The trouble with Sat Navs, I've decided, is that they give you far too much confidence. There I was, bombing down the E18 from Oslo, feeling terribly pleased with myself for navigating Norwegian motorways without incident, when my trusty device announced we had arrived at our destination. I pulled into what I assumed was our Sandefjord holiday let, only to find I'd parked outside someone's actual home, complete with a rather baffled chap watering his geraniums. Turns out I'd typed the postcode in wrong by one digit. One digit! The poor man was terribly polite about it, but I caught him checking his locks as I reversed out in a hurry.

Twenty minutes of muttering and one slightly tense drive later, we actually found the place. And honestly? That little humiliation was worth every crimson-cheeked moment.

The property sits nestled among proper coastal woodland, the sort where pine trees lean at dramatic angles as if they've spent decades arguing with the wind. Our first evening, we dumped our bags and immediately headed for the coastal path, because when you've got that much daylight stretching ahead of you in late June, it feels almost criminal to waste it indoors. The trail from the property hooks up with the broader network around Sandefjord's peninsula within minutes, and we found ourselves walking through that particular Scandinavian magic hour where everything glows honey-gold and even the rocks look picturesque.

I'd done my homework, naturally. Packed walking boots, breathable layers, the full kit. What I hadn't packed, in my infinite wisdom, was proper respect for how rapidly Vestfold weather turns on you. We woke the second morning to brilliant sunshine, the kind that makes you think "shorts weather, definitely." By the time we'd reached the first viewpoint overlooking the Oslofjord, I'd already tied my jumper round my waist. By the second viewpoint, I was wearing it again. By the third, I was frantically googling whether hypothermia could set in during June.

The thing about coastal hiking round Sandefjord is that you're never far from shelter if you need it, but you equally never want to be the person who needs it. We passed several proper Norwegian walkers, all sensibly kitted out in proper waterproofs despite the apparent sunshine, each giving me that particular look of gentle Scandinavian concern. You know the one. It's not judgement, exactly. More like watching a toddler attempt something ambitious.

We pressed on toward the beaches near the town centre, because I'd read about the white sand there and frankly refused to let a bit of atmospheric instability defeat me. The path dips and weaves through proper coastal heathland, all low shrubs and that distinctive salty-green smell that somehow makes you feel healthier just breathing it. And yes, when we finally emerged onto that beach, the sun had staged something of a comeback. We sat on a rock, shared some rather squashed sandwiches, and I made the classic British mistake of assuming this meant the weather had "settled."

Reader, it had not settled.

The afternoon brought what I can only describe as meteorological confusion. Sunshine, then proper grey clouds, then a brief but enthusiastic shower, then sunshine again so intense I got sunburned on one arm. We adapted, as one must. Our ambitious plan to walk the full coastal circuit got trimmed to a more modest loop, with frequent retreats to the property's deck for coffee and tactical layer adjustments.

There's something rather grounding about being forced to surrender your plans to something as elemental as weather. I spent years in office jobs where the climate was whatever the air conditioning decided, where "adaptability" meant finding a different spreadsheet. Out here, with the wind making decisions for you, you remember how small you actually are. It's not a bad feeling, once you stop fighting it.

By our final morning, I'd developed a proper system. Base layer, proper walking trousers, packable waterproof, sun cream in one pocket, gloves in another. The full Norwegian approach, essentially. We managed a glorious dawn walk along the quieter eastern stretch of coast, watching the ferry glide toward the harbour, everything still and silver-grey. No mishaps. No wrong turns. Just the satisfying crunch of proper boots on proper coastal path, and the growing realisation that I'd absolutely be coming back.

Though perhaps I'll double-check that postcode. Twice.