I have never been so relieved to see a wooden holiday home in my life, and that includes the time I got caught in a hailstorm near Aviemore and had to shelter in a bothy that smelled strongly of wet dog. The drive to Eidsvag i Romsdal had been spectacular, winding through More og Romsdal's fjord country with mountains rising on every side like giants having a lie-down, but it was the final mile that nearly finished me off.

You see, I had decided to be clever. Rather than follow the main road all the way, I consulted what I shall generously call a "map" on my phone and spotted what looked like a shortcut. A scenic route, I told myself, imagining a gentle coastal track with perhaps a charming fishing hut or two. What I got was a gravel track that grew progressively more assertive about its identity as a footpath, culminating in a sheep gate that I absolutely definitely should have stopped at. Instead, I spent twenty minutes performing a seventeen-point turn while a small audience of local sheep watched with the blank contempt that only sheep can manage. By the time I reached the proper turning for the holiday home, my hands were welded to the steering wheel and my dignity was in tatters.

The property itself could not have been more welcoming if it had opened the door and offered me a cup of tea. A traditional Norwegian wooden house, painted that distinctive red that seems to glow against the green landscape, it sat just back from the shoreline with views across the water that made me forget entirely about the sheep incident. The owner had left the key in the agreed place, and stepping inside felt like walking into someone's grandmother's best room - all polished wood, comfortable furniture, and that particular stillness that only comes from houses that know their place in the world.

I had arrived in late June with ambitious plans for serious mountain walking. The Romsdal Alps were calling, or so I had told everyone back home, and I had packed accordingly with boots that could probably summit Everest and a rucksack containing enough supplies for a fortnight. The weather, however, had other ideas. The first morning dawned grey and determined, with low cloud sitting on the hills like a stubborn cat refusing to be moved. I stood on the small terrace with my coffee, watching the drizzle make patterns on the fjord, and made what felt at the time like a concession to weakness: I would walk along the coast instead.

This turned out to be one of those accidental gifts that travel sometimes gives you. The path from Eidsvag followed the shoreline eastward, threading between the water and the lower slopes, passing through patches of birch woodland that smelled of damp earth and green growing things. I met no other walkers, only a few fishing boats heading out and the occasional oystercatcher protesting my presence with its piercing whistle. The terrain was easy enough that I could simply walk and look, which is a rarer pleasure than it should be. The mountains were hidden, yes, but that meant I noticed other things: the way the rock changed colour where the tide reached it, the small waterfalls cutting straight down the hillside, the sudden clearings where someone had once tried to farm this uncompromising land.

By afternoon the weather had performed one of those rapid transformations that make Norwegian meteorology such an exciting gamble. The clouds tore open like a ripped envelope, and sunlight flooded across the water in beams so dramatic they looked almost painted. I found a flat rock and sat with my sandwiches, watching the temperature climb surprisingly high. My serious mountain boots suddenly seemed absurdly over-engineered for this gentle amble, and I laughed at myself for the elaborate plans I had made. There is a particular kind of traveller's arrogance in believing that the best experiences must also be the most difficult, and I was guilty of it entirely.

The warmth held for three blessed days, and I fell into an easy rhythm of coastal walking that started to feel like a proper discovery rather than a second choice. I explored the shoreline westward toward the small settlement, finding hidden coves where the water was improbably turquoise and beaches made not of sand but of smooth water-worn stones that clicked together musically underfoot. One afternoon I walked far enough to find a small harbour where elderly men were repairing nets with the unhurried precision of those who have never known a deadline, and though we shared no language beyond gestures and smiles, they offered me coffee from a thermos that tasted of metal and something indefinably Nordic.

Each evening I returned to the house with tired legs and a growing tan line where my sleeves ended, cooking simple meals in the well-equipped kitchen and eating on that terrace as the light stretched late into the evening. The mountains remained largely hidden, appearing occasionally as tantalising glimpses through breaking cloud, and I found I did not mind at all. My Everest boots sat in the hallway like a silent reproach, or perhaps a promise for another visit.

On my final morning I woke to find the clouds had finally lifted completely, revealing the full grandeur of the peaks I had been walking beneath all week. They were magnificent, of course, snow-streaked and severe, and I stood for a long time with my coffee growing cold, acknowledging what I had missed and what I had found instead. Travel, I thought, is not always about ticking the obvious boxes, and sometimes the weather knows better than we do what we actually need.

I left the key in the agreed place, reversed carefully past the sheep gate without incident, and drove away with gravel crunching under the wheels and the mountains finally visible in my rear-view mirror, already planning when I might return to walk among them properly, or perhaps to discover another unexpected path along the shore.