Trout for tea...

Neither of us particularly like trout, which is very strange considering that fly fishing is my favourite pastime. However, as I mentioned in an earlier post, one of the reasons for visiting Norway was to have some time fishing in the pristine waters that are to be found everywhere. Well nearly everywhere. At one of the places that I tried today farm waste and raw farm sewage was dumped next to the river in a rotting pile. It seems that farmers in NZ and Norway share a common bond when it comes to polluting rivers or streams.

In the morning we made a short drive of about 65km from the town of Forde to the unpronounceable village at Byrkjelo passing the usual spectacular scenery on the way, such as the "Haldefosset" falls where we stopped nearby and walked up to.

 

 

 

This was definitely the best waterfall so far. Very unusual to see sheep and cattle so close together too.

 

We drove through our destination of Byrkjelo before we even realised, (you can walk the length of the village in 5 minutes), and because of the narrow main road we had to drive some way before we could find a turning place. We decided that a bus lay-by would do for our manoeuvrings and pulled in just in front of the bus shelter. We then noticed a Police car parked just behind the shelter, then two sheepish looking policemen popped out of the shelter where they had been hiding, whilst pointing a radar camera-gun through a tiny window in the side of the shelter.

We quickly realised that we were blocking their radar shots so gave them a quick smile and wave and drove on. It was about 2 km before we found a suitable spot to turn and reverse our steps, by which time the Plod had flagged down some poor sod for speeding. The moral of the story is to beware strange men hanging around in bus shelters!

  

The campsite at Byrkjelo is situated in a lovely spot and once the rain had cleared we had a great view back up the valley where the peak called Snonipa could be seen, (the one that looks a bit like Mitre peak in Milford).

 

Before the clouds had lifted.

 

 

 And after, with Snonipa in view.

 

After settling in the campsite, including Iris' customary and immediate sewage disposal inspection, which passed muster, we followed with lunch, then we took a drive up the (unnamed) river that ran through the valley whilst looking for fishing spots. The weather had turned very cold with a biting wind but we were not to be deterred and a couple of likely looking pools were identified as prime fishing spots. Iris took some sneaky photos of me fishing in the turquoise stream and then retreated to the comfort of the motorhome while I froze.

 

 

Afficianados will note that I'm spin-fishing, not fly-fishing, mainly because the river was too deep and swift to wade, plus a gale was blowing into my face that would have made fly casting very difficult. I'd bought a pack of 5 spinning lures of assorted colours at the local Co-op shop at a very reasonable price, (cheaper than the UK) and Iris was given the choice of which lure I should use. She selected one that she dubbed the "Norwegian Blue" because of its colour.

 

Anyway, the end result was the first respectably sized Norwegian trout that I have caught, or in other words tea.....

 

 I very rarely kill the fish that I catch but given the price of food in Norway, plus the advice from Iris' friend Penny about foraging for food in these climes, the trout was swiftly despatched and prepared for the pot.

 

I still had time to try a couple of other likely looking spots such as the one below, with no results other than a couple of minnows.

 

 

 

 

 

This little chap was released to grow into someone's tea. The lure that I was using was almost the same size as the fish, so it obviously didn't have an inferiority complex.

 

 

Hot trout with salad for tea.

 

Getting Bored....

With Norway, because every corner you turn reveals another stunning view, either of a torrential waterfall or grand vista, (or should that be a panorama Joanna?)

We left Flam and drove over to Bergen in a fairly easy drive along Sognefjord and through the surrounding country. This was waterfall number 680 below. It does have a name but I couldn't pronounce it or remember how to spell it.

We stopped for morning tea and a comfort break at a well vegetated roadside cafe. Lots of Norwegian sheds, barns and sometimes houses have sod roofs and most people don't seem to get up there too often with the lawn mower to keep them in shape. This particular cafe owner had been even more remiss than most in trimming the vegetation, unless he was on a personal crusade to replace the lost Brasilian rain forests.

 

You could make a fortune peddling weedkiller here!

