Two royal statues, an iconic church, and a hotel with a view

Posted on July 27, 2025 by Ruby Tuesday

“Look”, says the First Mate. “You can see the place where we anchored last night, and the bridge that we came under this morning. And I think I can just make out Ruby Tuesday down there.”

We had arrived that morning at the small village of Skjerjehamn, not far from the entrance to the vast Sognefjord. Previously it had been a bustling trading port, transportation hub, and administrative centre, when ships were the most important modes of transport on the west coast of Norway. That all changed with the arrival of cars and the building of roads and tunnels. All that remains now of the settlement is the small harbour and some of the warehouses, one of them having been converted into a restaurant.

We had set off after lunch, and had walked the path from the harbour over moorland to the summit of Vesterfjellet, a local peak overlooking Ånnelandsund. It’s a hot day, so we had packed some biscuits, apples and bottles of water, which we are glad to have when we reach the top.

“This direction is just as spectacular”, I say, pointing to the north. “All those islands and fjords. That big one in the distance must be Sognefjord. That’s where we will be sailing tomorrow if all goes well.”

On the way back to the harbour, we pass the statue of Olaf V, King of Norway.

“The City of Oslo commissioned a famous sculptor by the name of Knut Steen to create a statue of King Olav V”, a woman tells us. “However, when it was finished in 2006, they didn’t like it as the outstretched arm was too much like a Nazi salute, and they refused to display it. It was put up for auction, and the owner of the local aquaculture company decided that it would fit very well in Skjerjehamn. He put in a bid, it won, and the statue has been here ever since.”

“Olav V had been a popular king, especially as he had been a focus of Norwegian resistance against the Nazis, as well as being a symbol of Norwegian independence”, says her husband, joining us. “So having him give a Nazi salute wasn’t seen as being in the best taste.”

It doesn’t really look like a Nazi salute, I think. His arm is bent, not straight. He looks more like he is waving goodbye to someone. But far be it from me to get involved in national sensitivities.

The next afternoon, we push on towards Sognefjord, stopping at the small town of Eivendvik to stock up with provisions. We decide to anchor overnight in the bay at Rutledal.

“This looks a good spot for fishing”, says the First Mate after dinner. “I think that I’ll have a go.”

With our fairly miserable record to date of catching fish, I am somewhat sceptical of any success. Still, if she wants to waste her time, that’s up to her.

She ties on a spinner, and begins casting.

“I think that I have caught something!”, she shouts after ten minutes. “Come and help me!”

I imagine it to be a piece of seaweed or an old tyre. Instead it turns out to be a fine specimen of a fish. A pollack, to be precise. We manage to land it without it getting away, which in itself is an achievement.

“We’ll have it for dinner tomorrow”, she says. “I’ve heard that pollack are best left for a day or so.”

The next day, we reach Vikøyri, a town halfway up Sognefjord.

“The guide book says that there is a traditional stave church here”, says the First Mate. “We should try and see it.”

Following a map the Visitor Information lady has given us, we walk up to the Hopperstad stave church. Unfortunately, a bus load of tourists arrives at the same time.

“Never mind”, I say. “At least we can join their guided tour. It looks like a young history student is doing it again.”

“They always seem so enthusiastic”, says the First Mate.

“They still have all their dreams in front of them”, I reply. “No wonder.”

“The church was built around AD 1130”, the guide tells us. “After the Viking Period. Many of these type were built throughout Europe, but for some reason only those in Norway have survived. Out of the estimated 1000 there used to be, only 28 are now left.”

“Do you remember that one we saw in Lillehammer when we were with Ståle and Gunvor?”, I whisper to the First Mate. “We have only 26 to go.”

“Shssssh”, she hisses. “I am trying to listen.”

“You’ll see that the basic structure consists of eight-metre high posts held together with rafters, with vertical planks filling the gaps between them”, the guide continues. “Note that it stands on a stone base, which has protected the wood from rotting. Even so, it fell into disrepair, but luckily it was faithfully restored in 1880s.”

“What do the carvings on the gables signify?”, someone asks.

“I am glad you asked that”, she says. “They are the heads of dragons or serpents. A hangover from Viking times. You are probably familiar with the carvings on the prows of their long-ships, which were supposed to ward off evil spirits, trolls, and even bad weather. When Christianity came along, there was an initial fusion of Christian and Old Norse beliefs, so these dragonheads were supposed to protect the church in the same way as they had done the long-ships. Now, let’s go and have a look inside.”

It’s dark in the church, and it takes a while for our eyes to adjust.

“Miscarried foetuses and children who died before baptism weren’t allowed to be buried in the churchyard”, the guide continues. “So they buried them under these flagstones you are standing on, hoping they would go to heaven anyway. This practice carried on right up to the 19^th century, when it was discontinued because of the smell.”

There is an uncomfortable shifting of feet.

“I am surprised it took them several hundred years to notice it”, whispers the First Mate. “I wonder if church attendance was falling off?”

“And over here, there are some runic-like inscriptions”, continues the guide. “They are generally pleas by people for God to reward them with a good harvest or success in business. They are not true Viking runes.”

The next day we push on. We pass Vangnes with its giant statue of Fritjof the Bold, commissioned by Kaiser Wilhelm I of Germany in 1913.

“They certainly seem to like giant statues in these parts”, says the First Mate. “I wonder who Fritjof the Bold was?”

