The drive up to Gaustablikk had all the makings of a proper Scandinavian adventure until I realised, somewhere past Notodden, that I'd left an entire bag of groceries on the kitchen counter back in Oslo. There it sat, mocking me from sixty miles away: my carefully selected brunost, my packet of knekkebrod, the jar of cloudberry jam I'd been saving for a special breakfast. Special, indeed. I said something quite un-British and pulled into the next petrol station, where I consoled myself with a suspiciously expensive hot dog and a packet of salty licorice that I immediately regretted.

By the time I wound up the final stretch toward Gaustablikk, the mountains had swallowed the afternoon light and my stomach was making noises that would have embarrassed a moose. The cabin sat there in the half-dark, all timber and promise, and I fumbled with the key box while my carrier bag of petrol station provisions sagged pathetically against my leg. First impressions? It smelled of pine and someone's else's successful holiday, the kind where they definitely remembered their cheese.

The kitchen, I discovered with relief, was properly equipped. Not the usual holiday let nonsense of one blunt knife and a saucepan with no handle, but actual decent pans, a kettle that didn't rattle, and a fridge that hummed with industrial competence. I stood there in my coat, still wearing one boot because I'd forgotten to remove it, and made an inventory of my emergency supplies. Two packets of instant grot I'd grabbed in a panic. That regrettable licorice. A tin of mackerel that suddenly seemed like the loneliest foodstuff in Norway.

Morning brought clarity and, more importantly, Rjukan. I drove down with purpose, found the Meny supermarket, and did what I should have done from the start: bought like a local. Proper rugbrod, dense as a brick and twice as satisfying. Brown cheese, the real stuff, sliced thick enough to see your teeth marks. A lump of fenalar, dried lamb, that the woman at the counter assured me was from Telemark sheep. I believed her. You don't argue with someone who can slice meat that thin.

Back at the cabin, I became briefly ambitious. The kitchen had a view of Gaustatoppen that demanded something worthy, so I attempted farikal, the traditional lamb and cabbage stew. How difficult could it be? Very, apparently, if you get distracted by the view and let the cabbage dissolve into something resembling green porridge. I ate it anyway, sat on the little balcony with a beer from the local Vinmonopolet run, and decided that texture was overrated. The mountains didn't judge. The sheep, presumably, had worse concerns.

The following days settled into a rhythm of eating that felt almost embarrassingly good. Breakfast stretched until eleven, thick slices of bread with brunost that I shaved too generously, coffee that I drank too much of. I found a small farmers' market near the ski centre, more a table outside a hut than anything formal, and bought potatoes still dusty from the earth, cloudberries from a woman who spoke exactly three words of English and communicated everything else through gestures and firm pricing.

My second attempt at cooking went better. Simple pan-fried trout, bought from a man in Tuddal who'd caught them that morning, served with those same potatoes and nothing else. I stood at the stove in my socks, the window open to the cold air, and felt briefly competent in a way that my normal life in Manchester rarely permits. The fish fell apart on the plate. The butter had browned slightly. It was, I think, the best thing I've eaten all year, though I say that about most meals when I'm on holiday and the wine has been generous.

Evening meals became a slow event. I'd start too early, chopping onions while it was still technically afternoon, drinking something local and apple-based that I'd found at the back of a shop. The cabin's dining table sat four but I spread across it like a student, laptop open to Norwegian recipes I half-understood, radio playing something incomprehensible and cheerful. My farikal improved, or perhaps I simply lowered my standards. I made lapskaus one night, a thick meat stew, and ate it for three days because I'd misjudged quantities spectacularly. The fridge hummed. I hummed back, slightly drunk.

On my final morning I fried the last of the brunost onto the last of the bread, scraped the final smear of jam from its jar, and sat watching the mist clear from the mountain. I'd come with plans for hiking and sightseeing, for being a proper active tourist, and instead I'd mostly cooked badly, eaten well, and stared at scenery while digesting. It was, I decided, exactly the right sort of holiday. I left the remaining instant grot in the cupboard for the next forgetful soul, took the rubbish out like a responsible adult, and drove down the mountain already planning what I'd cook next time, and whether I might actually remember to bring it with me.