Day 33. Saturday 15 June.

Some dear readers will recall Saturday mornings at Auchenflower basketball stadium. The steady thud..thud..thud of bouncing balls in sync with the steady thud..thud..thud of our brains. It’s a bit like that in our basement apartment each morning as the energetic two year old runs….pounds…on the wooden floor above our bedroom, back and forth. We are trying to adjust our late start/late finish routine to fit in, but it hasn’t been that easy. Noone mentioned this in the reviews!

We headed out with some misgiving, expecting that the weekend would bring out lots of other motorists. The opposite was the case – the roads were quiet and the motorists well-behaved, as in fact they invariably are. Another bright sunny day – but the temperature was around 10 degrees with a cold, icy wind.

The second island below our base – Vestvagoy -was the target, with a few ‘must see’ spots planned. We’d been to Hov, so it was other attractions on this trip.

But first – coffee. When you go into town on a perfect Saturday morning in Svolvaer and you see a bunch of musicians, brass instruments in hand, then you follow them to find out where the concert is happening. Arrived at the town square, where 3 brass bands were assembled. Coffee and music time, thinks T. Then the stars arrive: it’s a wedding! A simple private affair (with hundreds of uninvited guests/spectators): just a bride & groom & celebrant. He said ‘Ja’, she said, ‘Ja’, there was a kiss, the bands cheered, the cameras clicked and that was that.

 

No coffee, so we move on. The journey included crossing two bridges of the same design as the one across Raftsundet Strait – quite spectacular. It was the day for exploring the agricultural island of Vestvagoy: fields (not sure what is grown, probably fodder), mountains, some sheep, goats, cows, lots of buttercups and again, at the fishing villages, the cod racks.

The Lofotr Viking Museum at Borg brought an archaeological dig to life and there, T showed her serious lack of grinding strength: ‘not even enough grain for the icing’, said the miller.

 

The Norse Saga told in video a story of the chief Olav Tvennumbrunni who, when politically squeezed by 2 other chiefs, decided there was no space for him, so he packed up and sailed to Iceland. After his death, his daughter returned to Borg, to marry her childhood sweetheart who had become Chieftain. It’s always good to have that happy ending.

The day was rapidly getting away and the morning coffee actually happened at 4pm in a quiet, ‘closed up’ town of Leknes. It was worth the wait. T had prepared the whale salami lunch again, to be consumed with a walk at the beach, so at 5.30pm we donned puffer jackets and had our picnic while the arctic surf school at Unstad braved the elements (and a very tiny set of waves). The clouds had really settled low and T wondered whether the campervanners would get that midnight sun view.

The penultimate destination for the day was to see the landscape art of ‘the head’ at Eggum and we were not disappointed, but the campervanners were huddled inside with their diesel heaters chugging away.

 

But on the return to Svolvaer (65kms) that glass of beer/pinot took a little longer than expected. A warning alarm and light on the dash screen about 10 km out sent D into the glovebox user manual…it seemed to be a picture of a tyre issue, but when the explanation is only in Norwegain, how can you be certain? Cool as always, D checked (and kicked) the tyres, could see nothing obvious, so carefully back on the road. As soon as we came to Svolvaer, it was pull into the servo and ask a taxi driver who was fortuitously there: yes, tyre pressure. Used the air gun, but alarm still showing, so head for the Hertz agency. At 10pm, with a Hurtigruten ship in, and tourists needing a range of services, D (aka Ove) lends a hand once again giving advice and reassurance to anxious Hertz customers, and then waits patiently for Daniel to confirm the car problem (fixed by re-setting pressure system with the flick of a button and a jovial comment about manufacture).

Too late for food (potato chips will do), but not too late for that wine. For us this is a better option than fishheads – we finally discovered what they’re used for. They are packed into large wooden crates, loaded into semi-trailers and sent to Nigeria for making into soup.

 

And yet another mode of transport. We continue to be impressed by the acceptance of drivers to the delays caused by motor homes, cyclists, walkers and others sharing the roads: just the one example of impatience by the two motor cyclists a couple of days ago.

Day 32, Friday 14 June.