It turns out that Fritjof was one of the legendary heroes written about in the Icelandic sagas, supposed to have lived in the AD 700s. The story is that he was the strongest, bravest and fairest in the kingdom of Sogn, the area we are in at the moment, and where the Sognefjord gets its name. On the other side of the fjord to Fritjof lived the king with his two sons, Helgi and Halfdan, and daughter, Ingeborg. The king and Fritjof’s father went off to war and were killed, so the four children were brought up by a foster family. Helgi and Halfdan eventually took over the kingdom, while Fritjof and Ingeborg fell in love. The two brothers were intensely jealous of Fritjof’s good looks and prowess, so they sent him off to Orkney, burnt his house down while he was away, and married off Ingeborg to an old king of a neighbouring kingdom, Ringerike. When Fritjof came back from Orkney, he befriended the old king, and just before the latter died, was appointed as the carer of Ingeborn and their child. After his death, Fritjof and Ingeborn marry, he becomes king of Ringerike, and declares war on his two brothers-in-law. He kills Helgi, subjugates Halfdan, and becomes king of both kingdoms.

“Sounds like a fairly typical functional family history for a Viking”, I think.

Kaiser Wilhelm I of Germany used to holiday in this area, and was so taken with Fritjof’s story that he decided to have the giant statue made and erected in a prominent place on the Vangnes spit where all passing sailors would be able to see it.

“Wilhelm had pretensions to being a great Emperor himself”, says the First Mate. “So I am not surprised he liked stories like this.”

Towards the end of Sognefjord, we turn right into Nærøyfjorden, our destination. The fjord narrows, with almost perpendicular cliffs on both sides. Trees cling precariously to any nook or cranny they can find. The water is a deep green colour, and so clear that we could see the bottom if it wasn’t 300 m below us. The tallest mountains still have pockets of winter snow and ice nestling on their northern slopes. It’s stunning.

Nærøyfjorden, UNESCO World Heritage site.

“No wonder it’s a UNESCO World Heritage site”, says the First Mate.

We reach Gudvangen, the small town at the top of the fjord. There is only one pontoon for guest boats. Luckily it is empty. We tie up.

“You can’t tie up there”, a girl teach kayaking skills to a group of people calls out. “One of the tourist boats comes in there. Sailing boats can only go on the other side.”

I had been going to tie up on that side originally anyway but it had looked a bit shallow for our keel, so I had chosen the other. In the event, there is 60 cm clearance – not a lot, but enough.

The elderly gentleman asks the driver of the stolkjarre to stop at the hotel at the top of the pass for lunch. It had been a long morning – the two men had taken the train from Bergen to Voss, then a stolkjarre the rest of the way to Gudvangen.

“Stalheim Hotel”, says Mr Fairlie, his travelling companion. “It was only built four years ago. I’ve heard that you have the most exquisite views from here. Let’s see if we can have a table in the garden. It’s fine enough weather to sit outside.”

“I have never seen such natural beauty in my life before”, says the elderly gentleman, as they are shown a table near the edge of the precipice. “What a most wonderful valley! I am sure that nothing else in Europe can surpass it for grandeur.”

Stalheim Hotel at the head of Nærøyfjord.

“I think I will have the prawn sandwich, please”, says the First Mate to the waitress. “And a coffee.”

“Me too”, I say. “Except I’ll have tea. Earl Grey, please.”

We are at the Stalheim Hotel at the top of Nærøyfjord. Earlier in the morning, we had left the boat in Gudrangen and had taken the No. 950 bus up the valley to the hotel for lunch.

“It’s amazing to think that my great-great-grandfather was here in this very place in 1889”, I say to the First Mate. “Admittedly, it’s not quite the same hotel, as it has burnt down no less than three times – in 1900, 1902 and 1959. This one dates from 1960. But the view will be the same.”

“Well, it certainly is stunning”, says the First Mate, as our lunch arrives. “But I am a bit surprised that he came on this cruise without his wife. I wonder why that was? Do you think that they had had a row?”

“It was quite acceptable for ministers and professional men to go on cruises without their wives”, ChatGPT tells us. “It was more to do with the cost than anything untoward going on. A cruise like this would have cost £10 in those days, plus a few pounds extra for side excursions. With a minister’s annual stipend for a rural parish being around £150, it would have been quite expensive.”

“Men always seem to get the privileges”, she sniffs. “I wonder what she thought about it?”

“Have you heard how your son Quinton is?”, asks Mr Fairlie, taking a sip of his tea. “Where was it that he went again? Canada, wasn’t it?”

“Well, it was Canada”, the elderly gentleman replies, the emphasis on the past tense. “At first. He managed to get farm work there for a while, but he had an accident in a threshing machine and lost some fingers on his right hand, so he wasn’t able to work for a while. Then the Americans brought in their Homesteading Act in which 160 acres of land were given free to those who moved there. It was the time the Northern Pacific Railroad was being put through, so the area was opening up. So he decided to move down to North Dakota, build a house, and make a living from farming. By all accounts he is doing quite well there.”

“It’s funny how both your boys ended up farming”, says Mr Fairlie. “What with you being a minister and all. None of them interested in being a man of the cloth, then?”

“They used to spend a lot of time on their uncle’s farm in Ayrshire when they were youngsters”, the elderly gentleman answers. “My wife’s brother Quinton. That’s probably where they got it from.”

