I'd packed my rucksack three times before leaving the house, convinced I'd forgotten something vital. Turns out the thing I'd forgotten was my own sense of direction. The drive from Bergen to our holiday home near Voss should have been straightforward enough, but I managed to miss the turn for Myrkdalen not once but twice, ending up down a farm track where a very patient sheep stared at me until I reversed out with what dignity I could muster. My partner sat in the passenger seat, very generously saying nothing at all.

We'd booked a proper Nordic cabin through NOVASOL, the sort with timber walls and a deck that practically demands you sit out with a coffee. The approach wound through green valleys still holding the last stubborn patches of snow in late May, waterfalls appearing around every other bend like Norway couldn't help showing off. I was already composing the triumphant text to my brother about our wilderness credentials when we arrived and discovered I'd left the cabin keys in the glovebox of our hire car, which I'd locked. With the keys inside. The sheep had been right to judge me.

The local locksmith, a chap called Einar who appeared within the hour, found this hilarious. "British?" he asked, needing no further explanation. I handed over what felt like half our holiday budget and tried to look philosophical about it.

Once inside, the place was worth every krone of my foolishness. Proper pine interior, a kitchen that smelled faintly of previous guests' waffles, and windows framing mountains that looked almost aggressively picturesque. I stood on the deck with my finally-acquired coffee and felt that particular satisfaction of arrival after minor chaos.

Our plan had been ambitious coastal walking. The weather, however, had other ideas. We'd arrived during one of those Norwegian warm spells where the valley bakes but the mountains still hoard their winter, creating a sort of meteorological confusion. Morning fog rolled down from the peaks each day, thick as porridge, then burned off by midday into something almost Mediterranean. The locals seemed utterly unfazed, carrying on with haymaking or whatever sensible activity while we tourists stood about checking weather apps with the intensity of day traders.

We'd intended to tackle the higher trails immediately, the ones climbing toward the mountain plateaus. Instead, that first afternoon, we found ourselves walking the lower valley paths near the cabin, following the river where the mist still lingered in cool pockets. It was hardly the dramatic coastal hiking I'd researched, all exposed ridges and fjord views. But there was something quietly magical about those damp riverside trails, the way the warm air met the cold water and created this drifting, uncertain light. I stopped trying to photograph it after the tenth attempt; some things simply refuse to translate.

The next morning brought proper sunshine, and with it a change of plan. We drove the short distance to the coast near Vangsbygda, where a network of lower trails winds through birch forest toward the water. The path emerged suddenly onto rocky shoreline, the fjord stretching out in that particular Norwegian blue that makes you understand why people paint landscapes. I'd packed a swimming costume on some mad optimistic impulse, and the water was exactly as cold as you'd expect. I waded to my knees, made a sound I didn't know I could produce, and retreated to a sun-warmed rock like a sensible lizard.

What struck me, walking those coastal trails over the following days, was how the weather kept reshaping our plans without our permission. We'd set out for one viewpoint and find cloud had swallowed it, forcing us down to alternative paths we'd never have chosen. A planned long loop became a shorter wander with extended sitting-about time. Each "compromise" turned out to be something we'd have missed otherwise: a hidden cove where otters had been, apparently, though we saw only their slippery evidence; a meadow of flowers I couldn't name, buzzing with insects in the unexpected warmth.

By our fourth day, I'd stopped checking the forecast with any seriousness. The morning mist became something to walk through rather than wait out, the afternoon heat something to seek shade from rather than maximise. We found ourselves rising early, walking in that cool golden light before the valley warmed, then resting through the midday hours like proper locals. The coastal paths near Mjolfjell offered gentle gradients through forest that opened periodically to water views, perfect for this adjusted rhythm.

I found myself thinking, on one such walk, about how much of my holiday planning normally involves control. The researched route, the optimised schedule, the determined pursuit of "best" experiences. This particular trip had begun with keys locked in cars and continued with weather that ignored my research entirely. Yet sitting on a rock, slightly sunburned, watching a fishing boat make its unhurried way across the fjord, I couldn't locate any actual problem with how things had unfolded.

The warm spell broke on our final day, rain sweeping down the valley with theatrical timing. We walked anyway, along the lower river path near the cabin, getting properly wet for the first time. The mountains had returned to their proper grey, waterfalls revived and thundering. I thought about Einar the locksmith, probably still laughing at tourists somewhere, and found I didn't mind being one of the stories.

We left the cabin key in the obvious place this time, checked twice. The drive back to Bergen passed those same waterfalls, now swollen and dramatic. I was already forgetting the frustration of arrival, keeping instead the image of mist on river water, of unexpected warmth on coastal rocks, of plans abandoned without regret. Some holidays teach you things you didn't know needed learning. Mostly, I think, about the usefulness of getting slightly lost.