Wednesday 19 June 1996
Today was the half-way point of our trip so I just hoped that we would have as much fun over the next ten days as we'd already had. It was another early start and it didn't take us long to clear the campsite and jump on a bus back to Central Station. We then joined a westbound train and once we started moving, we looked out of the window and read our books in equal measure. When the refreshments trolley came along we bought a couple of cheese and red pepper open sandwiches and I also bought a local newspaper to see if I could make any sense of it. The trolley 'hostess' gave me a strange look when I bought the paper but at least I was making an effort to understand this country a little more.

I could actually glean quite a lot of interesting information from the paper. Firstly there were five pages devoted to the England football team; stats, photos, interviews, the works really. This helped to confirm everything I'd heard about Norway's fanaticism for the English game, a nation of taste indeed. Apart from that I also spotted an interview with Irvine Welsh in which he discussed his latest tome, 'Ecstasy'. No prizes for guessing the subject matter I thought. I wondered how the Norwegians would handle Welsh's heavily colloquial style of prose. I couldn't work out whether the book would be published here in translation or in 'English' although I wasn't quite sure whether it would make much sense in either version.

Once I'd exhausted the paper, the view out of the window beckoned once again. I somehow thought that after passing through the vast wilderness of the north, the scenery on this route would be somewhat tamer. I was wrong, the train rose over 1000 metres through the mountains to the Hardangervidda plateau, a stark, icy place topped by an expansive glacier. There was no doubt that we were passing through an extreme environment and it was easy to forget surrounded by all the snow and ice that it was only a few days to midsummer.

After almost six hours on the rails, we got off the train at the ski-resort of Voss. There was no skiing here now but the summer scenery made up for that. Lugging our backpacks up the platform, we watched our train disappear through a tunnel on its way to Bergen. Voss looked like a low-key place but it had a spectacular setting next to Lake Voss. A five minute walk past the 13th century stone church brought us to the waterside campsite. After booking in for the next three nights, we pitched our tent near the water and gazed wistfully at the snow-capped ridge that circled the lake. It was difficult to imagine a more attractive place to stay.

The sun had come out by now and it was actually getting quite hot. As we lay outside, soaking up the rays, a couple arrived at the site on a huge Harley-Davidson. The bike sported Dutch plates and it instantly attracted admiring attention from fellow campers. There wasn't much else activity at the site apart from the arrival of a couple of fully equipped German motorhomes although a quick walk around revealed a few Brits staying here as well, the first we'd come across at any of the places we'd stayed at during this trip.

Today's long journey from Oslo had been thirsty work so a quick walk into town found us at the Stroggets bar. We had tried to get a drink at the rather posh Fleischers Hotel but our scruffy demeanour gave the staff an excuse to ignore us so we moved on like the vagrants they no doubt assumed we were. Digging deep into our pockets we duly forked out the obligatory king's ransom for a couple of half litres of lager but it tasted pretty good although I suppose it rarely doesn't. There was a group of Brits in the bar enjoying cheerful banter but ignoring the footie on the overhead screen. One of them was called Colin and wore sensible shoes which probably explained why they steered clear of us.

Our wallets were quickly exhausted so after a couple more drinks, we drifted back to the campsite. It was still light and a small floatplane moored nearby was making regular sightseeing flights from the lake. I'm sure the view from up there was amazing but unfortunately our funds didn't quite stretch to checking it out ourselves. Anyway Norway's classic fjord country was within easy reach of Voss so we had plenty more to look forward to on that front.

It eventually got a little darker and we spent the rest of the evening watching the reflected lights of Voss shimmer on the surface of the lake. A deep breath of fresh Nordic air imbued a sense of inner calm which was just perfect after all the travelling and sightseeing we'd done over the last week and a half. I went to sleep looking forward to whatever else this trip might have to offer us.

Thursday 20 June 1996
After enjoying a cold, coin operated shower, we got ourselves together in time for the 10:45 to Bergen. Once again the hour long trip passed through stupendous scenery. I was wondering whether I would ever get bored of it but there was no danger of that yet. One thing I remember our friends from Narvik saying was that they always enjoyed going to places like Denmark because it was so flat so maybe we would think the same in due course but not just yet.

