The SatNav had other ideas about how to reach Larvik, which is how I found myself wedged down a farm track near a field of very judgmental sheep, wondering if my hire car's suspension would ever forgive me. I'd been aiming for a charming holiday home on the edge of town, the sort of place that promised pine forests and proximity to the sea, not an impromptu agricultural tour. Twenty minutes of reversing and one slightly hysterical phone call later, I was back on proper tarmac, sheep still staring, dignity in tatters.

By the time I actually arrived, the late afternoon sun was doing that golden thing it does in Vestfold, stretching long shadows across the wooden decking and making everything look impossibly peaceful. The house sat there like a well-kept secret, red paint gleaming, surrounded by proper Norwegian woodland that smelled of pine and something else I couldn't name but immediately wanted to bottle. I stood there with my suitcase, still slightly vibrating from the farm track ordeal, and felt something in my shoulders drop for the first time in months.

The key was exactly where promised, and I fumbled with the lock like a burglar having an off day. Inside, the place had that particular stillness of somewhere that's been waiting patiently. Light poured through windows that framed trees instead of neighbours, and I found myself doing that holiday thing of opening every cupboard just to see what treasures lurk. A decent frying pan. A stash of candles. A bookshelf with a satisfyingly random collection, including what appeared to be a Norwegian guide to mushroom foraging that I immediately decided would be my summer project despite knowing absolutely nothing about mushrooms.

I made tea with the urgency of a woman who'd been driving for hours and carried my mug outside, where a garden chair was positioned with suspicious precision to catch the evening sun. The sheep incident was already becoming funny, which is the blessing of mishaps that end harmlessly. I sat there watching nothing much happen, which was precisely the point. A bird I couldn't identify did something complicated in a nearby tree. The light shifted by imperceptible degrees. My tea went cold because I forgot to drink it.

The next few days settled into a rhythm so gentle it barely qualified as rhythm. Morning light through thin curtains, coffee on that same chair, a slow decision about whether today's walk would be twenty minutes through the woodland paths behind the house or a slightly more ambitious stroll toward the Larvik coastline. Usually I compromised and did both, separated by lengthy periods of horizontal reading. I discovered that doing very little requires surprising practice; the first day I kept reaching for my phone, checking emails that weren't urgent, making mental to-do lists for a life that wasn't happening here. By day three, I'd stopped pretending and simply let the sunshine have its way with me.

The local area revealed itself in small, unhurried pieces. A bakery in Larvik town where I attempted my schoolgirl Norwegian and was rewarded with patient smiles and excellent cardamom buns. A swimming spot I found by following someone who looked like they knew where they were going, the water shockingly cold and brilliantly refreshing. Evenings meant grilling something simple on the barbecue, watching the sky do its slow summer fade toward eleven o'clock, wondering why I ever thought holidays needed to be busy to count.

I read three books without retaining a single plot, which felt like the highest compliment I could pay them. The mushroom guide remained largely mysterious, though I did photograph several fungi with the confidence of someone who would absolutely not be eating them. My greatest achievement was perfecting the art of the afternoon doze, that particular state of half-sleep where you remain aware of birdsong and breeze without the obligation to respond to either.

On my final morning, I packed with the reluctance of someone who has remembered how to be still and fears losing the skill. The garden chair had developed a dent that matched me exactly. The sheep, mercifully, were not present to witness my departure. I drove away slowly, SatNav firmly ignored in favour of the main road, already planning when I might return to do absolutely nothing in particular all over again.