I have never been so grateful to see a wooden bench in my entire life. After seven hours of driving from Alesund airport, winding through the sort of Norwegian scenery that makes you wonder why anyone bothers with the Lake District, we finally pulled up to what I assumed was our holiday cottage. It was not. It was someone's shed. A very nice shed, admittedly, with excellent timber cladding, but a shed nonetheless. My partner, ever the optimist, had already started unpacking the shopping onto a wheelbarrow when a friendly face appeared at the neighbouring window and politely directed us fifty metres down the lane. We had arrived at Oydegard, but not quite.

The actual cottage was a proper charmer. Red wooden walls, grass on the roof that looked like it needed a haircut, and a kitchen that smelled faintly of pine and the previous guest's cinnamon. I am not too proud to admit that I stood in that kitchen and actually clapped my hands together like a child. The windows looked straight out over Tingvollfjorden, all grey-green water and mountains that seemed to have been placed there specifically to make your dinner view unbeatable.

We had stopped at a Coop Mega in Molde to stock up, which I mention because I spent forty-five minutes in the cheese aisle alone. Norwegian supermarkets are dangerous for the indecisive. I came away with brunost, which I had convinced myself I would learn to love, plus three types of pickled herring, some smoked salmon that cost more than my first car, and a cabbage the size of a football. My partner, who is from Yorkshire and therefore sensible, bought eggs, bacon, and a loaf of bread. We were both equally pleased with ourselves.

That first evening, I attempted what I called a "Nordic fusion" supper. The brunost went into a sauce for the salmon. It separated. It curdled. It looked like something you would find in a science experiment rather than on a plate. We ended up eating the salmon plain, with buttered bread and the pickled herring straight from the jar, standing at the kitchen counter because the dining table was still buried under our luggage. It was absolutely delicious. Sometimes failure is its own reward, particularly when you have a view like that to stare at while you chew.

Morning brought the kind of light that makes photographers weep. I was up early, partly due to jet lag and partly because the cottage's coffee machine is the sort of efficient Scandinavian device that sounds like it is judging your life choices. I brewed a pot and sat outside in a borrowed fleece, watching a heron work its way along the shoreline. Breakfast was simple: the proper bread, some of that expensive salmon thinly sliced, a soft-boiled egg with a runny yolk that I managed to achieve through sheer luck rather than skill. I felt very pleased with myself until I remembered I had done nothing but boil water.

The village of Tingvoll itself is small and unhurried. We walked there on the second day, partly for exercise and partly because I had read about a local farm shop that sold its own rakfisk. I will not describe the smell of rakfisk. Suffice to say my partner waited outside while I purchased a small portion, plus some cloudberries in a jar that I have every intention of opening on a special occasion that has not yet arrived. The woman running the shop spoke excellent English and patiently explained how her grandmother prepared the fish. I nodded along, understanding perhaps every third word, but appreciating the kindness of the gesture.

Back at the cottage, I became ambitious. There was a proper cooker, a well-stocked kitchen, and that enormous cabbage demanding attention. I made fiskesuppe, a creamy fish soup, using a recipe I found on my phone with one bar of signal. It involved cod from a local fisherman who had a small stall near the ferry point, plus potatoes, carrots, and more cream than any medical professional would recommend. I stirred and tasted and adjusted, feeling genuinely connected to the place in a way that restaurant meals rarely achieve. The soup was thick and warming and tasted of the fjord itself, or at least of my romantic notion of it.

We ate it at the proper dining table, finally cleared of bags, with candles lit against the long northern evening. My partner raised a glass of rather good Norwegian beer and declared it "not bad for a lass from Birmingham." I chose to take this as high praise.

The rest of the week followed a pattern I would happily repeat forever. Mornings with coffee and whatever bread remained. Lunches of assembled bits from the fridge, eaten during walks or on the cottage's small terrace. Dinners that grew gradually more competent as I learned the quirks of the cooker and the limits of my own enthusiasm. One night I made pan-fried trout with wild mushrooms I had spotted near the lane, after triple-checking they would not kill us. Another night we simply ate cheese and crackers and called it a "Scandinavian platter," which sounds intentional if you say it firmly enough.

I never did master the brunost. It sat in the fridge, slowly drying at the edges, a reminder of my own optimism. On our final morning, I fried some with bacon in a last-ditch attempt and produced something edible but strange, like sweet and savoury having an argument on my plate. I ate it anyway, standing at the window, watching the heron return to its spot on the shore.

Some holidays are about seeing things. This one was about tasting them, failing at them, and trying again in a kitchen that smelled of pine and possibility. I left Oydegard with a slightly expanded waistline, a jar of cloudberries still unopened, and a genuine affection for a place where the food is honest, the views are ridiculous, and nobody minds if you mistake a shed for your accommodation.