The drive up to Fannrem took the best part of two days, and by the time I spotted the sign for South Trondelag I was practically humming the entire ABBA back catalogue just to stay awake. My partner had nobly offered to do the final leg, which left me in charge of navigation. This, in hindsight, was the first mistake.

We had been winding through Norwegian countryside for hours, marvelling at how the landscape kept finding new shades of green to show off. The fjord glimpses were getting more dramatic, the air sharper through the open window. Then I spotted what I was certain was our turning, a narrow gravel track climbing between two weathered red barns. "Left here," I announced with the confidence of someone who had not looked at the actual map for twenty minutes.

The track grew narrower, then steeper, then alarmingly soft. Our hire car, a sensible Volvo that had done nothing to deserve this, began to protest in ways I did not know Volvos could protest. We slid to a halt in what turned out to be a sheep field, surrounded by extremely unimpressed sheep who had clearly not been expecting visitors. My partner turned to me with that particular expression of loving patience that only comes from fifteen years of my navigational disasters.

"Perhaps," they said, in the tone of a diplomat negotiating a hostage release, "we should check the actual address."

I fumbled for my phone, which naturally had retreated to that dimension where phones go when you need them most. By the time I retrieved it from beneath my seat, the screen confirmed what the sheep already knew. We were three kilometres off target, in somebody's actual working field, and the farmer was now approaching on a quad bike with the resigned air of someone who has rescued tourists before.

He was, bless him, entirely kind about the whole thing. Spoke better English than I do, frankly, and gave us proper directions with the gentle patience of a man who has seen this particular drama many times. We reversed out with what dignity we could muster, the sheep watching us go with what I can only describe as Scandinavian judgement.

The real turning, when we found it, was clearly marked and entirely sensible. A proper lane, well-maintained, leading through birch woodland that was just beginning to turn that particular gold that makes Norwegian autumn so quietly spectacular. And then the cabin appeared, and I forgot entirely about my earlier humiliation.

It sat perfectly in its clearing, red-painted wood with white trim, the classic Norwegian holiday home that manages to look both modest and exactly right. The fjord glinted through the trees below, that impossible blue-grey that photographs never quite capture. I stood there with my ridiculous wheelie case, suddenly aware that I smelled of sheep field and car snacks and twelve hours of travel, and felt something in my chest loosen.

The key was where promised, in the little lockbox. The door opened with that satisfying weight of proper Scandinavian carpentry. Inside smelled of pine and something faintly of coffee, clean and warm. The living room window framed the view like a painting someone had hung just for us. I found myself laughing, standing there in my socks on the wooden floor, at the sheer ridiculousness of getting here and the absolute rightness of having arrived.

My partner put the kettle on without comment. Some things need no further discussion.