I have never been so relieved to see a wooden shed in my life, and I mean that with the greatest affection possible. After a six-hour drive from Stavanger that included two wrong turns, a ferry crossing where I confidently drove onto the wrong boat, and one spectacular argument with a sat nav that kept insisting we were in the North Sea, we finally spotted the little red cabin at Marvik. My wife had that look. You know the one. The "we will discuss this later" look, usually reserved for forgotten anniversaries and incidents involving wallpaper paste.

The mishap, then. We had stopped at a petrol station near Sand to buy supplies, and I, in my wisdom, had purchased what I believed to be a robust Norwegian cheese. It was not cheese. It was some form of brown, caramelised dairy product that looked innocent enough behind glass but had, by the time we reached Marvik, completely liquefied in the back seat and was now living permanently in the upholstery. The cabin could have been a cardboard box at that point and I would have wept with gratitude. That it was actually rather lovely felt like undeserved mercy.

First impressions matter, and Marvik gives a good one without trying too hard. The place sits right on the water's edge, properly on it, so that you open the door and there is the fjord basically saying hello. No garden to speak of, just rocks and that particular Norwegian grass that looks like it has better things to do than grow. The cabin itself is weathered in that purposeful Scandinavian way, red paint fading to something almost pink in patches, which I found oddly charming. My wife noted that we would not be painting it. She says this about every holiday property. She is usually correct.

Inside, the smell hit first. Not the cheese, thankfully, though that followed us in. Wood smoke and something else, something clean. The sort of smell that makes you breathe deeper without meaning to. The living area is open, with windows facing the water so aggressively that the fjord becomes the wallpaper. I found myself standing at the glass like a child at an aquarium, watching a heron work the shoreline with the patience I have never possessed. The furniture is simple, functional, the kind that knows its job and does not show off. A sofa that has absorbed decades of damp swimming costumes and tired bodies. We approved immediately.

The kitchen is compact. I use that word precisely. Two people can work in it if they are very much in love or very good at choreography. We are neither, particularly after the cheese incident, but we managed. The important thing was the view from the window above the sink, which turns washing up from drudgery into something almost meditative. Almost. I still managed to break a glass within the first hour, which I maintain was the fjord's fault for being distractingly beautiful.

The bedrooms are upstairs, steep stairs, the sort that remind you Norway has mountains and expects you to climb them even indoors. The children claimed the twin room instantly, leaving us with the double and its slightly too-soft mattress. I did not care. I would have slept on the rocks outside by that point, and happily.

Evening came, and with it the realisation that we had forgotten proper coffee. Instant would have to do, drunk on the little terrace as the light did that prolonged Norwegian fade it does in late summer, refusing to properly darken, just dimming to a sort of luminous grey. The heron was still there. The cheese was still in the car. My wife was, against all odds, smiling.

Some holidays announce themselves with grandeur. This one simply waited for us to arrive, slightly broken, slightly ridiculous, and offered quiet. I am not sure I have ever been more grateful for a shed in my life.