Trying to avoid too much car time, we planned to more or less restricted today’s activities to the island of Austvagoy, where Svolvaer is located. We had passed up the organized group tour of Trollfjorden yesterday, so made that our main focus today, having discovered, we thought, that a road travels that way. As it happened, Trollfjorden is actually a small side fjord off the strait of Raftsundet and only accessible by water, so we followed the road alongside the eastern side of the strait, which took us over a rather majestic bridge (called, unsurprising, Raftsundet Bridge) onto the island of Hinnoy (Norway’s largest island).

The island as a whole doesn’t make it onto the graphic which purports to represent Lofoten in the tourist guide book for some reason, although a small portion at the very tip does. Google advises that this tip is the eastern part of the municipality of Vagan, most of which is on the island of Austvagoy.

The town – that’s exaggerating its status by a very long way – Digermulen was plugged in to the car’s GPS, which stubbornly refuses to accept our wishes. Paper maps still have a role, even if they’re sometimes wrong, inaccurate or incomplete.

We took a detour to Hanoy, once again seduced by the thought that it was a village that might have a coffee shop – it had instead what appeared to be an abandoned ferry terminal, a small marina and not much else.

After passing through Digermulen and assessing that there wasn’t much more to see before the end of the earth, we about turned and on a whim side-tracked into the ‘town’. The little grocery store had a café attached but it was closed for a private function: as we had originally passed through, T commented on some folk walking along the road, dressed in ‘collar and tie’ and suspected that they were heading to a funeral. The tiny church seemed to have a bit of activity, so we didn’t intrude. A small ferry was docked and as quiet as the Marie Celeste and the few people in the vicinity of the store moved almost in slow motion – one didn’t move at all. The only activity was a service boat from the salmon pens that came in and bustled between two wharves. It was just a little bit eerie.

Some great scenery as we travelled along the strait – and our cameras were inadequate to capture the grandeur that our eyes could see.

There were plenty of folk on the beaches again – and in the water: the eastern side of Lofoten is protected from the wind. The water, however, would still freeze the whatsits off a brass monkey. We ventured out for a beach walk under a mountain near Stronstad where there will be a community festival next weekend, for mid-summer – we’ll miss it, of course. A couple of campers with a tiny tent, and a small very smoky beach campfire took us back to 1972!

T enjoyed photographing the variety of little flowers in the grassy seaside edge.

 

A lunch stop called and from the back of the car we feasted on our version of the loaves & fishes: the brown seed loaf, olive oil, some brie and slices of WHALE salami (we’d bought this yesterday from the deli man at the Svolvaer wharf.) He had advised that at 5-star restaurants, wafer thin slices of whale salami (smoked & salted) are served with crème fraiche and some red onion. So T had prepared an equivalent with yogurt instead of crème fraiche and our bread was fantastic (of course olive oil is the real secret).

On the return we decided to extend the journey by heading back in a loop via Fiskebol and then Laukvik on the north western side of Austvagoy. Laukvik, on the western coastline, was a blustery community/harbor and again seemed strangely deserted apart from a few customers at the Coop, and a French couple who kindly translated the warning sign on the breakwater into English for us – on a device. The warning was to enter at your own risk because of the strong winds.

Basically, it seems that the eastern side of Austvagoy is where the tourist destinations are (ie coffee, galleries…) The western side is a series of tiny villages (mostly sleeper?) but the fishing is the thing throughout, evidenced by the rows of drying cod.

T has abandoned the fantasy of getting a motorhome and meandering in Europe: the roads are too narrow, and there are too many others doing the same. D is relieved!

D has meanwhile doggedly pursued his research.

Day 31. Thursday 13 June.

A restful view from our doorway – great way to greet the day, even if it was at 10 AM.

Car picked up, immediate supplies purchased and wine stocks for next few days secured. Time to start seeing Lofoten. Visited the tourist information office and amidst excellent advice on activities also received some guidance on speeding, drink driving, etc…..accompanied by bemoaning regulation, especially control of alcohol. We sympathized.

