Norway 2012

The morning of day 11 was a relaxed affair, Nina in particular getting a well deserved lie in, as we had opted to take the 16:30 passenger ferry to Landegode; the only real fixture on the day’s agenda. It should be noted here, that to Norwegians a vessel that cannot transport cars doesn’t qualify for the title of ‘ferry’, so to Nina it was simply ‘the boat’.

In a streak that was beginning to become alarming, I was once again the first to rise; speculation began that it may be a sign of the coming of Ragnarok . I used the time to get to charging of our myriad electronic devices, catching up on my journal writing but mostly on constructing time-lapse videos of our road trip (problematic, because the video processing on this computer does not allow me to watch the videos before I post them).

As mid morning came upon us, I decided that it was time for coffee and I thought that if I were to wake Nina, I should have some form of offering in hand so as not to draw her wrath. The ‘coffee kettle’ is the preparation method favoured in the Ramsvik household (though not, as I understand it, by Norwegians at large). I have dabbled in many methods for preparing coffee, but never the coffee kettle; it reminded me quite strongly of westerns, with cow-boys making their coffee in a can over an open fire and seemed altogether appropriate to the adventurous spirit of this trip. I had never received any instruction in how to prepare coffee this way, but I trusted that my affinity for the bean, spider sense or some similar force would guide me. The method is very simple and essentially amounts to combining water, coffee grounds and heat in the ‘coffee kettle’ and relying on gravity to sort the tasty hot beverage from the not so tasty spent grounds. Nina emerged just as the coffee was done brewing; the drink passed muster, and I had apparently almost followed the Ramsvik approved preparation procedure. Note to future self; you should get one of these coffee kettles.

After a blitz of freeing space on memory cards, charging batteries and general geekery, we sallied forth to the near-by centre of Bodø. We stopped by a cafe’ for lunch and then returned to Bodø’s premier milkshake joint. Nina speaks very highly of the milkshakes there, and though they are tasty, they aren’t quite as good as those that can be obtained from Rockotilo’s in Bristol, but they went down a treat all the same.

We then wandered the ‘glass house’; Bodø’s controversial indoor shopping centre. Apparently they don’t much approve of this notion of hiding from the weather up beyond the Arctic circle. We realised that we had left our Frisbee back at the house, and with ‘play Frisbee’ as a firm plan for Landegode we thought it best to acquire a new one. We wandered around various shops including a forbidden planet type shop, which also happened to be selling the standard 175g (aka 3-pint) Frisbee. On our wanderings we also happened by a sports shop where I noted that I didn’t recognise any of the bicycle brands on sale and that boots similar to the type I was wearing were going for about six times as much as I had paid for my own.

Soon we headed down to the passenger ferry pier to wait for the smallish vessel that would take us to the island. The Catamaran was late and the Arctic weather cold (with the chill from the brisk wind) enough that even I was soon layered up. When we eventually walked up the gang plank heavy clouds of condensed moisture were visible with every breath.

The crossing was a little choppy, but not too bad. Chris, having been prone to travel sickness in the past, sat back and closed his eyes and dosed but seemed to feel no particular ill affect. As we moved out from the mainland the weather visibly brightened as we snuck out from beneath the clouds which hung over Norway’s shores.

Soon we arrived Landegode’s small harbour, Tore (Nina’s father) met us on the quay side and guided us to his small power boat, which he had moored along side a fishing vessel. He lowered himself onto the deck of the fishing boat, which was some way below the level of the quay side, with the practiced ease of a seasoned mariner. He then looked expectantly up at the three of us up on the dock; Chris and I both subliminally sensed that how we conducted ourselves in the next moments would probably make an impression and instinctively knew that we needed to do our utmost to look competent and comfortable with boarding the boats.

Nina, a proper Norwegian, was clearly uncomfortable with the tricky embarkation problem before us (so tall was the quay, that we had to disembark the ferry from its upper deck, rather than the lower that we had used in Bodø). From my perspective, not being particularly used to hopping between boats and quays (and the strange ways that they move and react to your movements) and with the all too obvious risk of falling into the freezing harbour, there was a lot to focus the mind and I dare say a bit of trepidation. Having had an offer to assist Nina down to the deck declined, I handed the carrier bag of groceries that I had been carrying to Chris, but leaving my daypack on I crouched down, and placing one hand on the wheel house of the fishing boat, the other quay and swiftly swung myself down to the deck. Finding my footing I reached up for the bag, and taking my lead Chris followed in the same manner. We were both aboard the fishing boat, with a minimum of drama, but the brief affair stuck in my mind as being very authentic in a culture so predicated on the sea.

