The drive up to Oppdal had been going suspiciously well, which in my experience is always a sign that disaster is lurking round the next bend. Sure enough, about ten miles out, my youngest announced she needed the toilet with the urgency usually reserved for house fires. We pulled into what looked like a lay-by but turned out to be someone's private driveway, complete with a very unimpressed farmer who watched us from his tractor with the kind of silent judgement I had not experienced since my mother-in-law's last visit.

By the time we reached the holiday home, I was frazzled, the children were mutinous, and my partner had developed that fixed smile that says "I am being brave for the family but may require wine shortly." Then we turned the final corner and there it was, perched on the hillside with views that made me forget entirely about the farmer and the frantic roadside wee.

The place had that proper Norwegian cabin feel to it, all wood and warmth and sensible footwear by the door. I had worried it might be one of those holiday lets that photographs beautifully but smells of damp dog in reality. Not a bit of it. The moment I stepped inside, I caught that lovely pine scent and felt my shoulders drop about three inches. The living area was open and bright, with windows framing the mountains like paintings someone had thoughtfully hung just for us.

I will confess to a moment of smugness as I unpacked our bags into the bedrooms. The children had already claimed their bunks with the territorial fervour of explorers planting flags, while my partner stood in the kitchen running her hands along the worktops with the expression of someone who has just discovered that yes, the oven actually works and there are enough mugs for everyone. Small victories, but on a family holiday these are the things that matter.

The mishap of the journey became our running joke within the hour. "Remember when Dad nearly got us arrested by a Norwegian farmer?" became the children's refrain, delivered with the theatrical relish only the under-twelves can muster. I took it on the chin. There is something about being in a place like this that makes embarrassment feel less sharp, more like material for future Christmases round the dinner table.

That first evening, we did not venture far. There seemed little point when the veranda offered those same mountains turning pink in the sunset, and when the local shop had provided us with bread and cheese and something my partner insisted was reindeer pate. We sat outside wrapped in blankets, because even in summer Oppdal has that briskness that reminds you Norway is not messing about when it comes to fresh air. The children roasted marshmallows over a small fire pit, acquiring that slightly feral quality children get when allowed to play with flames under minimal supervision.

I found myself watching them rather than the view, which is not like me. Usually I am the one photographing every sunset, filling my phone with images I never look at again. But something about that first night made me want to simply be there, farmer incident and all, present in the moment with my slightly chaotic family in this quietly spectacular place. The self-reflection caught me off guard, if I am honest. I had come for walking and scenery and perhaps a bit of fishing if I could persuade anyone to join me. I had not expected to feel so immediately at home, so grateful for the simplicity of it.

We turned in early, exhausted by the journey and the altitude and the sheer relief of arrival. As I lay in bed listening to unfamiliar silence broken only by my partner's gentle snoring, I thought about how holidays often disappoint in the first hour, how the reality clashes with the anticipation. Not this time. The mishap had bonded us, the cabin had welcomed us, and Oppdal had already begun to work its quiet magic. I fell asleep smiling, which is not something I can say about many first nights anywhere.