I should have known the holiday was going to be eventful when I tried to unlock the wrong cabin. There I was, standing in the drizzle at Buavag in Sveio, jiggling a key that absolutely refused to turn, while a very patient Norwegian man watched from his window with the expression of someone who had seen this many times before. Turned out my actual place was two doors down. I waved an apology, he raised his coffee mug in return, and I slunk off with my suitcase to the correct address.

The journey from Bergen had been gorgeous in that understated Nordic way - fjords, tunnels, the occasional sheep standing in the road like it owned the place - but by the time I arrived I was absolutely ravenous. This was meant to be a self-catering week, which in my head meant leisurely mornings with local cheese and evenings attempting something impressive with fresh fish. The reality, I quickly discovered, required actual planning.

My first morning I drove the few miles to Sveio's local shops with grand ambitions. The supermarket was compact but well-stocked, and I filled my basket with brunost, that famously divisive brown cheese. The woman at the checkout asked if it was my first time trying it. "Absolutely," I said, perhaps too confidently. She smiled in a way that suggested she would be thinking of me later.

Back at the cabin, I attempted a proper Norwegian breakfast spread. The brunost, sliced thinly as instructed by approximately every website I could find, was... an experience. Sweet, caramel-adjacent, slightly confusing on brown bread with jam. I ate three pieces trying to decide if I liked it, which I think counts as commitment if not genuine enjoyment. The local smoked salmon, however, was an immediate and passionate love affair. I ate it with everything for the next three days, including once at midnight standing in front of the fridge in my socks.

The cabin kitchen was surprisingly well-equipped, which only encouraged my delusions of competence. That evening I attempted pan-fried mackerel with potatoes and a dill sauce. The fish was beautiful, fresh from a small harbour shop I'd found near the water. My execution was less beautiful. The smoke alarm and I became well acquainted. I opened every window, fanned the detector with a tea towel, and ate my slightly charred but still edible dinner with a sense of stubborn pride. The local beer I found in the shop helped considerably with this process.

Midweek I discovered a small farmers' market, more of a gathering really, where locals sold vegetables that actually tasted of something and jars of cloudberry jam that cost more than I care to admit. I bought rhubarb, because it felt properly Scandinavian, and spent an evening making a crumble that was approximately eighty percent butter. No regrets whatsoever. I ate it warm with cream while watching the light refuse to properly leave the sky, that strange Norwegian summer magic where evening just lingers indefinitely.

By the end of the week I had established something of a routine. Morning coffee with whatever baked good I'd found, a simple lunch of bread and the excellent local cheese that wasn't brown, then proper cooking attempts in the evening. Some succeeded. A fish soup on the fourth night was genuinely good, if I say so myself. Others, like my attempt at traditional raspeballer potato dumplings, ended in what I can only describe as a structural collapse. They tasted fine. They looked like they had given up on life.

The local shop staff started recognising me. We never quite had full conversations - my Norwegian extends to "takk" and apologetic smiling - but there was a warmth to the repetition, to becoming briefly familiar in an unfamiliar place.

On my final evening I made nothing ambitious. Just good bread, the last of that smoked salmon, some pickled herring I had finally worked up the courage to try. I sat on the small terrace as the light finally began to soften, eating slowly, thinking about how holiday cooking strips away all the performance of normal life. Nobody to impress, no standards to maintain, just the pleasure of feeding yourself in a new place with ingredients you are still learning.

The herring was better than expected, by the way. The brunost remained a mystery I had not quite solved. Some things, I suspect, require more than a week.