5. Fjords up and down
Having fallen asleep as we sailed back to the open sea and headed north up the coast, I awoke to a completely different scene. The boat had navigated into the Hellesylt fjord, Hellesylt being the small village at the end of it. Now we moved slowly along completely smooth and still water down a narrow but deep channel, with steep cliffs rising sharply on both sides. The sun was still behind the cliffs to our left and everything seemed absolutely quiet.
Every now and then a house could be seen (all on the east side for some reason) about half way up the cliff, usually surrounded by sharply sloping paddock and with no obvious sign of access. To me it seemed incredible that people should choose to live in such isolated positions, indisputably beautiful though the scenery was. They would be completely cut off in the winter and in darkness most of the time with little to do but sit out the snow. Maybe people just come to these places in summer as an escape, but they did look as though they were farm houses at least in the past, if not now.
Eventually, on the opposite cliff, a road came into view complete with cars making what looked like very precarious journeys along its course. I presumed that these were people making their way to work and decided that doing so along the side of a fjord probably had the edge over my usual journey to work along the A119. We slowly negotiated a curve in the channel and Hellesylt came into view in the distance. The cliffs started to relent a little and the fjord came to an end, lapping against the quayside of the little village.
The boat couldn’t actually dock at the quay as the water became too shallow, so we moored several hundred metres off shore. Then the little ritual began to lower the boat’s tenders into the water so that we could get ashore. As it was the first time this had happened on this trip, it attracted quite a crowd, but it reminded me of Titanic again, so I went off back to my room to get the things I required for the day.
I had decided to go on the over land trip, taking in the landscape from the roads and meeting the boat again later in the afternoon when it had sailed round a few fjords to another village called Geiranger. Having got ashore on one of the tenders I must say very efficiently, we had a little time to wander around the village before setting off on a coach. Hellesylt actually has a claim to fame as being the setting for one of Ibsen’s plays, Brand. I’ve never seen it or even read it, but I must do so to find out what it’s all about – a fishing drama perhaps? The only really dramatic thing about the village that I saw was a very impressive waterfall which came roaring down the hillside and under the road bridge before petering out rather tamely into the fjord. I don’t think you could write a whole play about it though.
Having photographed my first Norwegian waterfall, I went to join the others who were now climbing aboard a coach and settling down for the day’s journey. I managed to get a seat fairly near the front and was sorting out my camera gear when a voice pierced the air and made us all sit up. Good morning ladies and gentleman, my name is Gunn and I’m from Stryn. Before us stood a Norwegian Amazon, if there can be such a thing, looking ready to stride up the side of the fjord with a goat tucked under each arm, her flaming red hair standing out like a beacon in a snowstorm.
I’d never met a woman called Gunn before, but had I pictured her in advance from the name, I wouldn’t have been too far out. She was most definitely of this landscape and had led the life that goes with it, a pretty hard, rural one and she was now in her mid-twenties. But there was more to her than met the eye. She announced that she’d be our guide for the day and enquired whether we were all British, as should have been the case. We’d acquired a German couple, a Dutch couple and a French couple, none of whom spoke more than basic English. Gunn just shrugged and said no problem as the coach set off and began to climb the steep road that led out of Hellesylt and along the side of the fjord.
She then launched into her commentary in English first, then German, then Dutch, then French, having adjusted its speed to accommodate the four versions. Not only was she physically Amazonian, her brain was obviously of equal, if not greater power and I don’t think I was the only one who was a little awe-struck. She slipped between languages with ease, including occasional asides to the driver in her native tongue, and no doubt could have wrestled a bear to the floor at the same time. No-one was going to dare to ask any awkward questions today.
We were now travelling along the road that led along the fjord and gradually got higher and higher until we were able to turn inland. This consisted, in this particular area, of green, rolling farmland with little villages dotted here and there and fast flowing, crystal-clear rivers dissecting it all. The coach ride was to be punctuated with many stops, some just to take in the scenery for a few minutes, others more substantial. Despite Gunn’s multi-lingual capabilities, it was clear that she was delivering a very well-worn script, complete with little clichéd jokes, mostly about the effects that the local water would have on us should we drink it. If the jokes were true, then the purveyors of spinach, Viagra and anti-wrinkle cream would never have been necessary.
Eventually we started to descend into a valley and Gunn proudly announced that it contained her home town of Stryn. As the road came down it eventually drew parallel with a much bigger river that had carved the valley’s course and led us into the town. It’s not a big town by any means, but given the small scale of Norwegian cities, it easily qualifies as a town in the scheme of things. There are shops and a petrol station and even some light industry which sat uneasily, to my eye, in the otherwise beautiful surroundings. The coach stopped in a car park and we were given a whole hour to wander about while Gunn disappeared rapidly off to wherever she lived.
I headed straight for the river to see if I could get any good photos. This took me on a path between some rather nice looking houses, all constructed mainly from wood of course. The thing that struck me was that there were no walls or fences anywhere, it was all very open plan, and the houses were dotted about, not aligned in neat rows as is usually the case. This was to be typical of the villages we were to visit, though certainly not the cities where the need for demarcation seemed as strong as ever.
When I got to the river and looked along the valley, I noticed that there was some very low lying cloud just hanging about, looking like someone had suspended ribbons of candy floss from the sky, dangled just over the roofs of the town for the children to take chunks of. While this is probably a common sight for people who live in even slightly mountainous areas, it looked decidedly odd to my lowland dweller’s eye. Our clouds never come even remotely near to our TV aerials and would probably be evaporated by car exhaust fumes if they tried.