T had mentioned doing some kayaking, thinking that it was just a matter of hiring one and a half-day in such perfect conditions was beckoning. So, ‘Do you have a wet card?’ asked the attendant in the Info Office. ????? In Norway, kayakers are regulated ( like everything is): they must be able to self-recover etc. etc. That’s why we can only go in a guided tour group for a price we are not prepared to pay, so that’s when the idea was abandoned. Briefly explored a tour to Trollfjorden and an add-on kayak trip but decided against (c$500), then a midnight sun kayak for another price: there is plenty to do and see otherwise! (we figure we’ll see the midnight sun on the Hurtigruten voyage)

As today was intended to be a rest, we decided on a short drive to Henningsvear, a small town about 30km south west of Svolvaer. It turned out to be the hub of active – that is, young – rock climbers, who use the imposing cliffs.

 

Very picturesque, and very oriented towards the tourist/visitor, with lots of small art galleries (some wanted a fee). The drying cod is interesting: no aroma at this stage, and why don’t the birds get at it? T felt that a seafood soup calls, but with the Italian twists.

The views were outstanding all afternoon. Water, mountains, more water…A few tunnels, a few bridges, laybys on narrow roads. And the beaches!

 

Impromptu decision as we started back to detour to a little village called Hov on the island of Gimsoy. We encountered some unusual looking cyclists and motorists were patient, crawling along behind until it was safe to overtake – except in one case where a couple of motorcyclists roared out, overtaking on a blind hill. The lead cyclist was not amused: the middle finger salute said it all! We agreed.

As we came back, we pulled over to photograph the motor home campground – wall to wall – on one side of the rad, and the tent camp ground on the beach side. A quad bike came roaring up, asking us to back up to give access to a farm gate: five young women were rounding up the horses for the night. We were invited to stay if we wished, which we did. Free circus. The young woman standing near us explained that the horses didn’t like going into their night time paddock as it was just dirt, with no grass, so would baulk at the journey.

 

The round- up proceeded smoothly, interrupted by a wayward dog, which had been accompanying its master, who was on Norwegian road skis (abandoned as he tried desperately to gain control of the dog). It was unleashed and decided that it was part of the action: needless to say its contribution was negligible, and only seemed to bemuse the horses, who took no notice of it.

All modes of transport sighted today. As well as ‘normal’ means on the roads including prams, bikes, motor bikes and mobile homes there were some more esoteric ones such as horizontal bikes within a capsule, roller skis, quad bike, shanks pony, and (on the water) a variety of ships, b oats and kayaks.

 

 

 

Day 30. Wednesday 12 June.

We could almost cut and paste the start to today: an early flight (7.55 AM) so a disturbed night, again both rising well before the alarm (D had set for 5, unbeknownst to T). Our indirect journey to Bodo, the stepping off point to Lofoten Islands, took two flights with two stops, going from Point A (Bergen) north to Point C (Tromso) then south via Point D (Andenes) to our destination Point B (Bodo). Only enough time in the transit points to find coffee before the next flight: a change of plane in Tromso, but we didn’t even get off in Andenes. The original booking was a direct flight. Both Andenes and Bodo had bunkers and/or fortified aircraft hangers. There was a Navy plane at the first, and one fighter of some sort at the second.

 

 

Bus into the centre of Bodo then a short walk to the Sentrumterminale Kai, where D pestered the young man behind the counter about our ferry, just to make sure we were at the right place for the right vessel at the right time. He was very patient and even more helpful when D re-opened one of our two luggage lockers to discover that the fee of 60 Krone (about $10) had to be paid every time the door was unlocked, even though each fee lasted for 24 hours – provided it wasn’t unlocked in that time. Needless to say, we were unimpressed, (we had misinterpreted 60 kr per locking). But the young man was happy to place our bag and food (plus the wine for tonight!) behind his counter. The older woman to whom he turned to for advice didn’t seem particularly concerned or inclined to help. Rules are rules; perhaps that’s why things are so efficient in Norway.

As we had about 6 hours to wait we took a wander into Bodo, but there wasn’t much to see after the waterfront, so after a couple of Op Shops, where T momentarily eyed off a real handknit, then back to the terminal for a couple of hours – which gave T the opportunity to pick up her own knitting.

 

The queue for boarding was typical: it’s about getting THAT window seat, but as the 3 hour trip dropped off at a number of little stops, by mid-journey, there were window seats to spare. Upper deck camera moments were few, as an Arctic wind accompanied us, but at the Arctic Water Sports stop, D could appreciate the cheer of the anglers who had actually caught some fish, which they were cleaning. Interestingly, many folk wore single-layer t-shirts and bare ankles as the sun is bright, while T continues in multi-layers of wool. T just ate and drank the evening colours.

