Something must have got lost in the translation because when I asked if I had enough time for an hour's run, I clearly heard the words "yah, yah" come out her mouth.
She even offered an equally polite: "Enjoy your run Mr Harrison."
It was 1.53pm, after all, a whole hour and 28 minutes before my Hurtigruten ship, MS Midnatsol, departed Sortland for another breath-taking journey through the endless nautical miles that define the northern Norway landscape.
So with plenty of time to squeeze in a longish run after some rather lazy days of sightseeing and overindulging, I tightened my laces, waved her goodbye and headed in a direction that quickly took me out of the tiny town centre and into the surrounding woodlands.
I could hear nothing but the sound of nature and the occasional passing car. The air was clean, the 360-degree views stunning and the mid- afternoon shower of drizzle cooling me off with every stride.
All that, however, was instantly shattered by the unmistakable sound of the ship's horn echoing across the horizon.
At first, I thought nothing of it – until it happened again. And again.
It was at that exact moment, 5.6km into my wilderness trek, that I realised my phone was still on UK time – a full hour behind our Norwegian friends.
I'm not quite sure which expletive came out of my mouth but the hour and 28 minutes I thought I had was, in fact, a mere 28 minutes.
The ship's horn was sounding because it was departing. And it was departing without me.
Despite the fastest 4.7km run in my life, I watched, helpless and hapless, from the top of Sortland's arching bridge as MS Midnatsol sailed into the distance. I would have waved if it did not look so pathetic.
I continued running the last kilometre back into the town to see if I could find a representative from Hurtigruten cruise lines who could give some advice on what to do next.
It will probably come as no surprise that they were all on the ship.
A few frantic phone calls later, and long after my name had been repeatedly called out on the ship's intercom system as they tried to figure out where I was, a plan was hatched to get me to the next port of call.
And it involved nothing but the goodwill of the Norwegian people themselves. I was out running, after all, and I had no money or card – just my iPhone, my onboard pass and my Western Morning News press card.
The three proved invaluable, however – a proverbial Swiss Army knife for the modern ages.
And so it was then that I introduced myself to Lasse Jakobson, of Boreal Buss.
He did not judge me, he did not dismiss me... Frankly, he found my story rather amusing, as did the other passengers within earshot of my deliberately hushed, somewhat humbled conversation.
I was aided, of course, by the fact that I was dressed in my running kit – a running kit that was soaked through like some sort of sodden paper towel after the light drizzle I started out in turned into steady, driving rain.
In truth, Lasse took pity on me. Not exactly what I was expecting from a 28-year-old bus driver.
But I must have been a sight, even for these weather-hardened Norwegians, who had to be asking themselves just who the hell stands at a bus stop 275km above the Arctic Circle in running shorts, a top and garish black and yellow trainers?
Well, as I explained to them, the guy who missed the boat, that's who.
And so started what was affectionately dubbed Operation Svolvaer as I boarded local transport in a bid to catch up with the ship.
It was a journey to remember for more reasons than one and Lasse was happy to play his part – with a promise of payment at my journey's end.
And what a star he was, providing a running commentary on local history to a group of British and Canadian walkers who boarded the bus shortly after me. Indeed, he was the perfect Norwegian host and, it turned out, a closet entertainer. Lasse, I learned, was a huge Elvis fan and happily turned up the volume and took to the intercom to sing his favourite tracks during our two-hour journey. It was a pure delight.
And 21-year-old Petter Aasheim Rasmussen played his part, too, abandoning his evening plans after one phone call from his girlfriend, who just happened to work for Hurtigruten. She had asked him to collect me from the bus terminal upon my arrival in Svolvaer with the required currency. Petter stayed with me until the ship arrived, one of the nicest babysitters I have ever met.
And therein lies the truth about Norway and its people – they are kind, happy and incredibly friendly. And they have the landscape to match.
Indeed, this three-hour interlude was just a tiny sample of how welcoming this country and its people are.
I felt it the second my flight approached the stunning, glacier-carved mountain tops that surround the thriving northern city of Tromso, 350km above the Arctic Circle.
It was there that I witnessed the spectacle that is 24-hour sunlight and all the beauty it brings at the stroke of midnight from nearby Mount Floya, 421 metres above sea level. Stunning does not even begin to describe the far-reaching views on display under the midnight sun.
Even departing Tromso for a three-day, fjord-filled voyage aboard MS Midnatsol, you simply cannot absorb the majesty that this often barren but always beautiful corner of Norway offers, be it the shimmering reflection of a craggy mountain against the water's surface or the sepia glow of sunlight against the still skyline.
And that sensory overload was well and truly completed when, against the calm of a late night drink in the comfort of the MS Midnatsol bar as we approached journey's end at Trondheim, a pod of killer whales was spotted in the distance.
One after another, the orcas began to breach the water's surface, effortlessly rising in and out of the wake. We counted 50 in total. It was mesmerising, magical and memorable.
It was Norway. I have come to expect nothing less.
