I have never been so grateful for a sat nav with a sense of humour, which is just as well because mine appeared to have lost it completely somewhere past Stavanger. There I was, winding through the fjord roads of Rogaland with a boot full of groceries and a head full of Nordic dreams, when the cheerful voice announced I had reached my destination. I had not. I had reached a sheep. A very surprised sheep, granted, but not the charming holiday home at Vatlandsvag near Hebnes that I had booked for the week. The sheep and I shared a moment of mutual bewilderment before I performed what can only be described as an agricultural three-point turn and crept back down the lane with what dignity remained.

The actual property, when I finally found it, revealed itself through a gap in the birch trees like something from a particularly persuasive travel brochure. A traditional wooden place with that weathered red paint that seems to belong to Norway entirely, sitting quietly above the water with a view that made me forget entirely about my ovine encounter. I stood there with my suitcase handle digging into my palm and simply breathed. The air tasted of pine and salt and something else, something clean that London had apparently edited out of my lungs years ago.

My first morning set the tone for everything that followed. I woke without alarm, which felt almost illicit, and wandered onto the terrace with a cup of coffee that I had absolutely no intention of drinking quickly. The sun, which I had been warned not to count on, decided to be generous. It lay across the water like someone had spilled honey on blue glass, and I lay across my deckchair like someone who had forgotten what rushing felt like. I had brought three books and finished none of them, which I consider a triumph. There is a particular pleasure in reading the same paragraph four times because a bumblebee has chosen your armrest for an investigation.

The locality around Hebnes does not demand anything of you, which I found restorative after years of cities that want your attention constantly. I walked to the small jetty near the property and watched a local man tend his boat with the unhurried precision of someone who has never heard of inbox zero. We exchanged nods, the international language of people who are content where they are. Another afternoon I pottered along the shoreline path, finding nothing more remarkable than stones shaped by patient water and the occasional brave wildflower. I photographed a rock that looked vaguely like my uncle Bernard and sent it to my sister, who replied that I had clearly relaxed too much and should perhaps read a newspaper.

She had a point, I suppose. There is something faintly ridiculous about deriving such satisfaction from very small things. The particular creak of the wooden terrace in afternoon heat. The way the light moves across the living room floor, slow as a cat. The discovery that local shop sells chocolate that tastes faintly of the sea air it was transported through. I found myself noticing these details with the embarrassing enthusiasm of a convert, pointing them out to no one in particular with little exclamations that would have mortified my younger self.

One evening I attempted to barbecue with equipment that predated my understanding of gas canisters. The resulting dinner was unevenly cooked and entirely delicious, eaten with my fingers while the sun performed its prolonged northern descent, refusing properly to set until I had finished my wine and most of my dignity. I sat there with sauce on my thumb and felt genuinely wealthy, which I mention only because it surprised me. I had not expected to find abundance in doing so little.

The days accumulated gently, marked by nothing more dramatic than a decision to move my deckchair to follow the shade, or the small expedition to buy more coffee from the nearby settlement. I spoke to a neighbour who kept bees and came away with honey and the strong impression that I had been living my life at entirely the wrong speed. Whether this insight survives my return to proper broadband and scheduled meetings remains to be seen. I suspect it will flicker and fade, as holiday resolutions do, but I hope I might remember occasionally how it felt to be unnecessary to the world for a while, and to find that rather wonderful.

My final morning brought that particular sadness of places you know you are leaving. I packed with deliberate slowness, drew one last coffee out across the sunshine, and stood on the terrace committing the view to a memory I already distrusted. The sheep, I noted, was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps it had found its own deckchair somewhere, living its best life. I drove away with the windows down, already negotiating with myself about when I might return to do absolutely nothing in particular, in a place that asks only that you arrive, eventually, and then simply stay.