I have never been more grateful for a thermos of lukewarm tea than I was at four o'clock on a Tuesday afternoon, standing ankle-deep in a puddle on a ferry deck watching my wheelie bag make a break for the fjord. The crossing from Varaldsoy to Gjermundshamn takes barely twenty minutes, which I had confidently decided was "hardly a crossing at all" and therefore the perfect moment to rummage for biscuits. The ferry lurched, my bag rolled, and a Norwegian pensioner in excellent waterproofs retrieved it with the weary patience of someone who has seen many British tourists underestimate maritime physics.

By the time I reached the holiday home, a traditional wooden place perched above Hardangerfjorden with that distinctive red paint fading to respectable pink in places, I was ready to eat my own scarf. The owners had left a loaf of dense local bread on the counter and a note about the nearest Kvamskogen food shop, which I photographed with the desperate intensity of a spy capturing codes. I ate four slices standing at the kitchen window, watching the light do extraordinary things across the water, telling myself I would definitely cook properly tomorrow.

The kitchen at Gjermundshamn proved to be the sort of honest, well-equipped space that makes you feel vaguely judged by its efficiency. Proper knives. A coffee pot that looked like it had witnessed several decades of sensible mornings. I had grand plans for my self-catering week, fuelled by a cookbook borrowed from a friend and my own delusional confidence. The first evening I attempted a fish soup using stock from a carton, some sad carrots, and a piece of cod that I suspect I overcooked out of sheer anxiety about undercooking it. It was edible in the way that toast is edible: nourishing but spiritually disappointing. I ate it on the small terrace wrapped in every blanket I could find, because April in Hordaland has not fully committed to spring and I respect its hesitation.

Morning brought the revelation of local breakfast culture, which I had entirely failed to research. The shop in Kvam, a short drive along waterside roads that demand your full attention, stocks brown cheese in varieties I had not previously known existed. I bought three, because decision-making before coffee is not my strength, plus some dense rye crackers and a jar of cloudberry jam that cost roughly what I would normally spend on an entire lunch. Back at the house I constructed elaborate open-faced arrangements, photographing them like someone who has definitely never done this before, which I hadn't. The brown cheese with the cloudberry jam was a combination so unexpectedly right that I ate it for four consecutive mornings, growing slightly worried about my own predictability.

Wednesday I attempted to visit a farmers' market that, according to a leaflet in the house, happened in a nearby village on certain Thursdays. It was Wednesday. I stood in an empty car park with my reusable bags feeling like the victim of a very gentle prank, then consoled myself with a petrol station hot dog that I ate in the car with the kind of shameful pleasure that only truly terrible food can provide. That evening I made pancakes with the local flour I had optimistically purchased, producing something between a crepe and a leather bookmark. I ate three, because failure does not negate hunger, and because the view from that kitchen window somehow makes even culinary disasters feel like part of a meaningful experience.

By Friday I had established something like a routine. Morning coffee with that excellent pot, staring at fjord light that shifts from silver to gold to something approaching pink. A trip to the shop for whatever looked interesting, which increasingly meant whatever the person in front of me was buying. I discovered that the local bakery van visits certain spots on certain days with the cryptic reliability of a rural conspiracy, and I once waited twenty minutes in a layby for a kringle that was absolutely worth every moment of feeling like a person who waits in laybys for pastry.

My final evening I cooked a simple meal of local lamb, new potatoes, and the first asparagus I had seen that season. Nothing clever. Nothing from the cookbook. Just good ingredients treated with the respect they deserved, which I had finally learned was the only skill I actually needed. I ate slowly, watching the light fade across Hardangerfjorden, already composing the lie I would tell about my cooking abilities when I returned home. Some experiences, I decided, are best kept between yourself and a very forgiving kitchen in Hordaland.