 

Arrival at Svolvaer, then a walk, with the help of Google Maps, to our apartment; thankfully the sun was still smiling, as no taxis in sight. Arrived with instructions for the entry keypad, which D couldn’t get to open. Tried – hash…code…star – and every combination of those three, to no avail but lots of cursing (forgetting most Norwegians speak very good English!) Then as D was attempting to confirm the instructions his phone ran out of charge – plug in the charger and wait. Eventually T knocked on the door of the house above and the owner disclosed the secret – D had was using the wrong sequence of numbers in the code. The apartment is spacious & new, but not what we’d expected, as it’s the basement of a family home and guess what the ceiling (wooden floor of above) means…yes, pitter, patter! Ah well, the unexpected of travel!

 

Day 29. Tuesday 11 June.

The morning presented a brilliant blue sky – as it had been all night.

Bussed into the centre ahead of a midday English tour of the Hanseatic museum and precinct we’d been at yesterday, detouring for the mandatory coffee to fortify ourselves for the day. We had intended to head to the funicular afterwards but put that plan on hold for later reassessment after seeing the queues of tourists spilling down the streets.

But most importantly, a bottle of wine for tonight was bought from Vinmonopolet. Decision was to go with a known wine that was not Australian, so Casillero de Diablo got the nod: you can’t go past a good Chilean. D carried it around for the rest of the day in the back pack, with more care than some of the babies being carried around in pouches.

 

The tour group was small – not sure what that says about the number of English speakers visiting – and was comprehensive and informative. D & T marveled at the stoicism of the young German apprentices in particular, who apart from doing all the hard work (starting ages between 12 and 15) were also indentured for 6 years, during which time they would stay in Bergen. The similarity with Duntroon was eerie: even more so when none of the Hanseatics was permitted a relationship with the local women. If that happened, there were penalties, the most severe seems to have been a fine of a barrel of beer to be consumed by colleagues. Sounds more like a reward than a punishment (perhaps the story has been misinterpreted in the retelling?)

It was a cold, dark life, particularly in winter. The buildings were mostly constructed from wood, so the fear of fire was intense, As such, it was limited to specific areas: the kitchens, obviously, which had lots of stone, and contained metal box fire places that were fed from stone enclosed access. But the main working areas and the dormitories were unheated – and no cuddling to help stay warm at night.

After this tour we wandered separately through the precinct, T being particularly captivated by the roof lines and overhangings.

Back past the line up to confirm that the queue had maintained its serpent-like length so we opted to head to Fantoft to the Stave Church using the light rail. Inside the church a delightful young lady provided a commentary – telling us also that she was to be married in the church shortly. It is not used regularly as it is now classified as a museum, but is available for special occasions (weddings qualify apparently) and for a service at Christmas.

 

The church was originally built in 1150, and moved to its current location in 1883. It was burned down in 1992, but has been rebuilt as it was, reopening in 1997.

 

 

The search for the ideal beer continues. It’s a pretty even, average field.

 

 

 

*Attributed to D, after Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savarin, a 19th Century French gastronome.

Day 30. Monday 10 June.

Still drizzling but D says the forecast is only ‘cloudy’, so being the optimist, he ventures out well rugged up but without a rain coat; T has chosen waterproof pants over leggings + coat + beanie…both are satisfied, but D has a few anxious moments as very light drizzle fell a few times during the day, and rain always threatened.

When you are in foreign territory it’s not easy to navigate the bus routes: where are they going? what number do I need? which direction are they going? how does a schedule match with a map? The websites aren’t much help, seemingly requiring some background knowledge of destinations and routes – and only available in Norwegian (that’s probably reasonable). At the bus stops (one on each side of the road) some helpful locals confirmed the correct bus and correct side of the road and we were away.

Decision was to head for Bryggen, the old wharf district and just meander. All worked well; we walked and climbed and looked down over the jumbled roofs, admiring the timber houses as they clung to the slope. For a short while we were able to get away from our fellow tourists.

A gem of a café, away from the cruise crowd delivered an excellent coffee and a serious chocolate treat.

