I had been dreaming of fresh Norwegian salmon for weeks before our trip to Volda, so it was rather unfortunate that my first meal in More og Romsdal turned out to be a petrol station hot dog eaten in a lay-by just outside town. The sat-nav had decided that the direct route was far too sensible and sent us up what I can only describe as a goat track with pretensions. By the time we found the holiday home, I was starving, slightly carsick, and carrying a stubborn optimism that things could only improve gastronomically.

The cottage sat above the fjord with that particular Norwegian confidence, all red wood and sensible windows, and I immediately began planning the magnificent dinners I would cook there. The kitchen looked promising enough, though I noted with some concern that the knives appeared to have been sharpened last sometime in the nineties. No matter, I thought. I would be the sort of traveller who embraced local ingredients, who spoke to fishermen, who understood the seasons.

My first attempt at this persona came the following morning at the Meny supermarket in Volda. I had read that brown cheese was essential, so I bought four varieties, which already suggests the level of overenthusiasm that would characterise my entire trip. I also purchased something labelled "lutefisk" that I later discovered was not, in fact, ready to eat but required several days of preparation. It sat in the fridge like a white, jellied accusation for the remainder of our stay.

The local fish market proved more immediately rewarding. I found it by following my nose and a helpful elderly gentleman who spoke excellent English and took visible pity on my attempts at Norwegian pronunciation. I came away with cod so fresh it practically introduced itself, plus some reindeer sausages that I justified as necessary research. That evening I attempted a simple pan-fried cod with boiled potatoes, which in my imagination looked like something from a Nordic cookbook. In reality, the fish stuck to the pan, the potatoes were simultaneously underdone and falling apart, and I discovered that I had purchased salted butter rather than unsalted, which made everything taste faintly of preserved seaside. My partner was kind enough to call it "rustic."

Breakfasts became my true domain. The cottage had a coffee machine that required the patience of a saint and the engineering degree I do not possess, but once mastered it produced something dark and excellent. I paired this with brunost on crispbread, plus the occasional boiled egg that I timed according to some half-remembered method from a television programme. The view from the kitchen window helped enormously. There is something about eating slightly too much cheese while staring at a fjord that feels properly Scandinavian, even if you are technically doing it wrong.

I did eventually manage a respectable fish soup, after a second visit to the market where I swallowed my pride and asked for explicit instructions. The fishmonger, perhaps recognising a culinary disaster in progress, wrote everything down in careful capital letters. I followed it to the letter, standing over the pot with the anxious concentration of a bomb disposal expert. When it actually tasted decent, I felt genuinely triumphant, possibly more so than the modest achievement warranted.

The local bakery supplied us with excellent cardamom buns that I could not replicate despite two attempts involving YouTube tutorials and expensive yeast. Some things, I reflected, are best left to professionals. This became something of a theme. I stopped trying to cure my own fish, abandoned plans for homemade gravlax, and accepted that my role in the Norwegian food chain was appreciative consumer rather than skilled producer.

On our final evening, I assembled a simple meal of bread, cheese, and cured meats from the supermarket, plus some surprisingly good local strawberries. We ate on the terrace as the light stretched endlessly across the water, and I finally understood that this was perhaps the point all along. The food did not need to be complicated or perfectly executed. It needed to be honest, local, and eaten in a place that made you grateful to be hungry.