I have never been so grateful to see a petrol station sandwich in all my life. Twelve hours after leaving Gatwick, two flights, one very wobbly ferry crossing, and a hire car that smelled faintly of fish and regret, I finally pulled up at the little wooden house in Kristiansund. The key was exactly where the owner said it would be, under a ceramic cod that weighed more than my suitcase. I felt quite pleased with myself until I turned the key and walked straight into a broom cupboard. Wrong door. The actual entrance was three feet to the left. Not my finest moment, and certainly not my last culinary humiliation of the week.

The kitchen, once I found it, was compact but surprisingly well-equipped. I had grand plans, you see. I had watched too many Scandinavian crime dramas and convinced myself I would cook like a local, all foraged berries and freshly caught cod, perhaps a little aquavit to finish. The reality was rather different. My first attempt at self-catering involved a trip to the Meny supermarket on Kongens Plass, where I stood in the fish aisle for a solid ten minutes trying to work out whether the vacuum-packed klippfisk needed soaking or whether I could just pretend it was normal fish and hope for the best. A very patient woman in a woolly jumper explained, in excellent English, that I would need three days of soaking and a complete rethink of my dinner plans. I bought frozen fish fingers instead. She did not look impressed.

Breakfast became my specialty, mostly because it required no actual cooking skill. The local bakery, a ten-minute stroll away, did these extraordinary boller, soft cardamom buns that I would warm slightly in the oven and eat with far too much butter and brown cheese. The brown cheese, brunost, was another matter entirely. I had read about it, of course, but nothing prepares you for that first taste. It is sweet, faintly caramel, and utterly wrong for everything you expect cheese to be. By day four I was slicing it onto everything. By day six I was eating it straight from the block while staring out at the harbour. I do not wish to examine what this says about my character.

The Kristiansund market happens on certain mornings down by the harbour, and I made it my mission to attend. I set my alarm, I planned my purchases, I imagined myself returning with cloudberries and smoked salmon and perhaps some local reindeer sausage. I arrived two hours late because I had confused the ferry timetable with the market hours. Typical. What remained was a man selling very expensive mushrooms and another selling coffee from a van. I bought both, naturally, and spent twenty minutes chatting with the mushroom man about the best way to prepare his chanterelles. He recommended cream and patience. I possessed one of these in abundance.

Back at the house, I attempted my most ambitious meal yet. The mushrooms, some local potatoes from a honesty box I had passed on a walk, and a piece of lamb I had tracked down after three phone calls to various butchers. The kitchen filled with smoke, not entirely from the pan. The smoke alarm, I discovered, was extremely sensitive and positioned directly above the stove. I spent the rest of the evening fanning it with a tea towel while eating slightly burnt lamb at midnight, feeling simultaneously ridiculous and rather pleased with myself. It tasted, if I am honest, absolutely magnificent.

There was a small fish and chip shop near the harbour that saved me more than once, proper British-style comfort when my cooking experiments went awry. The owner had spent a summer in Blackpool thirty years ago and still remembered enough English to tease me about my failures. I ate his fish twice, standing on the pier, watching the ferries come and go, wondering why I had ever thought I could cook like a local.

By the end of the week, my fridge contained half a block of brown cheese, some questionable leftover fish soup, and a jar of something pickled that I had bought on impulse and feared to open. I had not mastered Norwegian cooking. I had not even really attempted it properly. But I had eaten well, in my own chaotic fashion, and I had learned that a holiday kitchen is not about perfection. It is about the stories you accumulate, the smoke alarms you trigger, and the strange sweet cheese you come to love despite your better judgement. I locked up the house, returned the ceramic cod to its hiding place, and drove away already planning my return. Next time, I told myself, I would soak the klippfisk properly. Next time I would be ready. I suspect I will buy fish fingers again.