7. Olden – Briksdal Glacier
Overnight we headed back south again and into a fjord which wasn’t far away from the Stryn area. By morning we were moored at the village of Olden at the end of the Nordfjord and ready for another excursion into the hills. Of everything I’d seen of the fjords so far, this was the most idyllic place you could choose to live in. As the villages go, this is quite a big one and has quite an array of pretty wooden houses surrounded by flower gardens and lush, springy grass. Where the fjord itself ends it is met by a fast flowing, startlingly blue river that makes its way down the valley through grassland part tamed, part wild and which must be abundant with fish. There are two little wooden churches, a white one in the centre and a red one on the road leading out, both dating back hundreds of years and competing for quaintness. It’s easily accessible by road, even in when it snows, and the hills don’t crowd in around it so that the light is blocked during the short winter days. And there are no Estate agents – it doesn’t need them.
I had chosen this morning to go and see something rather different and I had no idea really what to expect. It was a trip to see a glacier, the Briksdal glacier, and to be honest I’d never really thought much about glaciers before, though I did know that they were what had been responsible for carving out the fjords in the first place. Today’s guide, a man this time called Rolf, gave us some more information as we travelled through the beautiful valley on the coach. Glacier ice is a sort of super ice that’s compressed by its own weight. Because it’s so dense and heavy it also ‘flows’ very slowly, downhill of course, as a river would to sea level. Rivers create valleys through erosion, but glaciers can carve out much more dramatic features such as the fjords.
As we got further along the valley the river broadened out, as is often here the case, into lake, with just enough space between water’s edge and cliff for the road. We pulled into a lay-by that had been carved into the cliff to appreciate this scenery for a while. One thing stands out above all here; whereas the river had been deep blue, the lake was bright, vivid green. This, our guide assured us, was the result of the melting waters of the glacier we were going to see. In the course of its rock-grinding activity, grains of the rock become trapped in the ice and are carried down to this lake (and many others) when it melts. The minute grains are green in colour and therefore appear to turn the water green – a quite dazzling effect.
We continued our journey, arriving at the inevitable car park outside a restaurant and gift shop which were both constructed in the traditional timber style. It became apparent that we were to be left to make our own ascent to the glacier up a path which followed the course of a river up an increasingly steep, wooded hillside. So, with varying amounts of vigour, we began to do so, save for the few who didn’t have sufficient mobility and were to be taken only half-way up by horse and carriage.
I welcomed the chance for a good old foot slog, having been predominantly sedentary on the boat for nearly a week, and strode off relishing the fresh air. About a third of the way up was one of the major sideshows of the walk. I’d become aware that the sound of rushing water of the descending river had become much louder and as I came out of the cover of some trees I could see a large waterfall. As I got nearer I could see that the path led round onto a little bridge which cut right across the face of the waterfall and, watching people crossing it, I could see that it was going to be a damp experience.
I had to pack my camera carefully away in its bag and I gratefully put on the fleece which I hadn’t thought would be needed but had brought anyway. It wasn’t so much that the waterfall splashed as it tumbled past the bridge, it was the mist of fine spray it created which enveloped you from some yards away. It was very cold and specially designed to soak into clothing very quickly. I managed to be fairly sprightly and didn’t get too much of a drenching, but I felt rather sorry for the older people who were less mobile than me, but braved it anyway. Fortunately it was a sunny and fairly warm morning – in the winter I think we’d all have turned into instant ice sculptures.
Not long after this we reached the point where the horses couldn’t go any further (or more accurately the carts that they pulled) and the less agile were warned not to either. There were seats and toilets here and a tantalising glimpse through the trees of the glacier itself, gleaming in the sunshine. This seemed to me a bit like base camp for the final ascent, though I doubt Edmond Hilary would have thought it even worth sneezing at. From here onwards the path started to become steeper, rockier and damper – it seemed to have its own little stream flowing down it. We passed a sign that indicated where the edge of the glacier used to be in 1932. Whether this was an indication of global warming or just that the glacier had retreated due to being trampled on by thousands of tourists I’m not sure, but it had certainly melted back a good half-mile since then.
