I have never been so grateful to see a petrol station in my entire life. There we were, three hours into what should have been a straightforward drive from Oslo to Gaustablikk in Telemark, and I suddenly realised I had confused "tank" with "toilet" in my very basic Norwegian. The helpful chap at the last service area had directed me to the loos when I asked where to fill up. Cue us limping into Geilo on fumes, me red-faced, my partner doing that thin-lipped smile that means "we will discuss this later."

The final stretch to Gaustablikk itself was spectacular enough to smooth things over. The road winds through proper Norway: dark pines, sudden glimpses of water, those red wooden houses that look like they have been painted by someone who really loves rust. Our holiday home sat perched on the hillside with a view of Gaustatoppen that made me actually say "blimey" out loud, which I do not think I have done since 2008.

The kitchen was the first thing I properly inspected, as is my habit. I am one of those people who holidays entirely through their stomach, and self-catering is where I either shine or spectacularly unravel. This kitchen was blessedly well-equipped: decent knives, enough pots for my ambitions, and a hob that looked like it actually worked. The previous guests had left behind a half-empty jar of something called "brunost" in the fridge. I opened it, sniffed, and made a face like I had been personally wronged. It turns out brown cheese is an acquired taste, and I am still very much in the acquisition phase.

Our first evening was a simple affair. The local Meny in Rjukan, about fifteen minutes down the road, had supplied us with lamb chops, some suspiciously expensive cherry tomatoes, and a loaf of bread that claimed to be "kneippbrod." I fried the chops with just salt and pepper, standing at the hob with a glass of red wine, watching the light fade over the mountain. The meat was extraordinary. I do not know what Norwegian lambs eat, but I suspect it involves a lot of very clean air and self-respect. My partner declared it "restaurant quality," which I chose to take as a compliment rather than a commentary on my usual standards.

Breakfast the next morning was where I truly came alive. There is a small bakery in Rjukan, Bakeriet, that does these cardamom buns that are essentially just butter held together by prayer and Scandinavian determination. I bought six, reasoning that we were on holiday and cardiovascular concerns could wait. Back at the cabin, I brewed coffee in the stovetop pot and we ate them on the balcony, wrapped in blankets, watching mist drift across the valley. I have had worse mornings.

Lunch became a ritual of leftovers and improvisation. The cabin had a decent barbecue on the terrace, and I took to grilling whatever looked promising from the market. One memorable afternoon I attempted "rommegrot" based on a recipe I found on my phone, standing in the kitchen with poor signal and growing panic. It is essentially sour cream porridge, which sounds wrong and tastes... well, it tastes like sour cream porridge. My version was lumpy. My partner was kind about it. We agreed that some cultural experiences are better observed than recreated.

The local butcher in Rjukan became my favourite person. He tolerated my pointing and broken English with good grace, and sold me reindeer sausages that I grilled until they split, serving them with lingonberry jam from the supermarket. I felt very Nordic and slightly ridiculous, which is my preferred emotional state.

By our final evening, I had relaxed into the rhythm of it. Simple food, good ingredients, that particular pleasure of cooking in an unfamiliar kitchen where everything is slightly in the wrong place. I made a fish soup with cod from the Meny, heavy on the dill, and we ate it with the last of the kneippbrod, watching the last light catch Gaustatoppen. The brown cheese remained in the fridge, untouched, a silent judge of my culinary limitations. Some things, I have learned, are best left to the locals.