I think I might be annoying my Norwegian wife. "Don't you think it's weird," I say, "that I can just rent his cabin?" My wife eyes me warily. She's the one who told me about the cabin. Now I'm accusing her country of a moral failing. "It's just a cabin," she says cautiously. "It's Quisling's cabin," I say. When Norway was invaded by German forces in 1940, Vidkun Quisling was delighted to see them. He had based his National Union party on the Nazis, and was duly installed as a puppet leader by the occupiers. His name gave us the English word "quisling": it means a lackey, a traitor, a bootlicker. So surely his cabin should be off limits to visitors?

Britain may be tearing itself apart over what to do with controversial statues, but Norwegians are often more relaxed about Nazi buildings. "Here's the difference between Norway and Britain," my wife says. "People here really don't see a cabin as evil." The summer cabin is where Norwegians go to relax, and it enjoys an almost religious status - a place to fish, to gather berries, to chop wood. Enkelt og greit, people say - simple and good. It's all about reconnecting with nature, physically and emotionally.

In his time Quisling was viewed as a dashing, heroic outdoor type. To modern eyes that's hard to understand: in his crumpled suit, with his neat side parting, he looks like a filing clerk. We don't see the tall, blond soldier and man of action some saw then. Quisling even managed to convince Hitler that he represented an ideal of Aryan manhood. In 1942, the Nazis installed him as prime minister. Once in power, he oversaw the deportation of a third of the country's Jews to extermination camps. Most of the rest escaped to other countries

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