The drive up to Gaustablikk had been going suspiciously well, which in my experience is always a warning sign. We'd left Oslo on time, the hire car's heated seats were working, and even the Norwegian pop on the radio had started to grow on me. Then, about twenty minutes from the cabin, I confidently announced I'd "mastered the roundabout situation" and promptly took the wrong exit, sending us on a scenic detour past what appeared to be the same sheep three times. My partner sat in silence for a while before observing that the sheep were probably placing bets on how many laps we'd do.

We found the cabin eventually, tucked into the hillside with that particular hush that mountain places have. I'd been expecting picturesque, but the reality was almost aggressively beautiful - dark timber against grey rock, with Gaustatoppen looming behind like someone had propped a giant's tooth there to watch over things. The sort of view that makes you feel slightly fraudulent for just standing there in your motorway services coffee-stained jumper.

The cabin itself had that satisfying Scandinavian practicality - everything where you need it, nothing fussy. I immediately developed an obsession with the drying cupboard, which seemed an excessive thrill for a grown man, but there you are. We dumped our bags and did what any sensible people would do: made coffee and sat on the terrace doing absolutely nothing.

That first afternoon set the pattern for the week. The sun sat with us, surprisingly warm for the altitude, and we discovered the profound pleasure of not moving very far. I read three chapters of a book I'd been carrying since March, then fell asleep with it on my chest. My partner sketched badly and declared it "liberating." A bird of some distinction - I want to say it was knowledgeable about seeds - hopped along the railing and judged us. We judged it back, but only lightly.

The next few days unfolded in that delicious, unstructured way that proper holidays should. We'd wander down to the little cluster of shops and cafes at Gaustablikk Hoyfjellshotell, not because we needed anything, but because the walk there and back felt like enough accomplishment for a morning. The cafe did a waffle with brown cheese that I initially treated with suspicion and then craved with embarrassing intensity. We bought supplies we didn't strictly need from the small supermarket, just for the pleasure of planning another lazy evening.

One morning we attempted a gentle stroll toward the lake, Kvitavatn I think it's called, though my pronunciation made a local wince. The path was easy, the sort where you can still hold hands and discuss whether clouds have personalities. We found a spot on some warm rocks and stayed there until our shadows shifted, talking about nothing in particular and occasionally nothing at all. I realised, with the kind of clarity that only comes when you're slightly too warm and very still, that I'd spent months mistaking busyness for purpose.

The cabin's terrace became our headquarters. I finished that book, started another, abandoned it for a third. My partner perfected the art of the extended coffee morning. We watched the light change on Gaustatoppen, which never seemed to look the same twice, and speculated about the people who'd built the cabin and what they'd thought about when they looked at that view. Probably not drying cupboards, but then everyone has their priorities.

On our last evening, we sat out until the sun finally dipped, which at that latitude takes its time about things. I thought about our sheep friends on the roundabout, the waffle addiction, the book I'd finally finished. The mountain sat there, patient and indifferent, and I felt something loosen in my chest that I hadn't known was tight.

We left the next morning with the heated seats on and no wrong turns at all, which felt slightly like showing off.