“Well, you have to admire them for leaving the Home Country”, says Mr Fairlie. “More opportunities there than Scotland, at least. I am sure they will both do well. Anyway, if you are finished, we had better move on. We have to negotiate the Stalheimskleiva road down from here now before we get to Gudvangen. It’s very steep.”

“It certainly is steep”, says the First Mate. “It’s bad enough walking down. Imagine taking a horse and trap down here. Look at the hairpin bends.”

“I read that they often used to walk down steep parts themselves, to spare the horses”, I say. “But I agree. If the horse slipped or skidded everything would just go over the edge.”

Taking a break on the *Stalheimskleiva* road.

Halfway down we stop to look at the Sivlefossen waterfall.

Eventually we reach the bottom with everything more-or-less intact, apart from some protesting knees.

“Sometimes I feel I am getting too old for this sort of thing”, I say.

“Me too”, says the First Mate. “But don’t worry. Here comes the bus. We’ll be back in Gudvangen in no time. Just be thankful we are not on a stolkjarre.”

A Nordic Hanseatic city, letters from home, and a repaired radio aerial

Posted on July 20, 2025 by Ruby Tuesday

“Hello, hello!”, a voice calls to us from the queue waiting for the cable car to arrive. “Fancy seeing you again here!”

We look around surprised. We had just arrived in Bergen a couple of hours ago, and we know no-one here. At least to our knowledge.

It’s the Kazakhstani doctor and her husband that we had met at the Baroniet in Rosendal.

“We live here in Bergen”, she says. “We are just on our way home. My parents are cooking dinner.”

“What a nice coincidence”, says the First Mate. “Out of all the people we could have met in Bergen, we happen to meet you again! I wonder what the chances of that are?”

We had left Rosendal a couple of days earlier, and had sailed from there through the narrow Lukksundet, overnighted in the small lagoon of Gripnesvågen, and had arrived in Bergen in the late afternoon, tying up at the World Heritage-listed Bryggen harbour. On the way, we had passed the intriguing Salmon Eye, offering guided tours only through exhibitions on aquaculture and salmon farming. We had tried earlier to book places on one of the tours, but unfortunately they were booked out for a week in advance.

The enigmatic *Salmon Eye* near Rosendal.

Bergen has the reputation of being the wettest city in Norway, with apparently more than 230 rainy days in a year. It is an old Hanseatic City, being part of the vast Northern European trading network in the 13^th century. In fact, it was one of four headquarters outside the main one in Lübeck, but was run mainly by German merchants who were not permitted to intermarry with Norwegians. The Hanseatic League declined in the 15^th century, but still continued in Bergen in a reduced form right up to 1899, when its offices there closed. By this time, descendants of the German merchants had integrated with the local population. Hanseatic warehouses still line the waterfront around the Bryggen.

Former Hanseatic warehouses on the Bryggen waterfront.

We seem to have struck one of the 130 days that it is not raining, in fact it is bright and sunny, and sweltering. And the tourists are out in force. There is a huge queue for the Fløibanen funicular railway up to the Fløyen viewpoint over the city.

Queue for the Fløibanen funicular railway.

“I can’t be bothered to wait for this”, says the First Mate. “Come on, we need some exercise. We should walk up rather than taking the funicular.”

We wend our way through the quaint little cobbled alleyways and steep staircases between impressive houses redolent of the old wealth of the old Hanseatic merchants, until we reach the cool, lush forest.

Ancient staircases in the old part of Bergen.

From time to time we cross the funicular railway, feeling slightly smug that we are taking the real way up, not the wimps way.

Finally we reach the Fløyen viewpoint, and the whole city and harbour spread out below us, nestled between the seven hills and seven fjords.

“Look, you can see Ruby Tuesday from here”, I say, pointing to the harbour area. “At least, you can see her mast, as her hull is hidden below the wharf.”

“Let’s have some lunch”, says the First Mate. “I’ve packed some sandwiches. Why don’t you go and get two coffees from that kiosk over there?”

“Don’t eat all the sandwiches yourself when I am away”, I joke. “You might start looking like that chap sitting at the next table!”

The elderly man looks at the wares on offer in the Fish Market. He isn’t a great one for seafood. Too many bones to choke on, and all that effort to get the tiny amount of meat out of the crab legs is hardly worth it. Give him a good plate of roast beef, roast potatoes, carrots and peas all smothered in gravy any day. You couldn’t go wrong with that. But there was a vibrancy about the market that he liked. The fishermen unloading their catch at the quayside, the farmers arranging their produce, the shouts of the vendors trying to attract customers, the bustle of the crowds – those looking for bargains, or the merely curious. All of life is here. And had been since the 1200s, if his companion Mr Fairlie was to be believed.

He walks further, finds the Post Office, and asks if there has been any mail left for him, showing his passport. There are a few letters and a newspaper from friends back in Ayrshire, but nothing from Meg. Or the rest of the family, for that matter. He feels a pang of disappointment, it would have been nice to know how things were back at the Manse.

And Thomas out in New Zealand. With sadness, he knew that he would probably never see his son again. But at least he wrote home every three months or so. It didn’t seem an easy life he had out there. The farm that he had bought didn’t seem to be on the best of land, and needed hard work to clear the native bush. And there were the vagaries of the market for him to deal with too – he was finding out the hard way that if he followed everyone else in planting a particular crop, the prices would fall because of the surplus. He wondered what sort of woman his newly-married wife was. She had presented him with a son soon enough. His grandson. He would never see him, but at least he would keep the line going. He thought sometimes of future generations. Would they ever be interested in who he was and what he did?

