The ferry from Bergen dropped me off at Fitjar with that particular swagger you get when you have successfully navigated Norwegian public transport without embarrassing yourself, which lasted approximately four minutes until I realised I had been proudly wheeling someone else's suitcase off the boat. Mine, as it turned out, was still happily circling the luggage deck back towards Bergen. A quick call, a slightly red face, and three hours later I was reunited with my own bag, by which point I had already befriended the local shopkeeper, eaten an entire packet of Kvikk Lunsj out of stress, and developed a deep philosophical appreciation for the phrase "pack light."

By the time I actually arrived at Ilderfaret, I was ravenous in a way that felt almost ancestral. The cottage sat there looking impossibly Scandinavian, all clean lines and that particular Norwegian talent for making wood and glass feel like a warm hug. But I had priorities, and priority number one was locating the nearest source of actual dinner before I attempted anything as ambitious as self-catering.

Fitjar's small centre revealed itself to be charmingly compact, which is the polite way of saying I walked the whole thing in about twelve minutes. The local grocery shop became my first port of call, and I immediately fell into that familiar British trap of foreign supermarkets: marvelling at products I did not recognise while completely failing to locate basic essentials. I spent an embarrassing amount of time contemplating various tubes of caviar spread, which apparently Norwegians treat with the casual regularity of British people and Marmite. I bought one out of anthropological curiosity and immediately understood why they keep it in tubes. Some things are best approached with caution and good bread.

The fish counter, though. That was where I properly came unstuck. Fresh cod, still looking slightly judgmental, mackerel gleaming like they've just read something shocking in the newspaper, and salmon that made the stuff back home seem like a vague suggestion of fish rather than the actual article. I bought more than any sensible person should, buoyed by that dangerous holiday confidence where you convince yourself you will definitely cook elaborate meals every evening.

Back at Ilderfaret, the kitchen proved to be properly equipped in that understated Norwegian way where everything works perfectly but nothing shows off about it. I attempted my first dinner with the confidence of someone who had once successfully made fish pie in 2019. The cod, simply pan-fried with butter and whatever herbs I could identify from the garden, collapsed into flakes that made me genuinely emotional. The caviar spread remained in its tube, watching me with what I can only describe as Nordic patience.

Breakfast became my particular obsession. The local shop stocked brunost, that brown cheese Norwegians are practically born holding, and I became evangelical about it. Sliced thin, on proper Norwegian crispbread, with coffee made in the cottage's pleasingly serious coffee pot. I ate this combination on the terrace most mornings, watching the light do that extraordinary Scandinavian thing where it seems to come from everywhere at once, feeling deeply smug about my life choices.

I did attempt to find a local market, because that is what one does on holiday, and discovered that Fitjar's version happens sporadically and with charming unpredictability. I caught the edge of one by pure accident, stumbling upon a handful of stalls selling local lamb, jars of cloudberry jam, and an elderly gentleman selling potatoes with the quiet pride of someone who had personally known each tuber from seedling to harvest. I bought lamb chops that evening and cooked them with nothing more than salt, pepper, and the desperate hope that good ingredients forgive amateur technique. They did, magnificently.

My self-catering attempts ranged from the genuinely successful to the quietly educational. A fish soup on Wednesday became accidentally thickened to the consistency of wallpaper paste when I misjudged the potato situation. A simple pasta with local prawns on Friday made me feel like I understood something fundamental about coastal living. The caviar spread eventually made an appearance on Saturday's breakfast table, applied with the thinnest possible layer and accompanied by much black coffee and psychological preparation. It was not love, but it was respect.

By my final evening, I had settled into a rhythm of proper Norwegian eating: early, simple, ingredient-focused, with none of the British tendency to overcomplicate everything with extra steps and unnecessary anxiety. I finished the last of the brunost, made a final pot of that excellent coffee, and sat watching the evening light settle over Fitjar with the particular satisfaction of someone who had, against reasonable odds, managed to feed themselves competently for a week. The suitcase incident felt like another lifetime. The caviar tube came home with me, though. Some experiences need sharing, even if the sharing involves watching someone's face cycle through confusion to politeness to reluctant interest, which is precisely what happened when I produced it at my first dinner party back home.