I photographed this of course, and the houses and the river and then wandered
back to the main street. Most of our people had headed for a café it seemed,
and there weren’t many locals walking about either, so all was quiet.
As soon as everyone had re-boarded the coach we were off again along the Stryn valley, climbing slowly out of it as we went. The river opened out into a large lake, the mist still hanging heavily over it though it was now around midday. Hills and mountains were all around us now and Gunn was telling us what it was like to drive through here in the middle of winter and lots of snow. They’ve got it all sussed of course, though even they have to stop when a blizzard happens and wait for a special vehicle that comes along and guides everyone so that they don’t disappear down the side of a very large drop.
As we climbed higher we began to encounter hairpin bends, each one affording us a higher and more impressive view of the valley with the mist now finally giving way to sunshine. This Stryn valley panorama is spectacular, the little town in the distance, the lake and river set in green pastures and the snow topped mountains rising from all sides. It’s the sort of view that you’d never tire of and just to prove the point, the coach suddenly pulled in at a very unexpected hotel - unexpected in that it that seemed to be built on thin air on the side of the hill. We were to have lunch here and the restaurant had a huge picture window that looked over the scene and everyone duly gawped out of it while we waited for our food.
Not content with amazing us with scenery, Stryn now offered up to us some of its local produce. Gunn had obviously been out before breakfast and caught a shoal of salmon with her bare hands which was now being served up to us with potatoes and vegetables. Each portion of salmon was huge – these fish must have been monsters – I’ve never seen so much salmon in one room at the same time before and I doubt that I ever will again.
After lunch we got the chance for a welcome stroll down to a rather fierce waterfall the plunged off the side of the hill into the same thin air that the hotel was built on. The water runs so fast here that no-one would stand a chance if they fell in, not even Gunn. It’s a little surprising that they let tourists so near to an unprotected danger, spectacular though it is.
Having collectively walked off no more than an ounce of God knows how many pounds of salmon, we climbed back on the coach to resume our journey, or in some cases go to sleep. I stayed wide awake however, as at last the road levelled out and we made our way across the top, more or less, of this particular set of hills. It was much more like moor land up here and scattered with large boulders. This was the cue for Gunn to launch into her well-worn tourist tale of Trolls, the centre of Norwegian folk-lore and souvenir shops. For anyone who doesn’t know, they are craggy, ugly creatures with lots of hair and long beards. They roam the countryside and can be quite mean, presumably to keep the children quiet. Just as Gunn finished her story, a hiker came into view on the road ahead of us. He was old, tall and had long wild hair and a long beard and his timing was perfect. The whole coach had hysterics and as we passed him by he obligingly waved and smiled, oblivious to our mirth.
We were now headed for Mount Dalsnibba, the highest peak in the area, via one of those roads built especially to make it look as though they’re not wide enough for coaches and which seem to get even narrower the higher you go. The hairpin bends also get progressively hairier and the drop more vertiginous with each turn. How the coach drivers ever pluck up the courage to do this for the first time is beyond me. One false move, quite literally, and you’ve had it; and you’ve got to have complete faith in whoever checked the brakes.
The views compensate if you can concentrate on them, which is what I tried to do to avoid contemplating any sort of accident. What you get as you ascend this particular mountain is mainly the view of the Geiranger fjord in the distance with other lakes and mountains closer by, all of which makes for an incredible sight. It was a relief when we reached the top, which revealed a large parking area, and we could get off the coach and take photos. The temperature was just below zero Celsius up here, which served as a reminder of just how high we were, somewhere in the region of 4500 feet (at boat level it was about 22 Celsius, so it wasn’t a particularly cold day).
When we’d had our fill of photographing, we made our way back down the mountain road, mostly with our eyes closed, and headed for the Geiranger fjord which was where the boat had sailed to in our absence. Those who’d stayed on board would have been treated to some close up views of the fjords, which no doubt would have been pretty, but I was glad I’d gone for the our bird’s eye view trip and got an idea of what it was like to live in fjord country, not just sail around it in a cruise ship.
There was one final treat before we got back to the ship. All the publicity photos for cruises in the fjords include a landscape of a ship floating on crystal blue water with wooded mountains rising steeply up to a perfect sky. The place where all these photos are taken from is known as the Flydal Gorge and the coach stops here so that everyone can have the opportunity of photographing their own ship in this picture postcard view. While the Gorge doesn’t change, the weather frequently does and many people are presented only with a view of clouds and mist to remember it by. We were pretty lucky however, and though the sky was partially cloudy by now, there was enough sunshine to get a good photo of our ship as it posed brazenly in the bay below.
We finally arrived at the little village of Geiranger, which was actually somewhat
bigger than Hellesylt, and disembarked conveniently outside a souvenir shop.
Here you could buy troll figures of every shape and size; there must have
been thousands of them arrayed on the shelves, hanging from the ceiling or
just standing on the floor, most of which would have to wait until at least
the next holiday season before finding an owner. I was briefly lured into
this den, but not before I’d waved off Gunn, presumably returning to Stryn,
who would provide me with a far more lasting memory of this part of
1. Dover
2. Ijmuiden
3. Cuxhaven
4. Bergen
6. Trondheim
7. Olden - the Briksdal glacier
9. Stavanger