I have never been so grateful to see a wooden cabin in my entire life. Twelve hours after leaving Luton, there I stood in Oppland, Norway, staring at what I hoped was our Vang/Henasen holiday home, clutching a wheelie case with a wonky handle and a very damp sock.

The journey had been one of those travel experiences that starts optimistically and slowly unravels. The flight to Oslo was fine. The train to Gjovik was actually rather lovely, winding past lakes that looked like spilled ink between the hills. The bus to Vang, however, was where my composure began to crumble. I had insisted on wearing my "sensible" walking boots, the ones with the cracked sole that I absolutely meant to replace before the trip. Somewhere between the bus stop and the cabin, stepping over what I thought was a shallow puddle near the lane, I discovered it was in fact a small but determined stream. Cold Norwegian water flooded in, and I spent the final ten minutes of the walk doing a sort of squelching hop, trying to keep my dignity intact while my other half tried not to laugh.

The key safe was exactly where the instructions said, which felt like a small miracle after my soggy performance. I fumbled with the code, hopping on my dry foot like a heron with a grudge, until the lock clicked open. And then, stepping inside, everything changed.

The cabin smelled of pine and something else, something clean and mountainy that no air freshener has ever successfully replicated. The living area opened up before us with those enormous windows that the Norwegians seem to understand instinctively, framing the view of Lake Vangsmjose like a painting that shifts and breathes. I forgot about my wet foot. I forgot about the twelve hours. I just stood there, dripping slightly on the wooden floor, feeling genuinely moved by how peaceful it all was.

The kitchen was simple but properly equipped, not one of those holiday rentals where you open a drawer to find a single bent fork and a can opener from 1973. We found coffee, which felt like another miracle, and I stood at the counter in my one dry sock watching the light change across the water while the kettle boiled. My other half had wandered off to investigate the bedrooms and reported back that the beds were made up with crisp white linens and more of that pine smell, and that there was a small balcony off the main bedroom that would be perfect for morning coffee.

I should mention the sauna at this point, because spotting it in the bathroom nearly made me weep with joy. A proper Finnish-style sauna, wooden benches and all, right there in the cabin. After a day of travel and my unfortunate aquatic incident, the thought of sitting in that dry heat while the lake sat outside waiting for braver swimmers felt like the most perfect arrangement imaginable.

As the evening drew in, we realised we had not planned beyond arrival, which is very unlike us. We were too busy being pleased with ourselves for actually getting there. We made a rather pathetic dinner from the few things we had grabbed at a shop in Gjovik, ate it looking out at the water turning silver in the fading light, and I changed into a proper dry pair of socks feeling deeply, profoundly content.

The mishap with the stream had become funny by then, as these things do once you are warm and fed and looking at something beautiful. I think that is what I will remember most about arriving at the Vang/Henasen, that sudden shift from travel chaos to absolute stillness, from squelching embarrassment to standing quietly in front of a window, wondering how a place could feel so immediately like somewhere you wanted to stay forever.