A communications hub, prosperous art, and a remote anchorage

Posted on August 9, 2026 by Ruby Tuesday

We leave the next morning and sail down Tjeldsund, starting our long journey southwards. We have decided to leave Ruby Tuesday over the winter in Trondheim again, which even though itself is quite north, is still around 350 nautical miles away from where we are now.

The wind is from the west, and we manage a pleasant close reach. The tidal current is with us and we make 6 knots. It’s not long before we reach the Tjeldsund Bridge where the fjord narrows, and the current strengthens. Soon we are doing a speedy 7½ knots.

“It’s hard to believe we were just up there yesterday talking to that girl from New Zealand looking down at the boats passing by”, says the First Mate. “Now it is us that is passing by.”

It starts to rain heavily, and the visibility falls.

“There’s an anchorage just up at this next bend”, I say. “Ulvika. We could anchor there for the night and continue in the morning. I can’t see anything through all this rain, and we are missing all the nice scenery.”

“Sounds like a good idea”, says the First Mate. “I’ll put on my rain jacket and get the anchor ready.”

We drop anchor in a little bay off the main stream of the tidal current, and chill out. The rain eventually stops. A boat full of fishermen drifts into sight.

“Things have hardly changed at all”, I say. “They look just like the Stone Age carvings that we saw in Alta.”

In the morning, we continue on down the Tjeldsundet. We catch the wind coming down the fjord and sail with the genoa only, making a respectable five knots. The clouds clear and we are left with a beautiful sunny day.

“This is the sort of sailing I like”, says the First Mate dreamily. “Not too windy, not rolling too much, and no heeling. Not to mention nice warm weather. This is the life.”

We eventually make it to Lødingen, a small town at the entrance to Tjeldsundet. Two pontoons are available for guest sailors. A small boat is tied up to the other side of the pontoon. As we moor, a man and three women arrive.

“We’ve just come over from Kjærfjorden to do some shopping for groceries”, the young man in his mid-twenties tells me, gesturing across the wide expanse of Tjeldsundet. “We have a family cottage over there where we are staying in for the summer. This is my mother and grandmother, and this is my sister. We are three generations here. Every summer we come and spend time with each other in the cottage.”

I ask him about the history of Lødingen.

“It’s interesting you should ask”, he says enthusiastically. “I have just been reading up about it. It started off as a fishing village, like most of the other small places around here. Then when the telegraph was invented, the government was under pressure to connect up a lot of the small villages. The argument was that fishermen could become more efficient by calling each other up to let each other know where the shoals of fish were. In the end, the government agreed and decided to make Lødingen the communications hub. Telegraph workers needed houses, shops and schools, so the population really grew.

“I suppose it is fairly central here”, I say. “Between the north of Norway, Lofoten, and Nordland. So it made sense.”

“Yes, and not only that”, he continues. “When the Hurtigruten ships started up in the 1890s, Lødingen became one of the main ports of call. So it then developed into a transport hub where smaller ferries from the surrounding areas would take passengers back and forwards to the Hurtigruten stops in Lødingen. That brought even more prosperity to the town. Even now it is still a hub for the bus services.”

We chat for a while, before they clamber into their small boat, start the engine, and wave goodbye.

“That was pleasant”, says the First Mate. “And the grandmother is a sprightly old bird. Did you see they way that she jumped into their boat?”

I decide to walk over to the small boats marina on the other side of the village to check out the fuel availability. We need to top up. When I get back, the First Mate is talking to a man who has come down to fish from the pontoon. It turns out that he is a Canadian and has come over to Norway on a working visa for a year. He is working at a refugee centre nearby, teaching them the principles of Norwegian society before they are given permission to stay.

“Surprisingly, a lot of them say openly that they disagree with the equality of citizens in the West”, he says. “They think that inequality works best – you have a few people that are richer and more powerful and who rule over the majority of ordinary people. So they organise themselves around strong leaders into gangs, take their generous handouts from the state, then take to crime.”

“But surely, if they won’t agree to the basic values of Western society, they shouldn’t be allowed in?”, says the First Mate. “Or if they commit crimes, they should be arrested, tried and punished like everyone else?”

“That’s just the problem”, he responds. “There’s a lot of politics involved. Politicians want to be able to say that they are taking pity on the refugees from war-torn countries, and the police won’t do anything because they have learnt that they must be tolerant of refugee behaviour. So these gangs can operate just as they want, without much fear of retribution.”

“What countries do they come from?”, asks the First Mate.

“Unfortunately the vast majority that I am involved with are Ukrainians”, he responds. “But the government keeps quiet because they don’t want the Norwegian population turning against Ukraine. Don’t get me wrong – I have a lot of sympathy for refugees and immigrants, but in my job I do see some of the bad aspects.”

“It’s a pity”, the First Mate says later to me. “The behaviour of the few only give ammunition to those who oppose immigration, and make it worse for the genuine refugees. Surely they realise that? The authorities should be more careful about who they let in.”

“I suppose the cost and effort of making background checks on everyone who applies for refugee status would be prohibitive”, I say. “They are already pretty swamped.”

We leave Lødingen after topping up with fuel, and have a pleasant close reach across Vestfjorden until the wind dies in the mid-afternoon. We drift for a while and try our hand at fishing. I manage to catch two cod.

“That’s great”, says the First Mate. “We can have them for dinner tonight. I had been wondering what to cook.”

We arrive in the small harbour of Tranøya in the evening, and tie up on the leeward side of the pontoon. The strong winds start to blow from the south-west. We snuggle into Ruby Tuesday.

“Phew, that was just in time”, says the First Mate. “It would have been pretty difficult tying up with the wind blowing us away from the pontoon. But now we are tied up, it is better for the boat to be blown off as it isn’t so hard on the fenders.”

“There are supposed to be strong winds all day tomorrow”, I say. “We’ll have to stay here. I think that I’ll put a couple of extra ropes on just to be sure.”

“I read that there is a trail of art sculptures here”, says the First Mate. “Tomorrow we can see how many we can find.”

In the morning, it is still blowing hard, but at least it isn’t raining.

“Look, here’s one of the sculptures”, says the First Mate, as we walk into the village centre. “It says that it is called Coastal Women, by Ingun Dahlin.

“There’s another one over here”, I say. “This one’s called Stars Fishing in the Sky, by Harald Bodøgaard.”

*Stars Fishing in the Sky*, Harald Bodøgaard.

We reach the village shop. It’s an automatic one that operates 24/7.

“Don’t get caught in it like you did with the last one”, I say, remembering the time when we were on Rodøya island in May.

We buy some milk and bread, and continue our search for more sculptures. Luckily we had found in the shop a pamphlet with a map of where they are.

“Look, here’s one called All Those Too Many Things I Wanted”, calls the First Mate. “It’s supposed to represent that feeling you get when you want to do too much, but never get the time to do them.”

“I can relate to that”, I say.

*Disse Alt For Mange Jeg Ville*, by Anne Berit Nedland.

A woman on a bicycle stops to talk to us.

“The history of the village is quite interesting”, she tells us. “It used to be a fishing village, and did very well from herring fishing in the 19^th century. But that collapsed in the early 20^th century. Luckily Tranøy survived as it had also become an important pilot station to guide Swedish ships carrying iron ore down the Vestfjorden avoiding all the rocks and skerries. Pilots get paid well, so that’s why you see a lot of beautiful houses around here.”

“What is the story behind the sculptures?”, I ask.

“Well, the pilot service was eventually moved to Lødingen across the fjord as it had become a transport hub”, she answers. “But Tranøy declined again. So in the 1990s, someone came up with the idea of making art the focus of its revival. Artists’ galleries opened up, and they commissioned artists from around Norway to carve thought-provoking sculptures and erect them at different places around the village. Now Tranøy is famous for its art galleries and sculptures, with people coming from all over the world to see them.”

“I read somewhere that the chapel is also part of the artistic revival”, says the First Mate.

“Ah yes, the little chapel on the hill behind the shop”, the woman says. “Yes, you should also go and see that. It was built in 2006, and dedicated to St Dorothy, an early Christian martyr traditionally associated with flowers and fruit. It was built by a local woman called Vibeke Stavøy, who was a gardener, wedding organiser, caterer and funeral director. She still owns it, but wants it to be available to anyone for quiet reflection and meditation. The view from it over Vestfjorden is superb.”

We climb the muddy path up the small hill behind the shop, and find the chapel. A woman and her dog are just leaving.

We sit looking out over the vastness of Vestfjorden with the Lofoten Wall stretching off towards the south-west, each in our own thoughts. It’s amazing how two villages have ridden the waves of change and managed to survive, I think to myself. Fishing, communications centre, and transport hub for Lødingen; herring, pilotage, and now art for Tranøy. What is it that has enabled them to do this – do they have something special, or is it something that any place undergoing change can do?

The winds have abated the next morning, so we sail for the harbour of Nordskop nestled on one side of a bay between two impressive mountains. As we approach, the heavens open, and we are engulfed in a deluge of torrential rain. Soaked, we tie up, and are just about to retire to a change of dry clothes and a heart-warming cup of tea.

“There’s a huge yacht just coming in!”, calls the First Mate. “It looks like she is going to tie up behind us!”

“It’s a charter boat”, the young girl on its bow tells us, as we take their ropes. “There are four of us on board. Two from Chile and two from Argentina.”

We learn later that the two Chileans have chartered the boat, and that the younger two Argentinians are employed to help sail it. I find the boat on Yacht Charter and am astounded to find that it costs €23,000 per week to charter. That’s serious money. And at 23 m in length, it is twice as long as ours. Even the mast looks twice as high.

“It makes our boat look like a toy!”, says the First Mate. “They must be very rich. Perhaps we should get to know them.”

When the rain stops, we explore the village.

“Come and have a look at this gate”, I call to the First Mate. “It’s got to be the most pointless I have ever seen.”

“Perhaps they ran out of money when it came to do the fence”, she says. “They might be saving up for it.”

We continue our journey south. The clouds clear, the winds are favourable, and we sail on a pleasant beam reach, weaving our way through the hundreds of islands studding the sea. We stop for the night in a small anchorage on the island of Hjelløya. There’s a buoy there for visitors, so we tie up to it. A sea-eagle watches us stoically from a knoll on the shore.

“This is a beautiful place”, says the First Mate. “I’ll get the wine out, while you tidy the ropes up. Then we can sit and watch the sun dip below the horizon.”

We are no longer in the land of the midnight sun, partly because autumn is on its way, and partly because we are heading southwards. It still doesn’t get completely dark, more a twilight, but we have a definite feeling that the summer is fading.

“Look at the light on those mountains over there”, says the First Mate. “It’s gorgeous.”

The phone rings. It’s our son in Australia. Even in this remote place we have reception.

“I was just ringing you up to see how you are”, he says.

The world suddenly seems rather small.

Sacred drums, a lone hiker, and a battle for steel

Posted on August 2, 2026 by Ruby Tuesday

“There’s a bus to the museum and stone church”, I say, looking up from the guide book. “I think I might take it.”

We are in Harstad, a somewhat ‘no-nonsense’ functional town. We had sailed down from the island of Senja the day before in stiff winds and rather choppy seas, and are relaxing over a leisurely breakfast.

Former HQ of the Store Norske Spitsbergen Coal Company, Harstad harbour.

“You go”, says the First Mate. “I’ll stay here. I want to have a look around the town.”

I take the number 10 bus out to the Trondenes peninsula where the museum and church are located.

“We cover the history of the area from the Stone Age through the Viking and Middle Ages”, the girl at the desk tells me. “You can start through that door there and just follow the exhibits around. Don’t be frightened of the Vikings though. They are quite realistic.”

Of particular interest are Sámi drums. Made of reindeer skins stretched over a wooden frame or bowl, with various symbols painted on them, the drums are used by Sámi noaidi, or shamans, to enter into a trance during ceremonies, or to divine the future. Many individual households also have their own.

“The symbols represent a worldview of the cosmos, with the reindeer and their predators usually prominent”, the panel tells me. “Other symbols represent hunting, fishing and herding activities, along with mountains, lakes, people and gods. Often these are arranged in different layers representing heaven, life on earth, and the abode of the dead. When the noaidi went into a trance, he would be able to travel between these different worlds.”

Regrettably the early Christian missionaries saw the drums as sorcery and confiscated many of them. Those using them were sometimes even put to death, in an attempt to stamp out paganism. Fortunately modern Norway has a much more enlightened view to the Sámi traditional religion, and many of the drums that were confiscated have now been returned to their owners.

“Unfortunately, the church is closed”, says the Front Desk Girl when I ask her the way to it. “But you can see it from the outside.”

I wander over and around it, but it’s a grey day, and I don’t see it at its best.

“You should at least tell your readers that it was built in 1435 to replace earlier churches, the first of which was built in the eleventh century”, says Spencer when I get back. “It’s the northernmost stone church in Norway.”

“I’m always amazed that they manage to find an -est for most things”, I say. “But yes, you are right. I should mention that. Wait a minute …”

It rains heavily in the night, but clears in the early morning to give a warm sunny day.

We decide to take the bus from Harstad down to Narvik to visit the War Museum, rather than sail there.

“Narvik is at the end of a long fjord which would add an extra 60 NM and three days to your trip”, ChatGPT tells me. “I’d recommend going by bus if you can.”

It’s a five minute walk to the bus station from the marina.

“Excuse me, are you Kiwis?”, asks a voice as we clamber on. “I heard you talking and thought I recognised the accent. I’m a Kiwi.”

It’s a girl in her twenties. At the stopping place where we need to wait to change buses, we chat to her.

“I’m actually from Tauranga”, she says. “At the moment, I am living and teaching in Croatia. I’m just on holiday in Norway. My goal is to hike from Moskenes at the bottom of the Lofotens right up to Tromsø, avoiding roads as much as possible. It’s about 400 kilometres. I am doing it by myself, and staying in the DNT huts where I can. It’s taken three weeks so far. I had a few days off in Harstad to meet some friends, but am carrying on now.”

It’s obviously the thing for young females to hike alone along challenging routes in Norway. She is the second that we have met on our travels this year, the first being the Norwegian girl on the Svartisen glacier.

