I have never been so relieved to see a wooden cabin in my life, and that includes the time I got caught in a hailstorm near Aviemore. The drive up to Vinstra had been all very scenic and Norwegian and majestic, right up until I confidently turned left where I should have turned right, following a sat nav voice I have now mentally renamed "Deceitful Ingrid." Twenty minutes later I found myself staring at a closed ski hire shop, three confused sheep, and the growing realisation that I had taken us on what my children are now calling "Dad's Bonus Adventure."

The mishap itself was not even dramatic, which somehow made it worse. I had insisted I knew the way, waving my phone about with the authority of a man who absolutely did not. My wife sat in the passenger seat making that particular face, the one that says she is choosing peace over being correct, which is somehow more devastating. The children had begun a running commentary on every passing tree. We were, by my own stubborn navigation, approximately nowhere.

When we finally found the proper turning and wound our way up to the Fefor area, the relief was physical. I actually exhaled. The cabin sat there looking impossibly welcoming, all timber and sensible Scandinavian design, with that particular hush that mountain places have. The Gudbrandsdalen valley stretched out below us, green and properly enormous, and I had one of those moments where you understand why people use words like "breathtaking" without feeling silly about it.

Inside, the place smelled of pine and cleanliness, which is exactly what you want after four hours in a hire car with two children who have discovered competitive snack-eating. The living area had that immediate sense of a holiday proper beginning, the kind where nobody is rushing anywhere and the biggest decision involves whether to light the wood burner now or after dinner. My daughter claimed the loft bedroom before I had even set down the bags, which meant hauling everything up a ladder while pretending my knees were fine.

The kitchen was compact but clever, the sort of space that makes you want to cook something involving local cheese and possibly reindeer if you are feeling brave. We had brought supplies from Vinstra village, which is a ten-minute drive of winding road and occasional glimpses of river. I had attempted some Norwegian in the supermarket, received polite confusion in return, and retreated to pointing with the dignity of a man who tried.

That first evening, we did almost nothing. The children played cards at the table while my wife and I sat on the small terrace with coffee, watching the light change over the valley. The quiet was not empty; it was full of birds and distant water and the occasional creak of the cabin settling. I thought about my wrong turn, my ridiculous confidence, and how sometimes getting slightly lost is what makes arriving feel earned rather than merely arrived at.

We are here for simple things, I think. Walking when we feel like it, perhaps down to the lake at Fefor if the weather holds. Cooking meals that take too long. Letting the children get properly bored before they remember how to entertain themselves. No itinerary, no must-sees beyond what we stumble upon. Just this wooden cabin, this view, and the gentle pleasure of being somewhere that does not require anything of you except presence.

Tomorrow I might attempt the local walking trail, or I might sit with another coffee and watch the mist lift. Either way, I will check the map first.