I have never been so relieved to see a wooden cabin in my life, and that includes the time I got caught in a hailstorm near Aviemore. The drive from Alesund to Runde had been all winding fjord roads and dramatic scenery, which sounds lovely until you realise you have been gripping the steering wheel like it owes you money for three solid hours. My partner, bless her, had insisted on navigating, which chiefly involved reading aloud from a guidebook about seabirds we had not yet seen and occasionally gasping at cliffs.

The mishap came at what I thought was the final turning. A steep gravel track, a misplaced sense of adventure, and suddenly we were at a farm gate being inspected by three sheep who looked deeply unimpressed with our life choices. Reversing down a Norwegian hillside in a hire car is not an activity I would recommend to anyone hoping to keep their dignity intact. A man emerged from a nearby shed, wiping his hands on an oily rag, and watched us for a full minute before ambling over. He spoke no English, I speak no Norwegian, but through elaborate pointing and what I can only describe as charades for the spatially challenged, he conveyed that we needed to go back to the main road, turn left, and stop trusting our sat nav. His name was Erik, apparently, and he laughed like a drain the entire time he helped me turn the car around.

Properly arrived at the cabin twenty minutes later, I was still smarting from the encounter. The place sat perched above the water, all weathered timber and sensible Scandinavian design, with windows that framed the islands like paintings. I stood on the deck pretending to appreciate the view while actually watching a woman in wellingtons approach from the neighbouring property. She introduced herself as Ingrid, explained she was the owner's cousin, and within ninety seconds had informed me that the previous guests were Dutch, very tidy, and had seen an otter. The implication that we had much to live up to hung in the salt air.

That evening, needing supplies, we drove the few minutes to the small harbour area. A petrol station doubled as the general store, staffed by a teenager named Magnus who was reading a book about jazz trumpet and seemed faintly surprised to have customers. He rang up our items with the efficiency of someone who had never once rushed in his life, then asked if we were "the ones who drove to Erik's sheep." News travels fast on Runde. I admitted we were. He nodded slowly, as if this explained everything about us, and recommended the brown cheese.

Back at the cabin, I cooked badly while my partner chatted with Ingrid through the fence, learning about the island's birdlife, the best walking routes, and which neighbours to avoid asking about EU fishing policy. Ingrid had lived there sixty years and still found the puffins worth mentioning. There was something in her manner, a comfortable self-assurance that comes from knowing your place in the world quite literally, that made me conscious of how rarely I stop to simply be somewhere.

The morning brought low cloud and a man in a small boat who waved from the water as he checked his lobster pots. I waved back with the enthusiasm of someone trying to compensate for yesterday's sheep-related humiliation. He shouted something I could not catch, laughed, and carried on. I never learned his name. I did learn, however, that Runde operates on its own rhythm, that the locals find newcomers amusing but not unwelcome, and that there is profound comfort in a community that measures time by tides and tourist mishaps rather than anything so frantic as a schedule.

I am not sure I would trust myself to find the cabin again without Erik's intervention, but I suspect he would be there, still laughing, ready to point the way.