A fjord farewell

Danny loves transport, and this trip has so far included a plane, a boat, a cable car, a funicular, the light-rail, buses and our feet. What was missing was a train, so we boarded the 08:29 from Bergen to Voss. The track traced the edge of a lake, plunging through dark tunnels and skimming through pine and birch-clad mountains. Raging glacial torrents fed the lake, surging white foam descending from the mountains above us.

When we arrived in Voss, we hopped on a bus to Ulvik – a small village on the edge of Ulvikafjorden (part of Hardangerfjord). We briefly poked our heads into the 19th century church, which felt more like a ship due to its heavy timber frame, then made a brief pitstop for a coffee at the Strand Fjordhotel before taking the Apalvegen to the village’s famous cider farms.

We strolled through rows of apple trees, some ancient and gnarled, some lithe and supple, still clinging to their delicate pink blossom. The rain pittered gently, at this point it’s become part of the full Norwegian experience. We visited three farms (and their shops) and sipped a cider overlooking the fjord. At 8%, the scrumpy is pretty strong, so we didn’t manage any more than one. We then, with meandering steps, made our way up to the old farmhouse where we’re staying, to admire the view from the comparative shelter of the veranda.

The next morning the rain had cleared. We drank our coffee and watched shafts of sunlight fall on the valley.

We hopped on to the express boat to Eidfjord, and then ventured to the Norwegian Nature Centre – a bizarre collection of obvious facts and taxidermied reindeer. The highlight was a low quality panoramic video of the local fjords and waterfalls, filmed from a helicopter. The swinging footage made me feel a bit seasick. We then visited Vøringsfossen, Norway’s third biggest waterfall. The slippery metal walkways and chilling wind meant that we didn’t spend very long admiring the sheer power of the plunging waters.

We bundled ourselves back on the bus, then returned to Eidfjord where we took a scenic route to Norheimsund via various small villages on the edge of the fjord including Lofthus, Utne and Kinsarvik. As we traversed the fjord, the mountains on either side faded in and out of the mist. The wind swept the waves into a crashing crescendo, but moments later the sun was out, shining through the film of rain. After three hours we reached Norheimsund, and took the bus to Bergen for our final night in the city.

When we told people we were coming to Norway, the most common responses were “it’s really expensive” and “it’s really beautiful”, both of which are true. Every £5 coffee or £50 meal came with a little wince (although lots of snack trips to the supermarket and flasks of tea helped us to mitigate the expense). And yet, it’s hard to put a price on a week spent in the mountains and on the fjords, drinking fresh air and pure water. Being in a new, wild place has made me feel more present, curious and human. It’s reminded me of everything I don’t know, and has rekindled a sense of wonder that can only be satisfied by another adventure.

Ulriken to Fløyen – a weather journey

After a night on the mountain, the bed of our Air BnB in Bergen was a memory foam cloud of dreams. In the morning we felt so refreshed that we decided to do another hike. As we ascended the cable car of Mount Ulriken, rather than getting closer, the pylon at the summit seemed to fade further into obscurity. By the time we reached the top, we were faced with a sheet of white cloud and persistent rain. We downloaded an offline map on to our phones, and after some indecision (due to previous near-death experiences) we decided to embark on the 13km hike to Mount Floyen.

The first couple of kilometres were somewhat miserable. Swathes of fog reduced our visibility, and the rain showed no signs of relenting. We bumped into a couple of local girls:

“Have you done the hike before?”

“No…”

“I don’t think you should do it.”

“We have GPS…do you think we’ll be ok?”

“Hmmm good luck!”

Fully prepared to turn back if the conditions didn’t improve (or got worse) we carried on with slow, deliberate steps, scrambling up slippery rock, and doing our best to follow the line of the path.

After a while, we reached the top of the ridge, and the rain began to abate. Vast stone cairns marked the path like benevolent sentinels, and our confidence began to grow. The capricious mist faded in and out, but for the most part we could always see the next cairn. As we sat down to lunch facing a white wall of cloud, we heard the foghorn of a cruise liner far below. Gradually the mist melted from opaque, to a gauzy translucence, until somewhat miraculously, the vista of the harbour opened up. The mist lifted, and we could trace the line of our path right along the spine of the mountains.