Before long the train pulled into Bergen. It was a short walk to the Bryggen, the historic core of the city that formed the focal point of trading during its heyday as a northern outpost of the Hanseatic League. The Bryggen offered an interesting selection of timber buildings, although the shops which occupied those on the main road were mainly geared at tourists. Some of the shops offered traditional Norwegian jumpers at serious prices but closer inspection revealed that some of them had been made in Sri Lanka. Not much call for Norwegian jumpers on the sub-continent I thought which made me speculate how much the importer's mark-ups were.

There were however some bargains to be had in the nearby fish market and for the first time since we arrived in this country I found something that was cheaper than back home. A quick tour around the various market stalls revealed a good selection of smoked salmon at cheap prices. The bright orange colour of the fish animated the stalls and the produce looked so good that I bought a couple of sandwiches which made for a very tasty lunch. Lorraine, being a veggie unfortunately didn't share in this fishy indulgence settling instead for the usual cheese roll. Next up was a tour of the Bryggens museum which gave an interesting overview of the history of Bergen. We followed that with a walk along the quayside, where a French submarine was moored, followed by a quick beer in a nearby bar. After that it was back to the station to catch the next train to back to Voss.

One thing I noticed at Bergen station was a Sun newspaper headline in a newsstand. In true "Turnips 1 Sweden 2" style, the cover of the paper showed a mutated picture of Dutch striker, Denis Bergkamp, his features having assumed the shape of a ball of cheese. The literally cheesy headline read "Our Boys Done Gouda". I was hoping that this trip wouldn't conspire to make us miss a really crucial match but I could tell that things must have been hotting up because the local radio stations were playing "Three Lions" on an increasingly regular basis. If England weren't the best team of the tournament (although after the victory over the Dutch who could say for sure?) at least we had the best tune.

After enjoying the spectacular return train ride along this line, we soon arrived back at the campsite. Things seemed quiet now. There were a few new arrivals at the site and a few local kids hanging around, one of whom was so drunk he could hardly walk (he must have been rich as well!). Being outside the main winter sports season, this town seemed quite sleepy although there was a small outdoor pool nearby as well as the local Kino to keep people amused but a couple of shots of vodka and the view across the lake were all we needed to see us through the night.

Friday 21 June 1996
We woke up and promptly got ready for the planned centrepiece of our stay in the fjords, a day on the famous Norway in a Nutshell™ excursion. The name said it all really, a slice of Norway in just one day following a circular train, boat and bus route. We got to the station and bought our Nutshell tickets but we just missed the train to Myrdal which was the first part of the route. However there was a bus waiting which was doing the final part of the Nutshell route in reverse so we hopped onto that instead. In fact we were the only ones on board apart from a rather podgy American couple who when they boarded made the bus lean heavily on one side.

We grabbed a seat right at the front for the best view and soon we were away. It was a beautiful day and the glacial streams that ran down the mountain valleys glistened in the bright sunlight. All credit was due to the driver during this journey, he managed to manoeuvre the vehicle around some hair-raising hairpins with ease. The bus eventually made it to the village of Gudvangen where we boarded the boat which would take us up the Nærøfjord and then along the Sognefjord to Flåm.

We managed to find a couple of seats on the top deck and we just lay out in the sun as the boat drifted through the narrow cut channel of the fjord. Either side of us, waterfalls cascaded down the walls of rock which lined the fjord but there were occasional gaps where pretty hamlets had formed although these were only accessible by water. There was the usual odd bunch of people on the boat including Colin and his mates who we had spotted in the pub in Voss a couple of nights ago. One of them was reading a copy of the Gloucestershire Echo (which obviously had more appeal than the scenery) whilst another sported a rather fetching 'Stevenage Bike Ride' t-shirt. Thankfully the sights along the way were far more interesting so we sat back and just enjoyed the view.

We eventually made it to the railway village of Flåm where we disembarked and mingled amongst the many other tourists who had already arrived here via the train leg of the Nutshell experience. The sun was still out so we went to the local general store for a few picnic provisions. Once again I couldn't resist the cheap and delicious smoked salmon which provided a great lunch by the waterside. A quick wander around the village didn't reveal too much apart from the usual souvenir shops selling jumpers and some nasty looking 'troll' toys. One thing I noticed was the amount of Japanese tourists here who I assumed were on organised excursions. Not surprisingly most of them looked quite wealthy and looking at the state of their dental work, a fair amount of that wealth must have gone on the precious metal that resided between their gums.

