Marooned

On the 12th day of our trip I woke on the top bunk of the guest room in the Ramsvik cottage, silently cheering when I reached full consciousness without bashing my head on the ceiling (as stirring, but not yet alert individuals in bunk beds are known to do). The bright morning light had summoned me to wake early again, and I looked down to see Chris still asleep on the lower bed. There seemed no particular reason to rise, but the rummaging of Nina’s parents in the living area could be heard so, not wishing to appear slovenly before my hosts, I got up. The bunk bed was handsome and well crafted, but alas its varnished wood ladder (which was most probably built with children in mind) creaked loudly, in obnoxious defiance of my attempt at stealth; so it seemed I had unilaterally decided that it was also time for Chris to wake.

Once Nina had joined us, we sat down for breakfast, which was another spin on the usual Norwegian fare. On this occasion we were encouraged to try a mackerel paste on bread. This led to tales of many strange, wonderful and eccentric ‘delicacies’ that those assembled had tried. We all agreed that a ‘when in Rome’ policy was generally best, though my suggested exception for ‘escargot’ was ratified unanimously. With that in mind we tucked into bread and butter, topped with the briny mackerel paste, as well as cheese, hardboiled egg, ham and other trimmings.

After breakfast we played some more cards. This time teaching our hosts some of our own favourite games, including ‘spoons’ and ‘cheat’, which seemed much enjoyed by all. Soon we felt that further exploration of the valley was in order and headed out. (note the direction of Nina's gaze; how underhanded!)

This led quickly to our first encounter with the famous Norwegian Sea Eagle. A pair was soaring around the Northern peak. We christened the Frisbee with a quick game of catch, but soon were driven inside by a spell of rain.

At this point it is probably worth investing some time in describing the cabin its self. The interior is in floor to ceiling pine, varnished to a colour that makes the space feel warm regardless of the temperature. The living space was open plan with the kitchen, dining-table, sofa/coffee-table and entryway each occupying a corner. A few functional touches were dotted about: a cabinet concealing a television and stereo by the entrance, a CB radio and charging stations for mobile phones sat adjacent to the sofa (the only spot with good reception) and a wood burning stove sat aside the kitchen. Some of the furniture and fittings had been crafted from the flotsam that had been carried here by the sea, notably a light fitting above the dining table which was constructed from an old-style glass fishing-net float.

The small cottage was decorated with all manner of objects, some of familiar significance, some were simple knickknacks wilts others were salvaged or acquired on some adventure; most carried a story with it. I enquired as to the origin of an artillery shell casing which stood near the fire-place (the actual shell having been replaced by a wooden model). Tore joked that it was from Scharnhorst (that is at my expense, as I was initially taken in by his tall tale). It was in fact salvaged from a scrap yard, and he later added the shell tip himself; he then said he had other examples of interesting objects salvaged on that trip... it was in this way that we came to be passing around an MkII fragmentation grenade. I was subsequently assured that it is not active, which is fortunate because I imagine that adding armed to the teeth to finding one’s self in the middle of nowhere could give rise to a dangerous feeling of malevolence.

Our enjoyment of more cards and storytelling was interrupted by a small avalanche on the slope behind the house; it posed no risk to us but the power of the forces involved was quite evident. A relatively (that is relative to the great chunks of geology that lay elsewhere in the valley) tubled down the slope. It left behind it a ‘dust’ trail which couldn’t have been anything other than solid rock reduced to a fine powder by the impacts. Other rocks were dislodged by its passage, and each collision between the rock and mountain produced a loud concussive sound that resonated around the entire valley. One couldn’t help but wonder what would happen if a larger chunk chose this moment to fall.

Soon we elected to take another walk. Nina agreed to show us some of her childhood haunts around the deceptively deep valley (I later came to realise that the end of the ‘v’ shaped valley is almost half way to the far shore of the island). We headed deeper into the valley towards the source of the various streams. The valley could have come straight out of one of my Geography text-books from school; all the ‘classic’ signs of freeze-thaw erosion and glaciers having been in play were present. The deeper part of the valley, as the ground starts to gently rise towards the peaks are littered with rocks and boulders of various sizes; many of them had lain there for centuries at the least and were covered in a springy carpet of heathers (another trigger to think of Enid Blyton stories, as I recall the famous five always seemed to be making camp-beads out of this stuff). We kept mostly to the well worn (though narrow) paths left by the otters and mink that pass this way; fear not, we decided that should the matter arise otters would be given right of way.

Nina showed us various crannies and hollows in rocks where she used to play, what I would have called a ‘den’. She shared with us various reminiscences which I suspect she was rather fonder of recalling than she would admit.

It was around this point, as we began walking back, that Nina took it upon herself to throw me into a stream. If asked she would claim that having observed that the heather is wonderfully springy to bounce on, that she gave me a gentle shove and I quite willingly rolled down the slope. She would further allege that it is through my own foolishness at taking this horse-play to an extreme that I came to be lying in a stream hidden below the heather. The way I remember it though, Nina grabbed me by my collar and with astounding strength lifted me above her head, before tossing me down the slope into the water with a maniacal laugh; an altogether more likely account.