Meandering took us back down to the wharf, past the cruise ships and to the Museum showcasing the Hanseatic merchants of the Middle Ages. A very helpful attendant gave us an intro, advised that we consider taking the tour (tomorrow at 1000 or midday – we chose the latter) and suggested we finish the afternoon at the Fisheries Museum, taking the free shuttle bus. And so we did. The Fisheries Museum is appropriately housed in a warehouse, smelling appropriately and standing in water, and presents an excellent narrative of the Norwegian industry, and includes a challenging short video in which 3 generations of fishermen tell of their careers/would be career, their passion for the sea and leave no doubt about their feelings regarding the imposed fishing quota system.

 

Walking our little legs off, forgetting to have lunch, ducking the drizzle, dreaming of an evening sit down with a wine…7pm arrived, a bus back to the apartment and T persuaded D to go for one more possible retailer…off he set at a clip….returned with the news…that shop was run by Muslim merchants. So, we will visit the Vinmonopolet shop (the name says it all) tomorrow and research has been done for our Wednesday travel that includes a screenshot of the location of the Vinmonopolet shops at Bodo to stock up before catching the ferry to the Lofoten Islands.

It’s a lovely evening, blue sky, cold and a cup of tea calls. Aargh! And from our balcony, who would know whether it’s 10 PM or 10 AM?

 

Day 27. Sunday 9 June.

Today was to be a slow day, not least because we expected little to be open due to it being both Sunday and a religious holiday (Whitsunday). Interestingly, when we spoke to two young people, separately, they both commented that they had no idea what it was for, and in any event had no interest in religion. They were happy for the public holiday tomorrow though. A familiar comment!

Throughout the night the ‘ventilator’ in the apartment had hummed (a bit like aircraft engine noise) and defied attempts to turn it off, even more disturbing than D’s snoring. This system is apparently in lieu of opening a window for fresh air. T resorted to ear plugs again: D just slept through it. While making breakfast another alarm-like, intrusive chirping sound from the ceiling started just after T had put the toast on. Panic! We’d been warned that the smoke detectors were sensitive and if the Fire Brigade came we’d be up for a fee of 10,000 Krone (a bit over $1,600). Toast ejected and rushed to the balcony, all doors opened……but the sound continued and we’d worked out it was probably not the smoke alarm. But we couldn’t track down the source, so T rang apartment management: ‘it’s the detector under the stove hood’ we were told – ‘press the black button.’ We did – an alarm went off and a red light flashed on the device. D frantically pushed other buttons – all quiet….except for the original sound. With no other solution offered, we were told that a janitor would come some time through the day; but, we were reminded, it was a public holiday. As if we needed telling: we had no wine and no prospect of any!

A quiet walk over the canal into town was in order. Contrasting architectural styles between the old and the new: we’ll look at more of the older sections of the city tomorrow. Our apartment is very much in the new category.

 

Passed by the University, a lovely facility, and T spotted a free concert on Tuesday evening that beckons.

As we got closer to the centre of town we could hear what sounded like folk music – or possibly just dance. And we saw milling crowds, a mixture of locals and tourists. And indeed there was dancing, with repetitive steps suggesting traditional dances, although we can’t be sure.

Continued on to the Fish Market area, where there were more milling crowds, this time with a higher proportion of tourists getting in our way. A plain, reasonably priced lunch – in a tourist hub! – of two rounds of bread, one topped with prawns and the other crab. Both were on the bland side.

 

Because it was Sunday, and because we haven’t posted a picture of a church for a while, we entered St. John’s Church of the Lutheran Church of Norway. It was more ornate than we’d come across in other Lutheran churches, but not excessively or pretentiously so. A treat of sorts was a small, mixed choir rehearsing, conducted by a lady who had the control and direction of one of our own music leaders: we could only look on in similar admiration as she guided her members. The thought did occur that we’d get wine if we took communion – but it wasn’t on.

