked borrowed from a Mediterranean postcard. I stood on deck pretending I wasn't freezing, because I'd insisted a light jacket would be "fine for Norway in spring." It was not fine. It was very much not fine.

We found the cottage down a lane that seemed to shrink by the metre, hedgerows pressing in until I was certain we'd need to fold the wing mirrors. Then suddenly the trees parted and there it was, red timber against grey rock, with a view straight across to some island I couldn't name. The key was exactly where promised, under a flowerpot that had seen better decades. I dropped it twice trying to unlock the door, my hands still numb from my stubborn jacket choice.

Inside smelled of pine and something faintly maritime, that particular scent of holiday homes that have been loved but not recently. The kitchen had a kettle that took approximately one geological age to boil, and a note from the owner warning about the hot water "being enthusiastic." This turned out to mean scalding enough to strip paint. I appreciated the Norwegian understatement.

By late afternoon, cabin fever or perhaps guilt about my ferry blunder drove us out walking with no particular plan. This proved to be the making of the trip. We took a path that looked like it might lead somewhere, then another that definitely didn't, and within twenty minutes were thoroughly lost among rocky outcrops and low birch scrub. My phone had surrendered to roaming charges. My partner, who has the navigation skills of a homing pigeon, seemed genuinely delighted by our predicament.

We stumbled upon a cove so small it felt like discovering something private. No beach to speak of, just worn stones and a fishing hut with peeling white paint, a rowing boat pulled up and forgotten. The water lapped with that particular glassy sound you only get when land shelters everything from wind. We sat on a rock, shared the emergency chocolate I'd pocketed, and watched a heron stand motionless in the shallows like it was waiting for an appointment. I realised I'd been gripping my shoulders tight since the ferry terminal, and gradually let them drop.

The way back took longer because we refused to retrace steps, finding instead a stream where someone had balanced stones into a tiny cairn, and a meadow where sheep had worn paths through buttercups. Each wrong turn delivered something the guidebooks would never include. By the time we spotted the cottage's red roof, my feet ached, my nose had burned despite the cold, and I'd never felt more pleased with myself for being completely useless with a timetable.

That evening, the enthusiastic kettle finally cooperated. We drank tea watching the light fade across water I still couldn't name, and I decided some mishaps are worth more than the plans they replace.