“I’ll just walk up to the shop and collect the mail”, I say to the First Mate, back in the city again after our walk to the lookout. “I can meet you after that for an ice-cream.”

We had arranged for our mail to be posted in a large envelope to the Poste Restante in Bergen. Actually, it should have reached us while we were with our friends Ståle and Gunvor in Gjorvik, but it had arrived a few days after we left. They had kindly posted it on to Bergen. I am half-expecting a post office building, but it turns out to be in a corner of a busy Extra supermarket.

A young man with a ponytail and beard appears from behind a cupboard. He enters the code I have been given.

“Ah, yes”, he says. “It arrived yesterday. Here we are. Do you have some ID?”

He finds it quickly on one of the shelves. I open the envelope. Not much of importance – just bank statements, bills, and various other bits of officialese.

“We need to change more over to using email”, says the First Mate later. “It would be good if we could cut out our snail mail completely. It’s always a bit of a hassle trying to work out where we are going to be in a couple of weeks. Not to mention the delays that we had this time.”

It had taken almost two weeks for the mail to be sent from the UK to Norway, and a further few days for it to arrive in Bergen. Another benefit of Brexit, no doubt.

On the way back from the Post Office, he stops at the Domkirke. A bit grander than his own church back home. But then it is the episcopal seat of the diocese. He is particularly impressed by the rococo interiors which had been returned to their medieval glory by the renowned Norwegian architects, Christie and Blix, just a few years ago. They had done a good job. He wondered if they would come to Scotland and renovate his church as well.

The next morning, I ring the sail repair company about fixing the VHF aerial.

“Ah yes, I remember”, says the girl who answers the phone. “But the rigger who will do the job is going on holiday tomorrow. If you can make it by 1400 today, he will try and do it this afternoon for you.”

It is about 11 miles by sea to their yard at Litlebergen. We can make it, but it means that we have to ditch our plans to explore the rest of Bergen and leave now.

“We had better do it”, says the First Mate. “We need to have it fixed. We have already seen a bit of Bergen yesterday, and we can always come another time and see the rest. Perhaps on the way back.”

We frantically prepare everything to leave. Fifteen minutes later, we slip the lines and head out of the harbour. The wind is just enough off the bow to allow us to sail close-hauled.

“We need to go under a bridge with 22 m clearance to get to their harbour”, I say. “Otherwise we will have to go the long way round. We normally allow 20 m for our height, but then there is the tide to consider. I reckon we are close to high tide now, which will add another metre. Shall we give it a go?”

“I guess we have to”, says the First Mate. “But be very careful. Take it slowly.”

We reach the bridge. From down on the boat, it looks as if the mast won’t fit under. It always does. But in this case, there isn’t much room for error. I slow down and edge our way forward. Visions of the mast hitting the bridge and crashing down on top of us enter my mind. I decide to look straight ahead and trust that my figures are correct.

Somehow we manage it, and are on the other side. We tie up to the outer pontoon in the small harbour, with a few minutes to spare before 1400. I look around to see if I can see a riggery looking person, who might be waiting for us.

“What would a riggery sort of person actually look like?”, asks the First Mate.

“It’s not a proper word”, I explain. “I just used it because I liked the sound of it. But I suppose he would be thin and wiry, with thick black hair.”

Ten minutes later a man appears. He is thin, wiry, and has black hair.

“Hi, I am Piotr”, he says. “Are you the ones needing their VHF aerial to be repaired?”

His accent doesn’t sound Norwegian.

“I am originally from Poland”, he explains. “But I have been here for 12 years. I like it, but it is expensive – I actually live on my boat over there to cut the cost of accommodation. But even Poland is becoming more expensive now – they are catching up with the rest of Europe. Anyway, let’s look at this aerial.”

I show him the drone shots I took of it.

“Ah, it looks a lot simpler than I thought it might be”, he says. “I think that it is only the securing nut that has come loose. I should be able to fix that in no time.”

He puts on his climbing gear. Soon he is climbing to the top of the mast. Twenty minutes later he is down again.

“All done”, he says. “Just the restraining nut had come loose, or hadn’t been put on properly in the first place. Should be OK now.”

While he is untying himself from his ropes, we ask him if he is going anywhere nice for his holidays.

“Just to the south of Norway”, he answers. “But it’s half work and half holiday. I am actually a juggler in my spare time, and I have been asked to perform at a few summer festivals.”

Somehow it seems to fit. I imagine he might be a dab hand on the trapeze as well.

The next day, it rains heavily the whole day.

“We’ll just have to stay put”, the First Mate. “I don’t really want to sail if it is like this. The scenery is so beautiful on a sunny day and I don’t want to miss any of it. It’s supposed to be better tomorrow.”

A family of ducks swims past the window, their bills in the water, feeding as they go.

“I don’t mind”, I say. “I can work on the blog and do a few boaty jobs.”

The ducks swim past again, going in the opposite direction.

“I am going to make a coffee”, says the First Mate mid-morning. “Do you want a cup of tea?”

Back swim the ducks.

“Do you think that ducks have a sense of humour?”, I ask at lunch time.

“Which ducks?”, she asks, giving me one of her withering looks.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the ducks flying off southwards.