Back to the apartment to find that the buzzing noise in the ceiling remained. Clearly no janitor had come by. D rang the apartment management, this time getting Tando who had checked us in yesterday. The answer was to go to the fuse box and turn off the main power, wait ten seconds and turn it back on. It worked – the sound stopped. Not a new problem – happens every couple of months, apparently for reasons as yet unknown. The humming of the ventilator was mentioned again and, as he was in the area, Tando said he’d come over to see if he could fix it. He couldn’t, so offered us a different apartment – we accepted, packed our wet washing, foodstuffs, suitcases and moved across, in the rain, to another building. The ventilator in this one hums loudly too, and can’t be turned off, as it is part of a central system – but at least it’s not in the bedroom.

It has rained or drizzled pretty much all day, but this certainly hasn’t stopped folk being out and about, the locals in particular who are walking, running, playing football, playing with kids at ‘the beach’ or just having a coffee.

Quite a high proportion of those pushing prams are young men. We think that life continues despite the weather because it’s always like this – it’s what one local commented, anyway!

But still no wine – and the supermarkets don’t sell beer on a Sunday, so no substitute.  Monday’s another holiday, again with no wine shops open, and the possibility that beer won’t be available either! We have fallen this low.

T is extra-anxious in the kitchen due to the alarm sensitivity, and the pork fillet chosen for tonight’s meal turns out to be pork strips for a wok! With no appropriate ingredients and THAT ALARM warning, there’s definitely no wok tonight; some other creation will emerge. D dutifully went back into rain to source foil and garlic, and instructions not to pay $6 for 5 carrots.

*Usually attributed to Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savarin, a Century French gastronome.

 

Day 26. Saturday 8 June.

Such a peaceful night’s sleep! Ingunn had offered a late checkout and pick up for the trip back to town at 12 PM so there was no rush. A walk to Rjoandefossen waterfall before breakfast, being greeted by three lambs obviously expecting a treat. On the return trip they ignored us!

 

More of the story from Ingunn as she drove us into town. Her son is a music teacher, but doesn’t enjoy his work so is retraining in IT. He plans to move with his girlfriend to Bergen, as she is from an island off-shore. Ingunn retired from a job in aged care on 1 April, but is happily involved in grandma duty, as her daughter has a leadership role in a bank. Nils is not in good health, although we don’t know what that means. Ingunn’s hospitality was outstanding and the little cabin beneath the railway was magic.

The Flamsbana Museum was terrific, and another reminder of the stamina and stoicism of the generations immediately preceding us. Taking 20 years to build a line of only 20 kms, through 20 tunnels switchbacking through the mountains; most of the tunnels had been constructed by hand and if we understood correctly, the line was built to connect Flam at the top of Sognerfjord with the high mountain plateau and snowfields at Myrdal. Visiting the mountains was obviously recognized as an important cultural/lifestyle activity at the beginning of the 20^thcentury and there needed to be a serious infrastructure project to halt emigration at a time of great economic hardship. There were a couple of ‘lash ups’ that D admired, particularly several variations of the railway bike. One in particular resonated because of the little story attached, as well as the surname of the subject.

Erling S. Nesbo

Born 4 December 1913 – died 2 May 1961.

He was out on line inspection and met a train he was not prepared for.

A walk away from the tourist precinct and down to the fjord merely reinforced the overbearing presence of the cruise ship. We’d watched a Sky News report last night showing footage of the out of control cruise ship in Venice that collected a smaller tour vessel before being stopped. From some angles this one looked like it had beached in Flam just behind the bakery!

T was feeling peckish so decided the cheapest option was a bowl of fish soup from the street food stalls. Looked good, tasted alright, cost an arm and a leg (but they rejected her foot).

Then the fast ferry to Bergen. Actually, not so fast as it stops at several towns on the way to drop off/pick up passengers – on a couple of occasions just one person – it is a great service. Competition for the seats with a view was fierce; in a few cases this seemed to be to have a good outlook while sleeping. D was amused, as he is by the bizareness of human behaviour, for most of the journey by one woman – French he claims – who stalked seats with a good view that became vacant, in order to claim squatters rights, all while hubby dozed. She did not succeed, being thwarted once by a Chinese lady who was far more adept and upfront.

