I passed the oil industry’s supply base in Ågotnes and the Texan-style hotel there. Then I followed the new road north, blasted into the rock in as straight a line as possible. From Sotra you crossed onto the sparsely populated island of Toftøy, which had previously been the missing link, with no bridges in any directions. To the east stretched the Vestland massif, like a tapestry of untold dimensions in the Norwegian National Romantic style. The mountains surrounding Bergen manifested themselves from new sides, blue ridge upon blue ridge leading into the interior, and the three plateau glaciers of Folgefonna towering above everything like a majestic white duvet.

The bridge over Ronge sound was one of the most eye-catching in the country, its west-facing shoulder raised as a shelter against the wind, an engineering feat that created a curve that reminded me of how it felt to dance a slow waltz with a girl who actually wanted to be with someone else. Then I was onto the next island and it was time to start searching.

Once again a fertile valley appeared, with a neatly laid-out avenue and a small village containing a school and post office, bank and supermarket.

I stopped and went into the post office and asked a male official with bulging eyes and a middle parting where I would have to go to find Halldis Heggøy. He was kindness in person, 226accompanied me to the front doorstep and gave me precise directions, as if he were the area’s tourism manager and Halldis the greatest attraction they had to offer.

I followed his instructions, left the main road along a gravel track, passed two cattle grids and had to open a gate before I was over the backbone of the island and had the sea in my face and an unsafe cattle track beneath the wheels of the car.

It was half past two, the sun was weak and pallid, and twilight had already made its first cautious eraser strokes across the sky. Beyond the island was the sea, beating against the rocky shore, angry sheets of water flashing white against the sharpest rocks. Once again I felt the wind grip the car with its invisible fingers and hold it tight as I pressed harder on the accelerator.

Down in a bay, sheltered from the worst of the wind by a headland with a curved spine like a fossilised dragon, lay a nondescript smallholding. According to the post-office employee this was where I should go.

I drove the car onto a flat area of rock, fringed by withering heather, where it was easy to turn. Even through the car windows I had heard the muffled crashing of the sea. As I stepped out it was like being met by menacing drums of war, as though nature itself was summoning its warriors to defend itself against the intruder.

I slammed the door hard behind me and stood for a second taking in the view before I moved down towards the smallholding, which consisted of a white farmhouse and a grey, weather-beaten outbuilding, with a small chicken run where White Leghorns were pecking unenthusiastically at the greyish-white shell sand, having long abandoned any hope of finding a grain of gold.