I have never been so grateful for a sat nav in my entire life. There we were, my lot crammed into the car like sardines, halfway down what I can only describe as a gravelly Norwegian goat path, and I was absolutely convinced I had taken us to the wrong Tjome entirely. Turns out I had not. Turns out the road was simply doing its best impression of a rally stage, and my other half was doing her best impression of someone who definitely should have insisted on driving.

The mishap, if you can call it that, came about ten minutes earlier. I had stopped at a petrol station just outside Sandefjord to grab snacks, because apparently a two-hour drive from Oslo requires roughly forty-seven packets of crisps and something called "Kvikk Lunsj" that the children had spotted and decided was essential to their survival. In my rush to be a hero, I managed to leave my phone on the roof of the car. We drove perhaps three hundred metres before it slid off and bounced merrily into a ditch. A very kind local man retrieved it, barely suppressing his amusement, and handed it back with a look that said "British tourists, obviously." The screen was somehow intact. My dignity less so.

But then we arrived, and suddenly the gravel path and the phone incident and the crisps debacle all melted away. The place sat there like something from a postcard, all weathered wood and proper Scandinavian simplicity, with the sort of quiet that makes you realise how much noise you normally live with. The children actually stopped bickering for a solid forty seconds. I counted.

Tjome has this particular quality about it, this sense of being properly away from things without being inconveniently remote. You are surrounded by proper coastal Norway, all those little inlets and rocky outcrops and water that looks like it has been filtered for a photograph. The cottage itself had that lovely lived-in feeling, nothing fussy or trying too hard, just comfortable spaces and a kitchen that immediately made me want to attempt something with fish that I would almost certainly ruin.

My first proper walk down to the water's edge, phone now safely pocketed, was one of those moments where you catch yourself being a bit sentimental. The light was doing that golden Scandinavian evening thing, stretching across the skerries, and I found myself thinking about how rarely I just stop. No emails, no school runs, no pretending I understand my gas bill. Just boots on rock and the smell of pine and salt. It is terribly easy to become the sort of person who only notices they were stressed once the stress has gone.

The children had already claimed their bedrooms with the territorial efficiency of small nations, and my other half was investigating the barbecue with the focused expression of someone who takes outdoor cooking very seriously indeed. I stood there on the rocks like a lemon, grinning at nothing, already plotting which local shop I would visit for breakfast supplies in the morning.

That first evening, we did nothing remarkable whatsoever. Ate too much, laughed about the phone incident for the fifth time, watched the sky do its slow summer fade to grey-blue. The children fell asleep on the sofa, which never happens at home. I carried them to bed feeling like a proper parent for once, rather than the usual frazzled administrator of their schedules.

Some holidays announce themselves with drama and spectacle. This one simply opened its door, handed us a view, and let us exhale. I am not sure I even realised I had been holding my breath.