The ferry from Haugesund to Karmoy was meant to be the easy bit of the journey, wasn't it? I'd been smug about my planning all morning, right up until the moment I realised I'd left a bag of groceries on the quayside. Not just any groceries, mind you. This was my carefully assembled haul from the Meny supermarket, including three packs of expensive Norwegian salmon, a wedge of brunost that I'd been genuinely excited about, and a jar of pickled herring that I was convinced would make me look adventurous. I watched it shrink into the distance as the ferry pulled away, and stood there on deck with my single remaining carrier bag containing one lemon, a tube of kaviar, and what felt like a very large portion of humiliation.

Still, the cottage waited. I'd booked a traditional wooden place through Novasol, one of those red-painted affairs with white trim that looks like it belongs on a postcard. It sat near the coast with proper views across the water, and more importantly, a kitchen that had looked well-equipped in the photographs. I was counting on that kitchen now. My self-catering holiday had suddenly become rather more self-reliant than anticipated.

The local Co-op in Avaldsnes became my salvation that first afternoon. I trudged there from the cottage, still slightly damp from the ferry crossing, and wandered the aisles with the desperate concentration of someone rebuilding their entire culinary strategy. Norwegian supermarkets have a particular rhythm to them, I've found. The bread section is always excellent, the dairy selection borders on overwhelming, and the fish counter makes you feel slightly inadequate about your own cooking ambitions. I bought more salmon, because pride demanded it, plus some local potatoes, a tub of sour cream, and a bunch of dill that I told myself would make everything look intentional.

Back at the cottage, I attempted my first proper Norwegian meal. The kitchen, thankfully, had decent knives and a frying pan that looked like it had seen actual use. I pan-fried the salmon with butter and lemon, boiled those waxy potatoes until they split slightly at the edges, and made a sauce from the sour cream and dill that I pretended was traditional. It wasn't, not really, but sitting at the wooden table with the evening light coming through the window, it tasted like exactly what I needed. The kaviar from my surviving bag got squirted onto some flatbread as a starter, and I felt briefly like someone who knew what they were doing.

The next morning brought rain and a trip to the farmers' market in Kopervik, which runs on certain Saturdays and had been the genuine highlight of my research. I found it tucked behind the harbour, stalls under awnings with locals chatting in that clipped, friendly way that makes you feel welcome without ever quite understanding the jokes. I bought cloudberries from a woman who explained three times how to make proper multekrem, and I nodded along with absolutely no comprehension until she laughed and wrote it down. I also acquired some smoked lamb, because when in Rogaland, and a lump of geitost that was apparently made by her cousin.

That evening I attempted the multekrem with the cloudberries and cream, whisking enthusiastically in the cottage kitchen while the rain battered the windows. It split slightly, because I got overconfident with the whisking, but I ate it anyway standing at the counter in my socks. The smoked lamb became sandwiches for lunch the following day, thick slices on dark bread with nothing else, eaten on a walk along the rocky shoreline where the wind tried to steal my crumbs.

By my third morning, I'd developed a routine. Strong coffee first, made in the stovetop pot that I'd found in the cupboard, then a survey of whatever remained from previous meals. I discovered that brunost, which I'd eventually bought again to replace my quayside loss, melts strangely into scrambled eggs in a way that shouldn't work but absolutely does. I ate this revelation on the small deck with a blanket around my shoulders, watching a fishing boat head out past the islands.

The cottage's location meant I could walk to a small pier where local fishermen sometimes sold their catch directly. I never managed to time it right, always arriving too early or too late, but I did once find a man cleaning cod who sold me a fillet from his own supply. That became dinner with more of those excellent potatoes and a sauce I made from reduced cream and the last of my dill. I ate slowly, properly tasting it, which is something I don't do enough at home.

My final attempt at Norwegian authenticity came on the last evening. I still had geitost, some flatbread that had gone slightly soft but was still usable, and the remaining cloudberries. I made a sort of deconstructed dessert, which is a generous way of describing cheese and berries on a plate, and opened the one decent bottle of wine I'd brought from duty-free. Sitting there with my strange meal and the view across Karmoy's waters, I thought about how I'd arrived with plans and lost them, and how the replacement had been better for being unplanned.

The ferry back to Haugesund was uneventful. I checked my bags three times, because some lessons stick. I was carrying a wedge of geitost wrapped in paper, some flatbread, and a jar of something pickled that I'd bought at the last moment. My cooking at the cottage hadn't been sophisticated, and certainly hadn't been consistently successful, but it had been honest in a way that restaurant meals rarely achieve. There's something about making do with what's available, about interpreting unfamiliar ingredients with limited skill, that connects you to a place more directly than any sightseeing.

I still haven't mastered multekrem, mind you. But I've got the recipe written down, and I intend to keep trying until I get it right, or until I run out of cloudberries and patience, whichever comes first.