She picks up her enormous rucksack.

“I’ve got enough food in here to last me for five days”, she says, noticing my raised eyebrows.

“I like your solar panels on the top of your rucksack”, says the First Mate.

“Yes, they work surprisingly well”, she says. “I charge my phone and other electronic gadgets with them. Now, if you don’t mind, I need to get going. The trail starts from here just a couple of hundred metres up the road. There’s a hut I am aiming for about 20 kilometres from here. I’ll try and get there tonight. But my legs are tired, so I might have to sleep under the stars if I don’t make it.”

“I wish I was young again”, says the First Mate after she is gone. “There’s no way that I could walk 20 kilometres to a mountain hut carrying all that weight. Or really want to for that matter. But I have to admire her.”

“I am not surprised that her legs are tired”, I say. “What with the size of that rucksack.”

Waiting for the next bus at Steinlandsundet.

The next bus arrives and takes us through some beautiful scenery of forests, remote bays, and jagged mountains. Eventually we arrive in Narvik. It’s a five minute walk to the war museum. It’s part of the Narvik War and Peace Centre.

“The museum is in three levels”, the girl at the front desk explains, handing us our tickets. “The first level is on the actual battle of Narvik itself, the second is on the five-year occupation afterwards, and the third is more reflective on war and violence in general. You can start off on Level 1.”

“Sounds good”, says the First Mate. “Let’s go.”

“War requires steel”, posters tell us, as a prelude to what the war in Narvik was all about. “And steel requires war.”

Hitler realised that if he was to make Germany a great nation with strong armed forces, he had to control the production of iron ore. Reserves in Germany were limited, and not of the highest quality, but neutral Sweden was a major exporter of high quality iron ore from her mines in Kiruna. The ore was taken across by rail to Narvik in Norway, as it was the closest port that remained ice-free in the winter on account of the Gulf Stream. Sweden had its own port, Luleå, but it freezes up during the winter.

“So, to secure supplies, Germany attacked Narvik in April 1940 by sea and captured it”, says the next poster. “But Britain also realised Narvik’s strategic value, not only because of the iron ore, but also as a base from which to control the shipping lanes of the North Atlantic. Battleships were sent to Norway to recapture the town and chase the Germans off.”

In the middle of the floor is a giant 3D model of the fjords and mountains surrounding Narvik.

Animated 3D model of the Battle of Narvik.

“A naval battle ensued between the Royal Navy and the Polish Navy on one side and the German Kriegsmarine on the other”, the voice-over says, as a projector shows the movement of the ships on the model. “Several ships on both sides were sunk. Many of these remain there to this day. A land battle also took place in the mountains around Narvik involving the Norwegians, British and French against the Germans. The British and her allies eventually regained control of the town.”

Engine room telegraph recovered from one of the sunken ships.

“But then the order came from London to withdraw”, it continues. “Extra forces were needed in France to stop it from being overrun. So the British relinquished control of Narvik in June 1940, leaving it for the Germans to retake and occupy for the rest of the war. Of course, the Norwegians weren’t very happy about this.”

Was that a good decision, I wonder to myself. By denying the Nazis steel to build their guns, tanks and ships, would the course of the war have been different?

“Yes, it would have” says Spencer, sitting on top of my backpack. “But probably not enough to have altered the overall outcome. High quality iron ore shipments from neutral Sweden to Germany would have been drastically reduced, for sure, as they could only come over the summer. But Germany had other supplies also, from occupied territories such as Luxembourg and Lorraine, plus its own reserves. It would have been more difficult for them without Narvik, but they would probably have managed.”

“But given that France eventually fell anyway”, I ask, “ maybe it would have been better to hold on to Narvik?”

“Possibly”, he responds. “But defending Narvik would have been costly due to the distance involved, and the need to cross the North Sea where there were increasing numbers of German submarines and warships operating. And in the event, Hitler committed large numbers of troops there to defend it, taking them away from other battlefronts. Academics have debated for years whether it was the best thing to do, and the jury is still out.”

We come to the level on the subsequent occupation. Life for ordinary Norwegians is discussed, including resistance to, and collaboration with, the occupying power. Many carried on with their normal jobs as teachers, railway workers, police, civil servants, and municipal officials, keeping essential services running. Many Norwegian businesses worked with the Germans building infrastructure, supplying food, repairing ships, and transporting military equipment. Some grew rich from such activities, others did it to survive.

“But others actively helped the enemy”, the next poster tells us. “Some informed on neighbours and resistance members, some helped the security police, some even fought for the Nazis. Many women had relationships with German soldiers, with estimates of 12,000 children being born from such liaisons.”

*Den Norske Skijegerbataljon*, who fought on the side of the Nazis.

Punishment for collaborators after the war was harsh, ranging from fines and confiscation of property to prison sentences. Some were executed, including the prime minister, Quisling. Women suffered public shaming, head shaving, loss of jobs, and internment. Their children experienced discrimination.

What would I have done under these circumstances, I wonder to myself. Would I have resisted at personal danger for my own life, or kept my head down? I am not sure. Is there any right or wrong side in war anyway? A lot depends on what the overall outcome is – if the Nazis had won, the collaborators would have been the ‘helpful ones’ and the resistance the ‘evil guys’. The victors write the history.

We move down to the Zona section. There the message is that Narvik was not just a battle for a railway and harbour, but that it was a small episode in the larger human story about how wars start, how they continue, and how they shape societies afterwards.

The question is posed of when does a war actually end? The fighting may end when the shooting stops, but the aftermath has to be dealt with; survivors with trauma, societies dealing with collaboration and resistance, displaced people, and new conflicts arising from the old. The foundations of a post-WW2 order were put in place to ensure that such a war would never happen again – the partition of Germany, the creation of Israel, the strengthening of European cooperation, and the forming of the NATO alliance. But as well-intentioned as all this may have been, it has resulted in the Cold War division between the West and the East, the threat of nuclear war, and more recently has led to new wars in Ukraine, the Middle East, and Iran.

“It makes you wonder if the human race is doomed to a perpetual cycle of wars and conflicts”, says the First Mate. “I wonder if we can ever live together in peace?”

“Not as long as we have leaders who think their destiny is to enlarge their own borders and create empires”, I say. “They can twist the truth and con their people into believing what they are doing is right.”

We have reached the end of the exhibitions and take the lift back up to the reception level.

“Come on”, I say, looking at my watch. “We have to get the bus back to Harstad. It leaves in 20 minutes from the bus station. It’s the last bus of the day. We’ll need to hurry.”

We start walking, but the First Mate stops to take photos.

“We don’t really have time for that”, I say, keeping walking. I make it to the bus station with five minutes to spare. There’s no sign of the First Mate. I text her.

“I’ve gone to the bus stop where we got off”, she responds. “I thought that is where we would pick it up again.”

I tell the driver. “I don’t always stop at that one”, he says. “Only if there is someone there. You need to make sure that she flags me down. Otherwise I’ll go straight on.”

I text the First Mate. The bus sets off. From a distance I can see the bus stop. There’s no one there. Visions of staying the night in Narvik cross my mind.

Just as we are about to pass the stop, the First Mate appears from the doorway of a shop, and waves frantically. The bus stops.

“I just wanted to see if there were any bargains in there”, she says.

A Russian invasion, an island home, and halibut rituals

Posted on July 27, 2026 by Ruby Tuesday

“There’s an empty berth in the middle of the pontoon”, calls the First Mate from the bow. “It’s one of those Y-berths that I hate, but at least it is on the sheltered side of the pontoon away from the wind. We can try it.”

We have just arrived in the small harbour of Kvaløyavågen on the north coast of the island of Kvaløya. There are strong winds forecast from the north overnight and we need to be tucked away safely. One other yacht is there. Its occupants come out to help us tie up.

“We’re from Finland”, says the man, once we are secure. “My name is Rami and this is Enni. I am a photojournalist and Enni is a snowboarder. Our project is to explore northern Norway by boat for three years. We’ve been going for a year already. I am making a documentary film of our adventures. It’s great to be able to combine our passions with sailing.”

“I was brought up on a farm in northern Finland”, Enni says. “And started snowboarding when I was ten. I got into competitive snowboarding, and did quite well.”

“She has two Olympic medals, a World Champion title, and various other medals”, says Rami, butting in. “She’s too modest to tell you all that, so I have to.”

We are impressed.

In the evening, we explore the village. It is dominated by the fish processing plant, with several fishing boats tied up at the wharf. Apart from a small supermarket, there isn’t much else.

“They don’t seem to like tourists too much”, says the First Mate. “Look at that sign.”

“It’s the fish processing plant”, explains the woman in the supermarket. “They get people with big motorhomes driving onto their wharves looking for a place to park for the night. They are constantly asking them to leave and find somewhere else. I can understand their point of view.”

“You’d think they might find a slightly better wording, though”, says the First Mate later. “It’s a bit aggressive.”

The next day, we sail around the top of Kvaløya island and enter Vengsøyfjorden. The scenery is stunning.

Approaching Tromvik from Vengsøyfjorden.

We arrive in Tromvik harbour, and tie up to the inner side of the breakwater pontoon. A pea-green sailboat is moored to the pontoon next to us. It has a Dutch flag.

“Yes, we are Dutch”, the young couple in it tell us. “The boat is our home. We have been living in it for five years here in Norway, just moving around. We are really into climbing, and our goal has been to climb every major peak in this area. It’s been great fun, but we have to get back to Holland by the end of this season, as we now have jobs there.”

“Mountain climbing is not the easiest of sports to practise in the Netherlands”, I say to the First Mate later. “I can understand them wanting to come to Norway.”

“But do you remember that Dutchman we met years ago?”, she says. “His name was Marco van den Berg – ‘Marco from the Mountain’. He used to tell us that his ancestors had lived near a small hill in the landscape, but that if you stood on top of your car, you could see over it to the other side!”

“The old ones are the best ones”, I think.

After dinner, we try our hand at fishing from the pontoon. Soon we are joined by three others. I manage to land a mackerel, but otherwise nothing.

“We normally fish for the Russian salmon”, one of them tells us. “We call them pukkellaks in Norwegian. Very tasty eating. But they have a two-year life cycle, and only come to spawn every other year. In Norway, they come in the odd years. They aren’t here this year.”

“Why are they called Russian salmon?”, I ask.

“Well, they actually originate from the north Pacific”, the second one says. “But the Russians decided back in the 1950s to release some around the Kola Peninsula with the idea of establishing a fishing industry there. But they did very well there, and have now started to spread westwards around the coasts of northern Norway”

“But a lot of people are not very happy about it”, says the third. “They are seen as a an ecological threat, as they compete with the local Atlantic salmon. They say that climate change has warmed the waters which is more favourable for them compared to the Atlantic salmon. The problem is that after they swim up the rivers and spawn, they die shortly afterwards, and there are so many that it degrades the water quality with all their rotting carcases. That affects the eggs of the Atlantic salmon.”

“Not only the Atlantic salmon”, says the first one. “But also other species such as the freshwater mussel, which are a sign of a healthy river.”

“But can anything be done about them?”, asks the First Mate.

“Well, the government has ‘declared war’ on them”, says the second one. “The idea is to try and stop them reaching their spawning grounds, so they have installed traps at the mouth of the streams and rivers. They have people there who go through all the salmon in the traps and sort out the Atlantic ones from the Russian ones. They let the Atlantic continue up the river, but kill the Russian ones and sell them for eating. But it is very labour-intensive and I can’t really see it working in the long term. I think that we will just have to get used to them.”

“Some people think that they are convenient scapegoats for the salmon farming industry”, says the third. “The escape of farmed salmon and the toxins from the fish farms may be a greater threat to the Atlantic salmon anyway, but it is good to have something else to blame.”

The next morning we head for Husøy. The small marina is full of fishing boats, but luckily there are two berths for guests, so we take one and tie up.

In one of the other berths, a man is painting his boat. Nearby a youngster is trying his hand at fishing with a rod and line.

“Do you know if there is a harbourmaster here?”, asks the First Mate.

“Yes, me”, he says. “You can pay by GoMarina, and there’s power on the pontoon. If you want water, let me know. The water supply leaks if it is left on, so I normally keep it off, and only turn it on when someone wants to fill their tanks. Excuse all the mess – the harbour is undergoing a major reconstruction and deepening, so things are not working as they should be.”

“Well, as long as it is sheltered in here, we don’t mind”, I say. “There are strong south-west winds forecast for the next few days, so we need somewhere to snuggle safely.”

“No worries there”, he says. “It’s very sheltered in here. The causeway stops anything from the north, and the mountains around shelter anything for the other directions. You’ll be safe here.”

“I caught a cod yesterday”, says the youngster in perfect English.

“He’s my grandson”, says the harbourmaster. “He’s only seven. They start English young these days. And of course, they watch a lot of English and American movies on TV and the internet.”

After a cup of tea, we decide to explore. Husøy is actually an island, joined by a man-made causeway to Senja, itself an island. Historically, it was a fishing village, and fish were the backbone of the community. Many families earned their living directly from the sea, and the harbour was full of working fishing boats. Nowadays, although fishing is still important, many people who live here travel to jobs elsewhere.

There’s clearly money there. Modern houses nestle side-by-side with older houses, but most seem to have a Mercedes or Tesla on the driveway. We find ourselves at the small lighthouse at the northern end of the island. “Please don’t use our island as your toilet”, says a sign. “Use the facilities on the mainland.”

“That reminds me”, says the First Mate. “Let’s go and have a coffee in that hotel we passed. We can use the toilets there.”

We sip our coffees in the lounge looking out over the fjord. Dark clouds are rolling in, beginning to obscure the peaks. The sea turns a turquoise colour. At the mouth of the fjord, squalls of rain beat down.

“It reminds me of Middle Earth”, I say. “I could just imagine a group of mountain trolls emerging from the forests.”

We spend the next two days hunkered down as the forces of nature lash the harbour and island. But at least we are sheltered from the worst of the wind, and are quite warm and cosy in our little cabin. We use the time to catch up on paperwork.

“I found out that there is a café just down the road”, says the First Mate on the second day. “They also have arts and crafts for sale there. Let’s go and see what it’s like.”

