Norway 3 - Tunnels and Kirks
Of all the experiences of Norway I had, the culinary one would be the poorest. Coffee and cake was probably the best and resided on the food equivalent of a plateau above a fjord of poor meals. Flåm had a couple of tourists feeding posts of which I may have picked the weakest; themed with several train carriages for eating in I was served with a stogy lasange and a pint of lager. The slice of bread was white, untoasted and stale. Country music was piped through on loop of what I suppose is 'popular' (my choice of how to spell 'country' involves removing the o and also reflects my opinion of it). Given that i'd forgotten to pick up a gas cylinder for my stove eating out was the only option, except for starvation.
A similar experience you may guess occurred the morning I left with a poor salmon sandwich...thing. At the time I was more thinking about having sustenance and avoiding the rain rather than how good the food was. It's also a good way to waste time while waiting for a bus. Bus service was pretty good as I said before so that once it had arrived and i'd slung my bag into the hold I could relax into a comfy seat and stare out the window. I guess now is the time to write some junk about how I was truly sated by the vistas that rolled by, my mind feeding on the soaring landscapes and plunging fjords. True of course but I have to put some manly, perhaps that should read geeky, perspective on this and discuss; engineering!
The ride from Flåm to Sogndal took me through the longest road tunnel in the world. I didn't even realise it until I wiki'ed it when I was home. Tunnels are miles long in Norway and are just part of the ride as the driver ploughs down narrow precipitous routes with the knowledge that he won't die in bed and can go to Valhalla. I nearly fell asleep on the bus due to the enforced darkness but the worry of missing my change of bus, just after the tunnel, kept me awake.
Change of bus, more trundling, lunging and zooming ensue before arriving at a ferry crossing. Nothing too exciting here and I waste away the short ride in the boat's canteen. I'm back in the bus before I realise that we appear to be about to crash into a cliff face. It's slightly perplexing to see a wall of rock rise out the sea and the ferry captain completely happy with our direction of travel. Ramp drops down and it's not more than a couple of bus lengths before we disappear under another mountain. That impressed me. Somebody in the Norwegian infrastructure planning sat down with a map, drew a straight line through open water and mountain side and said "We built the road here! Shortest route."
Sogndal is a proper town. Flåm was a couple of houses, some sweater-selling souvenir shops and ferry-loads of tourists. Briefly considered camping again but my tent was wet and I was ill. Hotel time. Visited the tourist info and saw the cheapest hotel on offer and trudged back the 600m (as the guidebook stated) to beside the bus station. The gayest man in Sogndal greeted me and cheerfully told me just how much it was to stay inside a dry warm room with running water, inside I cried at the price but some part of me had decided I would stay in a hotel short of biblical interdiction. At least I would get breakfast. Out again, enquired about head to Urnes the next day and bought a ticket on the 'hurtigruten' for the day after that.
Acquired a map and wandered out of town towards the nearest difficult terrain. Was still very tired from the walking yesterday but I needed to waste a couple of hours and I wasn't going to sit in my hotel room nor spent horrendous amounts of money propping up a Norwegian bar on crappy lager. Now armed with my camera I could annoy the locals by photographing their fruit, mailboxes and runestones. Nothing like finding small differences in other people's countries and taking pictures of them.
I got a good view over Sogndal after inspecting the local residences (huge) and mostly new, comparing with the UK's houses (pokey and wee). Struggled up the hill as my legs really didn't like going back up a hill and again into a sweaty claustrophobic woodland. Seen this hut anywhere? Didn't stop to see how many bodies hung in the cellar...Gained height in the usual manner, which is to say so vertically I should have just brought a ladder. handy marks again led the way before I finally reached the summit. Or at least I thought it was summit as the path circled round the hill and I was afraid I was not going to get a shot out into the hills. Finally a break in the trees allowed a couple of quick shots before I had to head due to the late hour.
