I have never been so grateful to see a wooden cabin in my life. Three hours after leaving Trondheim, two ferry crossings that I had spectacularly failed to time correctly, and one moment where I absolutely definitely filled the hire car with petrol instead of diesel, I finally crunched onto the gravel drive of our little place on Hitra. The petrol-diesel thing was not my finest hour. My partner gave me that look. You know the one. The look that says "I love you but I am logging this for future reference."

The cabin sat there looking impossibly Scandinavian, all red paint and white trim, with a deck that practically begged for a cup of tea and some serious doing-nothing. Behind it, proper Norwegian forest. In front, glimpses of the North Sea through gaps in the trees. I stood there with my rucksack still half-zipped, my walking boots already on because I am that person who wears them on the plane, and felt something in my shoulders actually drop. Three months of desk tension, gone in about forty seconds.

We had planned this as a walking holiday. Nothing ambitious, just coastal paths and the odd gentle scramble. The weather app had shown a reassuring row of little sun symbols for the entire week. I should have known better. Should have remembered that Norwegian coastal weather laughs at apps. Laughs at planners. Laughs at people who pack one rain jacket between two of them because "it is going to be lovely."

The first morning confirmed my stupidity. We woke to grey that felt almost personal, a low sky pressing down on the water, and a wind that made the birch trees outside do a proper dance. My carefully planned coastal hike to the nearest headland suddenly seemed less appealing. We stood on the deck in our matching walking trousers, me clutching a cup of coffee that was cooling faster than I could drink it, and had one of those married conversations that consists entirely of meaningful looks and raised eyebrows.

We went anyway. Obviously. I had the boots on.

The path down to the shore was proper Norwegian coastal walking, all granite and low heather and sudden surprising pockets of wildflowers that had no business being so cheerful in that light. The wind was doing something complicated to the sea, chopping it into patterns that changed every few seconds. We reached a small beach, more shingle than sand, and I immediately got overexcited about a rock pool. My partner pointed out that I was crouching in the exact spot where the tide was coming in. I was. My walking socks were not happy. The socks and I had a frank exchange of views later.

By afternoon, something remarkable happened. The grey cracked. Not dramatically, not all at once, but slowly, like someone peeling a particularly stubborn orange. Patches of actual blue appeared. The wind dropped to something almost friendly. We found ourselves on a headland, proper dramatic coastal Norway, with the sea stretching out in that impossible blue-grey that makes you understand why people paint this stuff. I sat on a warm rock, boots finally off, and felt the sun actually do something to my face. My partner produced a thermos of coffee from their rucksack. I had not packed a thermos. I had packed three different types of energy bar and a compass I do not know how to use. There was something in that moment, something about being slightly incompetent but still ending up somewhere extraordinary, that got me properly in the chest.

The rest of the week became a rhythm of early starts, weather watching, and flexible plans. We walked when the sun allowed, following the coastal paths that thread along Hitra's edges, finding small harbours with boats that looked like they had stories, finding ourselves suddenly alone on a stretch of granite with only gulls for company. When the weather turned, which it did with theatrical regularity, we retreated to the cabin deck with books and terrible Norwegian crime dramas on a tablet and the sound of rain on wood.

I learned something about myself that week. I am not good at flexible. I like a plan, a route, a certainty. But there was something in that Norwegian coastal light, something in the way the weather simply was what it was and expected you to deal with it, that loosened something. We walked further on some days than planned, turned back early on others, once spent an entire afternoon watching a seal watch us from a rock offshore. The seal was better at relaxing than I am. I am working on it.

On our last morning, the sun came properly. Full blue sky, warm enough to sit outside in just a jumper, the sea doing that flat calm thing that makes islands look like they are floating. I did a final walk along the shore path, boots squelching slightly from an earlier miscalculation with a stream crossing, and tried to fix the feeling of it. The smell of heather and salt. The particular quality of northern light on water. The sense of having been somewhere that asked nothing of you except to show up and pay attention.

I got the diesel right on the way back. Small victories.