I have never been so relieved to see a wooden cabin in my life, and that includes the time I got caught in a Derbyshire downpour and had to shelter in a garden shed. The drive from Bergen to Myrkdalen had been spectacular in that slightly terrifying Norwegian way, all plunging valleys and waterfalls that appear from nowhere like nature's own jump scares. My partner had insisted on doing the whole journey in one go, which meant by hour three the children had reached that feral state where they communicate only through kicking the back of seats.

The mishap came at the final roundabout. In my defence, Norwegian roundabouts are not like British ones. There is something deeply disorienting about going clockwise when every fibre of your being expects anticlockwise. I went round twice, which the locals seemed to take in their stride, but then I took what I thought was the turn for our cottage and ended up in the car park of a ski hire shop. A very patient man in a fleece explained, in excellent English that made me feel even more foolish, that I needed to go back the way I came and look for the small sign hidden behind a bush. "Everyone misses it first time," he said, though his smile suggested this was a kindness rather than truth.

We found it eventually, bumping down a gravel track that made our poor hatchback sound like it was being dismantled. And there it was, red wooden walls, white trim, the whole quintessential Norwegian cabin aesthetic that makes you feel like you have wandered into a Christmas card. I turned off the engine and for a moment nobody moved. Then my youngest announced she needed the toilet, which broke the spell somewhat.

The key was in a lockbox, which I fumbled with for an embarrassingly long time, my fingers stiff from gripping the steering wheel. When the door finally opened, the smell hit me first, that particular combination of wood smoke and pine and something else I could not place. Later I realised it was simply clean mountain air trapped in timber, something my suburban lungs needed time to identify. The children bolted past me, claiming bedrooms with the territorial urgency of colonial powers, while I stood in the hallway and felt something in my shoulders finally drop.

The living area was exactly what you want from a cottage holiday, all exposed beams and a wood-burning stove that looked like it had witnessed decades of family arguments over card games. Big windows framed a view I had not properly prepared for, mountains rising on every side, still patched with snow even in late spring. I found myself just staring, mug of tea going cold in my hands, until my partner nudged me and asked if I was planning to unpack or commune with nature all afternoon.

I chose a bit of both, frankly. There is something about a cabin that strips away the performance of everyday life. No need to be impressive, or even particularly competent. The kitchen had everything we needed without being flashy, and I made a supper of simple things, local cheese and bread and some salmon that cost more than I care to admit but tasted like it had been swimming that morning. We ate at the long wooden table while the children discussed which bedroom was superior and I let the argument wash over me, too busy watching the light change on the mountains outside.

That first evening, I made a fire with more enthusiasm than skill. My partner took over after my third failed attempt, and I did not even pretend to mind. We sat with the crackling stove and the growing dark outside, and I thought about how rarely I let myself do this, simply be somewhere without planning the next thing. The children fell asleep on the sofa, worn out by travel and fresh air, and I carried them to bed with that particular tenderness that comes from feeling genuinely content rather than merely managing.

I woke once in the night, disoriented by the silence. No traffic, no distant sirens, nothing but a faint wind in the trees. It took me a moment to place where I was, and when I remembered, I smiled in the darkness like a fool. The next morning I would explore properly, find the walking paths, perhaps brave the cold water of a nearby stream. But for now, lying in the unfamiliar quiet of a wooden cabin in the Norwegian mountains, I let myself simply be there, grateful and slightly stiff and already dreading the clockwise roundabout that would eventually take me home.