 

 

381 major waterfalls and countless vistas later we arrived in Bergen, (or close anyway, as the nearest campground is about 10km out of town). We decided to spend the afternoon in the town as it was a pleasant day. It only took about 35 seconds before we had experienced all the charms of the camp and Iris had analysed the sewage disposal options fully, (not up to her usual expectations was the instant report).

 

We caught a bus right outside the camp and this took us to a nearby light rail that ran into central Bergen every 10 minutes. As we sat on the train we made the inevitable comparisons with Auckland Transport, while bemoaning the fate of Auckland's tram service that was ripped out and not replaced in the 70's.

 

It was also interesting to compare the way that the local authority in Bergen, (or whoever is responsible), went out of their way to make the city centre an attractive place to visit and spend time. The public centre is a pedestrian zone and was literally 60 seconds from the light rail and bus termini and was full of people of all ages enjoying themselves. All of this in a climate that is nowhere as benign as Auckland or other places in NZ.

 



 

 

 The whole street was crowded with people playing chess, backgammon, table football, table curling (yes, that's a mini version of the one where people hurl granite blocks down ice rinks), and other assorted games.

There were also some pretty good American buskers (father, daughter and daughter's partner), although they quit shortly after we arrived (they obviously spotted that we wouldn't be contributing to their ill gotten gains). I could swear that we'd seen them somewhere before but I'm blowed if I can remember where. Any clues on their identity please let me know.

 

 

The port area itself was also very lively, with seafood restaurants and bars pretty thick on the ground. I thought that I'd spotted a bargain meal in a place advertising Fiske Suppe for 66 Krone but alas it didn't translate as "Fish Supper" as I thought but as "Fish Soup"and there was no way I was spending 9 Euros on a cardboard cup of soup.

 

 

A view of the harbour

 

 

 A building that shows Bergen's links to the Hanseatic League, a powerful trade bloc centred mainly on North Germany and the Baltic in the 14th-16th centuries.

 

The day before, when we were travelling on the Flam express, we saw our first reindeer in a field next to the railway line. At first I thought they were sheep (from a distance), then cows and then when I saw the horns realised what they were. Didn't manage a photo though.

 

However when we got to central Bergen.....

 

This tasty looking offer was very economical by Nordic standards but somehow I couldn't reconcile myself with the thought that I might be eating Rudolf or another of Santa's finest!

 

Iris also spotted a place selling whale meat and if she hadn't been on her best behaviour could well have set up a Greenpeace style demo on the spot.

 

The next day it was au revoir to Bergen and on to more fjords and fells. The trip north included our first Norwegian ferry trip across Sognefjord, a voyage of about 4km. Two ferries criss-crossed the fjord constantly and so even though we had just missed the boat when we first arrived at the terminal, it was only a 10 minute wait for the next one.

 

 

An old, disused ferry crossing on Sognefjord.

 

 

And the real McCoy! (The ferry not Iris).

 

Shortly after disembarking the ferry and resuming our drive North we were nearly forced off the road by an enormous truck coming the opposite way down a very narrow stretch of road. There was a minor scraping sound and I thought that the rear right had caught a low rock wall. Very luckily we found that when we stopped and checked, that the exhaust had scraped the wall and there was no damage.

 

 

Not a bad place to stop and check for damage.

 

After our close call we drove on slowly and carefully to a town called Forde where we decided to stay the night (being unable to Holden any longer, (apologies for the dreadful pun aimed at Kiwi audiences)).

 

The town of Forde was quite a boring and featureless place except for the house built on top of a stream.

 

If you look closely, you can see the small stream and the culvert just above the small bridge. Given the way that small streams turn to mega-torrents in Norway I'd be a bit dubious about living there.

 

Finally, a cautionary tale. At one of our stopovers a few days ago we spotted a very military looking woman striding purposefully around the campsite, knitting furiously as she went. For some strange reason this re-kindled Iris' desire to knit and today in Forde she went and bought two knitting needles and 6 balls of wool, (3 lime green and 3 light blue), with the intention of knitting me a scarf.