As we crossed a path between two reservoirs, the sun came out. We were grateful to have made the decision to continue the hike. As we began our descent, the city of Bergen came into sharper focus, with tiny buildings, tiny buses, tiny cars, tiny people. The cruise ships were still quite large.

We neared the end of the hike, and the uneven stone path evolved into a gravel trail. We were accompanied by more hikers than we’d seen over the course of the day, and we soon arrived at the top of Mount Floyen. Comfortably exhausted, we took the funicular down the mountain, and indulged in a hard-earned hot meal.

Bergen is beautiful, especially from above, and especially when it’s not hidden by cloud.

Troll hunting

At 8:50 we boarded the Hardangerfjordekspressen boat, and were promptly whisked from the pier across the grey-green waters of Bjørnefjord. As we skimmed out of the city, industrial buildings morphed into quaint houses, perched on impossible ledges facing the stormy waters. We passed through a narrow strait, into Hardangerfjord. On the top deck the whistling wind threatened to throw us (or at least our glasses) overboard. After a few thrilling moments we settled back into the safety of the lower deck, and soon arrived in Rosendal. We then caught a bus for the next leg of our journey. The road clung to the mountain face – sheer rock sponged with thick moss and sprouting ferns. Cascades of water tumbled down the cliff face and poured into the fjord. We sped down an interminable (well, 11km long) tunnel, the raw granite illumined with yellow light – we could have been on a ride at Disneyland.

Eventually we arrived in Odda, grabbed some lunch and then took an extortionate taxi (the cost of which was slightly mitigated by the presence of a small white-haired woman with whom we shared part of our journey) up to Skjeggedal. We dropped off our bags in our room, and walked past the ginormous hydroelectric dam to the edge of the lake

The next morning we met our tour guides, Patrick and Emily (and their Alaskan huskies, Rock and Frigga), who would be leading us up the mountain. Trolltunga is a well-signposted and popular route which we could have navigated on our own, but what we really wanted to do was spend a night camping in the mountains, and an overnight tour seemed to be the easiest way to do that (with the added luxury of not having to carry a tent). Members of our group hailed from all over the world – China, Brazil, India, Canada, the US and Scotland. We were all pretty fit, with three women in the group signed up to do the Tromso Midnight-Sun Marathon in a few days time, so we set off at a good place, beginning our ascent over great slabs of rock. A few lonely cabins peeped through trees as we climbed higher, and what had been a gentle incline turned into a sheer stone staircase. The sharpest ascent is at the beginning of the hike, so we used our enthusiasm to reach the highest point, stopping occasionally to drink water from the clear stream running across the rock. The water wasn’t just clear, it was pure mountain essence, suffused with minerals and cooled by snows. London tap water will no longer be potable.

Soon we reached the snowline, an eventuality that Danny and I had not anticipated, but were fortunately prepared for. We skidded across the mulchy slush, occasionally misplacing a foot and falling 50cm or so into the snow. The grey clouds mooched above us threateningly, but only cast forth an occasional drizzle. Three hours in to the hike we stopped for lunch, and miraculously the clouds began to clear. We caught sight of Lake Ringedalsvatnet below, which we’d been tracing the edge of across the ridge. With even more enthusiasm than before, we picked up our bags and began the final stretch of the trek before our goal.

Once upon a time, in Old Norway, in the dead of night, there was a troll roaming the mountains. He roamed for miles and miles, and hours and hours, and eventually he became very thirsty. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that the dawn was near. He was unable to ignore the thirst that scratched his throat, and in a fit of desperation he stuck out his tongue to drink from the nearby waterfall. At that moment, the sun rose, and turned him into stone.

It’s a dangerous thing to realise a dream. There’s always the chance that it won’t be how you imagined. In fact, that’s the most likely outcome. As we descended towards Trolltunga, a sense of anticipation rattled in my heart, which burst into joy at seeing an ancient piece of rock jutting out above a reservoir. Despite the queue for the photo, the majesty of the mountains was awe-inspiring. The view slightly above Trolltunga was even better, and better still was the view from our camp, perched about a kilometre away overlooking the valley. With full hearts and bellies, we sat by the campfire with hot chocolate, until the sun finally dipped below the mountain at 22:30.

