I have never been so happy to see a wooden veranda in my life, and that includes the time I mistook a garden shed for a boutique hotel in the Cotswolds. But I am getting ahead of myself.

The drive from Oslo to Telemark had been the sort of journey that starts with grand ambitions and ends with a packet of stale crisps and someone asking "are we nearly there" for the forty-seventh time. My lot had been surprisingly chipper, though. The scenery does that to you. Fjord-like lakes appearing round every bend, forests so green they look almost impolite, and the occasional red wooden house clinging to a hillside like it is worried about sliding into the water. We were properly excited by the time we turned onto the smaller roads near Vradal.

That is when I made my move.

Convinced I was being helpful, I grabbed the key safe code from my phone and announced I would get us sorted while everyone else stretched their legs. The property, a proper timber-clad affair with a balcony that practically begged for a morning coffee, sat up a modest slope with views across the water. Lovely spot. Idyllic, even. I marched up to what I absolutely, one hundred percent believed was the correct door, punched in the code, and felt a small surge of pride when the lock clicked.

The door opened onto a utility room that was definitely, categorically not ours.

I stood there for a good ten seconds, staring at someone else's wellies, someone else's coats, someone else's life neatly arranged on pegs. My brain did that thing where it refuses to process obvious mistakes. I even stepped fully inside, as if further intrusion would somehow clarify matters. It did not. A dog barked somewhere deeper in the house, and I retreated with the speed of a man who has just realised he is burgling a Norwegian family's holiday home with nothing but a wheely suitcase and misplaced confidence.

I found our actual place two doors down, slightly hidden by a bend in the path. Same code, same key safe, correct veranda, no territorial dogs. My family, meanwhile, had wandered round the front and witnessed my entire performance through a conveniently placed window. The children found it hilarious. My partner found it predictable. I found myself laughing too, eventually, though it took a cup of tea and ten minutes on that balcony before I could see the funny side.

But here is the thing about that first hour. Once the embarrassment faded, and once I had been ceremonially banned from all future key-related responsibilities, the place worked its magic. The sitting room had that particular smell of seasoned wood and slightly ancient sofa that instantly signals "you are on holiday now." The kitchen was compact but properly equipped, not one of those rental kitchens where every drawer contains a single bent fork and a mysterious cable. We opened the doors to the veranda and let the cool Telemark air in, carrying that faint scent of pine and lake water that you cannot bottle but instantly recognise.

The children disappeared to investigate the bedrooms, which is code for arguing over who gets which bunk. I stayed outside with my tea, watching the light change on the water and feeling that particular shift that happens when a journey ends and a holiday actually begins. No more motorways. No more sat nav confusion. Just the gentle creak of timber and the distant sound of someone else's dog, now safely several doors away.

We did not do much that first evening. A trip to the local shop for supplies, a simple supper eaten with the doors still open, an early night because we were all knackered. But I remember that balcony, that first cup of tea, and the particular quality of quiet that comes from being somewhere properly removed from ordinary life. Even the memory of my brief criminal career could not spoil it.

Some holidays announce themselves with drama. Ours announced itself with me breaking into the wrong house and a cup of tea on a wooden veranda. I would not have it any other way.