 

Well the progress this afternoon and evening has not been inspiring. Suffice to say that we have cast on and cast off more times than the Sognefjord ferry did today and at present I am looking at bare needles. To be fair, at one point there were almost 3 complete rows before my dream scarf was again dismantled. I'll keep you all updated as the scarf lengthens.



 

Flom to Myrdal express....

We drove over from Etnadal to Flom and settled in to the local campsite that was like most things in Norway, grossly overpriced. Asked if email was available the young lass in the office said "yes of course, it's free but it doesn't work"! I have to confirm that she was correct.

 

Approaching Flam which is located at the tip of Sognefjord. It's a popular calling spot for cruise liners as you can see.

 

Our campsite was only two minutes walk from the railway station and an adjacent "tourist centre", (that's what they call the places that are set up to extort huge sums of money from unsuspecting visitors in Norway) and every self-respecting town has at least one. We booked our return tickets for our railway trip at the tourist centre for about the same price that you can purchase a liver transplant in Thailand and also wandered around the other tourist traps for a little while.

 

The trains ran about every hour but the only train with seats available on the day was the last one at night, that left at 1840 to Myrdal, returning to Flam at about 2115. It turned out to be a good choice as our carriage was only about three-quarters full going and half-full coming back, (as the train connects with the main line from Oslo-Bergen and this train took a fair number of one-way passengers).

 

 

The rail line between Flam and Myrdal is only 21km long but climbs from sea-level to 3000 feet over this distance, making it one of the steepest in the world. The scenery, even by Norwegian standards is stunning and photos can't really bring out the scale of the landscapes. Here are just a few:

 

 

 The start of the uphill journey.

 

 

A 150 metre waterfall.

 

 

 Iris feeling the cold and spray!

 

 

The waterfall seen above passes under the railway line and then continues for about another 400 metres below, but you can only see the latter section from the valley floor.

 

 

 

 

 This photo gives a bit of the sense of the scale of the place. The winding road and the bridge over the river were used during the construction of the railway between 1920-1940. The road is just used as a cycle track nowadays.

 

 

 Our railway carriage also had one of these! An emergency saw, with instructions on how to get it out from the case but not what it was supposed to be used for. Break the glass and saw some firewood chaps, the fire ain't burning hot enough?

 

During our trip up the valley we shared our seating bay with two others. A Norwegian with a Brazilian. (That is a Norwegian lad and a Brazilian lad just in case you were starting to wonder). One really interesting exchange occurred when the ticket collector arrived to check that everyone had coughed up for tickets and the Norwegian lad had a short but intense discussion with the ticket collector with both using English rather than their native Norwegian.

 

Anyway that's enough scenery for one day. After returning on the train to Flam we spent the night and then the next morning drove on to Bergen but that's another tale.

Language Barriers....

Are no barrier to us so far, and in each country that we have been in the natives' standard of English has way outstripped our paltry non-English vocabularies. We haven't remotely needed to resort to the familiar tactic of the English abroad, that is if the foreigners don't understand you, simply speak louder. Only one person (in Germany) that has been asked so far, claimed not to speak English but her cunning gesticulation and clever use of mime more than made up for it. I think she must have been a circus clown in a previous life.

One common feature of every country that we have been in so far, (Belgium, Holland, Germany, Denmark, Sweden and now Norway) is a tendency to use variations of the good old "fart" with examples such as Ausfahrt, Utfahrt, Avfahrt, Middelfart, Overfart, Din Fart and the likes keeping our tiny minds amused on our drives. The crowning moment was when we arrived at our campsite at Etnadale where there was a sign advising "Fart Dampere" ahead, I'll leave you to work that one out!

Other notable place names included Wankum (Belgium), Dimbo, Torso and Bjorneborg (Sweden of course) and if someone in Sweden asks you for SKUM, go get a fire extinguisher quick.

Souvenir hunting in a Unesco World Heritage village (Christianfeld in Denmark) can also have its literary moments, where offerings such as those in the shop featured below are available.

Boghandels to suit all tastes and sizes and of course Souvenir Bogir Papir to complete the bathroom set. If anyone is interested, I have Mr. Martensen's mail order address.

