I have never been so relieved to see a fish warehouse in all my life. There I was, standing in the drizzling rain at Alesund's harbour, clutching a phone with 4% battery and the sinking realisation that I had written down the wrong postcode for our holiday let. My partner was doing that particular face he does when he is trying very hard not to say "I told you to screenshot the directions."

The ferry from Bergen had been grand, honestly. Smooth crossing, decent coffee, dramatic fjord scenery that made me feel like I was in one of those nature documentaries where the presenter whispers everything. But somewhere between photographing a particularly handsome seagull and rummaging for my headphones, I had managed to transpose two digits in the address. Classic me. The sort of error that would be charming in a sitcom and is considerably less charming when you are dragging a suitcase up cobblestones in persistent Norwegian drizzle.

We ducked into a doorway that turned out to be a small smokehouse, the air thick with the scent of curing fish and friendly suspicion. Behind the counter stood a woman called Ingrid, who looked at my crumpled booking printout the way one might regard a parking ticket. She did not speak much English. I do not speak much Norwegian beyond "takk" and whatever IKEA furniture names have accidentally lodged in my brain. And yet, through a magnificent combination of pointing, exaggerated facial expressions, and my partner drawing a crude map on the back of a receipt, Ingrid not only worked out where we were meant to be but insisted on walking us there herself.

She led us through Alesund's famous Art Nouveau streets, those elaborate facades like something from a particularly optimistic fairy tale, all turrets and curling stonework. Ingrid walked at a pace that suggested she had somewhere more important to be, yet kept pausing to point out architectural details with the pride of someone showing off a grandchild. "Jugendstil," she would say, firmly, waiting for our appreciative noises. We obliged enthusiastically. My partner attempted "vakker" and she actually smiled, which felt like winning a small medal.

The property itself, when we finally reached it, was one of those white wooden houses that cling to Alesund's hillside like barnacles, all steep angles and unexpected windows. Ingrid produced a key from her pocket with the casual authority of someone who apparently held keys to half the town. She demonstrated the heating system with the solemnity of a priest performing communion, made us promise to visit the aquarium, and vanished down the steps before we could offer her the biscuits we had brought from duty free.

We stood in the doorway, damp and slightly bewildered, looking out at the harbour through rain-streaked glass. The mishap had cost us perhaps forty minutes and most of my dignity, yet here we were, being welcomed into someone's home by a stranger who had simply decided to help. I thought about how I would have handled this in London, probably involving several apps and a significant quantity of passive-aggressive sighing.

That evening, having mastered the heating to a degree that would not have impressed Ingrid but at least prevented hypothermia, we ventured to a nearby pub for something warm. The barman, a substantial fellow called Erik with a beard you could lose things in, took one look at our still-slightly-damp appearance and asked if we were the "English with the lost house." News travels fast in small Norwegian towns, apparently. He poured us something local and dark that tasted of coffee and smoked something-or-other, and told us about his brother who had once got lost trying to find his own boat. "Alesund is easy to look at," Erik said, with the philosophical air of a man who had spent many evenings considering this, "but not always easy to find your way around. The islands, you see. They confuse the compass."

I raised my glass to that. To confused compasses, to unexpected kindness, and to holiday lets that are absolutely worth the minor navigational humiliation required to reach them.