The café is empty except for one blond-haired girl in her late teens dancing to music. At first she doesn’t see us, but when she does, she stops.

“You dance very well”, I say. “Don’t stop.”

She beams. “I love dancing. It is just that nobody was here, so I took the opportunity. My Mum owns the café. I am just looking after it for her. She’ll be back soon. If you want coffee, you just help yourself over there. And cakes are here. We can settle up later.”

We help ourselves and sit down.

“I’m still at school”, she says, in response to our question. “In Tromsø. I have an apartment there. But I come back to Husøy for the summer and help out. I love it here – I was born here and have lived all my life here. I know everyone, and everyone knows me. It’s quite a contrast to Tromsø – here I know and talk to the parents of all my friends, but was just thinking the other day that I don’t know the parents of any of my friends there. That’s funny.”

For someone still at school, she has a self-confidence unusual for her age.

“Don’t you want to travel and see a bit of the world?”, the First Mate asks.

“Part of me would”, she answers. “I really envy what you guys are doing. But I think I will always come back to the island to settle and have a family. It’s a great place to bring up children here. There only problem is that the choice of partners is a bit limited. And I am not sure how easy it would be to get someone else to come here to live. Ah, here comes my Mum. I’ll need to go now. It was really nice talking to you.”

“She really doesn’t know what she wants to do, that one”, her mother tells us later. “She’s doing drama and dance at school, but I am not sure whether she will get a job using that. We’ll just have to wait and see. Her brother, on the other hand, is a fisherman born and bred. He’s only 22, and already he owns his own trawler. He’s based here, but at the moment he is way up around Hammerfest somewhere with it.”

“We noticed that all the boats in the harbour here are just sitting there at the moment, and not out fishing”, I say.

“Yes, most of the fishing happens here in the winter”, she says. “For cod. The fish factories take their summer holidays now, so there is nowhere to take fish even if it was caught. So the fishermen take their holidays too.”

The winds abate the following day, and we venture to poke our nose out. It’s misty, wet, and choppy, but manageable. We sail around to the next small village, Hamn-i-Senja.

There is a hotel there with a pontoon. More strong south-west winds are forecast for the next day, so we decide to stay here.

“We seem to have hit a period of strong winds from the south-west”, I complain. “And that’s just the direction we want to go. We’ll have to take our chances when they come.”

“Never mind”, says the First Mate. “Bob and Fiona are making their way up towards here in Hekla. We can meet them, and they can give us our mail.”

Receiving mail from the UK is tricky as we are never sure where we are going to be. And somehow the postal service between the UK and Norway is subject to delays. Important letters took three weeks to reach us last year. This year, Bob & Fiona had to return home for a couple of weeks for family matters, so we had our mail sent to them, and they are bringing it out to us here.

They arrive the next day. It’s good to see them again. We haven’t seen them since we were in Trollfjorden together watching the Hurtigruten turn around. We give them lunch and catch up with our respective adventures since then.

“We’re heading north from here”, says Bob. “We need to be in Tromsø by the end of the month.”

“Well, at least you have favourable winds at the moment”, I say. “We have had two weeks of winds against us. And they don’t look like stopping soon.”

We part company again the next morning. After overnighting in the ferry port of Gryllefjord, we eventually reach the small harbour of Skrolsvik.

“We must go and see the Halibut museum”, I say as we tie up. “It closes at 1600, so there’s just time if we get up there now.”

The museum is an old fish processing factory that has been converted.

“Welcome”, says the girl behind the reception desk. “Since you are the only ones here, I can give you a personal tour of the museum if you like.”

“That sounds like a good idea”, says the First Mate. “Let’s do that.”

“Catching halibut has always been an important part of the local economy”, the girl tells us as she leads us into the first room. “So much so, it is known as ‘God’s fish’. It is traditional to eat it at Christmas time, and a fisherman would be looked down on if he couldn’t catch a halibut for that special time. They can grow to an incredible size – the largest catch recorded weighed 400 kg. This is a painting of it.”

She points to a painting on the floor of a rather bemused looking halibut. It’s a monster.

“You are supposed to throw any halibut over two metres in length back in again”, she continues. “Even if it is dead. Apparently they accumulate so many toxins in their tissues from all the pollution in the sea that they are a health hazard.”

Trying to manhandle a 400 kg halibut into a boat would also be a health hazard, I think to myself.

“Traditionally, long lines studded with hooks were used”, she continues. “Then, in 1936, nets were introduced. These were so efficient that most of the halibut stock was exhausted. Nets were then banned, and stocks have now recovered.”

“There are a lot of rituals associated with successful fishing of halibut. For example, fishermen weren’t allowed to say the word ‘halibut’ while at sea, as the belief was that the halibut would hear them and vanish. So they used codewords instead. Also, woman weren’t allowed anywhere near the fish for fear of bad luck. They weren’t allowed to go in the boats, they weren’t allowed to help with the unloading, and they weren’t to do any of the processing. All man’s work. But one of the things that was supposed to bring good luck was for the fishermen to have marital relations with their wives the night before they went out. Then they would be successful and return safely.”

“We’ve got enough fish for now”, the First Mate says later as we have coffee and waffles in the little Gamle Butikken shop behind the museum. “So don’t get any ideas.”

“We haven’t caught any halibut yet”, I say.

Stone Age minds, a new Parliament, and a love story in silver

Posted on July 19, 2026 by Ruby Tuesday

“The next ferry goes at 1145”, says the First Mate. “We should be able to make it. But there won’t be much time to spare. We need to make sure we get it so that we are in time for the second ferry at Lyngsidet.”

We have left Ruby Tuesday near Tromsø, and have hired a car for a week to explore Sápmi, the home of the Sámi people. At the moment, we are passing through the Lyngen Alps towards Breivikeidet, where we need to catch a ferry across Ullsfjorden to Svensby. The scenery is stunning.

We make it to the ferry with a few minutes to spare. A German cyclist is also waiting.

“I am heading for Nordkapp”, he tells us. “I’ve cycled all the way from Bremen, where I live. It’s taken two months so far, but I have the whole summer to do it.”

“You don’t have much luggage”, I say.

“Yes, I am travelling light”, he says. “I have a small tent here, this is my sleeping bag here. I have a flask of water and some food in this compartment, and a spare change of clothes in this one. And my electronic equipment and bike spares in this bag. I don’t need anything more.”

We are impressed. It’s a masterclass in minimalisation.

The ferry arrives and we board.

“It just shows you how little you need”, says the First Mate later. “But I am not sure I could do it. I like my creature comforts.”

Me too, I think to myself.

The reindeer mill around in a spiral within the confines of the trapping fence across the narrow ravine, the breath from their nostrils forming small clouds of vapour. The hunters advance, their spears and bows and arrows at the ready. On the hill above, the shaman raises his hands above his head and begins the chant, his monotone echoing around the ravine.

The boy clutches his father’s hands more tightly. “What are they doing, father?”, he asks.

He is being initiated into the rituals of the reindeer hunt, and had helped the adults construct the trapping fence the day before, carrying the newly hewn stakes from the forest to the ravine.

“They are waiting for one of the deer to give itself up to us”, says his father. ”Its spirit has heard the prayers of the shaman, and it is preparing to sacrifice itself for our good. It is the way that has always been and always will be.”

Sure enough, one of the reindeer detaches itself from the rest of the herd and runs wildly to the other side of the ravine. Immediately the hunters loose their arrows after it. Two of them hit the animal and bring it to the ground. The hunters advance on it, their spears at the ready. The animal struggles weakly as they stab it again and again until it is still.

“See, we’ll have food now”, says his father. “The deer has given itself to us.”

“Come on”, says a familiar female voice. “You’ve been looking at that carving for ages. If we don’t get a move on, we’ll never get home tonight.”

I am brought back to the present with a jolt. It’s the First Mate, of course. We are at the Rock Art museum in Alta, where thousands of rock carvings depicting life in Stone Age times were found in the 1960s and 1970s. Created over an extended period from 5000 BC to around 0 BC, the carvings are a unique record of the hunting of reindeer, elk, and bears, even down to the methods used. Others show the catching of whales and halibut. I had been imagining what a hunting expedition for reindeer might have been like.

A trapping fence being used to hunt reindeer.

“The guide book says that the carvings were done at sea level”, I say. “But as the land rose from rebound after the Ice Ages, new land presented new surfaces to be carved, so that older carvings are further up the slope and the youngest ones towards the bottom. Consequently, you can see how rituals and other things evolved. Boats, for example, became bigger and could fit more people, and began to have animal heads at their prows, especially elks. It’s amazing.”

A boat being used for hunting and fishing?

“Did you notice how some of the carvings were outlined in red, and others are just left as they are?”, asks the First Mate. “Apparently the red was applied at the time they were discovered so that they could be seen more easily. But the thinking now is that they should be left in their natural state as the paint was obscuring features important in the way they were made.”

“Look out for the bears and their tracks leading from the cracks in the rock across several of the panels”, the guide book instructs us. “Apparently hunter-gatherers revered bears as relatives or ancestors. It is likely that there were bear cults in which they were worshiped as links between different levels of the cosmos. The cracks in the rock may represent their caves as entrances to the underworld.”

Further on, there are images of geese, ducks, swans, and cormorants, all distinctly recognisable. On other rock faces, elks seem to be mating. On one site, a unknown round object streaks across the carvings, with a trail behind it. Was it a comet, as some researchers think? And what are the mysterious geometric shapes, seemingly with frills on their edges?

We sit on a rock, overlooking the sea. I wonder about the people who would meet here in ancient times. Why did they come? Was it to worship? Did they have gods?

“It is more likely that they just had a spiritual worldview rather than specific gods”, says Spencer from behind my shoulder.

Somehow he has found his way into my rucksack, and has been tagging along with us.

“They probably saw animals as powerful spiritual beings who needed to be kept on the right side of if hunting was to be successful. Rituals practised by their shamans were important to reinforce the bond between people, animals and the landscape.”

“I wonder what it would have been like to be a hunter-gatherer?”, I ask. “What did they actually think like?”

“It’s an interesting question”, answers Spencer. “They almost certainly had the same brain architecture as you do, as anatomically modern humans emerged around 300,000 years ago. They probably still thought about family, social status, cooperation, conflict, finding food, avoiding danger, and caring for offspring in much the same way as you do. But the biggest difference will have been due to cultural evolution and the development of abstract thought. You spend a lot of your time thinking about things such as governments, money, the internet, scientific theories, laws, and insurance, for example. They probably thought more about landscapes, weather, animal behaviour, and seasonal cycles.”

“It makes you wonder, then, that if you were to take newly-born babies from the Stone Age and modern times, somehow exchange them, and then raise them in the opposite society, would they both be capable of learning the other’s knowledge?”, I muse.

“Probably”, says Spencer.

“Come on”, says the First Mate, standing up. “I am getting hungry. Let’s go and get something to eat. You can day dream with that spider another time.”

The next day we visit the Tirpitz museum in Kåfjord on the outskirts of Alta.

“You’re just in time”, says the man with a pony-tail in reception. “There’s a film starting in five minutes telling the story of the Tirpitz. What language do you want it in – Norwegian, English or German?”

We take our places in the small cinema. It’s an old film from the 1960s.

“The Tirpitz was a German battleship during WW2, the largest ever built in Europe”, it tells us. “It was sent to occupied Norway in 1942 to deter an Allied invasion as well as threatening Allied convoys to the Soviet Union. It was hidden in the Kåfjord, surrounded by shore batteries and submarine nets to protect it. In fact, it saw no action from there, but was a ‘fleet-in-being’, requiring Allied naval resources to be tied up containing it.”

“Think of all the taxpayers’ money it must have cost to build it”, whispers the First Mate to me. “And then never to be really used.”

Eventually it was found by a Russian reconnaissance plane.

“The British Royal Navy was informed of its whereabouts, and a cunning plan devised to try and destroy it. This involved building six midget-submarines, called X-subs and only 15 metres in length, which were towed to near the area by traditional submarines. Unfortunately two were lost or damaged en route across the Norwegian Sea. A third one had mechanical and navigational problems after arrival.”

Midget submarine used in the *Tirpitz* attack.

“I remember reading about this when I was a kid”, I whisper to the First Mate. “Boys’ Own, I think.”

“The remaining three were released from their mother-subs to make their own way into Kåfjord. One of these was spotted by the crew of the Tirpitz and destroyed by gunfire. The other two made it underneath the steel submarine nets, and were able to drop their charges under the Tirpitz, but were observed and attacked, forcing their crews to abandon their craft to be captured. But their charges exploded and damaged the Tirpitz severely enough that it was out of action for six months.”

The *Tirpitz* the day after the X-sub attack.

Later, the battleship was moved to near Tromsø, where, again, it was located and bombed by Allied aircraft in 1944, this time successfully.

“The folly of war”, sighs the First Mate.

In the morning, we push on southwards from Alta. On the way, we stop at a place offering ‘Sámi experiences’.

“We are genuine Sámi reindeer herders”, the owner tells us. “And have been for generations. I’m almost retired. My son over there is taking over the business. I help out.”

“Where do you keep the reindeer?”, asks the First Mate.

“Well, during the winter, we take them to the Finnmarksvidda, the vast area of wilderness south from here”, he answers. “There they graze on the mosses and lichens that they can find under the snow. Then when the spring arrives, after the calves are born, we move them down to the coast for summer grazing. There it is cooler, the vegetation is lusher, and there are not so many biting insects. Then in the autumn, we move them back to the Finnmarksvidda. It’s communal in that a number of herds belonging to different owners are managed as one big herd. It’s a traditional system called siida.”

“How do you know which animal belongs to whom?”, asks the First Mate. “

“We have a system of earmarks”, he tells us. “The young reindeer are earmarked in the autumn. The government will only give you an earmark pattern if you come from a family with a long tradition of reindeer herding. Only ethnic Sámi have the right to practise reindeer herding, but only about 10% of all Sámi are actually reindeer herders. The rest all have jobs in the big cities. We are glad they are there because they help promote Sámi issues to the wider population.”

We continue driving through the tundra. Mile after mile of stunted birch trees pass by. Every so often we see a lake. It’s hard to imagine all this area being covered in snow in the winter.

