I have never been particularly gifted at reading ferry timetables, a fact that became embarrassingly clear somewhere outside Bergen when I realised the sailing I had planned my entire journey around departed from a completely different quay than the one where I was currently sitting, eating a very overpriced hot dog and feeling rather pleased with myself. Three hours, one apologetic phone call to the cottage owner, and a slightly frantic drive along winding fjord roads later, I finally pulled up at the little place near Stordalsvatnet in Etne, Hordaland, wondering if my knack for logistical chaos would somehow translate into holiday charm.

It did not, but the cottage did.

The first thing that struck me was the stillness. After the drama of my arrival, stepping out onto the gravel drive felt like walking into a different frequency entirely. The cottage sat modestly among birch and rowan, with the water visible through gaps in the trees like someone peeking through curtains. I had arrived in what Norwegians apparently call proper summer weather, which meant I could see actual blue sky and had immediately committed to removing my jumper, a decision I would question several times over the following days.

I had packed for walking with the determined optimism of someone who owns proper boots but rarely uses them. My plan was simple: coastal hikes, perhaps a gentle summit or two, and the smug satisfaction of returning each evening with slightly aching legs and a clear conscience. The cottage's position felt perfect for this, nestled between inland water and the promise of fjord-side trails within easy reach.

That first afternoon, I set out toward what I had identified on a rather optimistic map as a straightforward coastal path. The initial stretch followed a gravel track past scattered farm buildings, sheep watching me with the bored disdain I have come to recognise as a universal livestock response to tourists. Then the trail narrowed, became proper walking territory, and suddenly I was above the water with the sort of view that makes you stop mid-stride and just stand there like a fool, mouth slightly open, hoping nobody is watching.

The Hordaland coast does this to you. It is not dramatic in the Scottish sense, all jagged and theatrical. It is quieter, more patient, wearing its beauty lightly. I walked for perhaps two hours that first evening, the path rising and falling through heather and low scrub, occasionally dipping to rocky inlets where I could hear oystercatchers calling and the slow rhythm of water against stone.

I returned feeling rather pleased, cooked a mediocre pasta, and sat outside with a beer as the light faded. This, I decided, was exactly what I had needed.

The weather, naturally, had other ideas. I woke to grey skies and a wind that seemed personally offended by my presence. By midday, proper rain had arrived, the sort that does not bother with drizzle but commits fully to its purpose. I spent that day reading, napping, and making increasingly elaborate sandwiches while watching the water on Stordalsvatnet change from grey to darker grey to something approaching theatrical.

The following morning brought sunshine so bright it felt almost aggressive. I set out again, this time toward a longer trail I had spotted near the fjord, only to find myself turned back by a stream that had transformed overnight from trickle to proper obstacle, my walking boots suddenly seeming entirely inadequate. I stood on one bank, weighing dignity against wet feet, and eventually chose dignity, which meant a longer return via road and the humbling experience of being overtaken by a local cyclist who did not even appear to be breathing hard.

By my fourth day, I had developed a rhythm with the weather, checking forecasts with the anxious attention usually reserved for medical results. The sunshine returned, and I managed a proper walk along the coast, following a trail that wound through woodland before opening to views across the fjord, the water busy with small boats and the distant shapes of larger vessels heading toward Bergen. I found a flat rock, ate my packed lunch, and felt briefly like someone who had their life genuinely together.

What I slowly understood, and what I suppose I needed to understand, was that the walking here was not about conquering distances or ticking off summits. The weather would not permit that kind of arrogance. It was about adaptability, about setting out with intention and accepting modification. Each day brought some small adjustment: a turned-back trail, an unexpected downpour, an afternoon that suddenly cleared and demanded immediate action before the next front arrived.

On my final morning, I woke early to mist and complete calm. I walked down to the water's edge without purpose, simply to be there, and stood watching the slow reveal as the sun burned through, the opposite shore gradually becoming visible, then distinct, then ordinary again. My boots were muddy, my plans largely unfulfilled in their original form, and I had never once removed my jumper for an entire day without eventually regretting it.

I would return tomorrow, given the chance, probably via the wrong ferry again, and walk whatever the weather permitted with the same hopeful incompetence that had carried me through this visit. Some holidays teach you about places. This one, I suspect, had been trying to teach me something about myself, though I would need at least another trip, and probably several more wrong turns, to work out exactly what.