Even uncomfortable beds can feel amazing after camping out for a couple of nights. Slept as well as I was going to given my coughing habit and had the usual hearty European breakfast buffet to get me under way. Got the bus and arrived in Solvorn which looked like the kind of place where every home was a holiday home for city folk. The ferry to Urnes was owned by the hardest man in Norway. I can't really back that claim up but he was as you imagine; black cut-off denim top with metal band patches, bald head, big beard, good head higher than me and about twice as wide. He didn't speak though his lovely wife took the tickets. Shared the journey across with a french couple, I think, and a confused bird The poor wee beast had landed on the boat in search of tourist crumbs and failed to leave when we moved off. It hoped around the deck forlornly before hiding to one side before spotting land, still some half mile or so distant, let into the air and fled with all it's might.
Ornes appears to either be an alternative spelling or the cluster of farms before the church which was hidden somewhere up the hill. I was offered a lift from the nice french couple but declined as it somehow seemed wrong to drive up. To use the phrase 'the road wound slowly up the hill' would be a well fitting stereotype here as it did just that. The hillside was covered with orchards (I always see that word as orc-hard, as in hard orcs and nothing to do with fruit) and not much else. A few tourists bimbled about but it was in the intermediate stage from tourist to local season, infact so little enthusiasm for anything meant that a covered table with fruit and an honesty box was about the only signs of any human life in the past several days.
Research can go a long way to making things better and as a scientist I should know this. To add to my list of things to do without thinking this visit should be added as the entire church was surrounded by red and white tape. Someone had constructed what looked like a battering ram infront of the door from a modern aluminium frame. Inquiring inside the visitors hut I was told the entire floor of the church had been removed due to subsidence. Well after 900 years I guess it's not too bad. The guide was friendly and a tour with myself, the french couple and a couple of german lads. Broken english followed sporadic outbreaks of french showed the quality of our guide even if he couldn't quite convey his knowledge to me. I knew enough to be content as i'd come for The Portal. These amazing doorways once led into the church, tall enough for even the pointest viking helment but narrow 'so that no evil could pass with you'.
For something nearly a millennia the detail was amazing. The trusting Norwegians allowed me back onto the site to photograph the portal to my hearts content though somehow I failed to get an overall shot, even after ranging all the way behind the church to get a shot without tape and scaffolding. Oh and you can only see 'the dark side' of the church as the 'light side' is that which has the sun shining on it. The entire structure was once covered in black tar in order to waterproof it.
Walk back to the ferry was as the walk up, except less so. Nice and peaceful with a chance to take a shot looking to Solvorn
A similar experience you may guess occurred the morning I left with a poor salmon sandwich...thing. At the time I was more thinking about having sustenance and avoiding the rain rather than how good the food was. It's also a good way to waste time while waiting for a bus. Bus service was pretty good as I said before so that once it had arrived and i'd slung my bag into the hold I could relax into a comfy seat and stare out the window. I guess now is the time to write some junk about how I was truly sated by the vistas that rolled by, my mind feeding on the soaring landscapes and plunging fjords. True of course but I have to put some manly, perhaps that should read geeky, perspective on this and discuss; engineering!
The ride from Flåm to Sogndal took me through the longest road tunnel in the world. I didn't even realise it until I wiki'ed it when I was home. Tunnels are miles long in Norway and are just part of the ride as the driver ploughs down narrow precipitous routes with the knowledge that he won't die in bed and can go to Valhalla. I nearly fell asleep on the bus due to the enforced darkness but the worry of missing my change of bus, just after the tunnel, kept me awake.
Change of bus, more trundling, lunging and zooming ensue before arriving at a ferry crossing. Nothing too exciting here and I waste away the short ride in the boat's canteen. I'm back in the bus before I realise that we appear to be about to crash into a cliff face. It's slightly perplexing to see a wall of rock rise out the sea and the ferry captain completely happy with our direction of travel. Ramp drops down and it's not more than a couple of bus lengths before we disappear under another mountain. That impressed me. Somebody in the Norwegian infrastructure planning sat down with a map, drew a straight line through open water and mountain side and said "We built the road here! Shortest route."
