I have never been brilliant at reading ferry timetables, and my arrival in Sandefjord proved this beyond doubt. There I stood at the terminal, rucksack on my back, watching the very boat I had meant to catch disappear towards the horizon. I had misread the departure time by a full two hours, which in Norway means you have absolutely nothing to do but admire the view and question your life choices. I found a bench, ate my packed lunch at ten in the morning, and decided this was exactly the sort of character-building nonsense I would laugh about later. Probably much later.

The walk from the terminal to the holiday home took about forty minutes, which felt longer with a rucksack and the nagging sense that I had already failed at the simplest part of the holiday. Sandefjord revealed itself slowly, a proper coastal town with wooden houses painted in cheerful creams and soft reds, the kind that look effortlessly tidy in a way British seaside towns never quite manage. The air smelled of salt and something greener, pine perhaps, drifting down from the low hills behind the town. I passed a small marina where elderly men in caps tended to boats with the solemn patience of cathedral caretakers.

The property sat on a quiet residential street, a traditional wooden house with a small garden that had clearly enjoyed the Norwegian summer more than I had enjoyed my morning. The key was exactly where the instructions said, which felt like a small victory after my ferry fiasco. Stepping inside, I was struck by how light everything was, pale wood floors and large windows that seemed to drink in every available drop of sunshine. The kitchen smelled faintly of coffee from previous guests, a friendly ghost of mornings past.

I had planned my entire first day around a coastal hike to the west, a route I had researched with the enthusiasm of someone who owns proper walking boots and uses them. The weather, however, had other ideas. By mid-afternoon the sky had turned that particular shade of grey that promises nothing good, and the temperature dropped sharply enough that I abandoned my shorts with a sigh. This is where I should admit something: I had packed for a Mediterranean fantasy rather than a Norwegian reality. My warm-weather adventures were looking rather optimistic.

Determined not to waste the day entirely, I set out anyway, wearing every layer I possessed and looking, I suspect, like a walking laundry pile. The coastal path began near the town centre, winding past rocky outcrops and small beaches where the water lapped with a sound like slow applause. The wind was brisk but not brutal, and within twenty minutes I understood why people walk here regardless of conditions. The coastline folds and creases in ways that keep revealing new views, small coves and sudden headlands, the sea changing colour from slate to something greener where the shallows allowed.

I passed another walker, a Norwegian woman in sensible trousers who nodded with the knowing sympathy of someone who has also misjudged the weather in their lifetime. We exchanged no words, but the nod contained volumes. The path climbed slightly, offering views back towards Sandefjord and the islands scattered offshore like crumbs from some geological picnic. The clouds began to break in the west, sending shafts of light onto the water that made the whole grey afternoon suddenly worthwhile.

By the time I turned back, my legs pleasantly tired and my nose cold, I had forgiven myself the ferry mishap entirely. Some arrivals are smooth; mine had been characteristically chaotic, yet the town had absorbed my disorganisation without comment. That evening I cooked a simple meal in the bright kitchen, watched the light fade slowly over the garden, and planned tomorrow's walk with the confidence of someone who had learned absolutely nothing about checking ferry times but everything about the quiet rewards of putting one foot in front of the other along a Norwegian coast.