Anyway, that's enough of toilet humour and onwards to Sweden and Norway. We drove North to a small town called Torsby following the directions of our (so far) faithful Satnav who we have christened Maud. Apart from Maud's failure to find a free camp site in Copenhagen, she had been excellent in the directions and information provided. Iris even proclaimed her undying love for the device in gushing terms. Until......

 

Maud directed us down this unsealed road and thinking that this was the entrance to our intended campsite for the night, we followed her instructions. The track got progressively narrower, tortuous and gradients steeper, until when we were told to turn left, up an incline that Ed Hilary would have struggled with, we sussed that something was not quite right. Fortunately, we found a forest clearing where we managed to turn around and reverse our steps.

Needless to say comments about Maud leading us up the garden path were rife, plus some other choice invective and no more comments such as "I love you Maud" from Iris.

 

The following day we drove into Norway on a miserable, rainy and drab day. The first lesson we learned about Norway is that it resembles New Zealand of 40 years ago, in that nothing except petrol stations are open on a Sunday. And I mean nothing. Town centres, shopping malls, supermarkets, cafes and even the churches were closed to all mankind.

Not that it really mattered, because we had no Norwegian money anyway, to fritter away on the forbidden pleasures of rural Norway.

 

 

We know the churches were empty because we stopped and looked! This one was next to a main road but not particularly close to any town or village, which seems to be the fashion in both rural Sweden and Norway. The churches were all quite big and looked like they could stage a big party if needs be.

God obviously works on the premise of "build it and they will come". Despite the apparent lack of live parishioners, the grave yards were full though.

 

 Our first night in Norway was spent at a camp in Etnadale, run by a Dutchman called Joss. Joss was either incredibly stupid or very trusting and generous, because as we arrived without money and could not get any 'til the next day, he was happy to give us credit for food, camping and fishing licences withput any I/D or surety. The next day we drove off to the nearest bank which was 16km away and could easily have done a runner but we liked the place so much we went back for another night (and paid for it all).

 

 

The Etna campsite is just below the cliff in the background which is about 350 mtres of granite. Just below the top someone has painted a Norwegian flag onto the rock surface. This seems to be a common pastime in Norway as I've seen it several times, always on sheer cliff faces.

 

 The Etna river was running right next to the campsite so of course I had to go for a fish. I had the pleasure of catching my first Norwegian trout during an afternoon's fly fishing. They were both far too small to eat though, (unless your name is Bear Grylls).

 

 



 

 The pool on the Etna river where I caught my first fish, (I'll bet you're all so excited by this, you need to stop and wipe your brows).

 

Before we left Etna we were seduced into emptying our sewerage from the campervan when Iris discovered that the disposal facilities at the campsite were "the best she had seen so far". I didn't even know she was inspecting them, but hey - whatever turns you on. We donned protective clothing and read the disposal instructions about 5 times each and still failed to understand a) which model toilet we had, and b) what the hell we were supposed to do to succeed in our task.

However, it turned out to be surprisingly simple. Flick a button, carry the waste to the superloo and hey presto it was gone. Aaah the life of today's campers.

 

Anyway that's all for now. Sorry for the delay in posting but we haven't had wifi for 5 days. After this we're off to Flam (pronounced by saying Flomm down your nose) to try the railway.



Scandinavia beckons..

First stop was "wonderful, wonderful Copenhagen" that turned out to be like most capital cities - full of museums, royal palaces, ex-royal palaces, old buildings, overpriced cafes and the usual traffic and public transport crowds.

We had a delightful start with a trip through Copenhagen's narrow city streets at rush hour searching (via the Satnav) for not one but two non-existent campsites that were supposedly in central Copenhagen. We gave up after the second Satnav attempt landed us outside a fish merchant's premises and headed for a suburban campground in Brondby about 6 metro stops out of town. It turned out to be an OK place, so we decided to stay 2 nights to have a look round the city.

On the second day we bought 1 day Copenhagen passes that turned out to be fairly expensive unless you have the stamina to visit about 75 museums, art galleries and associated landmarks on the same day. However, it includes use of buses, metro and something called "Tag" which is a form of travel that remains a mystery to us.