“Never mind”, I say.

“Are you all right?”, she asks, looking at me carefully. “You haven’t got cabin fever, have you?”

A long tunnel, a retreating glacier, and a preserved manor house

Posted on July 13, 2025 by Ruby Tuesday

“It’s incredible the amount of work that must have been done to drill this tunnel through the mountain”, says the First Mate. “And to think that we are going right underneath a glacier.”

We are on the bus to the town of Odda at the head of Hardanger fjord. We had left Haugesund the day before, and had had a pleasant sail with favourable winds up the Hardanger fjord, arriving in the picturesque village of Rosendal in the evening. This morning we had caught the bus and snaked our way along the coastline until the mountain sides had become so steep that the road had had to take other measures to continue.

“Yes, the Folgefonna Tunnel”, I say. “It’s more than 11 km long. That’s a lot of rock to move.”

We eventually emerge from the tunnel, our eyes blinking as they adjust to the light. Initial impressions are not positive. The first thing we see is a huge industrial complex on a small island in the middle of the fjord. It turns out that it is a Boliden zinc smelter.

“You might have thought that they could have sited it somewhere it can’t be seen”, sniffs the First Mate. “Such beautiful scenery, and to be spoilt by this eyesore.”

“I suppose they needed to have somewhere near the water so that things could be shipped in and out”, I say. “And for the hydro-electric power to drive the plant.”

The bus arrives in the town centre and we clamber out.

“It’s lunch time”, I say. “There’s a small café over there. What about that?”

—–

The elderly gentleman picks up his pen, dips it in the inkwell, and begins to write.

“My dear Meg”, he starts. “Here at Odda since yesterday afternoon …”

Poor Meg. His eldest daughter. The others had all flown the nest, but not her. It had always been a puzzle to him as to why she had never found a husband. Educated, attractive, one would have thought the young men would have been queuing up. He had even used his influence to obtain a place for her as a governess with a wealthy family in the south of Scotland. But she had remained resolutely single. No grandchildren from her. However, every cloud has a silver lining, he thinks – he enjoyed having her around the Manse, helping with parish matters. She was good at it. And it meant that he could have this break and get away to see another part of the world.

He had enjoyed the cruise so far. The sail down the Firth of Forth from Edinburgh had been calm and pleasant. Despite this, he had felt queasy when they had reached the open sea, and had retired early. The next day hadn’t been much better, so he had dosed himself up with whisky and water and had another early night. On the third day, he had almost recovered and had stood on deck admiring the entrance to the Hardangerfjord before breakfast. Since then, he had been feeling as good as ever. So much so, that when they had arrived in Odda at the top of the fjord that afternoon, he had taken a ride in a stolkjarre up to Lake Sandvinvatnet and had seen two waterfalls, the Vidfoss and the Hildalfoss, and, across the lake, the mighty Folgefonna Glacier.

—–

“Come on”, I say, picking up the bill and going to pay. “Let’s get moving. There’s a nice walk along the river that will take us up to the lake.”

“Ready when you are”, says the First Mate. “By the way, what is a stolkjarre?”

“It’s a small two-wheeled horse-drawn buggy just enough for two people with a driver sitting up behind”, I answer. “They were common in Norway before cars arrived.”

As we head towards the river, we notice an outdoor exhibition of Knut Knudsen, a renowned Norwegian photographer born in Odda. He had made his name in the last half of the 19^th century taking photographs of local landscapes, his work making a major contribution to the growing sense of a Norwegian national consciousness.

“Look, there’s one of a steamship anchored in the bay just where we came in”, shouts the First Mate. “That could have been the one that your great-great-grandfather was on.”

Steamship anchored at Odda (by Kurt Knudsen, date unknown). No zinc smelter!

It had become fashionable in Britain in the late 19^th century for those that could afford it to take advantage of the growing number of steamship companies to tour the fjords of Norway. My great-great-grandfather had taken one in 1889, and luckily had written letters back to his eldest daughter Meg describing his trip. Even more luckily, these letters had found their way down the generations to us. We had decided over the winter to follow as much of his trip as possible during our own voyage.

We follow the river crashing and tumbling over the rocks, and eventually reach Lake Sandvinvatnet. We stand in wonder looking at the same scene that my great-great-grandfather had seen 136 years previously. To the left are the two waterfalls he mentions. But no glacier!

“You need to walk around the western shore of the lake”, the woman in the Visitor Information had told us. “To a small hamlet called Jordal. The glacier doesn’t come down as far as it used to, but you can see it from there.”

Sure enough, at the head of the valley, we see the mighty river of ice topping the rock like icing on a cake.

The Buarbreen arm of Folgefonna Glacier from Jordal.

“It’s hard to believe that when my great-great-grandfather was here in 1889, that he would have seen much more of it than we are seeing it now”, I say, as we walk back to Odda. “Proof of climate change, if ever one was needed.”

In the morning, we visit the museum in Rosendal. First up there is a film on how the Hardangerfjord was formed.

“Its geological history starts about 400 million years ago”, we learn. “Then, the three continental land masses of Laurentia, Baltica and Avalonia all collided with each other, resulting in the pushing up of mountains from the southern part of the United States right across to Scotland and Norway, with younger rocks being forced underneath the older rocks. In Norway, this created a huge fault along what is now the Hardanger fjord, with the oldest rocks generally on the south-east side and the younger rocks on the north-west side.”