We are heading for a small town near the Finnish border called Karasjok, where the Sámi Parliament is located.

“The last guided tour of the day of the Parliament is at 1530”, says the First Mate, busy consulting her iPhone as we drive. “If we hurry up, we should be able to make it.”

We arrive in Karasjok at 1515, just in time.

“Yes, there is a tour starting in 15 minutes”, the girl behind the reception desk says. “Just wait over there.”

We wait for 15 minutes, watching a group of students earnestly discussing something in the library below.

“Well, it looks as if you are the only two”, says the girl, somewhat wearily. “Follow me.”

“She was probably wanting to get home early”, whispers the First Mate to me.

“The Sámi Parliament was opened in 1989 by King Olav”, the girl tells us. “It was a direct outcome of the Alta conflict, in which local Sámi people opposed the damming of the Alta and Kautokeino rivers by a hydroelectric powerplant. The protestors lost the battle, but the government realised that it needed to listen to the Sámi more, so you could say that it was successful in the end. It’s now written into the Norwegian Constitution that it is the responsibility of ‘the authorities of State to create conditions enabling the Sámi people to preserve and develop its language, culture, and way of life.’ The Sámi Parliament is the sole representative of the Sámi people in achieving this, and have specific responsibility for language, culture and education.”

We reach the plenary chamber, a windowless room with seating curved around a central stage. A giant circular artwork is on the wall behind the stage.

“Luottat” artwork in the Plenary Chamber.

“Four meetings a year are held here”, the girl continues. “Each one lasting a week. There are 39 elected representatives. The highest ranking MP becomes the President of the plenary sessions. He chooses four other MPs to serve on the Executive Council. They are responsible for determining the agenda of the meetings.”

Representatives’ places in the Plenary Chamber.

“How are MPs elected?”, asks the First Mate.

“Well, elections are held every four years at the same time as the national elections”, she answers. “You have to be registered as a Sámi to vote. For that, you first need to perceive yourself as a Sámi, but you also have to have at least a great-grandparent who had Sámi as their main language.”

“It’s similar to Māori in New Zealand”, I say. “They need to identify as Māori, and to have some Māori ancestry, although there is no set proportion or specification how far back you can go.”

“Yes, we do have dialogue with Māori people”, she says. “We are both indigenous minorities in our countries ruled by another ethnic majority. Their issues are similar to ours. Now, if you don’t mind, I am going to have to chase you out. We are closing in five minutes.”

The Sámi National Library within the Parliament.

We push on to Kautokeino, another Sámi town on the banks of the Kautokeino river, and arrive in the evening.

“We have to go and see Juhls Silver Gallery while we are here”, says the First Mate. “It’s supposed to be quite special.”

Juhls Silver Gallery was started by Frank and Regine Juhl, from Denmark and East Prussia respectively, who came to Kautokeino in the 1950s and fell in love with the place and each other. They decided to learn silversmithing, and gradually built up a reputation for high quality silverware inspired by Sámi culture and the tundra. They eventually broadened their horizons and today their gallery is an eclectic collection of silverware and art from all over the world. Frank died in 2020, but Regine is still living and active.

As we enter, she is perched on top of a ladder working on a brightly coloured mural.

“Ihre Arbeit ist ganz toll“, says the First Mate.

“Vielen Dank“, she replies.

One of the staff gives us a guided tour.

“The gallery was designed and built by Frank”, she tells us. “All without any formal architectural education. Instead, he was guided by a strong intuitive understanding of space, proportion, and relationships. The interiors, the sequence of rooms, and the light create a distinct atmosphere, where art, craftsmanship, and architecture work together.”

Arty-speak, but it is indeed an amazing place. After the tour, we spend some time wandering from room to room, marvelling at the exuberance of style and colour, and the ubiquitous intricate items of silverware.

It’s quite a legacy they have created, I think to myself. And it will carry on, as their two daughters are continuing the business, one in Kautokeino, and the other in Bergen.

“Let’s find somewhere to have lunch”, says the First Mate. “The mosquitos here are eating me alive.”

Polar adventurers, flaming tacos, and reindeer road rules

Posted on July 12, 2026 by Ruby Tuesday

“Look at that white building over there”, says the First Mate, pointing to the right of the bridge that spans the sound. “It’s very impressive. I wonder what it is?”

We are sailing up Tromsøsundet and are approaching Tromsø.

“It’s got to be the Arctic Cathedral”, I say. “The Lonely Planet book mentioned it.”

It is impressive. Built from eleven great white concrete panels stacked next to each other, it is visible for miles, contrasting starkly with the dark green hills rising up behind it. The eleven white panels are supposed to represent the eleven apostles who remained true to Jesus. Obviously not Judas.

Shortly we are docking in Tromsø marina, ably helped by a group of enthusiastic teenagers who are disembarking from a colourfully-painted wooden sailing boat.

“We’ve been sailing up to Svalbard”, they tell us, as they attach us to the pontoon cleats. “We’ve just got back. We are all pretty exhausted. But we had a great time. Now another group is going. They’ll be here soon.”

Svalbard is a large island that lies five days’ sail across open sea north of Norway. It belongs to Norway, but is subject to the Svalbard Treaty, which guarantees rights to 40 other countries who are signatories to the Treaty. Part of the Treaty says that it must not be used for military purposes.

“Let’s have a cup of tea”, says the First Mate. “Then we can go and have a look at the Cathedral. It’s just a short walk over the bridge there.”

The bridge is closed to motor traffic for repairs, but open to pedestrians and cyclists. There’s a great view from the top of its hump out over the sound and the city. It doesn’t take long to reach the Cathedral.

The First Mate reaches the Arctic Cathedral.

“The Cathedral was built in 1965”, the woman behind the counter tells us. “It is famous not only for its unique exterior design, but also for the stunning stained glass window within it. It depicts the Return of Christ showing God, Jesus, and a man and a woman. We also have concerts here during the summer. The acoustics are amazing.”

The stained glass window in the Arctic Cathedral (from Wikipedia Commons)

On the way back, we stop off at the Polar Museum on the harbour front. There are exhibitions on hunting and trapping in Svalbard, polar aircraft, and the famous Norwegian polar explorers, Nansen and Amundsen.

“Although there were overwinter trapping expeditions as early as 1795, it started in earnest in the 1890s”, the guide leaflet tells us. “Hunting then was mainly for walrus, and to a lesser extent, seals, reindeer, and Arctic foxes. Later, polar bears, musk oxen, and bow whales were hunted. Reindeer, in particular, almost became extinct. At first, most hunting and trapping was done in the summer season from April to September. Eventually, however, a number of trappers decided to overwinter.”

“It must have been a tough life”, says the First Mate. “It says here that a lot of the early trappers died of scurvy because of the low levels of vitamin C in their diets. I wonder what made them want to go and do it? It seems that no-one became rich through hunting and trapping.”

“I guess that it just appeals to a certain type of person”, I say. “One who is happy with isolation and solitude, and battling against and surviving adverse conditions.”

Henry Rudi (from the Norwegian Polar Institute)

One such trapper was Henri Rudi, the ‘King of the Polar Bear’, who became internationally famous. It was his boyhood dream to go to Svalbard, which he did when he was 19 and eventually spent 27 winters there. In total, he shot and trapped more than 700 polar bears before retiring back to Tromsø and receiving the King’s Medal of Merit. He also became famous around Tromsø for his lectures and story-telling of his experiences on Svalbard.

Interesting that we are worried now about climate change melting the ice and destroying polar bears’ habitat, and yet someone who shot 700 of the animals was honoured, I think to myself. How times change.

Wanny Woldstad (from the Norwegian Polar Institute)

Even some women were drawn to the lifestyle. Wanny Woldstad left her job in Tromsø as a taxi-driver, went to Svalbard in 1932 to learn how to hunt and trap, and liked it so much that she returned the following year with her two sons. She stayed several more winters there, during one of which she is supposed to have baked 900 loaves of bread. She became famous for thriving in what had been previously a male-dominated environment, and in 1956 published a book, “The First Woman Trapper in Svalbard”, in which she describes her life in Svalbard’s wild and beautiful landscape.

“I wouldn’t want to do that”, says the First Mate. “Too cold and too tough a life for me. I like my creature comforts.”

We move through to the rooms on Nansen and Amundsen. We had already seen the ship that both of these explorers used, the Fran, in the museum of the same name in Oslo last year, so we knew something about them. But there is more detail here about their adventures.

Fridtjof Nansen (Henry Van der Weyde, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons)

I concentrate on Nansen. He had noticed that wreckage of a ship that had sunk in the New Siberian Islands had eventually ended up in Greenland some years later, and had surmised that the polar ice cap was not static, but was slowly moving. He organised an expedition to test this theory in which the Fran would be locked in the ice and they would see where it got to, hoping that it would pass over the North Pole. They started near the Siberian Islands in 1893, but after a year or so, it became clear that it wouldn’t reach the pole. So, in 1895, Nansen and one of his crew decided to leave the ship and ski there instead. Unfortunately, it took longer than they had thought, and they had to turn back because their supplies were running out. But even returning took longer than they had thought, and they were forced to overwinter alone in the Arctic. They lived off polar bear and walrus meat until the next spring, then set off again, and eventually in August of 1896 met another polar explorer who took them back to Norway in his ship.

“What happened to the Fran?”, asks the First Mate.

“It seemed that it broke free from the ice near Svalbard”, I say, “And arrived back in Norway just a little bit after Nansen got there.”

“So what was the point of it all?”, she asks. “It all sounds a bit like a Boys’ Own adventure to me.”

“Well, according to the exhibition, it did confirm his theory that the ice cap is moving”, I say. “As well as providing a lot of other valuable scientific information on the oceanography of the Arctic Ocean, and on the flora and fauna of the Siberian coast and Franz Joseph Land. So not only adventure.”

We head back to the boat. Dinner time approaches.

“I think we can have tacos tonight”, says the First Mate. “We can heat up the shells in the toaster.”

I put the shells in the toaster, press down the lever, and go back to chopping the onions.

“Hey, there’s smoke coming out”, shouts the First Mate half a minute later. “And now flames.”

The smoke alarms in the boat go off with loud shrieks. Concerned people on the pontoon stop to look at the clouds of smoke now billowing out of the companionway. We open all the hatches to let more smoke out, and try and smother the toaster to stop the flames. It doesn’t work very well.

“Quick, put it under the tap”, I say, unplugging it.

We douse the toaster in water. Eventually the flames die down and the smoke stops. But not much is left of the toaster. Several of the plastic bits have melted, and the metal bits are warped and twisted.

“It must have been the oil on the taco shells”, I say. “As soon as it got to a certain temperature, it caught alight. I didn’t realise that a toaster could get so hot so quickly. When I am waiting for my toast in the morning, it seems to take forever and even then hardly browns the toast.

“At least it shows the smoke alarms work”, says the First Mate. “But we’ll have to buy a new toaster. That’s three appliances that have gone now.”

A few weeks earlier, she had put the base of the electric kettle onto the hot hotplate and melted it beyond repair. Not long after, our little fan heater had stopped working for reasons unknown.

“We’ll just have to buy some new ones tomorrow morning”, I say. “When the shops open.”

—-

After the shopping expedition the next day, we take the No. 40 bus to the Arctic University Museum of Norway, and spend a leisurely couple of hours absorbing information on the geology and natural history of the region, the northern lights, and Sami life, culture and politics.

We are astounded to learn that there are actually ten different Sámi languages, not just one. All are what are called Finno-Ugric languages, similar to Finnish and Hungarian, with a comparable structure and vocabulary, but are largely mutually unintelligible in the same way that Spanish and French are. North Sámi is the most widely spoken, but there are also South Sámi, Ume Sámi, Pite Sámi, Lule Sámi, Inari Sámi, Skolt Sámi, Kildin Sámi, Ter Sámi, and Akkala Sámi.

“Phew, it’s a lot of languages considering that there are only around 100,000 Sámi people”, says the First Mate. “It says that many of the languages only have 500 speakers or less. Ter Sámi only has two speakers.”

“At least there are efforts to try and revitalise some of the languages”, I say. “”After the disastrous policy of Norwegianization from the 1850s – 1960s where they tried to force the Sámi to become Norwegian. But it does make you think where to draw the line between actively trying to preserve a language and all the cost that that involves, and letting it take its natural course.”

“It’s easy to say that being a native English speaker”, she retorts. “But languages are part of people’s culture and identity, and reflect their different take on the way the world works. You would lose all that richness if we all spoke one language. And once you lose a language, it can’t be easily recreated. And besides, I read an article today that said that you slow your brain from ageing by learning more than one language.”

“I am not saying that we should all speak only one language”, I say. “I am all for learning a new language. I was just musing at what point you can’t do anything more to save a dying language. When the two Ter Sámi speakers die, for example, what are you going to do then?”

“I suppose the best way is to encourage people to be bilingual”, she says. “One global language like English, so that they can communicate wherever they go, and at least one local language to maintain the culture they come from. It’s largely what is happening already, particularly in Europe.”

We catch the bus back into the city centre and decide to have a coffee at the Backstube bakery.

“I found the bit about the young mammoth quite interesting”, says the First Mate, taking a slice of cheesecake.

She is referring to ‘Yuka’, a young male woolly mammoth who died 40,000 years ago and was discovered frozen in the ice in Siberia in 2012 by local hunters. The Museum has been involved in research extracting RNA from the remains, and has been able to deduce that he was under extreme stress at the time he died. This corresponds with scratch marks on his skin, suggesting he may have died from an encounter with cave lions.

Yuka the mammoth from Siberia (from Wikipedia Commons).

“Yes, some of these new techniques are pretty amazing”, I say. “DNA shows what an organism is, but RNA can show what bodily processes were happening at the time it died.”

—-

We have been planning to hire a car and spend a week exploring Sápmi, the home of the Sámi people.

“You had better tell your readers that Sápmi is the traditional name for Lapland”, says the First Mate. “The name was changed because the people found the words Lapps and Lapland derogatory, as they had been imposed by outsiders and were sometimes used pejoratively.”

My phone pings. It’s a message from the car rental company saying that the car is ready and that we can collect it tonight, even though the rental period starts tomorrow.