After breakfast in bed (due more to the necessity of keeping warm rather than a streak of extravagance), we made our way back to Trolltunga for a few more photos, apologetically impeding the efforts of a film crew who had descended in their helicopters early that morning. We then made our way down the mountain with the sun hot on our backs, and the snow bright in our eyes. We snacked on lefsa, a kind of sweet bread that must have been Tolkien’s inspiration for the lembas bread of the elves. Grateful for our poles, we made it back to Skjeggedal around lunchtime.

The Trolltunga trek is not secret or peaceful, but there is something mystical about the mythic landscape. Once the hoards of daytrippers have gone, and the sun has finally set, the mountains rumble and the trolls begin to roam.

Let us Berg-en

After nearly three years confined to our native island (for reasons I don’t need to explain), Danny and I finally managed to go abroad. A heavy fog of apathy, coupled with fear of uncertainty meant that the planning process didn’t inspire the same excitement and sense of anticipation that was once familiar. If anything, neither of us really believed we were going away until we were on the plane, ascending through the golden haze of a London summer. We landed in the pittering drizzle of a Norwegian dusk. Twilight hung in the air well beyond midnight as we made our way into the city of Bergen. The spotless carriage of the light-rail didn’t bear a stroke of graffiti. We glided past neat apartment blocks and sleek shopping centres, accompanied by giggling herds of youths politely sipping their cider through straws. Eventually we found our Air BnB, and made a valiant effort to stifle the persistent daylight seeping through the blinds, so that we could sleep.

The next morning brought optimistic (but short-lived) patches of blue sky. We wandered in to the city and succeeded in finding coffee and a ginormous cinnamon bun for breakfast. Well, the bun was for me, Danny was satisfied with a chia pudding (his gluten allergy prevented him from indulging in any of the baked delights on offer). We then wended our way to Byparken for a walking tour. Over the next couple of hours we followed a tentative young Irishman through the streets, learning about Bergen’s long and fire-striken history. Danny didn’t learn very much at all, because he’d already read the Wikipedia page and had retained the majority of the facts and statistics we were furnished with. We explored the sailor’s monument, the timber buildings of Bryggen, and the fortress, outside of which a vast congregation was amassing, draped with rainbows and spattered with glitter for the city’s Pride parade.

After a bite in a vegan cafe, we ventured to KODE – a collection of four museums that form part of Bergen’s thriving cultural scene. The first exhibition we visited was focused on the “The Queer Gaze”, celebrating 50 years since the decriminalisation of homosexuality in Norway. We then wandered through moonlit seascapes and dappled landscapes, before realising with disappointment that the majority of the Munch pieces we’d been hoping to visit was actually on tour…in London.

We made our way back to the Air BnB as the rainclouds finally released their cargo, and decided that a night in with our books was preferable to forcing ourselves to sit soggily in a bar.

The next morning the mountains were obscured by a shroud, so we re-evaluated our decision to do a hike and instead went on a mystery adventure. The bus curled around mountain roads, passing timbered houses flanked by rhododendrons bursting forth in lilac, mauve, pink and coral. Frequently we’d drive into sheets of rain, dancing raindrops trailed across the windows. About an hour later we arrived in the small fishing village of Osøryo. We sat on the wooden boardwalk sheltering from the rain and sipping tea from our flask. After the noisy throng of tourists in Bergen, it was a welcome relief to enjoy the lapping waves, the occasional screech of a gull and the distant thrum of a boat engine. After a while we found a cafe/pub where the owner took pity on our dripping disposition, and gave us a couple of coffees for free. We then caught the bus back to town, and headed out for a pizza by the harbour.

After spending a couple of days in Bergen, we have learnt that it is the rainiest city in Europe. Refusing to let that dampen our spirits, we’ve enjoyed the cultural diversions, opportunities for exploration, and strong coffee. But now it’s time for us to delve deeper into the fjords. We’re going troll hunting.