After trying her hand at dog sledding, Mariella takes a break. Photograph: Observer
The only sound as I slide along is the whoosh of metal blades on ice and the panting of the huskies. In every direction stretches a dazzling canvas of snow and pine with not a sign of habitation. We are intruders in this winterscape. Johan, the owner of the dog-sledding outfit, is our outrider, leading the way, surefooted as a deer as he careers ahead. Negotiating the bends between tree trunks at breakneck speed without the sleigh toppling brings shrieks of delight from the children. Three hours' flight away to the south the slopes of the Alps are crawling with humanity, but here in my native Norway we're far from that madding crowd.
I gave up trying to find our destination, Hemsedal, in the Lonely Planet guide. As far as I was aware it had been one of the country's most popular downhill ski resorts since the early 60s. Geilo has made a slightly bigger name for itself on the cross-country circuit, but that still didn't explain why a forensic search yielded nothing. But, though this area is renowned locally as the "Scandinavian Alps", such reticence to boast about their assets is typical of the Norwegian approach to life.
The pared-back nature of daily life in a country boasting the third-largest sovereign wealth fund is quite a surprise. A predilection for bling in similarly oil-rich nations from Saudi Arabia to Iraq has kept London's Park Lane car dealers in business through three recessions. Not so the Norwegians, who favour a Volvo from neighbouring Sweden. Instead of squandering their North Sea bonanza they've invested it, ensuring future generations enjoy the high standards of free education and healthcare that are the envy of the world. There are few countries where adults still favour "family bunks" and standard bath towels are the size of dishcloths.
Thankfully there's a newfound thaw in my countrymen's icy resolve. Where once pine-clad apartments with strip lighting were the order of the day, our accommodation in the hamlet of Totteskogen offered luxury. Five minutes from the children's slopes and set among a cluster of cabins, our home for the week, called Dinabu, was a medley of stone and wood, with floor-to-ceiling glass framing the mountain view, underfloor heating and not one but two log fires along with a small sauna and a huge boot room to put wet ski gear in to dry. Privately owned mountain retreats like ours are let by their owners only for a proportion of the year, so personal touches are everywhere.