As we wandered towards the cottage the sea eagles returned, circling us (possibly attracted by our colourful Frisbee). The distinctive silhouette of their wings could be clearly made out this time. We also encountered the so called “Smoke mushroom” when stepped upon it ejects a cloud of spores that appear like thick smoke.

It was this afternoon, we were supposed to head back to Bodø, so here the island part of our adventure should have ended. When it came time though, the seas were too heavy for the Ramsvik’s small boat to carry us safely back to the island’s harbour so we would be staying for a while longer. The seas around Norway not being a force to trifle with, we settled back in and prepared for dinner.

The most notable feature of dinner was that the potatoes were served in the customary Norwegian style; that is boiled but not peeled. It is expected that the person eating the potato will peel before consumption. For those of you who have never tried it, peeling a recently boiled potato without getting a set of nasty scalds is not an easy feat and the hapless attempts of Chris and I to do so were a source of much entertainment.

After dinner the Ramsviks senior like to take nap for an hour or so. This particular group of Ramsviks also hold a stake in an older sea cottage, it is adjacent to that built by Tore and painted in a gorgeous blue. To provide the desired quiet in the cottage, we headed to the blue house to watch a film; Jonny English Reborn, which none of us had seen. There seemed something apt about two British guys watching this in Norway.

After the film was watched we went walking again, this time with Nina’s mum. Evidently this was an attempt to share the burden of entertaining between our hosts such that they could maintain their sanity.

The visibility was good enough that we could look from the shore across to Lofoten, where we had made our road-trip; its peaks clearly visible on the horizon.

We were told a rumour that one of the many caves that burrow into the peaks contains a passage that leads out to the opposite shore of the island. Many scoff at this suggestion, but I chose to believe it, not because it is probable but because I found the idea to be just a little magical.

We were shown where the winter storms had undermined the simple concrete road that led to the quay. Other sections had been washed away entirely along with swaths of topsoil, leaving the underlying rocks exposed for the first time in many, many years. The road was built simply because any material here has to arrive by small boats (excepting that which is washed up by the tide) and not everything takes kindly to being dragged over the rocks. In the past this has included an old-style farm tractor balanced on planks between two small boats of the type that brought us here, not to mention the materials for the various houses and so on. It is not unknown for the sea to make off with boats secured in their boat houses, and to reach a long way inland.

I also took the opportunity to sneak up fairly close to some of the seabirds that were keeping a keen lookout for their invertebrate prey amongst the outer rocks.

Some of the more curious structures were also explained to us, up on the hill stood a rundown building surrounded by dry stone walls. This had once been a cattle sheds, back when the valley was farmed. A low structure nearby was identified as the old pump house. The old buildings gave a taste both of the history of the valley and what the Norwegian elements can wreak upon a building in just a few decades when it is not maintained.

Our walk over we were offered some of the dry fish, a delicacy unique to northern Norway not just because of its niche appeal, but because very few other places possess the conditions necessary to make it. South of Trondheim the air is simply too humid to dry the fish this way. The fish pictured were all caught and dried by Tore himself. This particular food had been given a grand build up by Nina, who had many time described it as being “om nom nom” good; high praise indeed. Before eating the fish must be hammered to break up the fibres; this was done with the back of the axe at the chopping block. Legend has it that dried fish was once sent as relief aid to a famine struck country; they didn’t know what to do with it so used them as roofing tiles. I’m told that this stuff is wildly popular in Italy and goes for rather a lot of money on the export market, so standing about a chopping block to try it for the first time seemed just a tad incongruous. Through the drying process the fish takes a texture which in some ways resembles a hard-boiled sweet (or ‘candy’), but is also quite fibrous; Chris likened it to candy-floss. The flavour was indeed very good, and Nina proudly proclaimed it the ‘healthiest candy in the world’.

As sun disappeared below the horizon I decided some long exposure photographs of the cottages might look quite good. So we ventured outside with camera in hand to find the wind had kicked up significantly. Undeterred, we looked about for locations to balance the camera (for I had left the tripod back in town). What ensued was a wonderful (if cold) session larking about with the camera, flicking various lights on, trying various ways of aiming the camera and different aperture and shutter speeds in the cause of making a pretty picture.

Sure enough the long exposures produced some lovely glowing effects. Here the camera is balanced on the picnic table.

It was at this point, with the camera precariously balanced on the narrow edge of a nearby boulder that I found my cable release (which had become unreliable on the road trip) was now fully kaput. This added the extra dimension of trying to hit the shutter release without a) rocking the camera and blurring the image, or b) knocking the camera from its perch and smashing it to bits on the other rocks. The latter was particularly liable to sour my mood even further than the failure of one of my favourite bits of camera gear.

As we continued our photo-play I produced a torch from my pocket which we used for the ‘light paint’ trick. Here we used the bright point of light to ‘paint’ Nina’s name onto the picture as it was taken. The introduction of the torch also summoned another ‘guest’ to the party in the form of an owl, which swooped away when the torchlight fell on it.

Our playing about finished with, we decided it was time to sleep once more. As I headed to bed it struck me that I couldn’t really have told you what I had done with the day (I’ve really had to rack my brain to write the journal) but it did seem to have gone by very fast and have been very relaxing. I’m often accused of not knowing how to relax... apparently for me relaxation is a simple matter of getting marooned on a remote island in the arctic; who knew?Read more