Finally we came up onto a sort of plateau which was not entirely flat, but quite broad and scattered with rocks. There suddenly was the glacier before us, presented in the form of what the glaciologists call a ‘tongue’. This is where the ice comes down between two peaks, in the valley that’s formed between them. The main part of the glacier is still on top of the mountain but there are many of these tongues which provide a convenient way for non-mountaineers like us to experience glacial ice.
We’d been told the science, but Rolf the guide hadn’t mentioned another very unexpected side to the experience. As we all approached the glacier a hush fell and it seemed without exception that everyone had the same idea in mind. The sight was extraordinary – the ice was still predominantly white but seemed to have deep blue veins running through it. At the bottom were large pools, as you’d expect, but such a bright vivid green it was almost beyond belief. This was without doubt the oddest colour scheme I’d ever seen produced by nature. One by one we approached the ice, all with the same irresistible compulsion – to touch it. But this was almost like a religious experience and the glacier seemed like a huge living creature stretched out before us that we all had to pay homage to – everyone there felt the same. This ice that we were touching was hundreds of years old, slowly melting into the green pool and then into the river that would rush down the hillside and eventually into the fjord that had brought us here. There was something of the dying animal about it, but an animal that’s still very powerful and majestic, even at its last.
Having touched it I then retreated to photograph it despite knowing that it would be impossible to capture the essence of it on film. I was extremely glad that I’d made the climb and was now reluctant to leave. I had to of course and eventually began to make my way back down the rocky path thinking about how much bigger the glacier had once been and how it had carved out the very terrain on which I was now walking. Soon I was back down at the bottom and sitting in the restaurant with a cup of coffee and hoping that the photos I’d taken would do some justice to the Briksdal glacier. When I got back to the coach, Rolf the guide was telling a story about a man he knew who’d first come to the glacier in the 1930s and had made the ‘pilgrimage’ every year since. I asked him what he thought it was about the glacier that had this effect on people. He replied simply that ‘people are always fascinated by creatures’, and before I could argue that a glacier is not a creature he’d climbed back onto the coach.
After such a marvellous morning we returned to the ship for lunch – for once I was genuinely hungry after the physical effort involved in climbing up to the glacier. The ship wasn’t due to depart until the evening, so those that wanted to, including me, had plenty of time to explore Olden. There was now a clear blue sky and the sun was quite hot as I walked down the gangplank. The village really did look very pretty and I was anticipating the next couple of hours of rambling with some glee, not least for the photographs that would no doubt present themselves to me in such a picturesque place. It was just as I set foot on the dockside that the events of the previous day caught up with me.
The German woman who’d guided me back to the ship in Trondheim had spotted me and was waiting for me to catch up with her. As I approached the stream of German recommenced and I gathered that she too was going to walk round the village and was offering herself as my walking companion. Given the size of the village I didn’t really have a great deal of choice and we set off up the little road that led to the centre. Despite me reminding her that I spoke only basic German, the woman seemed to be of the school of thought that if she spoke slowly and loudly enough I would understand everything. So as I looked at the little wooden houses and kept my eye on the landscape for good photo opportunities she went on relentlessly about, in the following order, her apartment in Germany, her daughter who lives in America, President Bush, the invasion of Iraq, flowerbeds, Italian food, her trousers being too tight, Osama Bin Laden and Norwegian window frame architecture.
By the time we got to the centre of the village I was reeling. Fortunately there was a very pretty wooden church just ahead and I made a bee-line for it, praying that it would be open. My logic was that if we went inside she might shut up for a minute as people usually do in churches. It was open and she did shut up for a while as she appeared to be fascinated by the flower arrangement on the altar. I sat down and basked in the silence and to my surprise she went back outside of her own accord without further vocal addition.