The early good views were left behind us as we encountered increasingly heavy rain, but that did ease although visibility was still limited. T secured a window seat next to a young woman and they chatted the whole way. The fellow passenger was a young architect from Yemen, currently living and working in Dubai. Conversation ranged from family, to lifestyle, to social/cultural issues and beyond. D was consigned to the middle seats – which had a perfectly adequate view of the 100 to 200 metres ahead that we could see in those early stages! By the time we emerged from the fjord (after 5 hours of sailing) rain had set in again and as this post is updated, it looks like a rainy Bergen for the next several days.

Almost the last off the ferry, but straight into a taxi and a short ride to our apartment. Reception by Tando was exceedingly efficient and there was just time for D to run (literally run – what a sight!) to the corner store, leaving T on the street, to get some supplies for dinner. Tragically, wine is only sold in monopoly stores and there were none of those in reach at 10 PM, and more tragically no beer was being sold on Sunday because it was a religious holiday. The sad news continues: the holiday runs for three days so this inhumane situation (yes, first world problem) is set to continue. It might be just as well, as the cost of wine in Norway is horrendous.

Day 25. Friday 7 June.

Heavy rain all night, which was an accompaniment for the traffic noise and happy revelers returning home at very odd hours. There was a very long, very noisy fireworks display competing with the thunderstorm – we’d like to think it was to celebrate a very special birthday underway in Australia, but it more likely to be connected to D Day. It seemed somehow appropriate, as a metaphor for the futility of war, to have a fireworks display in heaving rain and broad daylight.

D was allowed an alarm at 6.30 AM ahead of our 7.30 AM taxi pickup – in the event we were both out of bed at 6.22 AM. The taxi driver looked at where D pointed on the map, nodded and off we went – to the wrong place. Fortunately, that was quickly sorted out and we arrived amongst the first, so were put on the first of half a dozen buses heading to Nesbyen (a 2-hour road journey due to line maintenance). Then onto the famous Oslo to Bergen train at Myrdal, and from there the little train to Flam.

As we moved higher and higher, fir forests gave way to scrabbly birch ( presumably having reached the snow line) and glacial lakes appeared in all their milkyiness, still with sections of ice. The sky cleared, and plenty of snow around.

 

Having arrived at Myrdal (a station, not a town) at 12.58 and our Flam train not departing until 15.59, the afternoon was looking slow and quite cold. T sought some advice from a young man wearing a yellow vest who was unable to provide any official advice but was a mine of information. Basically, Myrdal means ‘marshland’ hence there are few opportunities to do anything – and it actually only consisted of 5 dwellings associated with rail maintenance. T then had the brilliant idea of catching the next train down to Flam: our tickets didn’t specify seats so we assumed that if the train wasn’t full we’d be OK. When the train pulled in T consulted the conductor who was reluctant, said the train was looking quite full, but grudgingly agreed that if we could find two free seats that would be fine. We needed no more direction, and on we got, having stored our suitcases in the luggage van.

 

When another conductor came around to check tickets T just waved ours at him and that was enough.

The train rail and the scenery were certainly spectacular.

 

What we should have known was that quite a bit of the 20 km descent is actually through tunnels, and of course there was serious competition at windows for THAT SHOT! We mostly saw only one side in any detail – getting to a window on the other side was a major risk to life and limb!.

T had spoken to a couple at Myrdal who were taking the cycle path down and enquired about time and cost. It seemed a lovely option on a fine afternoon and we wondered about taking the return train (Flam-Myrdal) in order to hire bikes, descend again and enjoy the views without the hundreds of new friends. Visitor Information at Flam told T that part of the trail was about 2 km of steep, grsavel hairpin bends that would require dismounting. The was the end of that idea!

Early arrival in Flam provided a reconnoitre of the co-op store for supplies for tonight but more importantly to first get a coffee (for T) and a beer (for D). Flam, or rather New Flam, the name having been purloined, is a ‘tourist hole’ (we think the real name is Fretheim). The real, original Flam is several kms higher up the valley, a farming settlement with a raging river and a little church.

We were picked up by Ingunn, who, with her husband Nils (he was born and raised in Flam) farms 75 sheep who were now wandering the steep woodland above the farmhouse to eat and eat and eat all summer. We share the story told to us as strangers by a very generous host.

Ingunn and Nils, their daughter and grandchildren run the farm called Gjorven Hytter and manage 2 tourist cabins further up the block: D had thought throughout the booking process that this was the name of the host. Ingunn talked about the sheep wandering up above the Flam rail line all summer and how they just need the occasional check. They know their owner: she’s the one who gives them treats.

