I should have known the holiday had truly begun when I managed to leave my boots on the roof of the car at the petrol station just outside Oslo. There they sat, my trusty walking boots, enjoying the view of the fjord without me as I pulled onto the E134 and only realised my mistake forty minutes later. My wife found it hilarious. My children found it even funnier. I found a layby and drove back with what dignity I could muster.

The journey from Oslo to Telemark is rather lovely once you stop fretting about footwear. The road winds through pine forests and past lakes that look like they've been stolen from a postcard. We stopped at a small supermarket in Notodden for supplies, where I became briefly obsessed with the cheese selection and bought far more brunost than any family reasonably needs. The brown cheese, for the uninitiated, tastes like someone has caramelised a dairy product with sheer force of will. My children were suspicious. I was triumphant.

Finding the cottage in Hjartdal felt like discovering a secret. The track off the main road climbs gently through birch trees, and suddenly there it is: a traditional Norwegian cabin with that distinctive red paint and white trim, the sort of place that makes you feel immediately that you've done something right with your life. The key was exactly where promised, which felt like a small miracle given my earlier performance with the boots.

Stepping inside for the first time, the smell hit me: that particular blend of woodsmoke and pine that no candle company has ever truly replicated. The living area is all timber walls and comfortable furniture arranged around a wood-burning stove. My daughter immediately claimed the window seat. My son investigated the loft bedroom with the enthusiasm of someone discovering treasure. I stood in the kitchen and felt something in my shoulders relax that I hadn't realised was tense.

The kitchen is compact but properly equipped, the sort where you can actually cook rather than merely assemble sandwiches. I found myself already planning the first evening meal: something simple, something that could simmer while we explored. The view from the windows drew us out again almost immediately. The cottage sits with a sense of privacy among the trees, yet the surrounding landscape opens up just enough to remind you where you are. Hills roll away in the distance. A small stream chatters somewhere nearby. My wife spotted a squirrel conducting what appeared to be important business on a fallen log.

That first afternoon, we did very little of consequence. We walked the immediate area, getting our bearings, letting the children burn off motorway energy. We found wild blueberries and ate them straight from the bush, staining fingers purple. We discovered that the local mosquitoes had a particular appetite for my left ankle, exclusively, which the family found almost as amusing as the boot incident. I began to suspect I was the holiday's designated comic relief.

As evening approached, I wrestled with the wood stove while my wife unpacked with characteristic efficiency. There is something deeply satisfying about building a fire in a strange place, about learning the particular temperament of someone else's chimney. The first attempt smoked rather dramatically. The second caught properly, and I sat before it with a cup of tea feeling disproportionately accomplished.

Dinner was simple: local sausages, potatoes, the inevitable brunost experiment that the children approached like forensic scientists. We ate at the wooden table with the fire crackling and the light fading slowly outside, that endless Nordic dusk that feels like the day is reluctant to end. Nobody checked their phones. Nobody mentioned school or work or any of the obligations waiting back home.

Lying in bed that first night, listening to unfamiliar silence broken only by the stream and occasional owl, I thought about how quickly the cottage had begun to feel like ours. Not in any possessive sense, but in that way places do when they fit around you comfortably, when you stop being a visitor and start simply being there. The boots were safely inside now, I checked. My ankle itched. I was entirely content.

Tomorrow we might walk further, perhaps find the lake we glimpsed on the approach, perhaps do nothing much at all. That is the particular pleasure of a cottage holiday, I am learning: the absence of must-do, the gentle rhythm of days shaped by weather and whim rather than itinerary. For now, sleep came easily, and I let it.