I sat there for another five minutes or so, hoping that when I emerged she’d have gone off on her own accord. As I opened the little door and my eyes re-adjusted to the strong sunlight, the voice struck up again just a matter of feet away. She was bending over a gravestone and now appeared to be launching into a commentary about the particular family name that was carved on it. It meant nothing to me, but it seemed to have great significance to her and I just hoped that she wasn’t going to burst into tears as she seemed to be getting quite emotional.
I walked out of the churchyard and sure enough she followed on with another lightening change of subject, the gravestone seemingly forgotten, as we walked through the main part of the village and out the other side. This was the road we’d been on this morning that led out into the hills. It stretched out straight before us with a red coloured church about half a mile ahead, little paths that led up to some quite grand houses to the left and the river, running through grassy fields to the right. I pointed to the red church, indicating that I was going to walk to it, vaguely hoping that she’d decide it was too far for her. No chance.
We walked along, the sun now beating down on us, as she continued my education in one-way conversational German. Waterfalls, Mrs Thatcher, how green the grass was, window boxes, the traffic in Germany, Skodas, Chancellor Kohl, her cabin on the boat, classical music, her grandson’s birthday, Vladimir Putin and cheesecake. We neared the red church and I wondered whether this one would shut her up. I was relieved to see that there was no cemetery around it and walked up to the door of what was evidently a much older building than the other church. It was locked.
She marched off to the other end looking for another door while I stood and wondered what to do next. What could have been a very pleasant afternoon’s stroll had been hi-jacked by Teutonic verbosity of alarming proportions – it was almost becoming nightmarish. When she re-appeared round the corner I noticed that she now looked quite hot and bothered. There was a little bench in the churchyard in the shade of a tree and I nodded to it for her to sit down, which she did. I saw my chance. After about 30 seconds I announced that I was going to walk down to the river – this would involve at least another half-mile detour which I hoped would be too much for her. She kept me in suspense for a moment while she thought about it, then to my great relief she announced that she’d rest for a while then return the way we’d come. I set off for the river, free at last.
Although it was hot, which I’m not that keen on, the path through the fields was very pleasant and I reached the bridge over the river that I’d seen from the road. I stopped in the middle and leaned over the wall, marvelling at the gleaming blue colour of the water that rushed underneath. On the other side of the bridge the path continued along by the side of the river and back to the village which was what I’d been hoping for. I was just about to set off again when I heard a voice.
Of course, I thought it was my German friend again, coming in pursuit of me after all, but before I could move, the small American jogging lady who’d interrupted my Titanic moment jogged up to me and stopped. ‘Do you think that we can get back this way?’ she enquired. I noticed that she’d already inserted a ‘we’ into her question. I replied that I thought the path led back to the village and that I would be taking it slowly. ‘Oh that’s fine, I’ll walk with you, it’s a little hot for running.’ My heart sank. We followed the path with her telling me all about her exercise regime and how difficult it was to stay fit on a cruise, especially with all the food available. Apart from the fact that she was as skinny as a rake, she obviously had no trouble in exercising her vocal chords and my eardrums, which now took a further pounding as we made our way along the lovely river path and back into the village.
On reaching the centre again I noticed a little grocery shop which gave me the excuse to part company with my latest torment. She already had a bottle of water, so I was fairly sure that she wouldn’t want to join me in buying a nice cold fizzy can of flavoured CO2. Having made my purchase I was alone once more, but I had a good look round from the shop doorway before re-emerging into the street. I walked down towards the edge of the fjord, where the river joined it and noticed that there was a park bench suitably hidden from view by a group of trees. I sat there for about half an hour in total blissful silence, staring across the beauty of the water and sipping on my can in the shade of my guardian trees, alone and peaceful at last in the little paradise that is Olden.
1. Dover
2. Ijmuiden
3. Cuxhaven
4. Bergen
6. Trondheim
7. Olden - the Briksdal glacier
9. Stavanger