“It’s pretty amazing, isn’t it?”, whispers the First Mate in my ear. “I am glad I wasn’t around when all these collisions were going on. Think of the insurance!”

“Over time, water eroded this fault line, weakening it”, the film continues. “When the Ice Ages came, glaciers formed in this huge fissure, grinding it and scouring it as they moved slowly down towards the sea. Eventually the ice started to melt, with meltwater running under the ice and further gouging out the fissure, resulting in fjords that were around 1000 m deep. Sediments from the erosion filled in some of this, so that the Hardangerfjord is now around 800 m deep for much of its length.”

It’s fascinating stuff. It’s difficult to imagine the power of the processes that can move massive amounts of rock around like sand in a sandpit, sculpting new landscapes as they go. Albeit very, very slowly.

Undersea topography of the Hardangerfjord (from fjords.com)

“I am glad you enjoyed it”, says the friendly lady at the Visitor Information Office. “Now, the other place you should visit while you are here is the Rosendal Baroneit, a 17^th century manor house. It’s just a short walk from here. You can’t miss it.”

We walk up the road to the east of the village, and eventually find a tree-lined avenue.

“We do guided tours in both Norwegian and English”, says the young man at the ticket booth at the gate. “But unfortunately there is only one tour left today, and it is in Norwegian. But perhaps if you ask the guide nicely, and if the other people agree, he might do it in English.”

We’re in luck. No-one objects.

“We actually prefer English”, says one woman as an aside to the First Mate. “My parents are visiting us from Kazakhstan and they speak more English than Norwegian.”

“Back in the 1600s, there was once a Danish nobleman by the name of Ludwig Rosenkrantz who married the richest heiress in Norway, Karen Mowat”, the guide tells us. “The couple were given the farm as a wedding present from her father, who had more than 500 farms in western Norway. They decided that they liked it so they built the manor house. It was finished in 1665. Shortly after Rosenkrantz was awarded a baronetcy by the King of Denmark, Christian V, the only one of its kind in Norway.”

He takes us through to the library. Ancient tomes line the walls.

“I wonder if anyone has read them all?”, whispers the First Mate. “Or do you think they are just there to impress people?”

“Titles were abolished in Norway in 1821”, the guide continues. “Title holders were allowed to keep and pass on their assets, and keep using their titles for their own lifetimes. But the title ceased when they died and no new ones were allowed to be created. The house remained in private ownership until the 1920s, when it was donated to the University of Oslo. Now it is preserved as a museum of an important part of Norway’s cultural history.”

We are taken through each room in turn – bedrooms, dining rooms, drawing rooms, ballrooms, ladies rooms, and the more mundane kitchens.

“Well, you certainly get an idea of how the other half lived”, says the First Mate. “It has a certain appeal. You know, one of my wishes when I was younger was to have a house with a turret.”

“Perhaps we can have one built”, I say. “Then I could lock you in it like Rapunzel.”

“Well, that is the end of the tour”, says the guide. “I hope that you enjoyed it. While you are here, I suggest that you see the gardens. They are supposed to be the finest Victorian gardens in Norway. The roses are especially beautiful.”

“You’ll never guess who I have just had a message from”, says the First Mate checking her phone as we walk home. “Simon and Louise. They have just arrived. They saw on their AIS that we were here, and thought that they would pop in too. I’ll invite them in for a café und kuchen.”

“There are strong winds and rain forecast for tomorrow”, explains Simon. “This looks like a good place to sit them out.”

The café und kuchen leads to dinner, where the conversation turns to the state of the world.

“You know, I can’t understand why we haven’t evolved beyond wars and strife by now”, says Simon. We all know that they are evil and unnecessary, yet we still seem to have them. Why?”

“Ah, you must subscribe to the Enlightenment idea of continual human progress”, I say. “Human affairs are always supposed to keep improving. The Stephen Pinker idea. I used to too, but after reading too much of John Gray and looking at what’s going on in the world, I am having second thoughts.”

“But you would think that any political system that was predisposed to wage war would ruin its economy so much that it couldn’t survive and would get weeded out”, he replies. “Just like unsuccessful reproductive strategies in biology.”

“It’s an interesting point”, I say. “But I am not sure that human affairs work like that. Look at the Roman Empire and most other empires in history. They were able to keep expanding because the countries that they conquered and bought under their control provided food and men for them to keep expanding. That was able to keep going for quite a long time, but eventually the costs of administering such a large empire outweighed the benefits and it collapsed. A bit the same with the British Empire.”

“But why haven’t we learnt from history that that is what happens in the end, and just not bother”, says the First Mate. “WW2 showed us that war and empire building was pointless, and that if we had a system of rules that applied to all countries big or small, then we would all benefit. So for the last 70 years or so, we have had peace in Europe and everyone has prospered.”

“Unfortunately, our current leaders seem to have lost sight of that”, says Louise. “There seems to be a move back to the authoritarianism that we saw in the 1930s.”

“It’s an interesting question”, says Spencer later over a nightcap. “Whether you humans should evolve towards greater cooperation rather than warfare, I mean. I think that It is all about raw power and prestige, and not really about devising better systems. Your leaders always want to leave a legacy that gives them prestige in the history books. If they believe they have the power to achieve that, then they will try and do it. Putin has visions of being a second Peter the Great in reunifying the old Soviet Empire, but it looks like he might have overestimated his power to do it. Trump seems to want an American Empire of the USA, Canada, Mexico and Greenland. It remains to be seen if either has the real power to achieve either of those aims.”

