I have never been so relieved to see a wooden sign with a moose on it as I was last Tuesday, somewhere on the E134 after my sat nav decided Telemark was more of a suggestion than an actual destination. Three hours of driving from Oslo, two wrong turns, and one spectacular argument with a roundabout later, I finally spotted the turning for the Amli. My hire car, which I had already named Ingrid out of some misguided affection, had developed a concerning rattle that sounded like a maraca full of gravel. I chose to ignore it. This is, I have learned, the foundation of all successful self-catering holidays: selective deafness.

The Amli itself sat at the edge of a small lake, all red timber and white trim, looking like something from a Christmas card that had been left out in the July sunshine. I stumbled out of Ingrid, stretched my legs, and immediately noticed the smell. Woodsmoke, pine, and something else I could not place. It turned out to be wild garlic, growing in enthusiastic clumps around the property boundary. I made a mental note to do something culinary with it later. This was, in retrospect, dangerously optimistic.

The key was in a lockbox, which I opened after only four attempts and some mild swearing. The interior smelled of cedar and recent cleaning, which is exactly what you want from a Norwegian cabin. The kitchen, though. The kitchen demanded my full attention. It was compact but serious: a proper gas hob, a fridge that actually worked, and enough pots and pans to suggest the owners had once attempted something ambitious. A handwritten note on the counter welcomed me in English and recommended the local Meny supermarket in nearby Seljord, twelve minutes away by car. I was starving. I had eaten nothing since a petrol station hot dog outside Drammen, an experience I did not wish to repeat.

The drive to Seljord was straightforward, which Ingrid appreciated. The Meny was larger than expected, brightly lit and full of Norwegians doing sensible weekly shops while I wandered about with the dazed expression of a man who had forgotten to make a list. I bought eggs, bacon, a lump of brunost that I could not resist, some reindeer sausages that felt obligatory, and a bag of local potatoes with soil still clinging to them. Also three types of pickled herring, because I panicked. Also a jar of cloudberry jam, because I am only human. Also some aquavit, because I am human and foolish.

Back at the Amli, I attempted my first meal. The reindeer sausages went under the grill while I boiled potatoes and tried to make a sauce from the brunost, cream, and optimism. The result was not a sauce. It was a beige catastrophe that tasted faintly of caramel and regret. I ate it anyway, sitting on the small deck with a view of the lake, and felt genuinely pleased with myself. The sausages were excellent, gamey and dense. The potatoes, simply dressed with butter and the wild garlic I had finally identified, were better than they had any right to be. I drank a beer and watched the light change on the water and thought: I am doing this. I am self-catering in Norway. I am an adult who can cook in foreign countries.

The next morning I walked to the local bakery, which the owner had noted in her welcome message. It was a twenty-minute stroll along a gravel road, past houses with immaculate gardens and the occasional cat watching me with Norwegian reserve. The bakery was in someone's converted garage, open three mornings a week, and sold only what had been made that morning. I bought a loaf of heavy sourdough, some cinnamon rolls still warm, and a packet of flatbrod because the woman behind the counter looked at me in a way that suggested I should. She was correct. I ate a cinnamon roll walking back, getting flakes on my jumper and not caring.

Lunch was simple: bread, cheese from the Meny, the flatbrod with butter, and thin slices of the pickled herring I had been avoiding. I had bought three types. I tried the mustard one first, standing at the kitchen counter like a man at a buffet who has lost all sense of proportion. It was sharp and fishy and completely wonderful. I ate half the jar. The dill version was milder, more refined, the kind of thing you might serve to someone you wanted to impress. The tomato-based one remained in the fridge, eventually becoming a sort of culinary dare I never accepted.

That evening I attempted fish. The Meny had excellent local trout, already cleaned, and I had read somewhere that Norwegians cook it simply with lemon and dill. I did not have dill. I had the wild garlic, which I told myself was basically the same family. I wrapped the fish in foil with butter, the garlic, some slices of the sourdough lemon I had bought, and put it on the hob's griddle pan because I could not work out how to light the outdoor barbecue. It took longer than expected. I opened the aquavit while waiting. This was a mistake in terms of timing, excellent in terms of morale. The fish, when finally ready, fell apart on the plate and tasted of smoke and summer and something I could claim as my own, even though it was mostly luck and good ingredients.

I ate outside again, wrapped in a blanket because Norwegian July evenings have opinions about temperature. The lake had gone still, reflecting the last light. I thought about the brunost sauce failure, the herring triumph, the aquavit warming my chest. I thought about how I had come here to escape something I could not name, and how instead I had found something simpler: hunger, satisfaction, the small pride of feeding yourself in a strange kitchen.

The next morning I would try pancakes with the cloudberry jam. They would be slightly burned. I would not mind at all.