I have never been so relieved to see a wooden cabin in my entire life. After a flight to Oslo, a train to Lillehammer, and a bus that seemed to climb every single hill in Oppland at roughly the pace of a tired moose, I finally arrived at Sjusjoen. I was exhausted, my rucksack had developed a mysterious sticky patch from a leaked travel shampoo, and I was absolutely convinced I had left my phone charger on the bus. Spoiler: it was in my coat pocket the whole time. I only discovered this after ten minutes of frantic patting and muttering, which I am sure entertained the neighbours tremendously.

The first thing that struck me was the silence. Not the awkward, heavy sort of silence you get in a dentist's waiting room, but a proper, deep quiet. Just the wind moving through the pine trees and what I later learned was a red squirrel having a go at someone's bird feeder. I stood there on the gravel path, still clutching my keys and that leaking shampoo bottle, and simply breathed. The air smelled of woodsmoke and cold water and something else I could not quite name. Freshness, I suppose, though that sounds like a toothpaste advert. It was better than that.

The cabin itself looked exactly as it had in the photographs, which never happens. A proper timber building with that classic Scandinavian slope to the roof, the sort designed to shed snow rather than collect it. I later found out this is rather essential round here. The windows were slightly steamed from the inside, suggesting someone had sensibly left the heating on low, and there was a small porch where a pair of walking boots sat waiting like old friends. I immediately decided I would sit there with a cup of tea before the week was out, feeling tremendously outdoorsy.

Getting inside was my first proper challenge. There were two keys on the fob, neither of which seemed to fit the main lock, and I spent an embarrassing amount of time jiggling and cursing quietly before realising the smaller key opened a side door I had not even noticed. This is classic me. I once spent twenty minutes searching for glasses that were on my head. The side door led directly into a boot room, which was perfect because my walking boots were already muddy from a poorly judged shortcut at the bus stop. I later discovered the main entrance was round the other side, hidden by a rather strategic shrub. I chose to believe this was charming rather than poorly signposted.

The interior hit me like a warm hug from someone who actually knows how to decorate. Proper wooden walls, not that laminate nonsense, with a faint smell of pine that made me wonder if they polished it or if that simply happens naturally in Norway. The living area had a wood-burning stove as its centrepiece, and I immediately pictured myself beside it looking rugged and contemplative. The reality, I suspected, would involve me in sagging socks reading a paperback and eating too many biscuits. I was absolutely correct about this, as it turned out.

The kitchen was compact but cleverly arranged, with everything actually in logical places. I opened a cupboard expecting the usual holiday rental chaos and found mugs hanging neatly, proper sharp knives, and a teapot. A teapot! I nearly wept. There was even a small window above the sink looking out towards the forest, so you could wash up while watching birds. I do not particularly enjoy washing up, but I suddenly felt I might learn to tolerate it here.

I dumped my rucksack in the main bedroom, which had the same wooden walls and a bed with a duvet so thick it could have sheltered a small family. The window faced east, and I made a mental note to leave the curtains open for sunrise. Whether I would actually manage to wake up for this remained to be seen. I am not naturally an early riser, and the journey had taken more out of me than I cared to admit.

By now the sticky shampoo situation had become urgent, so I investigated the bathroom. Heated floor. I stood there in my socks just feeling it, like a complete lunatic, grinning to myself. There was a proper shower with decent pressure, not the dribbling apology you often get in rental places, and towels that actually appeared to be dry and fluffy. I cleaned myself up, changed into clothes that did not smell of bus and panic, and finally allowed myself to collapse onto the sofa.

That first evening, I did not do anything remarkable. I made a terrible cup of tea because I had not yet worked out the kettle, ate some bread and cheese I had brought from Lillehammer, and watched the light fade through the trees. The sky went that particular blue-grey that seems to last for hours in northern latitudes, and somewhere in the distance a dog barked once and then thought better of it. I felt the particular peace that comes from being somewhere genuinely away from everything, where your biggest concern is whether you have enough logs for the stove.

I thought about the journey, the bus, the shampoo, the key confusion. Normally I would have been irritated with myself, cataloguing every small failure. But sitting there in that warm wooden room, with the quiet pressing gently against the windows, I found I could not be bothered. Some places simply let you off the hook. Sjusjoen, I decided, was going to be one of them. I went to bed early, slept better than I had in months, and woke to that eastern sunrise painting stripes across the duvet. I did not move for a full ten minutes, just watching. Some arrivals, I thought, are worth every single mishap.