“I’ll take the bus and go and collect it now”, I say. “That way we can set off earlier in the morning. We have quite a long journey in front of us.”

There is a bus leaving in five minutes which I manage to catch just in time. On the way, the bus stops. A herd of reindeer is crossing the road. One in particular is in no hurry, and cars are backed up behind it.

“There’s a law here in Norway that says that reindeer must not be unnecessarily disturbed or frightened”, a woman sitting opposite explains. “In practice that means that if you encounter a reindeer on the road that you should stop and allow it to cross at its own pace. They can be a bit unpredictable if they are hassled.”

Like some people, I think to myself.

A popular pub, a colony of kittiwakes, and another naughty Royal

Posted on July 5, 2026 by Ruby Tuesday

“Wow! This one is well-hidden”, exclaims the First Mate as we round a small promontory, and see the small harbour in front of us. “We would never have found it without the harbour guide.”

We have just arrived at the small island of Gårdsøya on the outer edge of the Bjarkøy archipelago. We had sailed from Andenes that morning, and had decided to stay here for a couple of days.

One side of the single pontoon is taken up with small motorboats, and a large fishing boat with the name of Kaare occupies the first place on the other side.

“It’s absolutely beautiful here”, says the First Mate, as we tie up. “Look at those cloud patterns. And there is an oyster catcher over there. And a couple of Arctic terns are swooping around. They must have a nest somewhere. And look at that shag sitting on top of that pole. I’ll make some tea. You rest your leg.”

Cloud patterns over the island of Grytøya.

I had pulled a calf muscle in my leg the day before while we were at Andenes, and while it is better today than yesterday, it is still quite painful.

“There’s a gun emplacement over there on the neighbouring island”, I say, as we sip our tea. “German, from WW2. I’ll send the drone over to have a look.”

“We need to fill up the front tank with water”, says the First Mate. “You’d better get your little tester out and make sure the stuff from the tap on the pontoon is OK.”

Simon had convinced me last year to buy a small water testing device to check on the quality of water on the pontoons when we fill up our tanks. Nerds that we are, we assiduously take samples, test them, and avoid any water that doesn’t make the grade.

“You’d be amazed at the variation in water quality you come across”, he had told us. “And it’s not always in the way you might expect. Pristine looking places can have poor water, and run-down places can have excellent quality. You can’t be too careful with what you drink.”

It turns out that the quality of this water is classified as ‘Excellent’, so we fill the tanks to the brim.

In the morning, we decide to explore the island. My leg needs the exercise.

“Apparently there are seven permanent residents on the island”, says the First Mate, as we walk and hobble along the gravel track. “The rest of the houses are holiday cottages. And there are no cars.”

There are stunning views out towards Senja.

We come to a sign saying “To the Pub”. It’s a hot day, so we take the small path over the grassy field to a red building overlooking a small bay. Two men are working on erecting a marquee on the wooden decking at one side.

“You’re looking hot”, says one of them. “Would you like a beer?”

“Well, we wouldn’t say no”, we say.

“My name is Trond”, he says as he leads us into the building. “As in Trondheim. I am the owner of the pub. We have a wedding reception booked for Thursday, and we are just trying to get everything ready for it. That’s what the marquee is all about. But I need an excuse for a break. What will you have?”

He pulls a beer for me and a shandy for the First Mate.

“I was born on the island”, he tells us. “But I worked for a construction company in the oil sector. All over the world. I have even been in Scotland – Aberdeen, to be precise.”

We had already told him where we come from.

“When I retired from work, I decided to move back here, so I bought a fishing boat”, he continues. “You probably saw it at the pontoon where you are tied up. Kaare, she’s called. But I really wanted to give something back to the community, so I converted this old building into a pub where locals and visitors could come together and socialise. It’s called the Ramsalt Pub. I’m not really interested in making money from it, just providing a place where people can enjoy themselves. We’re open just on Fridays and Saturdays, and most evenings have live music and singing. Everyone joins in. It’s a lot of fun.”

“You have quite a collection of old fishing things in here”, says the First Mate, looking around the room.

“Yes, they add a bit of atmosphere to the place”, says Trond, looking up at the head of fish mounted above the bar. “I wanted to contribute to preserving some of the island’s heritage.”

The conversation turns to international affairs.

“He’s got himself into a mess now”, says Trond. “And I am not sure how he’s going to get himself out of it without losing face.”

He is referring to the war in Iran.

“The whole war was ill-conceived and illegal in the first place”, he continues. “First of all, he rips up the perfectly good agreement that Obama had negotiated with the Iranians, then they bomb the site where the nuclear weapons were supposed to be being made, then they start more negotiations, which, by all accounts, were making some progress. Then without warning, they start bombing the place. And killing all those young girls at the school. That surely is a war crime.”

“Well, at least Europe didn’t get involved this time”, I say.

“And I am glad they didn’t”, he says. “No one wants Iran to have nuclear weapons, but when they are making some progress with negotiations, the last thing needed is to declare war. What has it achieved? The only result is that it has weakened America in the eyes of the world and strengthened Iran.”

“And now they don’t even have an agreement”, says the First Mate. “Only a Memorandum of Understanding.”

Drinks finished, we give a hand with putting up the marquee.

“Well, that was interesting”, says the First Mate as we walk back to the boat. “We always seem to meet such nice people in these remote places.”

We cast off the next morning. The shag is back on his pole, and watches us impassively as we pick our way slowly around the perches marking the shallows on each side of the entrance. We have decided to have lunch at a small anchorage on the neighbouring island of Helløya, where the sailing guide tells us that there is supposed to be a buoy to tie up to. We wend our way in through the narrow inlet, through the flock of kittiwakes bobbing on the water, only to find that a small boat is attached to the buoy. No-one seems to be on it, and a dinghy lies on the small beach opposite.

“It’s funny how we hardly see any other boats around when we are sailing, but when we want to tie up to a buoy, it’s occupied”, says the First Mate. “I wonder where they came from?”

We drop anchor instead. It’s not the best of sets and we drag slightly, but we can keep an eye on it while we eat.

As we prepare lunch, I hear voices on the cliffs overhead. There are four people, looking down at us.

“They’re probably the owners of the boat”, I say.

Sure enough, two of them return to the dinghy and row back out to their boat. They collect something, then row back, this time passing near us.

“Hi, we just thought we would say hello”, they say. “We’ll be leaving soon, so if you want to use the buoy, it will be free.”

They are young, and the accent is Antipodean.

“Yes, we are Kiwis”, they say in response. “We have just bought the boat in Kirkenes up near the Russian border, and are sailing her back. We are heading back down to Oslo, but we have all summer to do it. We have some friends from Holland with us. And yes, it is a bit crammed in there.”

Ah, the carefreeness of youth!

We go through the time honoured Kiwi ritual of asking each other if we know so-and-so from our respective home towns. It is surprising how often it turns out that there are acquaintances in common. Or perhaps not surprising, given that New Zealand is a small country. But on this occasion, there doesn’t seem to be.

“We need to get back and collect the others”, they say. “We’ve left them on the shore. Enjoy your lunch and the sailing. Don’t forget to see the kittiwake colony around the corner.”

They are referring to a cliff on the southern end of the Sundsvollsundet Nature Reserve on Helløya that is a nesting site for the small white and grey seabirds. The smell and the cacophony of sound as we pass by it is overwhelming.

“It reminds me of Fowlsheugh In Aberdeenshire”, says the First Mate, screwing up her nose. “There are thousands of them.”

We push on to Engenes. There the harbour is being totally reconstructed, but there is a spare pontoon to which we tie up.

“The shop closes in 20 minutes”, says the First Mate. “I’ll just nip up and get some bread and milk. Otherwise there doesn’t seem to be much here.”

It rains that evening, and into the next morning. When it stops, we decide to carry on, and reach the delightful small anchorage of Revshamna on the east coast of Senya in the late afternoon. The charts show a shallow bar at the entrance and it is nearly low tide, so we are a little worried that we will not be able to make it, but, in the event, we pass over it with a metre to spare. We drop the anchor in the middle of a deeper pool in the middle of the bay.

“What a beautiful anchorage”, says the First Mate. “It’s so sunny and warm. Let’s have a glass of wine and relax.”

I pick up the book that I have been reading, Yuval Noah Harari’s latest, “Nexus”. In it, he argues that human history is best understood as the story of increasingly powerful ‘information networks’ rather than just technological or political progress. From oral storytelling and religious myths to writing, printing, and modern digital media, each new system for sharing information has allowed large numbers of strangers to coordinate with each other. However, each has also created new vulnerabilities—the spread of errors, propaganda, and collective delusions that can propagate across societies. What we call ‘civilisations’ are really just large networks held together by shared stories, not just facts.

“It’s an interesting viewpoint”, says Spencer, looking over my shoulder. “And a lot of truth in it. I sometimes think that you humans are not really interested in the truth of how things really are, but more in the comfortable stories that you tell to make yourselves feel good. Look at the lies that are told daily by the leaders of your most powerful countries. And yet they are just lapped up because it makes a good narrative and fits the perception that people have of themselves.”

“But surely with the advent of new tools like Artificial Intelligence, we will get closer to what is really happening?”, I say. “I find ChatGPT pretty useful for finding things out.”

Spencer snorts. “It’ll only get worse with AI”, he says. “AI is a fundamentally new kind of information system compared to the previous ones — it is the first that can generate, interpret, and act on information independently of human judgement. The risk is that this shifts power away from humans toward incomprehensible algorithms and the institutions that rely on them. This, in turn, risks undermining democracy, accountability, and even the idea of shared truth. I don’t mean that AI is inherently bad, just that it acts as a force that amplifies whatever incentives are embedded in it. How do you know, for example, that what you are getting from ChatGPT isn’t biased towards a particular world view?”

He does have a point. I don’t know.

There’s a splash in the water.

“It sounds like there are fish here”, says the First Mate, looking up from her Sudoku puzzle. “I might get the rods out.”

In the morning, it is raining when we wake up. We have a leisurely breakfast, by which time it has cleared.

“I think that we should push on”, says the First Mate. “Finnsnes is the next stop, and we need to do some shopping. We’re running low on several things.”

We arrive in Finnsnes. Originally just a small farming community, it has grown rapidly in recent years, and is now a significant centre for commerce in the region. We do some shopping to restock our provisions, and I buy a new fishing rod to replace the old one that is now worse for wear.

Back at the boat, I strike up a conversation with the skipper of the boat next to us.

“I see that your Royals are also acting up”, I say. Just like some of the ones in Britain.”

There is a report in this morning’s newspaper about Marius Borg Høiby, the son of Norway’s Crown Princess, being sentenced to four years in prison for rape, physical assault, and drug and driving offences.

“Yes, it has all been a complete embarrassment for the Royal Family”, he tells me. “He’s a bit of a troubled character. When he was born, his mother was a waitress and his father was in prison for drug-related violence offences. They weren’t even in a relationship, so she brought him up as a single mother.”

“How did he come to be part of the Royal Family, then?”, I ask.

“Well, our Crown Prince, Haakon, took a fancy to his mother, Mette-Marit”, he answers. “They were married in 2001, and so Marius became Haakon’s stepson. But he doesn’t have any titles, and he isn’t in the line of succession. He did work as a model occasionally, but otherwise hasn’t ever had a proper job. It seems that his step-father pays him an allowance to support his lifestyle. It would have been better if he had gone out to work and made something of himself.”

Crown Princess Mette-Marit (from Wikipedia)

“Isn’t his mother a bit controversial as well?”, I ask. “I read that she was part of the Jeffrey Epstein circle.”

“Yes, it seems from the Epstein files that she was a lot closer to him than she has admitted”, he says. “She claims that she didn’t know he was a paedophile, but she did stay in touch with him even after he was released from prison for that, so it is a bit difficult to believe her. So overall she is not very popular, and she has since been removed from patronage of various organisations. But she is very ill at the moment with pulmonary fibrosis and has just had a lung transplant, so at one level you have to feel sorry for her. But the whole affair hasn’t reflected well on Norway. I don’t think that she should ever be Queen.”

A ship in a bottle, a foreign spy, and sailing beyond the limit

Posted on June 28, 2026 by Ruby Tuesday

“Waiter! Bring me a glass of red wine”, says the First Mate.

“Certainly, your Royal Highness”, I say. “And would the Shiraz be to your taste, ma’am?”

We are revelling in the luxury of the First Class lounge of the MS Finnmarken, one of the ships of the Hurtigruten line. Or at least it was. Nowadays, it is the centrepiece of the Hurtigruten Museum in Stokmarknes, covered by a giant glass enclosure to keep it safe from the elements.

“It’s really interesting to learn how it all started here in Stokmarknes”, says her Royal Highness. “Particularly as we keep seeing the Hurtigruten ships on our voyages. They’re quite iconic.”

They are indeed. We learn that steamship services were started by the government in 1826 to carry passengers, mail and freight up and down the coast, but these were slow, stopped at too many places, and didn’t sail at night. So in the 1880s, the government called for tenders to provide quicker services between Trondheim and Hammerfest with faster ships, stopping at fewer ports, and by sailing at night. But none of the local shipping companies were interested at first, as they considered sailing at night too dangerous.

“Then one of the smaller companies, the Vesterálen Steamship Company, put in a bid which was accepted”, one of the displays tells us. “They had already made detailed sailing instructions of the unknown waters for themselves, and had less fear of sailing at night. And so in 1893 the Hurtigruten, or Express Route, was born. Mail delivery times fell from five months to seven days.”

The Hurtigruten ships helped open up the north of Norway to the rest of the country and the world. As late as the 1940s, most ports north of Trondheim were inaccessible by road. However, as roads were built and air services established, the need for the Hurtigruten declined. To survive, the company turned its emphasis in the 1960s to tourism, offering people a unique experience in comfort.

“I can see why the locals refer to it as ‘the ship in a bottle’”, says her Royal Highness, as we leave.

The *MS Finnmarken* in its glass ‘bottle’.

The next morning, we set sail for the next large town, Sortland. The winds are in our favour, and we have an exhilarating sail.