As was to be expected in these parts, the sunny weather didn't hold out for too long although the rain shower that we saw pass down the water missed us, heading across to the other side of the fjord instead. This left the coast clear for our ascent on the Flåmsbana, the railway that would take us up from sea level to over 850 metres (almost 3000 feet) in the space of 20 kilometres, which made the trip up to the top station at Myrdal one of the steepest in the world. Needless to say, the journey was fabulous. As we ascended up the mountain hoping that the five brake systems on the specially modified train wouldn't fail, the green and sunny pastures of Flåm gradually turned into something more elemental. Along the way we passed through 20 tunnels and halfway along the line, the train stopped so that everyone could get out and view the thunderous Kjosfossen waterfall. The landscape really spoke for itself but there was this mad old English woman on the train who decided to treat us to a running commentary of the journey. As we left the waterfall behind, she said "don't you think it looked like the waterfall in the Billy Gruff Goat story?"

"Erm, I wouldn't know" I replied but before she had the chance to elaborate she warned us of the approaching tunnel.

"Do you realise it takes 61 seconds for the train to pass through this tunnel?" "No" was the obvious answer but I didn't bother replying. I was however intrigued by why this lady was here. She explained that she was a member of the Friends of the Flåm Railway and that she been riding the line two or three times a day, every day for the last 20 summers. Despite having a Scanrail card, she still had to pay a 50kr (£5) supplement for each journey so adding that up over the years, she must have spent thousands of pounds. I tried to ask her what her background was but she soon disappeared down the carriage describing the view in rather shaky French and German. There must have been a story somewhere behind all this but I could only speculate as to what that was. When I seriously thought about it though, there were many worse ways to while away time than riding on this line everyday. After all, wasn't I the mad one by commuting into work and sitting behind a desk every day?

Surrounded by snow, we eventually arrived to the cool, rarefied air of Myrdal where we waited for the connecting mainline train back to Voss. This Nutshell trip had offered us a great opportunity to take in some of the best that this country had to offer so I had no complaints. Feeling satisfied that we'd had a good days sightseeing we walked back to the campsite and simply relaxed outside the tent for the rest of the evening.

Saturday 22 June 1996
Norway isn't exactly known for its great weather but as the sun shone once again this morning, I looked over towards the mountains on the far side of the lake and watched a stream of small fluffy clouds drift underneath the ridge, a very relaxing sight. Unfortunately we didn't have too much time to enjoy the view as today we were moving on once again.

Just as we were about to pack up our tent, a group of mainly middle-aged Japanese tourists decided to have a walk around the lake. I assumed that they were staying at the Fleischers Hotel but they decided to have a look around the campsite to see how the peasantry enjoyed their holidays. They were totally fascinated by the campsite goings on and a couple of them walked over to our tent, popped their camcorder inside and started filming the interior. I could imagine the thrills that a screening of this tape would generate when they got back home. A weeks worth of smelly socks and undies draped over a couple of sleeping bags really was something not to be missed. Another couple walked over to the Dutch bikers' Harley and proceeded to make engine revving noises beside it. The campers seemed bemused by this bizarre visitation but that's what global understanding is all about, the fundamental human right to make silly motorbike noises anywhere in the world.

Eventually we settled our campsite bill and walked over to the station to catch the train back to Oslo. The view as always was fabulous but on this occasion it was supplemented by the BBC World Service commentary of the England - Spain game on my shortwave radio. Unfortunately due to the changing terrain the signal kept on drifting in and out as the train went along. It wasn't a very exciting game but as we approached Oslo, extra-time loomed with the possibility of a golden goal settling the match. Tension was rising at Wembley but the numerous tunnels we passed through kept on blocking the signal.