Sogndal is a proper town. Flåm was a couple of houses, some sweater-selling souvenir shops and ferry-loads of tourists. Briefly considered camping again but my tent was wet and I was ill. Hotel time. Visited the tourist info and saw the cheapest hotel on offer and trudged back the 600m (as the guidebook stated) to beside the bus station. The gayest man in Sogndal greeted me and cheerfully told me just how much it was to stay inside a dry warm room with running water, inside I cried at the price but some part of me had decided I would stay in a hotel short of biblical interdiction. At least I would get breakfast. Out again, enquired about head to Urnes the next day and bought a ticket on the 'hurtigruten' for the day after that.
Acquired a map and wandered out of town towards the nearest difficult terrain. Was still very tired from the walking yesterday but I needed to waste a couple of hours and I wasn't going to sit in my hotel room nor spent horrendous amounts of money propping up a Norwegian bar on crappy lager. Now armed with my camera I could annoy the locals by photographing their fruit, mailboxes and runestones. Nothing like finding small differences in other people's countries and taking pictures of them.
I got a good view over Sogndal after inspecting the local residences (huge) and mostly new, comparing with the UK's houses (pokey and wee). Struggled up the hill as my legs really didn't like going back up a hill and again into a sweaty claustrophobic woodland. Seen this hut anywhere? Didn't stop to see how many bodies hung in the cellar...Gained height in the usual manner, which is to say so vertically I should have just brought a ladder. handy marks again led the way before I finally reached the summit. Or at least I thought it was summit as the path circled round the hill and I was afraid I was not going to get a shot out into the hills. Finally a break in the trees allowed a couple of quick shots before I had to head due to the late hour.
Even uncomfortable beds can feel amazing after camping out for a couple of nights. Slept as well as I was going to given my coughing habit and had the usual hearty European breakfast buffet to get me under way. Got the bus and arrived in Solvorn which looked like the kind of place where every home was a holiday home for city folk. The ferry to Urnes was owned by the hardest man in Norway. I can't really back that claim up but he was as you imagine; black cut-off denim top with metal band patches, bald head, big beard, good head higher than me and about twice as wide. He didn't speak though his lovely wife took the tickets. Shared the journey across with a french couple, I think, and a confused bird The poor wee beast had landed on the boat in search of tourist crumbs and failed to leave when we moved off. It hoped around the deck forlornly before hiding to one side before spotting land, still some half mile or so distant, let into the air and fled with all it's might.
Ornes appears to either be an alternative spelling or the cluster of farms before the church which was hidden somewhere up the hill. I was offered a lift from the nice french couple but declined as it somehow seemed wrong to drive up. To use the phrase 'the road wound slowly up the hill' would be a well fitting stereotype here as it did just that. The hillside was covered with orchards (I always see that word as orc-hard, as in hard orcs and nothing to do with fruit) and not much else. A few tourists bimbled about but it was in the intermediate stage from tourist to local season, infact so little enthusiasm for anything meant that a covered table with fruit and an honesty box was about the only signs of any human life in the past several days.
Research can go a long way to making things better and as a scientist I should know this. To add to my list of things to do without thinking this visit should be added as the entire church was surrounded by red and white tape. Someone had constructed what looked like a battering ram infront of the door from a modern aluminium frame. Inquiring inside the visitors hut I was told the entire floor of the church had been removed due to subsidence. Well after 900 years I guess it's not too bad. The guide was friendly and a tour with myself, the french couple and a couple of german lads. Broken english followed sporadic outbreaks of french showed the quality of our guide even if he couldn't quite convey his knowledge to me. I knew enough to be content as i'd come for The Portal. These amazing doorways once led into the church, tall enough for even the pointest viking helment but narrow 'so that no evil could pass with you'.
For something nearly a millennia the detail was amazing. The trusting Norwegians allowed me back onto the site to photograph the portal to my hearts content though somehow I failed to get an overall shot, even after ranging all the way behind the church to get a shot without tape and scaffolding. Oh and you can only see 'the dark side' of the church as the 'light side' is that which has the sun shining on it. The entire structure was once covered in black tar in order to waterproof it.
Walk back to the ferry was as the walk up, except less so. Nice and peaceful with a chance to take a shot looking to Solvorn