The Satnav's Revenge: How I Found the Real Rauland

I should have known the journey from Oslo would be too straightforward. Three hours of motorway, a bit of mountain road, then supposedly a gentle cruise into Rauland. My satnav, a cheerful woman called Britta who normally gets me to Tesco without drama, had other ideas. Somewhere near Vinje she decided I needed "scenic routing," which is satnav speak for sending a Renault Clio down a track clearly designed for determined moose. I ended up in someone's farmyard, surrounded by sheep who looked deeply unimpressed, while a farmer emerged from his barn with the resigned expression of a man who has rescued many idiots before me.

Turns out the proper turning was three kilometres back. I reversed past the sheep, who maintained their judgmental silence, and eventually found the actual road to the cabin. The NOVASOL place sat among birch trees with a view that almost made the detour worthwhile. Almost. I was still muttering about Britta as I fumbled with the key box, dropped the code sheet in a puddle, and finally stumbled inside with the grace of a man who has spent six hours driving and eaten only a petrol station hot dog.

The cabin itself was one of those proper Norwegian affairs, all wood and sensible design, with a wood-burning stove that looked like it meant business. I spent my first evening not exploring, as I'd planned, but sitting by that stove with a cup of something warm, watching the light fade over the hills. The mishap with the satnav had cost me my afternoon, and I felt that particular holiday frustration of plans gone slightly wrong.

The next morning I set out with deliberate aimlessness. No satnav, no map beyond a paper one from the tourist office, just a vague intention to walk toward some waterfalls I'd heard mentioned. Within twenty minutes I was lost. Properly, satisfyingly lost, on a path that seemed to shrink until it became indistinguishable from sheep trods and moose trails. The birch forest closed in, then opened unexpectedly onto a small lake I'd find later wasn't on my map at all. I sat on a rock. Listened to nothing much. Watched a pair of divers paddle across water so still it looked theatrical.

That became the pattern. Each day I'd set out with some half-formed destination and each day I'd end up somewhere else entirely. A clearing where someone had abandoned a hay rake decades ago, now rusted into sculpture. A stream pool deep enough for a bracing swim, which I attempted once with the dignity of a man falling downstairs. A hillside of wild blueberries where I ate until my fingers stained purple and my stomach made complaints.

The local shop in Rauland centre, which I found by taking the wrong turning from the cabin three separate times, became my morning ritual. The woman behind the counter started recognising my incompetence, greeting me with a smile that said "lost again?" without needing words. I bought brown cheese and crispbread, learned to ask for coffee in my approximation of Norwegian, and once came away with some local craft beer I hadn't intended to purchase but felt obliged to accept after a lengthy and largely incomprehensible recommendation.

My final afternoon, I drove deliberately without Britta's assistance, took a road that looked promising, and found myself at a small stave church I'd never read about in any guide. Locked, naturally, but sitting in its churchyard with gravestones dating back centuries, surrounded by forest and that particular quality of light you get in Norwegian September. I sat on the step and thought about how my planned holiday of efficient sightseeing had become something else entirely, something slower and more accidental, and how I couldn't really claim credit for any of the good bits.

The sheep, I decided, had probably known this all along.