I have never been so relieved to see a wooden cabin in my life, and that includes the time I got caught in a Cumbrian downpour wearing nothing but a T-shirt and misplaced optimism. The drive from Bergen Airport to Kvinnherad had been all winding fjord roads and me repeatedly telling myself I was definitely not carsick, absolutely not, until I very much was. The small but funny mishap? I had packed what I thought was a brilliant picnic for the journey. Turns out I had grabbed my partner's gym bag by mistake, so instead of sandwiches and a nice flask of tea, I spent four hours with a protein shaker, a single resistance band, and a very aggressive-smelling sports sock. I ate the sock. Not really. But I thought about it.

The cabin itself sat perched above the Hardangerfjord like something from a postcard that makes you irrationally angry at your own life choices. Red wooden walls, white trim, a little deck that practically begged for a morning coffee. I stepped out of the hire car, still slightly green around the gills, and the first thing that hit me was the smell. Pine, salt water, and something else I could only describe as "Norwegian fresh" - like regular fresh, but with better posture and a sensible coat. The owner had left the key in a little wooden box with a combination lock, and I spent an embarrassing ten minutes trying 0000, 1234, and my own birthday before realising the code was written on the booking confirmation I was literally holding in my other hand. Gentle self-reflection moment: I am nearly forty and still doing this.

I had planned this trip around walking. Nothing ambitious, just coastal rambles, maybe a bit of shoreline exploring, the kind of gentle warm-weather adventuring that makes you feel pleasantly smug on social media. The weather app had promised me three days of sunshine and mild temperatures, which in Norwegian terms apparently means "we will absolutely change our minds without warning." I unpacked my walking boots, my sensible layers, my new rain jacket that I had bought specifically not to need, and stood on that deck watching the light dance across the fjord. It was nine in the evening and still bright as afternoon. I felt simultaneously exhausted and completely alive, which I think is the precise emotional state Norway is designed to induce.

The following morning I set out for what the local map described as an "easy coastal stroll" to a nearby point. The path started promisingly enough, winding through low birch scrub with the water glinting through the trees. Then the weather turned. Not dramatically, not with thunder or drama, but with that particularly Norwegian efficiency where the sky simply swapped blue for grey and the temperature dropped ten degrees while I was busy photographing a particularly handsome rock. I had not brought the rain jacket. Of course I had not. It was in the cabin, hanging on its hook, being smug.

I turned back, not defeated exactly, but certainly reminded of my place in the natural order. The warm-weather adventures would have to wait for warmer weather, or at least for me to develop basic competence. Back at the cabin, I made tea, watched the rain move across the fjord in grey sheets, and ate the emergency biscuits I had thankfully not left in the wrong bag. The protein shaker remained unused. Some victories are small, but they still count.