I have never been so relieved to see a wooden cabin in my entire life. Twelve hours after leaving Gatwick, two flights, a ferry that I very nearly missed because I was busy buying a cinnamon bun the size of my face, and a hire car that smelled faintly of fish, I finally pulled up to our Fitjar cottage in Sunnhordaland. I stepped out, stretched my legs, and promptly tripped over a rock that I am convinced was invisible five seconds earlier. My suitcase went one way, my dignity went another, and a passing sheep looked at me with what I can only describe as professional disappointment.

The thing about travelling to Hordaland is that it is not exactly a quick hop. You earn this holiday. You earn every fjord view and every lungful of that absurdly clean air. But there I was, sprawled on a gravel driveway in the late afternoon light, wondering if Norwegian sheep judge all British tourists this harshly or if I was simply special.

The cottage itself saved the moment entirely. It is one of those proper wooden places that smells like pine and possibility, with a deck that looks out towards the water. I had barely picked myself up before I was standing there, clutching a cup of tea I did not remember making, just staring at the islands dotted across the fjord. The light was doing that magical Scandinavian thing where everything looks slightly golden and unreal, like someone has put a filter on the entire world just for your benefit.

Inside, everything was reassuringly simple. A proper kitchen with a view, beds with duvets that looked thick enough to survive a winter siege, and a living area with windows so large they felt almost rude. You could see everything. The mountains across the water, the little boats puttering about, the occasional brave soul out for an evening walk. I kept catching myself standing still, mug in hand, just watching. My partner had to physically guide me away from the window to unpack.

The mishap with the rock became our running joke within about ten minutes. Every time I went outside, there was a theatrical inspection of the terrain. "Is it safe?" I would ask, pointing at perfectly innocent pebbles. The sheep, I should note, remained unimpressed throughout.

What struck me most about those first few hours was the quiet. Not silence exactly, because there was birdsong and distant boat engines and the wind doing something musical through the trees. But the kind of quiet that makes you realise how much noise you normally carry around in your head. I found myself speaking more softly without meaning to. Moving slower. Actually noticing when I was hungry rather than just eating because it was habit.

We walked down to the water's edge before dinner, just a short stroll from the cottage, and I dipped my hand in. Cold, obviously. Ridiculously cold. I yelped, which pleased the sheep enormously, I am sure. But the clarity of it, the way you could see right down to the stones, made me understand why people fall completely in love with this part of Norway.

That first evening, we cooked simple food and ate on the deck, wrapped in blankets, watching the light finally give up around half past ten. I thought about the cinnamon bun, the ferry panic, the invisible rock. I thought about how a journey can feel like too much until suddenly you are exactly where you need to be, slightly bruised, slightly humbled, and completely happy.

The sheep had wandered off by then, presumably to judge someone else's arrival.