I have never been so grateful for a cup of tea in my entire life. Four hours after leaving Oslo, our hire car finally crunched up the gravel drive to our little place near Skeikampen, and the first thing I did was attempt to make one. Simple, right? Except I had somehow packed the kettle, the tea bags, and even the biscuits, but completely forgotten to bring any actual mugs. Not one. My wife just stood there in the kitchen, holding a teabag like a tiny flag of surrender, while our two children stared at me with that particular blend of pity and amusement they have perfected over the years.

The drive up had been gorgeous, I will give it that. Rolling farmland giving way to proper Norwegian scenery, the kind that makes you feel slightly inadequate as a photographer. Every bend in the road revealed another view that looked like it should be on a chocolate box, and I may have slowed down more than necessary just to gawp. My wife spent most of the journey reminding me that Norwegian drivers do not appreciate dawdling, and she was probably right. Still, I was on holiday. A little dawdling felt mandatory.

Finding the turn-off for Svingvoll was straightforward enough, though I will admit to a brief moment of panic when the sat nav seemed to suggest we drive directly into a forest. Turns out that was exactly correct. The lane narrowed, the trees closed in, and suddenly there we were, looking at a proper timber-clad cabin with a view down the valley that made me forget all about my tea crisis.

Stepping inside for the first time, that wonderful cabin smell hit me immediately. You know the one: wood, slightly dusty in the nicest possible way, and something else I could never quite identify but always associate with proper holidays. The place was warm, which was a relief since I had visions of spending our first evening huddled around a single radiator while I figured out the heating controls. The living area had that lived-in, comfortable feel that rental places so rarely manage. Not trying too hard, not full of fragile ornaments you spend the week worrying about. Just straightforward and welcoming.

The children bolted upstairs to claim bedrooms before we had even finished unpacking the car, which I suppose counts as enthusiasm. I could hear them arguing about who had the better view, which seemed premature given that every window appeared to offer something worth looking at. My wife and I took the opportunity to stand on the small terrace with our terrible instant coffee from the travel flask, and just breathe for a moment. The air up here is different. Cleaner, obviously, but also somehow quieter, even when it is not silent. The valley stretched out below us, patches of forest and the occasional glint of water, and somewhere in the distance I could just make out the ski slopes of Skeikampen looking rather sorry for themselves without their usual winter coat.

I spent a good ten minutes trying to work out the wood-burning stove before admitting defeat and reading the instructions. There is a metaphor in there somewhere about masculine pride and household appliances, but I was too busy feeling pleased with myself when it actually caught to dwell on it. The flames did that dancing thing, the children came down properly excited by their rooms, and my wife produced two mugs she had spotted in a cupboard that I had completely missed in my earlier inventory.

The tea, when it finally came, tasted absolutely perfect.