I have never been so relieved to see a wooden cabin in my life, and that includes the time I got caught in a hailstorm near Aviemore and had to shelter in a bothy with a very angry sheep.

The drive from Oslo had been straightforward enough, or so I thought. I had done the sensible thing and hired a car with sat nav, which I promptly ignored because I fancied myself as something of an explorer. This was, in hindsight, a spectacular error. Somewhere around the Hardangervidda plateau I took what I believed to be a scenic shortcut and ended up on a gravel track that seemed to be leading me directly into a fjord. The track got narrower, the trees got thicker, and my confidence got considerably thinner. By the time I reversed back to civilisation I had lost nearly two hours and most of my dignity. I arrived at the Rauland cabin as the evening light was doing that lovely golden thing across the valley, but I was in no state to appreciate it. I just wanted to not be in a car anymore.

The cabin itself sits in the Holtardalen area, and first impressions were that it had been waiting for someone exactly like me, which is to say someone slightly dishevelled and in need of a cup of tea. It is one of those proper Norwegian wooden places, all red paint and white trim, the sort that makes you feel immediately like you should be wearing a hand-knitted jumper and contemplating the simple life. I stepped out onto the terrace and the silence hit me. Not the uncomfortable silence of an awkward dinner party, but the generous, expansive silence of a place that has absolutely no interest in being anywhere else.

I had arrived with grand plans for walking. The Rauland area is threaded with trails, and I had researched several that wound through the nearby hills and along the edges of lakes. The Vemork area with its industrial history was on my list, and I had my eye on some of the lower paths around the Hardangervidda edges. Nothing too ambitious, mind. I am not one of those people who considers a twenty-mile yomp to be a pleasant afternoon. I like a walk that allows for a sandwich and some sitting down.

The weather, however, had other ideas. The first morning dawned bright and almost warm, which in Norwegian terms meant I briefly considered removing one layer of fleece. I set off along a trail that headed south from the cabin, aiming for some higher ground with views back across the valley. The path was well-marked, winding through birch forest that was just beginning to show that hesitant green of early summer. I was perhaps forty minutes in, feeling rather pleased with myself, when the sky performed one of those rapid transformations that mountain weather specialises in. The blue vanished, grey arrived with theatrical speed, and then it began to rain with the kind of sustained commitment that suggested it had been practising.

I turned back. There is a particular humility in retreating from a walk you have only just begun, especially when you have been making confident noises about being properly equipped. I was not properly equipped. I had a waterproof jacket of questionable vintage and a hat that I now suspected was more decorative than functional. By the time I reached the cabin I was damp in places I did not know could get damp.

The afternoon brought a strange, muggy warmth that felt almost tropical by local standards. The rain stopped, steam rose from the wooden deck, and I sat outside with my tea watching the valley change character every few minutes. It was during this sitting that I had my small moment of reflection. I had come to Rauland with a fixed idea of what my holiday would look like, a mental checklist of walks completed and views conquered. The weather had simply laughed at this and offered something else entirely. The something else involved a lot more stillness than I had planned, a lot more watching clouds move across the Hardangervidda plateau, a lot more noticing how the light changed on the wooden walls of the cabin.

The next day I tried again, heading east this time on a lower trail that followed a stream through more sheltered woodland. The warmth held, almost unbelievably, and I walked slowly, without my usual anxious pace-making. When the rain returned I was near a small bridge and simply stood there, watching the water rise and fall, until it passed. I did not make it to any dramatic viewpoint or tick off any notable peak. I walked, I got wet, I got dry again, and I returned to the cabin feeling oddly accomplished.

That is the thing about Rauland, I think. It is not a place that performs for you. The cabin in Holtardalen simply exists, comfortable and unpretentious, and the landscape around it does what it has always done, which is to change its mind frequently and without consultation. My holiday became less about the walks I had intended and more about the walks that actually happened, which were shorter, wetter, and more interrupted than planned, but somehow more memorable for it.

I left with my walking boots properly broken in, my waterproof jacket finally tested to destruction, and a slightly different understanding of what a successful holiday might look like. It turns out it looks a lot like sitting on a wooden terrace in intermittent sunshine, watching the weather make its decisions, and not minding terribly much either way.