Ingunn’s son is a guitarist and not interested in farming but comes home in the autumn to give a hand with rounding up the sheep and bringing them down to their indoor winter shelter. On arrival, Ingunn pointed out her house and the very new one immediately behind, where her daughter lives. When we commented on the sleek new raw timber architecture, when all around is much, much older, she explained that her daughter’s husband had been a builder/architect and had drawn the plans but he had died 3 years ago (anniversary 8 June – tomorrow) in an accident – she’d gone ahead and built the house. He’d been para-gliding from the sheer cliffs above, had landed on the slope, the wind had lifted the kite again and he’d been unable to stop and fell into the river and drowned, despite attempts to revive him. It is a big rushing river, fed by many waterfalls.

Ingunn dropped us at the top of the driveway outside our perfect (it doesn’t even have internet!) cabin for the night.

T had a stroll down the hill to the church, where every second tombstone seemed to have the surname Flam or Flaam; D had a beer.

 

Just the sound of the rushing river to send us to sleep after a T-special dinner. And although the train passes by only metres above us it doesn’t run at night!

Day 24. Thursday 6 June.

The apartment is over a busy street, that also has regular trams running at all hours. So it is noisy. All windows shut tight, drapes drawn, and T with ear plugs firmly inserted. D slept well; T less so because of a hot, stuffy room. First stop after breakfast was to the apartments reception staff to request a room off this street when we come back later in the month. Noted and apologies from reception…we’ll see!

Headed for Ekebergparken Sculpture Park via trams and buses, more or less comfortable with how the system works, although not necessarily understanding how the map relates, particularly as some parts are one way and that’s not obvious. Initially a little dismayed at the price of the 24-hour ticket, but then realized that the two zeros at the end weren’t thousands, but ore (a cent equivalent, but apparently only used electronically since 2012). T did the research by entering an up-market dress shop – well, that’s what she claimed to be doing, although she did come out with a look of dismay at the price of a T shirt. It turns out the price was very reasonable indeed for multi-mode transport.

The sculpture park is peaceful, the only noises being the many birds twittering and the kindy kids engaged in play, including, of course, the boys playing with sticks. We wondered if this park was really for such respectable people as us: the first sculptures we saw were all, as T remarked, ‘nude’, and one in particular was very boastful about his manly attributes. D could only scoff – he’s heard all that before. A walk through the park brought us many variations of style and subject, by a range of sculptors including well-known names like Salvador Dali, Renoir and Rodin, all pretty well spread out along paths and tracks.

 

 

A magic moment was fog slowly floating downhill through the trees, intermittently highlighted by the sun peeking through gathering clouds.

At the top we admired the camping site and again envied the campervanners!

Then the sky darkened and the rain began – fortunately short lived and light, but presaging more to come.

We arrived at the Operaen along with some busloads of our special friends – Oh, how we had been missing them! A beautiful building with graceful, simple lines, attached to the harbor a bit like Sydney.

 

T was desperate for some culture and looked to have jagged The Magic Flute, the last performance before the summer break, but it begins at 2 PM on the day we get back to Oslo – at 2 PM. T then tried the National Theatre, with the same outcome. Everyone will be on summer break come 22 June.

On to the Viking Exhibition at the Historical Museum, but pulled out when we realized that there were two displays for the one ticket – the other being the Viking ships. Wanting to do both, we opted to put that in our second visit program. We started towards the Jewish Museum on foot, looking for a bus or tram station to get there but the close ones indicated on the map were out of action because of road works, so we eventually capitulated to sore, tired feet and headed for ‘home’. Just as well – half an hour or so later, a severe thunderstorm with torrential rain hit – by that time we were able to watch it from our roadside window with a glass of red in hand. And to watch those poor souls caught in it scurrying, drenched, to their destinations. One backpacker hurled angry gestures at the sky as he walked, no doubt blaming that non-existent God for his woes.

Tomorrow we head by bus and train across Norway to Myrdal, where we’ll pick up the scenic train to Flam. There, we’ll overnight before catching a ferry to Bergen. No wifi at Flam for us, so next post will be from Bergen.