“The Law of the Jungle”, I say with a sigh. “Survival of the Strongest.”

Our first fjord, midsummer revelries, and a national foundation story

Posted on July 5, 2025 by Ruby Tuesday

“There’s another boat coming in”, calls the First Mate, as she ties us to the wooden quay. “I think it’s the one that was following us all the way up the fjord.”

We are in the small hamlet of Flørli near the head of Lysefjord, the first of the five large fjords of Norway. Yesterday, we had set sail from Tananger and had anchored overnight in a small bay called Vikavagen just inside the fjord entrance, and carried on up this morning.

We had spotted the incoming boat first on the AIS, and since then we had kept an eye on it with the binoculars. As it approaches the quay, we see that is flying a French flag and that there are four young lads on it.

“One of them has a console in his hands”, says the First Mate. “Is he really playing games while the others are tying up?”

“I think it is a drone”, I say. “He’s probably videoing themselves coming in to the quay.”

Sure enough, we soon hear the high-pitched sound of a drone overhead. It hovers behind the boats tied up.

“I am taking a photo of you”, the drone pilot calls out. ”I’ll give you a copy. Smile!”

“We are all students on our gap year”, Drone Pilot tells us later as he transfers the photos to my phone by AirDrop. “We decided to do something different, so as we all like sailing, we bought the boat in August, spent a bit of time kitting her out, and set sail in October. We sailed down to Madeira, then across to the Caribbean, then back again. Then we sailed up to the Baltic, saw a bit of Sweden, and now we are doing Norway. After we get to Bergen, we want to sail across to Scotland before heading home again.”

There is an irrepressible enthusiasm in his voice that I find myself envying. What would I give to be young again, I think. Fit and strong, no aches and pains, no worries, no responsibilities, doing something exciting, and the whole of life stretching out in front.

“Come on”, says the First Mate. “You’ve done pretty well for yourself in terms of excitement.”

After a cup of tea, we visit the small museum in the old power station at the end of the quay.

Flørli village with the power-station and penstock on the left.

It was built in 1918, we learn, to bring water from the mountain lake Flørvatnet 740 m above sea-level through a penstock to the power station and its generators. At first, it was hoped that the power would be used by a steelworks, but the steel market collapsed globally and the steel company went bankrupt. Eventually the power station ended up supplying electricity to Stavanger city, until 1999 when a new power station was built inside the mountain. Now this one is derelict.

“Did you read about the small railway line they constructed when they were building it?”, asks the First Mate. “Apparently one of the trolleys got away on them and started careering down the mountain with nine people on board. Luckily they all managed to throw themselves off and the trolley kept on going and sank in the fjord.”

“They also built a set of wooden steps so that the workers could walk up”, I say. “Apparently one pair of brothers used to carry packs of up to 135 kg of materials on their backs up these steps. Quite a feat. Nowadays, the wooden stairway has been restored and you can climb to the top. There are 4,444 steps, the longest wooden staircase in the world. Shall we do it?”

“I don’t think my knee is up to it”, says the First Mate. “And it’s just been raining. The steps are too slippery.”

When we get back to the boat, we discover that the wash from the high-speed passenger ferry has caused her to pitch up and down violently, and the anchor locker lid has been damaged by the anchor hitting the quay.

“It happens all the time”, says Tom, our German neighbour. “You need to make sure you are not tied too closely to the quay. You can use another rope to pull the boat closer when you want to get on and off.”

“Why can’t the ferry just slow down, so there is not so much wash?”, says the First Mate, irritated. “Now we’ll have to repair it.”

We set off the next morning back down the fjord. There’s no wind, but the sun is shining, and it looks stunning.

On the way, we pass the famous Preikestolen, a slab of rock shaped like a church pulpit jutting out from the cliff, 600 m up. Already we can see people on top having their photographs taken near the edge. We hadn’t been able to see it on the way up because of the low cloud and mist.

In the evening, we reach Finnesandbukta on the island of Mosterøy, and tie up next to a wooden ship. It has a plate with the name Restauration on its stern.

“It’s a replica of the ship that sailed from Stavanger to New York in 1825, two hundred years ago, carrying immigrants to America, mostly Quakers”, our neighbour tells us. “It has become sort of an icon of Norwegian immigrants to America. They are planning to repeat the voyage in two weeks’ time, leaving on July 4^th. Of course, this one makes use of all the modern navigational equipment.”

The *Restauration* being prepared for its voyage to America.

“I hope that their visas and everything are in order”, I say. “You hear of people having all sorts of trouble at the US border these days.”

“Funny you should say that”, he answers, smiling. “The original ship contravened American law by having too many immigrants on board for its size, so the company was fined, the ship confiscated, and the captain arrested when they arrived. But when President John Quincy Adams heard about it, he rescinded all of these. The immigrants were allowed to settle and became known as ‘sloopers’.”

After lunch, we borrow some bicycles from the nearby hotel and cycle up to Utstein Kloster, a medieval monastery. Originally a royal estate during Viking times, the monastery was established in the 1200s. After the Reformation in 1537, it was turned into a bailiff’s residence, and is now a museum and concert venue. It is the only monastery that has been preserved in Norway.

