I had always thought my sat-nav was a trustworthy companion until it tried to send me up what I can only describe as a goat track somewhere north of Grong. There I was, two hours into the drive from Trondheim, convinced I was taking the scenic route to our Namskogan cottage, when the tarmac simply gave up and wandered off to do something more interesting. My wife gave me that look. You know the one. The children, bless them, had already entered that peculiar trance-like state that comes from too many hours in a Volvo estate with only a packet of half-squashed biscuits for entertainment.

We turned around, found the proper road, and arrived at the holiday home rather later than planned, with me doing my best to make the detour sound like an intentional adventure. The cottage sat amongst birch and pine, with that particular stillness you only get in proper Norwegian countryside. No traffic hum, no distant motorway, just the occasional bird making a racket and the soft creak of the wooden deck underfoot. I stood there with my cup of tea, which I had somehow managed to brew during the unpacking chaos, and felt the particular satisfaction of having finally arrived somewhere that forces you to slow down.

The first evening was spent in that glorious nothingness that family holidays require. The children discovered the television had Norwegian channels only, which caused approximately four minutes of complaint before they found something involving cartoons and excessive shouting that seemed to transcend language barriers entirely. My wife and I took turns poking at the wood-burning stove, which put up a small protest before agreeing to warm the living room. There is something deeply pleasing about a fire you have coaxed into life yourself, even if your technique owes more to optimism than actual skill.

Morning brought proper daylight and the realisation that our kitchen window looked out onto nothing but trees and a glimpse of water in the distance. I made coffee and stood there in my socks, feeling rather pleased with myself and slightly guilty about the previous day's navigational failure. The cottage had that lived-in, unpretentious quality I always hope for in a self-catering place. Nothing fancy, nothing trying too hard, just solid wooden furniture and enough space for a family to spread out without tripping over each other.

We walked down to the nearby water later that morning, the children running ahead and stopping every three metres to examine something fascinating. A stone. A mossy log. An ant with apparent leadership qualities. I found myself doing the same, noticing the particular green of the birch leaves against the grey sky, the way the path smelled of pine and damp earth. It struck me, not for the first time, how much of my ordinary life is spent not noticing things. Emails, deadlines, the endless mental checklist. Here, the checklist was gloriously short. Eat something. Go for a wander. Read a bit. Maybe build a fire later if feeling ambitious.

The mishap with the sat-nav became our running joke for the week. Every time we set out, someone would ask if I was taking the goat track. I played along, but privately I was grateful for that wrong turn. It had slowed us down, forced us to pay attention, made the arrival feel earned rather than merely arrived at. Perhaps all good holidays need a small disruption at the beginning, something to shake you out of your usual rhythms and remind you that you are somewhere else now, and different rules apply.

By the second evening, the cottage already felt familiar. The particular creak of the floorboard by the bathroom door. The way the light fell across the kitchen table in late afternoon. The children's voices carrying from the bedroom as they plotted some scheme or other. I sat with my book, not reading it very much, listening to my family being themselves in this temporary home we had found in the Norwegian woods. The fire crackled. My wife brought more tea. Outside, the birch trees stood quietly in the long northern evening, and I thought how very lucky we were to be here, slightly lost and perfectly content.