I have never been so grateful to see a petrol station in my life. Three hours into our drive from Stavanger, convinced I was being terribly clever with the scenic route, I realised my phone had been directing me to "Bokn" the island rather than the actual cottage address. My partner sat there with that particular expression of someone who has been married long enough to know saying "I told you so" would only delay dinner further. We found a Shell near Avaldsnes, filled up on coffee and humble pie, and eventually rolled up to the bokn proper as the evening light was doing that gorgeous Norwegian thing where everything looks slightly golden and forgiving.

The cottage sat on a small rise overlooking the water, red paint gleaming, grass improbably green. Before I could even wrestle my suitcase from the boot, a figure emerged from the neighbouring property. This was Arne, seventy-ish, wearing wellies that had seen actual decades and a wool jumper that could probably survive nuclear winter. He introduced himself by informing us that the previous guests had left a fishing rod behind, and would we like it? Before I could answer, he was demonstrating the proper technique for catching mackerel off the local rocks, his hands moving through the air with the confidence of someone who had been doing this since before I existed. "The fish are polite here," he said. "They wait for you to finish your coffee." I believed him entirely.

The key safe presented its usual challenge, and I was still fumbling when another neighbour appeared. Inger, Arne's wife, carrying a Tupperware container that she pressed into my hands with the urgency of a spy exchange. Homemade fish cakes, still warm. She examined me with the frank assessment of a woman who has watched countless holidaymakers come and go. "You drove the long way," she stated, not asked. I admitted it. She nodded, satisfied. "The Germans always do too. They think their cars enjoy it." She told us the proper shop for bread was not the one my phone suggested but a small place run by her nephew, open peculiar hours, cash preferred. "He is trying to be modern with the card machine," she said, with the weary tolerance of someone watching a relative make a fool of themselves.

Inside the cottage, everything was precisely as advertised, which is to say charmingly basic and absolutely spotless. I was investigating the coffee situation when Arne reappeared at the door, having apparently remembered something crucial. The boiler, he explained, required a specific ritual of button-pressing that he demonstrated with the solemnity of a priest performing communion. "If you do it wrong, you get cold water and a beeping noise that will make you question your life choices." He laughed, but I suspected he had seen this actually happen.

That first evening, we sat on the small terrace with Inger's fish cakes and some local beer, watching the light fade across the water. Arne had lent us his spare folding chairs without being asked. Another neighbour passed on a bicycle, raised a hand in greeting without breaking pace. No one introduced themselves; introductions seemed unnecessary. We were simply there now, temporarily belonging to this small community of red houses and practical kindness.

I found myself thinking about how I had arrived stressed and slightly defensive, prepared to be disappointed or to perform enthusiasm. Instead, I felt something quieter. These people were not performing hospitality; they were simply being themselves, which turned out to be considerably more generous than any professional welcome. The mishap of the journey had forced me to arrive vulnerable, slightly ridiculous, and apparently that was the correct state. Inger had sized me up and decided I was acceptable. Arne had trusted me with his boiler secrets. It felt like an achievement.

The beeping noise started at half ten. I had done it wrong after all.