I should have known the Norwegian butter crisis would strike again. There I was, sat in the driver's seat of our hire car at a petrol station outside Molde, clutching a tub of something called "Bremykt" and genuinely wondering if it counted as butter, margarine, or some sort of Scandinavian prank. I'd promised myself I'd cook proper meals at our Vevang cottage. Self-catering, I told my partner. Authentic local eating. None of this restaurant nonsense. The Bremykt went in the basket anyway. Desperate times.

The drive from Alesund airport had been gorgeous in that slightly intimidating Norwegian way. Mountains that looked like they'd been dropped from a great height, fjords doing their mirror impression, and the occasional sheep that seemed personally offended by our existence. We wound along the Atlantic Road - which deserves every bit of its reputation, by the way - and then turned off toward Hustadvika, where our cottage waited somewhere between the sea and what I can only describe as "properly rural."

Finding the place was half the battle. The satnav gave up somewhere near a field of very judgmental cows, and I ended up reversing down a gravel track while my partner read directions from her phone in that particular tone that suggests imminent divorce. Then suddenly there it was: red wooden walls, white trim, the whole hytte aesthetic straight from a tourism brochure. Very Norwegian. Very charming. Very much lacking any visible supermarket within walking distance.

This, I realised with the sinking feeling familiar to all overly optimistic self-caterers, was going to be interesting.

The cottage kitchen was surprisingly well-equipped, which immediately triggered my competitive cooking instinct. I would master Norwegian cuisine. I would forage. I would source local ingredients and produce something magnificent. First, though, I needed to find food.

The nearest proper shop turned out to be in Bud, about ten minutes' drive. A Kiwi MiniPris, which sounds like a budget airline but is actually a supermarket chain. I spent forty-five minutes in there, mostly stood in front of the fish counter trying to look knowledgeable. The cod looked back at me with what I can only describe as disappointment. I bought it anyway, plus some local potatoes, a jar of something pickled that I couldn't quite identify, and more Bremykt because apparently one tub wasn't enough for my ambitions.

Back at the cottage, I attempted my first proper meal. Pan-fried cod, boiled potatoes, perhaps a simple dill sauce. How hard could it be? The answer, delivered via smoke alarm and a kitchen that smelled faintly of burning regret, was "moderately hard." The potatoes were fine. The cod had the texture of a well-meaning mistake. The dill sauce separated into something that looked like pond water with ambition. We ate it on the terrace watching the light change over the sea, and I have rarely been more proud of something so technically mediocre.

Breakfasts became my forte. The cottage had a proper coffee machine, and I developed an almost religious devotion to Norwegian brown cheese. Brunost, they call it. It looks like caramel, tastes like cheese doing an impression of sweetened condensed milk, and I became genuinely emotional when we ran out. I'd spread it thick on bread from the bakery run we'd make to Bud, pairing it with local jam and feeling extraordinarily smug about my cultural immersion.

Lunches were simpler affairs. Packed sandwiches for walks along the Hustadvika coastline, where the sea does that dramatic crashing thing against the rocks. I'd overfill them, always, because apparently I cannot comprehend Norwegian portion control. We'd sit on boulders, picking herring out of our teeth and watching for seabirds, feeling very much like people in a travel programme who hadn't quite got the budget for a camera crew.

The local fish market in Molde became a weekend pilgrimage. I use "pilgrimage" loosely; it was mostly me getting overexcited about shrimp. But proper, fresh-from-the-boat shrimp, cooked on the quayside and served with mayonnaise and lemon. We'd eat them on the harbour wall, peeling them with increasingly competent fingers, watching the Hurtigruten come and go. I tried to buy monkfish once and was gently steered toward something more appropriate for my obvious skill level. The fishmonger was kind about it. Norwegians usually are.

Evenings in the cottage settled into a rhythm. I'd attempt something ambitious from whatever we'd found that day - maybe a fish soup that actually worked once, or lamb meatballs that didn't. My partner took over bread duties after I produced a loaf that could have been used as ballast. We'd open a bottle of wine, put something on the radio that we couldn't understand, and eat with the windows open to that particular coastal silence that isn't silence at all but wind and water and occasional distant machinery.

The Bremykt, I eventually learned, is a butter-oil blend. Essential for Norwegian baking, apparently, which explained why my attempts at proper local recipes had that slightly wrong note. I bought actual butter for the final few days and produced a batch of svele - those thick, slightly sweet pancakes - that were almost respectable. We ate them for breakfast with more brown cheese, because by then I was fully converted and slightly worried about withdrawal symptoms upon returning home.

On our last morning, I stood in that kitchen and surveyed the evidence: the worn wooden spoon, the stained recipe I'd printed from a Norwegian website and mostly ignored, the empty butter wrapper. I'd come expecting to conquer Norwegian cooking and had instead been gently humbled by it, taught by failed sauces and patient fishmongers and the simple pleasure of eating well in a place that doesn't make a fuss about such things.

We left the remaining brown cheese for the next guests. A little offering. A small piece of wisdom. Don't worry about the butter crisis, it said. Just cook something, sit outside, watch the light change. It doesn't need to be perfect. It rarely is.