Iris beside a statue of a bull devouring what looked like a cross between a fish and a crocodile!

 

 

We visited the town hall that turned out to have some curious exhibitions. The first was a "World Clock" that shows the time at every time zone conceivable, the phases of the moons and planets and their positions relative to the earth and each other and a lot of other stuff besides. It was built by a genius/nutter called Jens Olsen and one rotation of the entire clock mechanism takes 25,753 years and hence, since the clock started in 1955, parts of the mechanism have hardly moved. (Very similar so I am told to some of the inhabitants of Britain's House of Lords).

 

The clock was meant to be the most accurate timepiece ever built but in a touch of supreme irony, the same year that the world clock started was when the world's first super-duper accurate atomic clock was commissioned. Eat your heart out Jens!

 

 

The World Clock

 

 

And just to bore you all senseless, a rear view of the clock and its wondrous mechanism!

 

 

In another part of the Town Hall was an exhibition of photos put together by a Danish sociologist, (for those of you of a non-academic nature you may fall asleep now), showing how a diverse range of people and opinions exists in Danish society. There was a real range alright, from a drag queen who felt that s/he had part of her personality that was black and therefore spent part of her time "blacked up", through to people who felt at home lying in very strange postions on chairs, tables and assorted furniture. Each person told their own little tale to go with the photo.

 

 

This man feels that other people think that he is stupid! Where on earth could he have got that idea?

 

 

This lad reminded us both of a Canadian family member who shall remain anonymous! If the said anonymous person wishes to pay me a large sum of money not to reveal more details, I will send an account number for the above purpose.

 

One of the attractions in the city was a climb up a spiral staircase on the "Round Tower" attached to a medieval church. From the top it was surprising that Copenhagen has virtually no modern building taller than 4-5 storeys except in the distant suburbs. On the horizon you can glimpse the bridge carrying the road across to Sweden that is a really amazing structure. We got to drive over it the next day.

 

 



 The ex-royal palace of Rosenberg was also in the freebies included on the day pass and contained the Danish crown jewels and a host of other royal paraphernalia that us mortals can only dream about owning or even just touching.

The palace included a contingent of army guards who were "changing" just as I walked by but it wasn't particularly impressive as there were only two of them involved.

 

 

 Rosenberg Palace

 

 

 and throne room.

 

 

Finally, we left Copenhagen and had a leisurely drive up through Sweden to our stay for the night. The place names in Sweden are not quite as confusing as being in Wales but there are some real tongue twisters to be found.

For example, tonight we are staying at a site at Alphyddevagen, Skovde and I'm just glad that for once the Satnav took us to the door 'cos I would have hated to ask directions as to how to get here.

 

 

 Iris having an outdoor cup of wine in near zero temperatures in Alphyddevagen.





The Pilgrims' Progress

At last we got our motorhome, (only 3 weeks late) from Marquis in Preston. I think the main reason that they finally gave it to us was that they couldn't think of another reasonable excuse for hanging on to it.
After the so called training/handover they actually asked Iris whether they could take some photos of us with the vehicle posing as the happy, satisfied customers which they would then post on their website as an endorsement of their incompetence. Iris declined their kind offer, although I would have accepted provided I could have written the script.

After a day stocking all the paraphernalia into the van, (and believe me it took a full day), we finally set off on Sunday morning and drove to Canterbury, (in Kent, not the South Island for those of you who are geographically challenged) and spent a pleasant evening wandering around the ancient city (which is only the size of a village really).

The town is still a place of pilgrimage and has been for about 1500 years now. It was interesting to see people of different ethnicities and faiths looking around the cathedral, including some muslims.

One nice touch, as we took a picture of this leaning building was getting "photo bombed" by a couple of young Aussies. Unfortunately for them they were a touch slow and failed to beat the shutter but it gave us a good laugh. (You can just catch a glimpse of one of the Aussies in the bottom left).

