I have never been so relieved to see a wooden cabin in my life, and that includes the time I got caught in a hailstorm near Keswick. The drive from Bergen to Fykse had been all winding roads and increasingly desperate attempts to pronounce place names correctly, culminating in me confidently telling the ferry man I was headed to "Fee-kyoo-say" only to receive the blank look that every British tourist dreads. Turns out it is closer to "Fook-seh," which I only discovered after repeating my mangled version three times while he watched me with the patience of a man who has heard it all before.

The real comedy, though, arrived with my shopping. I had stopped at a Meny supermarket in Norheimsund, absolutely brimming with self-catering ambition. The trolley contained enough local produce to feed a small expedition: Hardanger apples, cloudberry jam, a terrifying quantity of brown cheese, and something labelled "spekeskinke" that I assumed was ham. I was feeling terribly smug about my cultural immersion. Then I reached the cabin and realised I had no cooking oil, no salt, and had somehow purchased three bunches of dill instead of parsley. The dill remains a mystery I have chosen not to investigate.

Fykse itself sits right on Hardangerfjord, and my first evening was spent staring out at the water while eating brown cheese on crispbread, because that was the only combination I could manage with my limited resources. The cabin had a proper kitchen with a view that made even my pathetic supper feel like an event. I kept the windows open and let the smell of pine and salt air mingle with the faint sweetness of the cheese, which I will admit grows on you after the initial shock of its caramel-like appearance.

The following morning I walked to the local shop in Fykse, a modest affair that nonetheless saved my culinary reputation. I bought proper eggs, some local butter, and potatoes that the woman behind the counter assured me were from a farm visible from the cabin. I believed her mostly because she said it with the confidence of someone who knows exactly which farm and probably the farmer's grandmother too. Back at the cabin, I attempted rommegrot, that sour cream porridge I had read about in a guidebook. The result was somewhere between wallpaper paste and actual food, but I ate it on the terrace overlooking the fjord and felt genuinely accomplished. The view forgave many sins.

Lunch became my triumph. I found a small fruit stall near the water selling Hardanger cider and apples so crisp they practically snapped when you bit them. paired with smoked salmon I had properly identified this time, and that cloudberry jam on thin pancakes I managed to cook without disaster. I ate this sitting on a rock by the fjord, watching a local man in a small boat check his fishing lines with the casual rhythm of someone who has done this ten thousand mornings. He waved. I waved back with my mouth full. We understood each other perfectly.

Dinner was where I learned my most humbling lesson. I had purchased mussels from a fisherman who pulled up while I was examining his boat with the obvious curiosity of a landlubber. He sold me a bag for what seemed like nothing, and I carried them back like treasure. The cabin had a proper stove, and I had wine, and I had ambition. What I did not have was the first idea how to clean mussels properly. Twenty minutes of internet searching later, I was still uncertain, and the mussels sat in the sink while I made the executive decision to steam them with garlic and hope for the best. They were, against all reasonable expectation, magnificent. The wine helped, obviously. The view helped more.

Breakfast the next day was leftovers eaten cold, standing at the kitchen window in my socks, watching mist roll across the fjord. I had planned to drive to another market, to be more organised, to cook something that required actual technique. Instead I ate cold mussels and apple slices, and I have rarely been more content. The brown cheese was nearly gone. The dill, all three bunches, sat wilting in the fridge as a monument to my hubris.

I did eventually walk to a nearby farm shop, where I bought more butter and honey and a jar of something pickled that I still cannot identify. The woman running it spoke excellent English and told me about the cherry blossoms in spring, when the whole Hardanger valley turns pink and white. I promised myself I would return, though promises to oneself are easily made on holiday and easily broken at home.

My final evening, I cooked simply. Potatoes boiled with that excellent butter, a piece of local lamb I had splashed out on, and the last of the apples sliced thin. I ate slowly, watching the light change on the fjord, drinking the rest of the cider. The cooking had been uneven, my shopping chaotic, my pronunciation atrocious. None of it mattered. The food tasted of where I was, and that was exactly what I had come for.