We left Bodø in distinctly mediocre weather, a grey sky dispensed a steady stream of drizzle down upon the car. This didn’t detract significantly from the route; the road ahead, swooped and curved around the peaks wound through narrow cuttings and occasionally plunged into long tunnels, hewn straight out of Norway’s sturdy rock. Lakes nestled in the troughs below each peak, even near the stream many were still frozen over and covered in snow.
(Enter guest logger Nina, because Dan is down for the count with a headache)
We stopped for a snack at an ‘inn’ (somewhat similar in function to a motorway services, or the ‘Jamaica Inn’ on Bodmin moor) at Kobbelv, a waterfall overlooked by a small Troll perched in the middle, on a rock, dressed as Spiderman (or that’s what Dan exclaimed when he saw it for the first time). Hunting down a cheese cake for Chris, me and Dan settled on waffles, with me convincing Dan to try it out with the Norwegian traditional “brown cheese” (goat’s cheese). He claimed to like it, but it does have a distinguished taste. I prefer the normal cheese myself.
We continued on along the 'Arctic highway' in some shifting weather (time lapse video embeded above). At this point I had noticed some minor struggles with the steering of the car with a near constant pulling towards the right. Considering us Norwegians ride on the right side of the road, this put us close to the ditch/mountain/river/ocean at some points. Luckily I think Dan and Chris never really noticed the close-to-possible-accidents.
After having stopped for some pictures from the top of the Ulvsvaag mountain, we trundled down to a nearby gas station to check the air pressure in the tires, finding them to be at 3 Bar each. The manual in the car, which was checked to make sure I remembered correctly, says 2 Bar on each tire. Or 2.1 if you’re heavy loaded. Still, not 3. So we let out some air. And even though it heightened the friction on the tires, it did give us better grip in the sharper corners, something I had fun taking advantage of, causing Chris to cling to the overhead-handle.
Arriving at Bognes we very nearly took the wrong ferry, mostly thanks to a miss-connection up in my brain, having been used to taking each one in separate periods of my life. We were originally headed for the correct one, but I thought it was the wrong route, doing a U-turn and heading to the other. Halfway into the ferry, at the end of the line of cars, Dan managed to ruffle through the map in time to discover the error we were about to make which would have landed us on the other side of the country (though narrow, it’s still a long drive to correct). Backing up again, and trying to look professional about it and as if we knew what we were doing, we did a quick re-route back to the original ferry, being the last car to dock inside just before it left.
Arriving in Loedingen, we did a double-check on the tires now that they had cooled off a bit. Satisfyingly they had not budged on the pressure and we scurried off again happily.
Following King Olav’s road all the way up to Stokmarknes; above is a youtube video. The video is time-lapse photography (the video is taken at around 30 frames a minute, and played back at 5 frames per second).
The boys celebrating being at their furthest most north location in the world as we entered onto the bridge taking us over to Sortland (the blue city). We even passed into another county for about five minutes on the journey.
After a brief scowling from Chris at the receptionist lady at the Hadsel Tourist Centre (who were being awkward about our reservation, trying to convince us we had booked a hotel room for three people instead of in a cabin), long enough to make her hand over the correct set of keys, we parked our bums inside our seaside cabin and kicking back into full-out relaxation. Or, I did at least. You wouldn’t think it, but driving for almost nine hours is exhausting.
(Dan returns – head mended)
The cabin its self was an exceptionally pleasant place to be. Neatly appointed in floor to ceiling varnished pine with kitchen, lounge space, two bedrooms (one for the lady, the other for the gentlemen), two bathrooms, a shoe rack (as is customary in this snowy part of the world) and a balcony. The building had two floors, with a notably well crafted staircase (not a creak to be heard as it was ascended) and the balcony looked over the small inlet.
From the cabin we could see more “fishermen’s cottages” like ours, an old fishing boat that had been pulled up on the shore and also across the bay to the Hurtigruten museum. The water was exceptionally clear, and in the late evening sunshine it was all quite beautiful.
The cabin had a well equipped kitchen, so after a quick run to the shop (entailing much fun comparing Norwegian shelf stocking habits, and attempting to translate the more obscure ingredients) I prepared a meal. Our main was a mildly spiced pilaf (with a Norwegian twist provided by shrimp) and desert was Welsh Cakes. Note that ‘well equipped’ doesn’t stretch to pastry preparation tools, so I used a mug for a rolling pin, plate for a mat and cut the cakes into rough triangles in lieu of a pastry cutter. Being as the cabin right on the shore, this would be the lowest altitude, but also highest latitude at which I have made Welsh Cakes.
Despite the improvising, they turned out fairly well (in my now customary triangles, as opposed to the traditional rounds)
The hour soon drew late and, one by one, we each retired to bed.
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