One of the least likeable things about the town is the mixture of medieval and modern. One of my pet hates is the incompetence of Town Planners, if that's what they are still called, although it's probably something like an "Urban Efficiency and Coordination Manager" these days. They don't seem to be able to prevent, or even encourage some kind of visually and emotionally satisfying mix in a town, street or city, although there are some exceptions (such as in the Lake District where all new buildings in certain areas must be built in traditional Lakeland stone).

This monstrosity above, was immediately next to the remains of a 15th century church!

We also walked round to the cathedral which was closed to visitors except for the singing, dancing, religious types attending Evensong, but we managed some pictures of the outside and environs.

One super low point was finding statues of Liz the Fascist and her barmy husband Phil the Greek next to the main entrance door, sculpted in finest marble.

They have both been in the news a lot lately because of the Nazi salute beloved of the royals and also Philip's inane mutterings that have included:

a) Telling a photographer to get a f*#@ing move on.
b) Stating that if reincarnation is possible that he would like to come back as a virus that would only affect poor people and rid the world of them!
c) Asking a group of working women who they were spongeing off!!!

All this from the head of the biggest spongers in the universe.

The next morning we had breakfast in Canterbury which revealed that Italian cafes, (one of which was on the main street), do not do a passable imitation of either an English breakfast or scrambled eggs on toast and then we set off for the Dover-Dunkirk ferry and hit the continent.

The first leg of our continental journey will be to retrace the steps of Iris' Uncle Billy who strode through Flanders as a liberator in late 1944. One feature of the allied liberation, or so he told us, was to loot the Phillips factory in Eindhoven where he supervised the removal of as many house radios that the Liverpool battalion of the 51st Highland division could carry, (for later sale on the black market). However, Uncle Billy was always the champion of the underdog and he gave his share away to an American deserter whose need was greater than theirs. How did we win the war?

Along the way we called in at Ypres and unfortunately missed the last post at the Menin Gate but on the following morning, drove past some of the cemeteries and memorials that dot the district. There are many different memorials, some big, some small, but we called at the Tynecot Memorial as it is a Commonwealth site and included the New Zealand memorial to the dead of Passendale, (the local village is spelled this way, although it gets translated as Passiondale or Paschaendale). Finding the site was not as easy as it should have been as the Satnav was playing up and taking us down roads fit more for a horse and buggy but eventually we got there by following the road signs saying "Tynecot Memorial" instead.

The site is hidden from the road and the car park, and then it just hits you when you come round the corner at the rear of the memorial wall. There are 12,000 graves here, all from the third battle of Ypres (Passendale) and the sight and the scale of the memorial and cemetery is like being hit between the eyes, kicked in the guts and kneed in the balls all at the same time.

Even though this one cemetery represents a small fraction of the 1.7 million dead the scale is just breathtaking, head shaking and hard to take in. We'll never forget it.

The graves were scrupulously maintained with the grass like putting greens and lots of flowers growing around them but ironically, the only poppies were man made. Some of the graves (those with known inhabitants) had been personalised to a degree by their families with short messages of affection, but most were not.

 

 

Just behind these graves is one of the German blockhouses that was captured.

There was one section with a New Zealand memorial to the missing (with no known graves) plus many individual headstones with the silver fern, some known, some not. In the very central area a large cross stands over the remnants of a German blockhouse that was finally captured by the Aussies in 1917.

 

The remains of the main blockhouse can be glimpsed through the smallsquare in the centre of the plinth. The plinth is built over the rest of the blockhouse.

 

 

 

The New Zealand Memorial to those missing without trace somewhere near Passendale.
 

In the entire cemetery there are 2 graves, each containing the remains of 2 Germans, only one of whom was named, the other 3 being "unbekannt". There was a not so subtle distinction on these headstones, as they were not "Known unto God", as all the allied unknown soldiers have on their headstones, God obviously wouldn't be interested in Huns.

The German headstones were also a lot cruder and in coarser stone.

 

2 unknown German warriors!

 

 

One nice touch on this grave was a small cross with poppies left behind with the word "Aroha" upon it - known unto god but adopted and loved by someone from home.

 

 

And finally, for our Canadian family, someone a long way from home.