We eventually arrived back at Oslo but I put the idea of listening to the match on hold as I had to sort out a reservation for our onward journey. The plan was to catch a train back to Copenhagen via Gothenburg in Sweden but there were no seats left. By now we were keen to get back to Denmark. Norway had been a fantastic experience but after a week, the thought of warmer climes, flat landscape and cheap beer (at least by Nordic standards) suddenly seemed appealing. The problem was that I couldn't concentrate on the matter in hand as in the corner of the ticket office, a TV was showing a penalty shoot-out in the match. Lorraine was sitting waiting for me with all our stuff wondering whether I had managed to get a reservation whilst I was watching the telly seeing the game through to the bitter end. Happily, England won thanks to some David Seaman heroics but when I returned to Lorraine, she castigated me for being away for so long and not sorting something out. The England victory seemed like scant consolation when our only option appeared to be a trek back up to the Oslo campsite for another night.

Luckily, I had a copy of the Thomas Cook European Rail Timetable with me which was left over from our 1994 trip around Eastern Europe. From what I could gather, there was still a way out. The ferry to Frederikshavn in Denmark was due to leave within the hour so we walked at speed over to the port with the hope of getting onboard the next sailing. An enquiry at the booking office revealed that tickets were available, the cheapest being single sex four-berth cabins, an option we decided to pass on. There was however a twin berth cabin available for about 1000 kr (about £100) but that seemed a bit steep so we declined the offer. But then we thought about the alternatives and came to the conclusion that a night on a ferry wouldn't be such a bad idea so I whipped out my credit card and duly signed on the dotted line. We didn't have to wait long before embarkation and before we knew it, we were onboard the Stena Saga heading for the Jutland peninsula. The thought of pampering ourselves for the night after a couple of weeks of self imposed backpacking austerity was appealing so we flopped out on the bed of our cabins and pulled back the curtains to admire the view from the ship. Sadly the curtain simply but rather cleverly concealed an inside wall so we had to get up on deck to see the boat out of harbour and wave goodbye to Norway. Before we could leave the country properly behind though, it still had one more scenic treat for us, a long slow trip down the Oslo fjord which glowed with tranquil beauty in the evening light. Having travelled through much of this great country during the past week, it was with real sadness that we finally left it behind.

Of course, the night was still young and the excitement of the shipboard entertainment drew us like a magnet. We had a quick walk around to see what was happening and most of the action appeared to centre on the numerous slot machines that lined the entertainment zone. Of course there was the obligatory duty-free shop known as Tax Free World on this ship although by our standards that didn't exactly equate to fabulous bargains. £25 for a bottle of vodka might have seemed like a snip here but I was glad that our Sigg bottles still held a reasonable supply of Finlandia.

We however still had a bit of Norwegian currency to spend so there wasn't a much better way to spend it than on a couple of jars down the 'Captain's Corner' pub. There weren't many people around but we were still within range of Norwegian TV transmitters which gave us the opportunity to catch the end of the France - Netherlands game. There were actually a couple of Dutch guys in the bar which added to the suspense when like the England match, the game reached penaltiesh. Somehow I knew the Dutch were going to lose and when I actually announced that one of their penalty takers was going to miss, I was admonished by one of the Orangemen but by then it was too late. The player missed and the Dutch guys walked out in a huff which left the bar a little quieter and emptier but luckily there were still enough people around to maintain a semblance of a party atmosphere.

In fact it wasn't too long before things livened up again and this was largely due to the appearance of Mario at his baby grand piano. On top of the piano was Mario's songbook which included a curious mixture of standards and oddities, most of which seemed to appeal more to continental European sensibilities than our own. There were plenty of familiar tunes though and judging by the guys singing along by the side of the piano, the set was taking on a distinctly seventies 'classic rock' feel. Mario knocked out a selection of old chestnuts in quick succession in response to his increasingly drunken audience, culminating in renditions of 'Hotel California', 'Layla', 'Sweet Home Alabama' and 'Knocking on Heaven's Door'.

Dylan's haunting refrain seemed like a suitably reflective way to conclude our Norwegian adventure but there was more to come and it wasn't necessarily for the better. I thought things were bad when the guys hanging around the piano started singing along to 'Always Look on the Bright Side of Life' but when they launched into the Roy 'Chubby' Brown version of 'Living Next Door to Alice' I knew that things were getting pretty desperate. Despite that though, the sing-along chorus of "Alice? Alice? Who the fuck is Alice?!" still couldn't fail to raise a chuckle and with that memorable line ringing in my head we finally drifted back to our cabin where we enjoyed our first night in a proper bed for almost two weeks.

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