I had been warned about Norwegian weather in late October, but nothing quite prepares you for stepping off the bus in Alesund with your rucksack unzipped and your thermal leggings tumbling out onto the wet pavement in front of a small crowd of impeccably dressed locals. I scooped them up with what I hoped looked like Scandinavian nonchalance, though my ears were burning hotter than a fjord-side sauna.

The journey from Alesund Airport had been spectacular enough to make me forget basic zipping protocol. Low clouds hung over the water like grey wool, parting occasionally to reveal the famous Art Nouveau spires rising from the islands. Even in autumn's grip, the town had that storybook quality, all turrets and towers built after the great fire of 1904. My phone kept trying to autocorrect "Alesund" to "Alesund" with various angry red squiggles, which felt fitting for a place that demands you pay proper attention.

I found the holiday home down a quiet lane on Aspoya island, one of the central cluster that makes up the town. The key safe required three attempts and some muttered words my grandmother would not have approved of, but then the door swung open and the smell of pine and something faintly marine drifted out. The owners had left the heating on low, bless them, and the radiators ticked contentedly as I stood in the hallway dripping onto the wooden floor.

October in More og Romsdal is not a season that tolerates fools gladly. The daylight was already packing up by half past four, and the wind off the North Atlantic had that particular quality of finding every gap in your clothing. I had packed for "bracing" and was encountering "existential." Yet there was something immediately comforting about the house itself - proper thick walls, a kitchen that looked actually used rather than showroom-pristine, and windows that framed the grey harbour like a living painting that changed every few minutes.

I made tea with the efficiency of someone who has just remembered that Norwegian shops close early and his provisions consisted of a squashed airport sandwich and some hope. The mug warmed my hands as I watched a fishing boat ease through the channel, its lights already on against the gathering dark. Somewhere a seagull made a noise of profound complaint.

That first evening, I did not venture far. The rain came in earnest, horizontal and purposeful, and I sat with a book I had been meaning to read for two years, the weather providing both excuse and atmosphere. There is a particular pleasure in being warm and dry while nature performs its more dramatic routines outside, especially when you have no particular place to be.

I woke to a changed world. The storm had scrubbed everything clean, and weak autumn sun turned the wet streets silver. The seasonal rhythm of Alesund was revealing itself - not the summer bustle of cruise ships and kayaking, but something more contemplative. Locals moved with purpose, dressed for realities rather than photographs. The tourist information board near the harbour was still advertising summer puffin trips with a certain wistful optimism.

Walking to the nearby shops for proper supplies, I passed piles of leaves being swept methodically from doorways, the smell of woodsmoke from somewhere up the hill, and everywhere the evidence of a town that does not pause for weather but simply adjusts its layers and carries on. A woman in a bright orange jacket nodded good morning as if we were both members of some sensible club.

By afternoon the light was fading again, but I found myself not minding. The short days seemed to compress experience, to make a morning walk and an afternoon coffee feel like proper accomplishments. Back at the house, I lit the candles I had sensibly purchased, and the rooms took on that particular Norwegian glow - hygge before I knew to call it that, simply the practical response to long dark evenings.

The leggings dried on the radiator overnight, slightly stiff but serviceable. Some mishaps, I decided, looking out at the harbour lights flickering on across the water, are worth the small humiliations of their arrival.