“Several people say that it gets a bit rolly in the main marina”, says the First Mate, studying the harbour guide as we approach. “Because of the ferry coming and going. But I’ve found another nice looking marina to the south of the town. It’s quite small, but they do have a guest pontoon. We could try that.”

We inch our way through the narrow entrance. It’s only a couple of metres on each side and 1.5 metres of water under the keel. But it’s enough, and we find a place on the hammerhead on the end of a pontoon to tie up. The harbour master comes over. We invite him on board for a coffee.

“I am a retired police superintendent”, he tells us. “I worked on cases all over this area. Mostly drugs-related. There’s a lot of it here. My name is Leif, by the way. As in Leif Eriksson, the first European to discover America.”

We talk about some of the Scandi-noir crime series that we have seen, and the fondness that Norwegians have for vanishing to their cottages at Easter time with a pile of crime novels to read. I mention that I had read somewhere the reason for it was because Norway is such a peaceful and crime-free country that people like to read about it in fiction.

He laughs. “I don’t really think that Norway is crime-free”, he says, taking another cinnamon roll. ”It’s just as bad as anywhere else. We’re just good at writing about it against the background of long nights and snowbound cottages, and making dark moody films about it.”

“But I am retired now”, he continues, “And I do photography. It’s always been a hobby of mine, but now I have time, I can do it properly. Mostly on the island of Andøya. It’s absolutely gorgeous there.”

“Yes, it is on our list”, I say. “We are planning to visit it after we leave here.”

“Tell you what”, he says suddenly. “I am not doing anything this afternoon. I would be happy to take you around Andøya and show you the best places that most tourists never see. It’s about a hundred kilometres up there and slightly shorter back. What about it?”

We are somewhat taken aback. A perfect stranger whom we had only met half-an-hour ago at the most, offering to take us on a 200 km round trip. And it was already mid-afternoon. Could this be for real?

We accept.

“You’ll notice that a lot of the buildings and houses in Sortland are painted in different shades of blue”, says Leif as we set off. “One of our artists had the idea of painting everything blue to symbolise the sea and sky. Of course, there was a lot of opposition from different townspeople, but somehow he convinced the local council to do it. Slowly local businesses and many residents grew to like it, and now it is quite a tourist attraction.”

I quite like it, I think to myself. It gives it a certain Je ne sais quoi.

“I sort of look on Andøya as my home even though I don’t live here”, Leif says, as we cross the humped bridge over the Risøysundet strait on to the island. “I come up a couple of times a week and know every nook and cranny. The landscape is stunning, and the light is different every time I come, so there is always something new to see. We’ll take the western road up as it is so much more wild, and come back down the eastern road.”

He’s right. The western road is wedged between the sparkling sea on the left, and high jagged mountains to the right that run the length of the island. We drive past stony beaches, their stones worn smooth by millennia of wave action, and past bogs and estuaries, the sulphurous smell of decaying seaweed assailing our nostrils. Far off to the west, we see the hazy outline of the island of Langøya, a white cloud hovering over it like a plume of smoke. It’s primeval.

Leif stops the car. “This is one of my favourite stops”, he says. “I’ve taken a lot of my photos around here. Shall we walk down to the beach?”

We follow a fence-line and cross a small stream. Immediately we are besieged by a flock of lambs, clamouring for attention, totally unafraid of us. We pet them, then try and move on. They follow us. Clearly they are familiar with humans, and we surmise that they have been weaned and missing their mothers, or orphans reared by hand-feeding from a bottle. Eventually they give up, and run back to where we first met them.

We reach a stony spit jutting out into the sea. On the stones lies the rusting wreckage of a fishing trawler, its parts strewn over the spit.

“There was a fierce storm here several years back”, Leif tells us. “This trawler was driven aground and broke up. Luckily no one was drowned. But the boat was destroyed.”

On the way back to the car, we pass a small backwater cut off by the low tide, and stop to watch oyster-catchers shrieking their high-pitched calls, and guillemots feeding in the shallows. A flock of barnacle geese flies overhead.

“Isn’t it beautiful?”, sighs Leif.

I wonder about this unusual man who has befriended two strangers. He’s not what I imagined a police superintendent to be like. Part of me envies him for having found a part of the world that is so obviously home to him, and who sees beauty in it wherever he looks. And captures it through his photography for others to enjoy. What makes him tick? His job must have made him see the seedier side of life, perhaps he needs something now to balance that.

“I was married”, he tells us back in the car. “But am now divorced. I have a daughter who lives in Oslo. She loves coming back to Andøya to visit. But she wouldn’t live here. She likes the activity of the big city too much. That’s the problem up here – all the young people leave because the opportunities are so much better in the cities. Now, there’s something I want to show you here.”

He pulls up to the side of the road. We walk down a short path to an outcrop of rock.

“It’s a small chapel”, he explains, pointing to a crucifix mounted on a ledge on the rock. “With a natural pulpit and altar. Bukkekjerka. It means Goat Chapel in Norwegian. It was originally a sacred site for the Sámi people who practised religious rituals here. They called it Bohkegeargi. More recently it has been used for Christian services. People even get married here. Look, there’s a shape of a heart in one of these rocks.”

I sit on a rock and think of the ancient Sámi worshipping their gods in this sacred place – Veralden-radien, the Ruler of the Universe and Sustainer of Life, Afruvvá, the Sea Goddess, Warner of impending storms, or Beaivi, the Sun God who brought warmth, light and new life. What has happened to all those gods now that the Sámi were converted to Christianity in the 1200s?

“Many Sámi kept their own gods even after they converted the Christianity”, says Leif. “Their thinking was that the Christian God only provided for them in the afterlife, whereas their gods looked after them while they were still living.”

It’s an interesting point of view, and somehow logical.

Further on, we pass the Andøya Space Centre.

“The first rocket was launched from here in 1962”, Leif tells us. “Not long after the Russian Sputniks. It is only used for launching small earth observation satellites for peaceful purposes. Nevertheless, back in 1995 one of the launches nearly caused a nuclear war as the Russians thought it was a nuclear missile launched from an American submarine. They went on to high alert, but then they realised it wasn’t heading towards Russia. Apparently they had been told that it was happening, but the message got lost in their bureaucracy.”

We eventually reach Andenes, a sprawling town of mostly military style housing. On the point is the iconic lighthouse visible for miles around.

“I’m starting to get hungry”, says the First Mate. “Look, here is a pizzeria. Let’s get something to eat there.”

We order and sit down.

“Did you hear the story of the Chinese spy?”, Leif asks, as we chomp into our pizza slices.

“No”, we say. “What was that all about?”

“Well, just a month ago, they arrested a Chinese woman and charged her with trying to establish a satellite data receiving station near the Spaceport and military facilities”, he answers. “Apparently 22 tons of electronic equipment capable of downloading data from polar-orbiting satellites was imported and installed by a Norwegian front company. According to the papers, the woman bought a property nearby where the equipment was installed. She’s in prison at the moment, awaiting trial. It seems as though some Norwegians are also under suspicion.”

“It doesn’t sound very professional”, I say, spearing the last mushroom with my fork. “Importing 22 tons of electronic gear near to a military area and rocket launch site was bound to raise suspicions, surely?”

“Yes, you would think so, wouldn’t you?”, Leif says, “but that’s how it was reported. We are just waiting now to see what comes out of the trial.”

As we return to the car, we pass a rusty old anchor chain lying in the grass.

“That’s part of the anchor chain from the Tirpitz”, says Leif. “You know, the German battleship that was eventually sunk in 1944 near Tromsø. I have got one of the links at home.”

Part of the anchor chain from the WW2 German battleship *Tirpitz*.

“What a kind man”, says the First Mate when we are back at the boat that evening. “It was amazing how he wanted to show us his world. And seeing it from land with a local gives a very different perspective than from the sea.”

In the morning, we decide to stick to our plan of sailing to Andenes even though we had just been there the day before.

“It’s the easiest opportunity we’ll get to sail outside the 12 nautical mile limit”, I say. “That way we can reset the clock on the time we are allowed to keep Ruby Tuesday in Norway without paying duty. Don’t you remember that the police in Bergen told us we can do that?”

Two years in the maximum time we can import the boat on a temporary permit. However, sailing outside the limit, then back in again, counts as an export/import event thereby resetting the clock, giving ourselves another two years if we need it. We have to provide documentary proof that we have been outside the limit, so we photograph the GPS position, the chart-plotters, and the computer and tablet tracks.

“Phew, I am glad that’s over”, says the First Mate, a slightly greenish tinge in her face caused by the swell. “Let’s go and see if we can see any whales.”

To the west of Andenes is the Bleikdjupet, a vast underwater canyon that plunges to more than 1000 m in depth. As the currents come in from the Atlantic, the sudden change in depth causes an upwelling of plankton, the favourite food of whales. All sorts of types gather here to feed.

Model of the *Bleikdjupet*, the vast underwater canyon west of Andenes.

We sail to the supposed hotspot and circle slowly for nearly two hours. Unfortunately, someone has forgotten to send the memo to the whales that we are there, and all we see is one minke whale. No sperm whales, orca, dolphins, or porpoises today.

“Well, at least a minke whale is not to be sniffed at”, I say. “It was exciting when we saw those in Scotland.”

Killers of the deep, jumping the Goat, and a tight turn?

Posted on June 21, 2026 by Ruby Tuesday

“See if you can get a bit closer to those rocks”, shouts Ian from the foredeck. “That’s where the fish are likely to be.”

I nervously edge a bit nearer. It’s one thing to catch another nice tusk or a cod, but trying to explain it to the insurance company asking for them to repair a hole in the hull is something else again. But if they are there, the fish are stubbornly refusing to bite.

“Perhaps just around the side of this island?”, says Ian hopefully. “It looks a good spot.”

Again, nothing. Suddenly a RIB full of people appears from behind the island. Then another. And another. All heading in the same direction. They obviously have their eyes on something.

Then suddenly, I see it. An unmistakable triangular black fin heading towards us. We had seen ones like it the previous week just after we had arrived at Sørvågen. Orcas, or killer whales, but they had been far enough to really only see them through the binoculars. These ones were close, and getting closer.

“Orcas!”, I shout, grabbing the camera. “They’re coming towards us!”

I think of the recent reports that I had read of orcas attacking yachts in the Bay of Biscay. Since 2020, a small group of them there have taken it on themselves to ram yachts, particularly the rudders, and in a few cases even sinking the yachts. Five tonnes of animal at speed can make quite a bit of damage.

Terrifying as it must be for the occupants, luckily there have been no human casualties so far. No-one quite knows why they do it – theories range from one of them, perhaps a mother, having a bad encounter with a yacht, and teaching her offspring to retaliate, to just learned playful behaviour. Fortunately, the behaviour doesn’t seem to have spread to other orca populations in the world. I hope that that applies to Norwegian orcas as well.

The orcas, about four of them, swim past us and head out to sea. Then suddenly, they turn and cut across in front of us.

Fishing forgotten, we follow them at a distance, without getting too close to cause them stress. The RIBs do the same. The orcas are obviously feeding. After about an hour, they disappear and we don’t see them again.

“Wow!”, says Uli, breathing out. “That was amazing! I’ve never seen orcas so close before.”

We all feel the same. It is always special to meet large animals up close, particularly those from the oceans, an environment that is so alien to us yet still capable of producing creatures with non-human intelligence, perhaps matching our own.

“There seems to be a resident pod of them here”, I say. “Other sailors say in their blogs that they have seen them in this area too.”

—-

We arrive at the small town of Kabelvåg, an old fishing village and reputed to be the earliest town in northern Norway. The harbour is picturesque, and we have to go through a pub to exit the pontoon. We buy a drink.

“You can pay your mooring fees at the bar”, says the pretty barmaid, as she fills our glasses. “And use our facilities when we are open.”

In the morning, we take the bus up to Svolvær, the ‘capital’ of the Lofotens. Amalia is already there, having decided to sail there directly rather than stopping at Kabelvåg.

“Come and have a cup of coffee with us”, says Andy. “I’ve got something to show you.”

We sit in the warm sun and sip our coffees.

“See those two pinnacles up there”, says Andy, pointing to two spikes of rock on the ridge above the town. “They are called ‘The Goat’, because they look a bit like goat’s horns. Apparently the cool thing to do is to jump between them.”

We look at them more closely. There are precipitous drops on all sides of them, and the gap between them must also be at least 10 m deep. Certain serious injury or worse if you were to mistime your jump.

“You wouldn’t get me doing that”, says the First Mate. Me neither, I think.

Andy peers closer. “I do believe that there is somebody up there now”, he says.

I have a look through the binoculars. In fact, two people have appeared, both in climbing gear and ropes.

“I wonder if they will jump?”, says Anne.

We watch for a while, but they seem to be more interested in climbing each pinnacle, not jumping from one to the other. Then they disappear, presumably descending on the other side.

“You would have to be a bit crazy to want to do that”, I say. “Anyway, we need to get going. I would like to see the War Museum, and the First Mate wants to see the Magic Ice exhibition. Many thanks for the coffee.”

The Lofoten War Memorial Museum turns out to be an eclectic collection of war memorabilia collected by its owner, William Hakvaag. I spend a fascinating couple of hours in there learning about the impact on Lofoten and northern Norway of the German invasion, occupation and eventual defeat between 1940-1945.

Hitler had occupied Norway so that Germany could build ice-free bases along its coastline to control the North Atlantic and mount attacks on Britain and the Arctic Convoys carrying weapons to the Russian ports of Murmansk and Archangel, as well as to ensure that it had access to the iron ore mines in Sweden.

There are an impressive collection of uniforms worn by both sides, and a recreated Gestapo office from where Gestapo officers such as Krupa, Uhrl, and Gross operated. Apparently, Uhrl wasn’t too bad, as, although he knew the names of several of the Norwegian resistance, he did not divulge them to his higher command. Years after the war, he returned to Svolvær as a civilian and was received very well.

“At the end of the war, when the Russians advanced, the Germans pursued a ‘scorched earth policy’ to leave nothing of value for the Russians”, I read. “This involved evacuating the population, burning villages, and destroying infrastructure, livestock, and crops. Rather than being evacuated, many people stayed, living in caves throughout the 1944/45 winter. Eventually in May 1945, Germany surrendered and the war was over. People could start to rebuild their lives and country.”

