I should have known the holiday was going to be interesting when I missed the turning for Sykkylven not once, but three times. There I was, trundling along the E39 with a boot full of shopping from Alesund, absolutely convinced I knew better than both the sat nav and every single road sign in More og Romsdal. The third time I found myself staring at a fjord I'd already named "definitely not the right one," I finally admitted defeat and pulled into a petrol station where a very patient woman explained, slowly, that I needed to actually look at the road numbers rather than trust my "instincts." Humbling, that.

The drive down to Hundeidvik proper is the sort that makes you forgive yourself for getting lost. The road hugs the shoreline of Storfjorden, and every bend reveals another view that has you reaching for your phone while trying not to drive into a ditch. Mountains rise straight from the water like they've got something to prove. I kept stopping for photos until I realised I'd taken seventeen nearly identical shots of the same grey rock face and felt a bit of a prat.

The cottage itself sits in that perfect spot where you feel tucked away without being properly remote. I arrived as evening was coming on, which in late autumn meant about half past four, and immediately discovered I'd packed approximately fourteen jumpers but no torch. Cue me fumbling with the key box in near darkness, dropping it into a patch of wet grass, and spending a good five minutes on my hands and knees like a particularly inept burglar. A neighbour's dog watched the entire performance from a window. I could feel its judgement.

Morning brought the real magic, though. I woke to proper silence, the kind that makes you conscious of your own breathing. The cottage looks out across the fjord, and that first cup of tea on the little wooden deck, watching the light shift on the water, made every wrong turn worthwhile. I decided to walk into Sykkylven village for supplies, ignoring the sensible option of driving, and promptly got myself lost again within ten minutes. Some people never learn.

But here's the thing about getting lost in this corner of Norway: it rewards you. I took a path I thought was a shortcut and found myself in a small clearing with an old wooden bench, clearly placed there by someone who understood the view. The fjord stretched out below, a ferry making its slow crossing, and somewhere across the water I could hear sheep bells. I sat there for an hour doing absolutely nothing, which for someone who fidgets through television adverts felt genuinely revolutionary.

That became the pattern of the week. I'd set out with some vague intention, get distracted by a path or a view or a particularly interesting rock, and end up somewhere I hadn't planned. A tiny beach of smooth stones, accessible only by scrambling down a slope I definitely shouldn't have attempted in trainers. A waterfall I heard before I saw, tucked into a fold of hillside where the map showed nothing. A meadow full of what I later learned were cloudberries, which I photographed extensively before discovering I don't actually like the taste of cloudberries.

The local shop in Sykkylven became my daily excuse for wandering. I'd buy something unnecessary, a chocolate I'd already tried or yet another packet of the excellent local biscuits, just to have a destination. The woman behind the counter started recognising me, which in British terms is both mortifying and rather pleasing. We developed a routine of nods and comments about the weather, conducted in my terrible Norwegian and her patient English.

One afternoon I attempted what I told myself was a "proper hike," following a marked trail that promised a viewpoint. I missed a marker somewhere, as is my gift, and found myself instead on a narrow track through birch woods that ended at a small lake I'd never have found otherwise. No viewpoint, no panoramic sweep, just still water and the sound of a single bird I couldn't identify. I sat on a damp log and ate my disappointing sandwich, and it was absolutely perfect.

The cottage itself encouraged this aimlessness. It had that lived-in comfort of a place that's seen many holidays, not precious but genuinely welcoming. I cooked badly with local fish, set off the smoke alarm, opened every window, and ate my slightly charred dinner wrapped in a blanket against the cold. The wood burner became my evening companion, though my first attempt at lighting it produced more smoke than heat and I spent an hour convinced I'd broken something expensive.

By the end of the week, I'd stopped even pretending to have plans. I'd wake, make coffee, and simply walk until something caught my attention. Sometimes that was a view, sometimes a conversation with a local walking their dog, sometimes just a comfortable rock to sit on. I found a small harbour where fishing boats came in, and spent a morning watching men work with the easy efficiency of long practice, understanding nothing of what they did but content to observe.

The journey back to Alesund airport was deliberately slow, full of stops I hadn't planned and views I wanted one more look at. I got lost only once, which I considered genuine progress. The sat nav remained silent, perhaps exhausted by my earlier stubbornness, and I found my own way through roads that had become familiar in their irregularity.

Sitting in the departure lounge, waiting for a flight delayed by weather, I realised something about my week of accidental discoveries. I'd spent months planning holidays with spreadsheets and reservations, ticking boxes and optimising experiences, and here I'd found more contentment in wrong turns and damp logs than in any carefully curated itinerary. There's a lesson there, though I'm not sure I want to examine it too closely. Something about control, and letting go, and the value of not knowing where you're going.

I'll probably forget it by next holiday and book something with seventeen scheduled activities. But for that week in Sykkylven, I was gloriously, productively lost, and I've got the wet trainers and the blurry photos to prove it.