Nina preferred to walk along to another part of the harbour to board the small boat, leaving Chris, Tore and I to transfer to the Ramsvik power boat. Tore pulled the mooring rope taught whilst I stepped aboard, the light fibreglass hulled boat wobbled under my weight, but I kept my balance a turned to offer Chris a hand to board. Tore followed and directed us to be seated in the stern as he cast off to collect Nina from a nearby rocky beach. We were satisfied that we had been sufficiently ‘salty’.

With all aboard we set off from the harbour, Tore manoeuvring skilfully between the rocks following channels between the island and its satellite rocks known only to the local boat-men. The boat ride soon had us giddy with laughter as we were tossed about by the waves. The swift passage of Arctic air over the boat was locked in a duel with the bright rays of sunshine over whether we should be warm or cold, but the sun seemed to have the edge.

I was instructed to come forward under the canopy as Chris was “much better dressed” for the being on the Norwegian seas. I found this slightly amusing, because aside from different styles of hat we were attired almost identically; even down to wearing the same brand of fleece jacket. This is an indication of just how much more elite Chris’s waterproof jacket looks than mine; ah well. That said, the concern mainly seemed to be around ears, which I agree are not covered by my bush hat. This arrangement did have the additional benefit of leaving Chris in the rear, which was more stable compared to the bow, which would travel up and over each wave, pivoting about the stern.

The boat thrummed along leaving a wake, which from my rear facing perch in the front, seemed larger than a craft of this size had any business leaving; each droplet of spray (which thankfully headed outward) glinting before dissolving into foam. We passed by the distinctive ‘Lady of Landegode’ rock formation, seen here in profile.

The sound of the throttle being eased back heralded the end of our trip. As the engine sound dropped to a gentle purr we drew into a small cove, which from the sea had looked as anonymous as all of the others we had passed. As we rounded the outer vanguard of rocks a small concrete quay came into view and soon we were hopping onto the shore near a weather worn boat house.

Once ashore the boat was moored a little way out into the natural harbour using a clever system of submerged eyelets, so that it couldn’t be smashed against the quay by the powerful Norwegian seas.

The cove opened out onto a generously sized valley, that tapered to an enclosed end someway further inland. The valley had once been home to the Ramsvik farm, but it had been many years since it had operated any serious form of agriculture. It did contain several classic Norwegian sea cottages, a few boat houses and some other buildings of indeterminate function. We were led up to one of the smartest cottages, built by Tore himself in the early 1980s and ushered inside.

After dropping off our gear we headed out for a walk along the shore, to take in a bit more of this place.

To the north east the old farm is bordered by a marshy trail, some of the particularly waterlogged parts are spanned with duck-boards, but it isn’t easily passable. The north and north-west face the sea, the passage to south-west is blocked by boulders and the remainder of the perimeter is bordered by tall peaks. It is a very inaccessible place. Pictured above is the distinctive Ramsvik sign at the start of the marshy trail. It was only later that I discovered that on official maps of Norway this collection of cottages, all owned by various members of the extended Ramsvik family, is marked as a settlement called “Ramsvik”.

The area teemed with birds and evidence of sea life was all about including this unfortunate crab, evidently a victim of the gulls.

The area teemed with birds and signs of sea life. Along the shore there were small white-sand beaches situated between the rocky outcroppings, further along there were also beaches of lightly coloured pebbles.

The remoteness and inaccessibility of the place (or more precisely how it was accessible only to those in the know) combined with its various caves, eccentric (and slightly mysterious) buildings and many nooks & crannies evoked thoughts of Enid Blyton’s books. I could well imagine the famous five, or that lot from the adventure books showing up here and stumbling upon secret passages or clandestine goings on (or more probably both).

After wandering around for a bit we returned to the cottage where by popular demand I was requested to prepare more Welsh cakes. In the mean time Chris was challenged to a game of cards, which as guests here he could not refuse. Once the Welsh cakes were done Tore determined that I had done well, excepting that I didn’t make enough.

The remainder of the evening was spent engaged in card games, storytelling and the sharing of jests in the warmth of the sea cottage. There was also a rather ‘creatively’ scored game of Yatsee, once we had corrected as many of the scoring anomalies as was possible Chris emerged as victor, beating me by a narrow margin. There was a large gap between my score and third place, so perhaps there is such a thing as beginners luck. The visitors having scored a decisive victory caused much uproar and discussion but eventually, as an outbreak of yawning swept the room, we retired to bed.Okumaya devam et