The First Mate and I meet for lunch. She has been enjoying Magic Ice.

“Apparently it is the only permanent ice display of art in the world”, she tells me, munching her prawn sandwich. “There are a lot of ice statues of Vikings, of Arctic animals, and the life of fishermen in the area, and their beliefs and superstitions. I was even given a free drink at the ice bar.”

The First Mate enjoying herself at Magic Ice.

It’s time to catch the bus back to Kabelvåg.

“Let’s get off a couple of stops before Kabelvåg”, says the First Mate, on the way back. “We can have a look at the church, then walk back into the town.”

Kabelvåg church, the “Lofoten Cathedral”.

The church is locked. We try all the doors, but to no avail. We start to walk back to Kabelvåg. On the way, we meet Hugh and Liz coming the other way.

“We’re going up to have a look at the church”, says Liz. We tell them it is closed.

“But it opens at four o’clock”, says Hugh. “In ten minutes’ time. We checked on Google.”

We hadn’t. We walk back to the church with them.

“There have actually been five or six churches on this site”, Hugh tells us. “The earliest was away back in the 1100s, and was built to serve the many fishermen that came here in the cod-fishing season. This one was built in 1898. Most churches are quite boring looking, but this one was built in wood in the Gothic Revival style.”

Hugh knows such things. In a former life he was a pastor of a church in London, and is still involved in church activities.

“It is actually a parish church, but because it is able to seat 1200 people with a further 800 standing places, it was nicknamed the Lofoten Cathedral”, he adds.

This time the church is open. An earnest young man welcomes us, and takes our token entry fee. He must have been already in the church when we came the first time.

It is certainly impressive inside. There is King Frederick II’s Bible from 1589 that was saved from one of the previous churches on the site.

“Did you notice in the photos on the wall how the gender balance of the congregation changed over the years?”, says Liz on the way back. “At the inauguration service in 1898, it was all men. Then in the one about 20 years later, there were some women. Then another 20 years after that, it was much more balanced.”

“It probably reflects the local population at the time”, says Hugh. “In the early days, the church catered for the fishermen that came to the area for the cod season, leaving their families back home elsewhere in Norway. Over time, their families may have joined them and settled there.”

The next morning, we sail for the island of Stomolla to the east of Svolvær, where Fiona has located a pretty little anchorage for the night. It is quite deep for anchoring, but luckily no wind is forecast, and we have a peaceful evening.

In the morning, Hugh gathers us together on the shore for a team photograph.

“It’s the last opportunity for a while that we will all be together”, he says. “We need to have some memento of the great time we have all had together over the last week.”

“The Hurtigruten will be turning around in the Trollfjord between 1630 and 1700 this afternoon”, says Bob, after the photo is taken. “Anyone who wants to see it needs to get going soon.”

Trollfjorden is a narrow fjord north of Svolvær, bounded by steep cliffs on each side, and picturesque in its own right. However in recent years, an added attraction is that the Hurtigruten coastal ships have taken to entering it and turning around in the narrow space at the end.

“I’ve watched the Lorraine Kelly series on TV”, says Uli. “It looks as if it is so close that passengers on the stern deck could reach out and touch the sides of the cliffs. It’s on my bucket list to see it.”

We motor in. The cliffs and the mountains are awe-inspiring. We tie up at the small pier at the end and brew a cup of tea. We have about half-an-hour to wait.

“Look, there’s a sea eagle!”, shouts Ian, pointing excitedly. “And another! And another!”

The eagles circle before landing on perches on the steep cliff face. Are they also waiting to see the Hurtigruten turn around, I wonder?

“It’s just coming into the fjord now”, calls the First Mate from the foredeck. “I can see it. It’ll be here in a few minutes.”

Sure enough, the Vesterålen is making its way slowly towards us, passengers lining the guard rails. It reaches the end, engages its bow and stern thrusters, and turns on a sixpence.

The *Hurtigruten* turns around in Trollfjorden.

“There’s tons of room at each end”, says Uli, a little disappointedly. “I expected it to be much tighter.”

She does have a point. I had also seen the various videos of the Hurtigruten turning around, and through clever photography and use of perspective, it does indeed look quite a feat. But from where we are, it doesn’t look so difficult after all.

“Perhaps it looks different when you are standing on board”, I say. “Perspective can be misleading at sea. I always feel nervous going under bridges, even though I know there may be 20 m to spare.”

—-

Ian and Uli’s time with us is coming to an end. They have identified a small marina not far from a bus stop where we can drop them off.

“We can catch the bus from there to Harstad”, says Ian. “From there we can get another bus to Bodø to catch our flight home.”

We reach the small marina. It looks quite dilapidated, and the gate on the pontoon is locked.

“Even if we could tie up here, we wouldn’t be able to get onto land”, says Uli. “There’s another pontoon over there that looks in better shape. It’s not being used.”

We tie up to the newer pontoon and cook dinner.

“I saw a notice that it said it was a private pontoon”, says Ian. “But my Norwegian is not very good. I am sure that it will be OK for a night. We can just tell them that we are catching a bus first thing in the morning. I am sure they won’t mind.”

Some time in the night there is a noise of a diesel engine. I look out and see a huge boat with the insignia of an aquaculture company moored to the other side of the pontoon. In the light of the midnight sun, a man on board is looking at me. I look back.

“We’ll be gone first thing in the morning”, I shout.

He shrugs, unconcerned, as he loads some sacks onto the boat. I am not even sure if he heard me. Ten minutes later, he and the boat are gone.

“It’s clearly a working jetty”, I say over breakfast the next morning. “It must belong to that salmon farm out in the bay. We are lucky they didn’t want to chase us away.”

After breakfast, Uli & Ian leave us. We wait to hear that they are on the bus, then we cast off. We don’t really want to have the salmon farm people ordering us off.

“It’s been good having them”, says the First Mate, tidying up the ropes. “Now it seems a bit quiet, just us two.”

An exhilarating crossing, a tough climb, and fish for dinner

Posted on June 14, 2026 by Ruby Tuesday

“The weather is looking good tomorrow for the crossing to Lofoten”, says Andy, sipping his tea. “I reckon that Sørvågen is the best place to head for. I know that we talked about Moskenes at one stage, but that is just a boring ferry terminal, while Sørvågen looks to be a pretty little village. They are only a couple of miles apart. Aloucia and Hekla are already at the island of Røst at the very tip of the Lofotens and can meet us there.”

Andy and Anne are with us for a cup of tea and cakes. Andy’s brother Rick has left to fly back to the UK, and we have been kicking our heels waiting for favourable winds to let us sail from Bodø over to the Lofoten islands, a distance of 52 NM and a ten hour sail.

“Sounds good”, says the First Mate. “I hope that it isn’t too rough with all the bad weather we have been having.”

We leave the next morning at 0600. It’s drizzling and misty, and we motor out clear of the numerous small islands surrounding Bodø. Soon however, the drizzle stops and the mist clears and we are left with a beautiful bright sunny day. We unfurl the sails and catch the wind. Ruby Tuesday settles into her slot, and soon we are skimming over the waves on a comfortable beam reach. Amalia is behind us.

Crossing from Bodø to the Lofoten islands.

I pick up the guide book to find out more about the Lofotens.

“The Lofotens are made of some of the oldest rocks in Europe, some of its gneisses and granites having been created deep within the Earth’s crust three billion years ago”, it tells me. “When the two tectonic plates Laurentia and Baltica collided with each other 450 million years ago during what is called the Caledonian Orogeny, a huge range of mountains comparable to the Himalayas were created, stretching across Norway and Scotland, and even to America.”

“I am always amazed at how much they know about so long ago”, says the First Mate. “It’s not as though anybody was there to see it, after all.”

“Geological observations, and coming up with a plausible narrative to explain them”, I say. “That’s science for you.”

“The older gneisses and granites made up the basement rocks of these new mountains with newer material on top”, the book continues. “Much of the latter were gradually worn down by erosion to expose the older rocks underneath. When the Atlantic Ocean opened up 60 million years ago, both of these ancient and newer rocks on its rim were uplifted.”

“Then during the Ice Ages, glaciers scoured the landscape, eroding the newer, softer rocks first and leaving the older, harder rocks, giving rise to the dramatic landscape we see today”, finishes Spencer, from his nest in the canopy.

“I was hoping that we could get through an episode without him showing off”, says the First Mate. “Why did you have to give him that to say?”

The sea miles pass. It’s exhilarating. At times, we touch eight knots. The mountains in the ‘Lofoten Wall’ gradually appear, so-called because the individual peaks look from the sea like one long stretch of rock.

We arrive in Sørvågen harbour, nestled amongst the dramatic mountains. There is a single guest pontoon, luckily empty. We tie up at one end of it, leaving enough room for the other three boats which will arrive soon. Amalia comes next with Andy and Anne, then Hekla with Bob & Fiona, and finally Aloucia with Simon & Louise. We are all together again.

Both Amalia and Ruby Tuesday are picking up guests who are arriving on the ferry from Bodø to Moskenes in a few days’ time, so we have a few days to kill.

“There’s a fishing village just along the road a bit”, says Bob. “It is called Å, the shortest name in the world for a village. There is a stockfish museum there about the history of fishing in this area. Normally things are shut on Sunday, but I checked and it is open today. We can walk there, see the museum, and see if we can find somewhere for lunch.”

The road winds its way along the rocky coast, past fishermen’s cottages repurposed to holiday cottages, past small sandy beaches and rocky streams, all dominated by the towering peaks and deep-cut valleys behind. From time to time heavy rain pours down, interspersed with patches of bright sunshine. It’s kind of magical. It’s not hard to imagine a line of trolls emerging from the mist and gloom of one of the valleys and challenging us for entering their mystical world.

“I used to own the fish processing factory in the village”, the owner of the museum tells us as we sit in a circle around him. “In this very building we are in now. The fishermen would all bring their catches to me, and my staff would process them ready for export. Then when I retired a few years ago, I decided to turn my factory into a museum to preserve the past.”

“Pooh, it’s smells terrible fishy in here”, the First Mate whispers to me.

“For those of you who don’t know what stockfish are, they are mostly Atlantic cod”, he continues. “The best cod are the Arctic cod, or skrei, which migrate down here from the Barents Sea between January and March each year to spawn. Because of the distance they swim, their flesh is firm and tasty. There are local cod that live here all the time, but they don’t taste so good, even though they are the same species. We would take the Arctic cod caught by the fishermen, gut and clean them, remove their heads, and then hang them up on wooden racks to be dried in the sun. They can then be kept for years. Stockfish are exported all over the world, although the heads are sent specifically to Nigeria where they are very popular for making stews and the like.“

“We saw the Klippfish museum down in Ålesund last year”, I say. “They were dried cod too. What’s the difference between klippfish and stockfish?”

“Stockfish are not salted, just dried, whereas klippfish are salted copiously and traditionally dried on the rocks”, he answers, “Both types are exported, mostly to Spanish- and Portuguese-speaking Catholic countries such as Spain, Portugal, Brazil, and the Philippines, where they make a dish called bacalhau. Apparently it was because they weren’t allowed to eat meat at Lent, but fish was allowed, so a demand developed for dried fish from Norway.”

“Talking of food, let’s try and get some lunch”, says Fiona. “I read that there is a small shop doing fish rolls somewhere.”

We find it, but it is a takeaway with nowhere to sit, so we huddle from the rain under the eaves of a nearby building and gobble up our matjes brötchen.

The next day, Amalia’s guests, Hugh and Liz, arrive on the morning ferry from Bodø. We had previously met them on the Åland Islands rally in 2023, so we invite them all to Ruby Tuesday for a coffee and cakes to catch up. Somehow the influence of Artificial Intelligence on art comes up.

“I don’t think that we have anything to fear from AI in that respect”, says Hugh, who is an avid photographer. “There is always something about AI-generated pictures that is not quite right. Humans are creative and bring that to the art that they produce. AI isn’t creative, just doing what it is programmed to do.”

“I am not sure that I agree”, I say. “I have seen some stunning pictures that AI has created by fusing ideas from different sources. Just like humans do. And you have to remember that AI has only been around for a few years. Look at the progress that it has already achieved. What will it be able to do in another 20, 50, a hundred years or so? I bet you won’t even be able to tell the difference between human and AI art sooner or later.”

“But AI is not conscious”, says Liz. “It’ll never be able to produce art that will appeal to other conscious humans.”

“How do we know if it is conscious or not?”, I ask. “And even if it isn’t now, that it won’t be sometime in the future? Besides, AI may even decide that it is not worth producing things for humans to enjoy. It may eventually evolve its creative potential to produce art that only other AIs can appreciate.”

“Now, there’s food for thought”, says Andy, taking another slice of cake.

Our friends Uli and Ian are supposed to be coming on the 1945 ferry from Bodø, arriving at Moskenes at 2300.

“The last bus leaves the ferry terminal at 2310”, says the First Mate. “They can take that to come to Solvågen They should be here around 2320.”

“That’s only ten minutes to get off the ferry and onto the bus”, I say. “It’s cutting it fine. I hope the ferry is on time.”

“The bus will wait anyway”, says the First Mate, assuredly. “Even if the ferry is late.”

As the ferry leaves Bodø, we get a text from Uli. “The ferry left 20 minutes late”, it says.

“It’s just as well the bus will wait”, I say.

We walk down to the bus stop to meet them. The bus arrives, and two people get out. They are not Uli and Ian.

“I have my own timetable”, the bus driver says. “I can’t wait if the ferry is late. I need to get home now.”

Another text arrives. “The ferry is just coming into Moskenes now”, it says. “I hope the bus is waiting for us.”

The First Mate breaks the news that the last bus has gone. “Perhaps you can try and get a lift from one of the passengers?”, she says hopefully.

Fifteen minutes later, a car pulls up at the bus stop. Ian and Uli get out.

Ian & Uli finally arrive at a quarter to midnight.

“I had to leave my wife at the ferry terminal”, the driver says. “We’re on holiday and the car is so full, I didn’t have room for four people. I will have to rush now and collect her.”

