I have never been brilliant with directions, and my arrival at the Abelvaer in North Trondelag proved this beyond all doubt. Having flown to Trondheim and collected a hire car, I set off north with the confidence of someone who had definitely glanced at a map once. Three hours later, I found myself on a gravel track that seemed to lead nowhere but increasingly determined sheep. My phone had given up pretending it knew where we were. I reversed for what felt like a mile, waved apologetically at an old chap on a tractor, and eventually spotted the little red wooden house sitting exactly where the instructions had said it would be. I had simply driven past it twice. The Abelvaer, with its traditional timber cladding and grass-topped surroundings, looked utterly peaceful. I felt like a complete wally.

The owners had left the key in a sensible place and a handwritten note wishing me good weather. This was optimistic. I dumped my bags, made a cup of tea that tasted of triumph, and stepped out onto the decking. The light was extraordinary. North Trondelag does something magical with evening sunshine, stretching it across the water until everything glows bronze. I could see the coastline from the house, rocky and low, with small islands dotted about like scattered coins. I had planned a gentle stroll before supper, just to stretch my legs after the drive and my unnecessary agricultural detour.

I woke to blue sky and a warmth that felt almost cheeky for Norway. The forecast suggested this might last, so I abandoned my original plan of a museum day in favour of coastal walking. The Abelvaer sits brilliantly for this. I set off along a path that threaded between low birch trees and granite outcrops, heading toward what I had been told was a proper sandy beach. The terrain was easier than I expected, though I did have to concentrate on the uneven ground. Every so often the trees would thin and I would catch another glimpse of the sea, that particular Scandinavian blue-grey that photographs never quite capture.

By midday I had reached the beach, which was completely empty. I sat on a warm rock, ate my packed lunch, and felt smug about my excellent decision-making. The sun was genuinely hot. I had not packed for this. I was in walking trousers and a long-sleeved shirt, carrying a jacket I absolutely did not need. I made a mental note that North Trondelag weather was clearly not to be trusted, then immediately trusted it by deciding to extend my walk significantly.

This was where things became educational. I had intended a circular route back to the Abelvaer, but the path I chose became increasingly boggy. The warm weather had apparently been working on the ground as well as my mood. What started as firm turf turned to something more resembling porridge. I squelched through, laughing at first, then with less enthusiasm as my boots filled with questionable water. I found myself navigating around a small lake that definitely did not appear on my mental map. The sky, meanwhile, had developed a theatrical grey stripe along the horizon.

I am not a complete fool, despite the evidence. I turned back toward more solid ground and what I hoped was the right direction. The temperature dropped noticeably within half an hour. The warm adventure had become a brisk march, and I was sweating unpleasantly in my wrong clothes while simultaneously getting chilly. Classic British walking experience, just exported to Norway. I kept moving, found a proper track eventually, and recognised a distinctive rock formation I had passed that morning. Relief does not cover it.

I reached the Abelvaer as the first proper raindrops arrived. I stood on the decking, muddy to the knees, and watched the weather close in across the water. It was actually rather beautiful, the way the rain advanced in visible sheets across the bay. I had a hot shower, changed into dry clothes, and made a substantial dinner. The warmth returned briefly at sunset, a golden hour that made everything forgiveable.

That evening I sat with a cup of tea, studying local walking maps with proper humility. The next day I chose a shorter, better-marked coastal path in similar sunshine, carried more water and fewer assumptions, and had a genuinely glorious time without any unintended swimming. North Trondelag had gently reminded me that weather changes, terrain surprises, and overconfidence punishes. I loved it completely.