I have never been so relieved to see a wooden shed in my entire life.

The drive from Alesund to Todalen had been all sharp fjord bends and me repeatedly telling the children to stop kicking the back of my seat, thank you very much. My partner, Mark, had insisted on taking the "scenic route" through Stranda, which added forty minutes and one spectacular argument about whether we had missed the turning for the ferry. We had not missed the turning. Mark had simply been distracted by a particularly handsome mountain goat.

By the time we rattled down the gravel track to our holiday home, I was in that peculiar state of travel exhaustion where everything feels faintly absurd. The cottage sat nestled among birch trees with a view of the Norddalsfjorden that made me actually say "blimey" out loud, which I do not believe I have done since 2003. It was properly Scandinavian in that understated way: red wooden cladding, a small deck, windows that seemed designed to frame the landscape like paintings.

Then came the mishap.

I had the key code clutched in my hand, triumphantly punched it into the lock box, and pulled out the key with the flourish of a magician completing a trick. The door opened smoothly. I stepped inside, arms laden with carrier bags from the Kiwi supermarket in Stranda, and immediately noticed the slippers by the door were not the ones pictured on the website. Also, the coat rack had moved. Also, there was a very large photograph of someone else's grandchildren on the sideboard.

"Mark," I called out, still standing in the hallway with frozen pizzas slowly thawing against my leg. "Mark, I think we've broken into the wrong house."

Mark appeared behind me, took in the scene, and did that thing where he rubbed his forehead with both hands simultaneously. The children, naturally, thought this was the most hilarious development of their young lives and immediately began exploring someone else's living room with the enthusiasm of estate agents.

I retreated to the deck, red-faced, and checked my phone. The booking confirmation clearly stated number 29285. The number on the door said 29283. I had misread the final digit in my eagerness to escape the car. The actual property was, mercifully, three doors down the same track, and the owners of 29283 were apparently off hiking for the day, which saved us all considerable embarrassment and potential involvement with Norwegian law enforcement.

Our proper cottage, when we finally reached it, was almost identical but somehow felt more welcoming for the comedy of errors. The children claimed the twin bedroom immediately, Mark began his traditional inspection of the coffee maker, and I stood on the deck watching a fishing boat cut slowly across the fjord. The afternoon light had turned everything golden and forgiving.

That first evening, we did nothing ambitious whatsoever. Mark grilled sausages on the small barbecue while I sat with a cup of tea and watched the kids attempt to feed breadcrumbs to what they insisted were "Norwegian seagulls" as if this were a distinct species. We ate at the wooden picnic table, wrapped in blankets because even August evenings here carry a briskness that reminds you where you are. The children talked over each other about the boat they wanted to hire, the hiking trail they had spotted, whether the water was too cold for swimming. Mark and I exchanged looks across the table, the particular look of parents who have survived the journey and can now simply be present.

I thought about our accidental break-in and laughed properly for the first time that day. There is something about holiday cottages that strips away performance, that lets you be slightly ridiculous without consequence. No hotel lobby to maintain dignity in. No room service timing to consider. Just a wooden deck, a fjord view, and the slow realisation that doing very little is rather the point.

The children fell asleep within minutes of their heads hitting the pillows, exhausted by fresh air and the particular fatigue of car journeys. Mark and I sat up with the last of the wine we had brought from home, listening to the water and the occasional call of those definitely-ordinary seagulls. I felt the particular loosening that comes with knowing you have several days stretching ahead with no fixed agenda, no obligations beyond breakfast and perhaps a walk to the water's edge.

We had arrived, eventually, at the right place. That felt like enough achievement for one day.