I have never been so relieved to see a red wooden house in my life. After six hours of driving from Alesund airport, two of which were spent crawling through mountain passes in what I can only describe as "aggressive drizzle," we finally rolled onto Averoy island. My partner was navigating, our youngest was threatening to be sick, and I was absolutely convinced we had missed the turning. We had not missed the turning. We had, in fact, driven straight past the house three minutes earlier because I had insisted it would be "much more obvious than this." It was not more obvious. It was a red house. In Norway. Where approximately every other building is also red.

The key was in a lockbox, which I managed to open on the fourth attempt while performing an awkward balancing act on a rocky patch that I am fairly certain was not meant to be stood upon. I slipped. Not dramatically, but enough that my elbow made firm contact with a potted plant, which wobbled but mercifully did not fall. My partner gave me that look. You know the one. The look that says "I love you but please do not injure yourself before we have even unpacked the car."

Stepping inside was like walking into someone else's very sensible dream. The place smelled of pine and something faintly vanilla, which I later discovered was a candle on the windowsill that had been lit for our arrival. The living room had that proper Norwegian cabin feel, all warm wood panelling and a wood-burning stove that immediately made me feel like I should be wearing a chunky knit jumper and contemplating fjords. There was even a little nook by the window with two chairs facing out towards what I assumed was a view. At that point it was too dark to tell, but I committed to the fantasy anyway.

The kitchen was compact in that brilliantly efficient Scandinavian way where everything has a home and nobody has apparently ever owned more than four mugs. I opened a cupboard and found exactly four mugs. I felt seen. The children thundered upstairs to claim bedrooms, which resulted in a brief negotiation involving a room with bunk beds and another with what our daughter dramatically declared "the worst window in the house." It faced a hillside. She is eleven and has opinions about landscape architecture.

I made tea using a kettle that boiled with alarming speed and stood by the stove, which I had absolutely no intention of lighting because I am terrified of fire and also had no idea where the wood was kept. Through the window I could just make out the shimmer of what had to be the sea, or possibly a very committed puddle. The darkness felt different here. Thicker, somehow, but not threatening. Just present, like a quiet guest who does not need entertaining.

My partner found the wood store while I was still nursing my tea and pretending to be busy. He brought in an armful and raised an eyebrow. I confessed my fire-related cowardice. He laughed, which was the correct response, and proceeded to build what I can only describe as an architectural masterpiece of kindling and newspaper. It caught on the second match. I felt a strange pride in this, as if I had done something useful by simply watching.

By the time the fire was crackling properly, the children had reappeared in pyjamas despite it only being half past eight. The youngest immediately fell asleep on the sofa. The eleven-year-old stared at the flames with the intensity of someone solving a difficult equation. I sat in one of the nook chairs and finally understood what the view would be tomorrow morning, even though I could not yet see it. Sometimes knowing is enough.

We ate sandwiches for dinner because nobody had the energy for anything more ambitious, and because there is something deeply satisfying about a proper holiday sandwich eaten in a strange kitchen while wearing socks that do not match. My partner and I stayed up another hour, speaking in that half-whispered code that parents develop, about nothing important and everything that mattered. The fire popped and settled. The house creaked once, politely, as if introducing itself.

I went to bed thinking about the morning, about whether we would walk to the shore or simply sit in that nook with coffee and watch the light change. Both seemed like excellent plans. Both seemed possible here, in this red house that I had driven past and nearly fallen into and already could not imagine leaving. Some arrivals take time to feel real. This one felt immediate, complete, like slipping into water exactly the right temperature. I fell asleep to the distant sound of waves, or perhaps that was just the wind. Either way, I did not mind not knowing.