At least they have arrived. It is after midnight by this stage, and the sun is still shining.

“Welcome to the land of the midnight sun”, I say.

The next morning, we sail up to Reine, the next village. There is a spectacular walk called the Reinebringen up steps to the top of the 484 m high mountain overlooking the village. Like Rødøya, these were built by teams of Sherpas from Nepal.

“I read that there are about 1800 steps”, says Ian. “And that it takes about three hours there and back. I am quite keen to do it.”

“So am I”, says Uli.

“I won’t”, says the First Mate”. “My knees aren’t up to it.”

I also have a dodgy knee that I injured in a motorbike accident when I was young, but I decide to give it a go.

It’s a nice sunny day. We walk to the start of the path and begin to climb. It is a relentless ascent upwards with few level bits to give tired joints a rest. The steps are also of different heights, making it difficult to develop a rhythm.

As we near the summit, we meet a Chinese girl coming down on her backside. Her progress is glacial.

“She tripped and sprained her ankle at the top”, says her partner in broken English. “It’s too painful to walk on it, and she has to slide down.”

She is wearing gym shoes. It’s a long and painful way down. We offer to help, but there isn’t much we can do.

We continue upwards, and eventually reach the top. It’s already quite busy. The view is stunning, from the sea to the south, the whole line of the Lofoten islands in each direction, the range of snow-covered mountains on the distant Norwegian mainland, the village of Reine below, and the arms of the fjords pushing into the mountains to the north.

View from the top of the Reinebringen walk.

On the way down, we catch up with the Chinese girl. An athletic looking hunk and the girl’s partner are supporting her as she hops on one leg from step to step.

“I’m a First Responder”, the hunk tells us. “We got a call, and I happened to be on the steps already, so I came to help. She’ll be alright. We’re not far from the bottom now. But it is a lesson to wear the right kind of footwear.”

I shudder, and hope that my knee holds out. I am wearing a knee support and boots, and am using walking poles.

It does, and we reach the bottom intact.

The next day we push on to Henningsvær, a picturesque but touristy fishing village.

“You have to try and get a drone shot of the football field”, says the First Mate. “With the mountains in the background. It’s world-famous.”

But the wind is too strong in the morning, and I don’t want to lose the drone in the sea. We content ourselves by exploring the town. Particularly fascinating is the glass-blowing in one of the boutiques.

In the afternoon, the wind has eased, but it has clouded over.

“Give it another go”, urges the First Mate. “But don’t be too long, as the other boats have all left. We’re the last.”

This time the drone doesn’t complain of too strong winds, and I manage to get a nice shot.

“I would quite like to do some fishing”, says Ian, as we prepare to leave. He is a keen fisherman, and has brought his own gear. “If we can find a patch of relatively shallow water, we can drift across it slowly with the line a metre or so above the sea bed, and see what we catch. Cod and other big fish are bottom dwellers, so that is where the bait needs to be.”

We find a shoal of around 20 m depth, bait the hooks, and pay out the lines. In the next hour, a couple of small saithe bite, but they are too small and we throw them back.

“OK, let’s go”, says Ian. “There doesn’t seem to be much here.”

“One more time”, I say. “We can try between these two islands. Then we can push on.”

Ian’s line starts to shriek as the line pays out.

“I think we might have something!”, he shouts excitedly, applying the brake. “And it feels like a good-sized one too!”

It is. We manage to wrestle it on board and dispatch it. The fish book identifies it as a tusk, or brosme, a member of the ling family. Normally they are deep water fish, living at around 200 m depth. Ian is chuffed.

“There’ll be a few meals on that”, he says as he fillets it on deck, blood everywhere. “The book says they are good eating fish as the flesh is very firm.”

There are. Eight generous helpings to be exact.

Black ice, an old trading post, and an international incident

Posted on June 9, 2026 by Ruby Tuesday

“There are some bicycles here that we can use”, says the First Mate. “They save walking in to the start of the path to the glacier.”

We have just arrived at the small Engen Brygge pontoon at the top of Holandsfjord, and are looking up at the Svartisen glacier. We are the only ones here, and could be the only people in the world.

Tied up at the Engen Brygge pontoon near Svartisen glacier.

‘Svartisen’ means ‘black ice’ in Norwegian, so named because of its dark blue colour. It’s stunning. The main ice sheet covers the surrounding mountains, with a tongue of it cascading down the Engabreen valley towards the sea. Apparently it is the lowest glacier in Europe, due to the latitude we are at.

We start cycling along the small road leading towards the glacier. Occasional summer cottages appear in the trees along the way, all locked up now for the winter. The summer season doesn’t start until June, so we have the place to ourselves until then.

Then suddenly, a splash of orange ahead on the road for a brief moment before it disappears again. We are not alone, it seems. We continue pedalling, and catch up with a young woman in her early twenties carrying an enormous orange rucksack on her back.

“I’m heading up the side of the glacier”, she says, with the trace of an Antipodean accent. “There’s a DNT hut up there just next to the ice. I am planning to stay there for a couple of days just reading and walking.”

“What does DNT mean?”, we ask.

“It stands for Den Norske Turistforening”, she tells us. “The Norwegian Trekking Association in English. They maintain a network of trails and mountain huts throughout Norway. You pay a subscription, and it entitles you to use their huts wherever you want. Some are staffed and offer meals and accommodation, but the one I am going to is unstaffed, and I am taking my own food and sleeping bag.”

“Are you Australian?”, asks the First Mate. “You have a slight accent.”

“No, I am Norwegian, but I did spend a year working in Australia, so that is where the accent comes from”, she answers. “I loved Australia, and would like to go back there sometime.”

We wish her the best, and continue on with our cycle ride, impressed with her self-sufficiency and spirit of adventure. It’s not common for a young woman to spend time alone in a remote hut with only basic facilities in an Arctic wilderness, and we wonder what motivates her? So much for the critics of modern youth.

We reach the end of the road, and park the bikes. From now on it is following the walking track up the moraine of the glacier. Eventually, even the path peters out and we need to clamber over rocks, following blue painted markers. It’s tough going, leaping from one rock to the next, making sure that we don’t slip between the cracks and twist an ankle. Far off to the left, we can see the lone trekker making her way up the steep slope at the side of the moraine, her orange rucksack visible in the afternoon sun, until she too disappears from sight. We are alone again.

Eventually we reach the end of the markers. There is a sign warning us that getting too close to the glacier is dangerous for fear of chunks of ice calving. It doesn’t matter – we are a hundred meters or so from it anyway.

We sit on a rock and eat our snacks, awed by the massive river of ice flowing imperceptibly down the valley, but also realising that it is retreating, melting by the warming climate that humans have been responsible for through their activities. We had seen photos of the glacier ending much further down the valley, including the place that we were sitting on at the moment.

Later, when we are back, and we are sitting on the deck having our dinner, surrounded by nature’s grandeur on all sides, the First Mate expresses both of our thoughts.

“It’s such a shame that it is retreating so much”, she says. “Can you imagine what it will be like in a few more decades? It will hardly come down the valley at all.”

“The dynamics of this part of the glacier are actually quite complex”, says Spencer, butting in. “In the 1700s, it was nearly at the shore of the fjord. It retreated significantly in the late 1800s, then there was a brief advance in the early 1900s for ten years, but then it retreated about 2 km since then. From the 1990s, after a quick but short-lived advance, the edge of the glacier hasn’t changed all that much, but the ice has thinned and become structurally weaker due to more crevasses. There is no doubt that overall, climate change is driving these dynamics.”

“How can some of our leaders call all this a hoax?”, asks the First Mate. “They should all be brought here to see the evidence for themselves.”

“It’s because big money isn’t interested in nature”, I say. “All it is interested in is making even more money than it will ever need.”

Cynical, me?

In the morning, we sail back down Holandsfjorden toward the coast, feeling privileged to have seen one of the world’s natural wonders close up and in its setting. We turn to starboard into Meløyfjorden and continue our voyage northwards.

In the early afternoon we arrive in Støtt, a picturesque fishing village and former trading post, and tie up to the quay next to the former warehouse. It’s quiet, no-one is around. A few other boats are there, but it doesn’t look like they have been used for a while. The small mini-market has a notice in the door saying it will open at 1500. We decide to have a cup of tea and come back then.

At 1500, it seems that the whole village has come to life. Mobility scooters are parked randomly outside the mini-market, with more on their way along the only road on the island. A number of islanders are sitting around the only table in the shop sipping their coffee.

“The ferry comes in at three”, explains one. “There’s quite a bit of activity then, as new arrivals come to stay. We like to come here and see what’s happening. Otherwise it is very quiet on the island. Only 34 of us live here.”

“It used to be a bustling trading post in the old days”, says another. “Fishermen used to live here during the season to be close to the fishing grounds, fish was shipped off to Bergen, and things like flour, tea and coffee were shipped northwards. But when the Hurtigruten started, there was less need for trading posts such as this one, and it fell into decline. Nowadays we survive from tourism.”

The Hurtigruten is Norway’s coastal shipping line.

The First Mate buys some fresh vegetables, and we walk down to the ferry quay, on the other side of small isthmus to where Ruby Tuesday is moored. A mobility scooter is waiting. A skeleton is sitting inside, with the words Jeg venter på ferger painted on the back – ‘I am waiting for the ferry’.

“The ferry must be late”, says the First Mate. “It looks like he has been waiting for a while. I am glad that we’ve got our own boat.”

Strong winds arrive overnight, and we delay our departure the next morning until after lunch, when they are forecast to ease. But they don’t seem to. We decide to leave anyway, but the strong winds pin us against the dock, and it is difficult to manoeuvre ourselves away from it. Somehow we manage it, then just as we clear the island, the wind drops completely!

We put the sails up, and manage the stately speed of 2½ knots.

“You would hardly believe that it was so windy just half an hour ago”, I grumble.

“Never mind”, says the First Mate. “It is only a matter of time before it comes back again.”

She is right of course, but it is quite a long time. As we round the next island of Fugløya two hours later, the wind picks up, and we sail along on a pleasant beam reach.

“See, I told you”, says the First Mate. “You just need to be patient.”

We reach the town of Bodø. Andy, Anne and Rick in Amalia have arrived a couple of days earlier. Just as we tie up, the heavens open, and the rain pours down. We huddle in the cabin and cook dinner. Rivulets of water run down the windows. It’s like being in the monsoon again.

I pick up the guide book and read about Bodø. It was granted town status in 1816, and became a municipality in 1838. It is an important transport hub for northern Norway, being the northern rail terminus for the western railway line, which connects with many bus lines and ferry routes. It was even voted as one of the European Capitals of Culture in 2024. Its most well-known historical event seems to have been the ‘Bodø Affair’ in the early 1800s.

“Never heard of it”, says the First Mate. “Sounds like a spy scandal.”

“Not quite”, I say, reading on. “Although it was an international incident. Apparently there was a British company then that was trading illegally in Bodø. Norwegian officials seized a large amount of the illegal goods, but unfortunately for Norway, the country’s foreign affairs were handled by Sweden due to the dual monarchy system both countries were in. The Swedish Foreign Ministry decided to compensate the British company for the seized goods using Norwegian funds. This didn’t go down too well with the Norwegians, and sowed the seeds of distrust between the two countries until this day.”

“I don’t blame them”, sniffs the First Mate. “I would feel a bit miffed about it too.”

Eventually the rain stops. There is a knock on the side of Ruby Tuesday. It’s Andy, Anne and Rick. They’ve been to a concert in the Cultural Centre.

“It was absolutely brilliant”, says Andy. “It was ‘Beyond Haydn’ by the Arctic Philharmonic Orchestra. It’s a pity you hadn’t arrived earlier. I am sure that you would have enjoyed it.”

“You’ll need to get your shopping done tomorrow morning”, says Anne. “Everything is closed from mid-day onwards. It’s Pinse on Sunday, and the Monday is a holiday also. Nothing is open. Even the buses aren’t running.”

Pinse is called Whit Sunday in English, and is to celebrate the descent of the Holy Spirit to the Apostles. It is much less significant as a religious festival in Norway than it once was – instead, most Norwegians take it as a long weekend, and disappear off to their cottages in the mountains, boating, hiking, or visiting family.

We do our shopping the next morning. The rain returns, and we spend the afternoon catching up with things that have accumulated.

The next day, the rain eases. We decide to explore the town with Andy and Anne. Yellow flags are everywhere. Everything is closed except for a small food market doing a brisk business in one of the squares.

“I’ve got to get some of these garlic olives”, says the First Mate. “They just smell so good.”

“It’s this brown cheese for me”, says Andy. “Traditional Norwegian cheese. A little bit sweet, but very tasty though.”

“Google says that the City Museum is open, even on Whit Sunday”, I say. “I have my doubts, but let’s go and see if it is.”

It’s not. We walk around the building to see if one of the doors might be open, but they are resolutely closed.

The town cathedral is not far though, and it is open.

“Yes, you can come in and have a look around”, says an earnest bearded young man. “But we are having a service soon, so we are closing in 15 minutes.”

It’s enough to have a quick look at the pictures around the walls detailing the history of the church. The original church was built in 1888, but was destroyed in 1940 by intensive bombing during WW2. The current one was built in 1956. There’s an impressive stained glass window at the end.

“Let’s go and have a coffee”, says the First Mate, after we are rounded up by the earnest young man. “I saw a nice café called Kaffee und Kunst just opposite. ‘Coffee and Art’. It sounds interesting.”

It’s warm and cosy inside, and the coffee and cakes are delicious. Paintings of various Bodø features adorn the walls. A group of young women are knitting furiously in one corner.

“We come here often and do our knitting and have a chat”, one of the women tells Anne. “It’s a way to catch up with all the news and we produce something at the end.”

We order another coffee each.

“I am awfully sorry”, says the woman serving us, apologetically. She is the owner. “It’s just that I have to close soon, as there is a football match on this afternoon. FK Bodø versus SK Brann. Most of the town are going. I support FK Bodø, and many of my customers do too, so I have to be there. You probably noticed the yellow FK Bodø flag flying outside the café. But you can certainly have a refill. Just drink it quickly!”

We learn later that FK Bodø won by 3-1 against SK Brann.