I sit in the courtyard and pretend I am a monk. The bees are buzzing in the flower garden, the birds are singing in the trees nearby, there is the smell of soup and freshly baked bread coming from the refectory. I think that I would quite like it.

Utstein Kloster, Norway’s only preserved medieval monastery.

We set sail the next morning, heading for Haugesund. Soon we are in the Karmsund Strait, the official start of the ancient North Way trading route from which Norway derives its name. To our left is the island of Karmøy, and to the right the Norwegian mainland. The wind is just enough off head-on for us to sail close-hauled, albeit slowly. Just as we pass the rather industrial-looking town of Kopervik with its massive aluminium smelting works, there is a ping on the First Mate’s phone.

“We’re right behind you”, the message says.

We turn around. It is Simon and Louise, whom we hadn’t seen since the foraging session in Smögen.

“We had planned to stay the night in Kopevik”, they tell us later. “But we found it so depressing there that we decided to carry straight on to Haugesund. Then imagine our surprise when we saw Ruby Tuesday on our AIS just in front of us!”

They motor on slowly to Haugesund. We decide to continue by sail as we are enjoying the sunny weather and don’t feel we are in a hurry. They arrive a bit before us.

“The harbour is completely full because of the midsummer revelries”, Simon radios us. “There is half a place next to us, but it has an iron girder sticking up out of the water, so there is a risk that you might hit it, especially if there is a strong wind.”

It doesn’t sound very appealing. The First Mate does a quick scan on her phone of other possibilities to tie up. It seems that there is a community pontoon on the nearby island of Vibrandsøy. We motor slowly over to it. It is full with small motor boats. No room for us.

“Let’s tie up against these tyres, and review the situation”, I say. “I am sure no-one will mind.”

Two elderly gentlemen approach. We eye them warily, expecting them to tell us that we can’t tie up here. But we needn’t have worried.

“As far as we are concerned, it’s fine to stay there”, one says. “But there are strong winds forecast for tomorrow, and it is a bit exposed there. There is a better place against the white boatshed around the corner. If you like, we’ll meet you around there and help you tie up.”

We motor around the corner. It is right next to the community pontoon. The two men appear, grab our ropes, and attach them to rings embedded in the concrete at each end of the shed. But our euphoria at having a place to stay overnight turns to dismay when we realise that there is no way off the boat as the boathouse doors are blocking our exit.

The two men look perplexed.

“We’ll try and make room for you on the community pontoon”, one says.

They push and pull the motorboats around until there is enough space for Ruby Tuesday on one side. We tie up. This time we can step off easily.

Tied up at the community pontoon on Vibrandsøy. Haugesund in the background.

“You can stay here as long as you like”, they say. “By the way, we are having a small midsummer get-together which you are welcome to join if you like.”

It’s very kind of them. We have our dinner, and then clutching a bottle of wine, we amble over to the gathering of 30-40 people on the grassy area between the houses.

“We are a club dedicated to restoring and maintaining traditional wooden boats”, one of the men says. “By the way, my name is Svein. It’s a royal name from Viking times. I have been working on helping to restore that old ship over there. We are planning to sail it down to the Mediterranean when it is ready.”

He points to a wooden ship near the entrance to the harbour.

“You Norwegians have always been sea-adventurers”, I say. “From the Vikings themselves, to Nansen, and to Heyerdahl. Not to mention that boat being restored at Finnesandbukta. Apparently, they are sailing it to America in two weeks.”

“Ah, the Restauration”, says Svein. “Yes, I was helping with that as well. And there’s also a local lad who keeps on trying to get to Greenland from here, but he’s tried four times now and has had to turn back each time for various reasons.”

“You must mean Eric Anderaa”, I say in surprise. “I follow him from time to time on YouTube. He must be away on one of his voyages at the moment?”

“No, he is still here”, responds Svein. “His boat is over in the main harbour. I think he might have given up on Greenland. This year he is sailing to Edinburgh. I am not sure when.”

Eric Anderaa’s boat *Tessie* in Haugesund.

The next day, the midsummer celebrations are finished, and everyone has gone home. The main harbour is almost empty. We move Ruby Tuesday over to be closer to the city centre.

In the afternoon we take the 209 bus that takes us a few miles south from Haugesund to the small town of Avaldsnes, from where we walk the 1 km or so to the Norwegian Historical Centre and St Olav’s Church perched on a hill overlooking the Karmsund. We had seen the church from the boat as we had passed.

“You’re just in time”, says an enthusiastic girl dressed as a Viking. “The next tour starts soon. Quick, the introductory film is just about to start.”

We take a seat in the front row. The film describes the rise of the sækonungr, the sea-kings, in the mid-700s – a coastal elite who did not own much land because of the inheritance system of the established manors and estates on the fertile inland areas passing only to the eldest sons. Instead, these sækonungr lived by using the infertile coastal islands to control maritime traffic, especially the trade in furs, down, walrus ivory, and whetstones from the Arctic. They gradually became wealthy in their own right, concentrating political power to themselves.

“Avaldsnes was named after one of these early sækonungr called Augvald”, the film tells us. “He had his seat of power here because the Karmsund narrows made it easy to control and tax ships passing through.”

“Later, another of these sækonungr was buried in the Great Mound here in AD 779. We don’t know for sure who it was, but it was possibly either Hjorleif the Woman-Lover or his son Half Hjorleifson. Not long after that the Viking raids on Western Europe began – the first raid on Lindisfarne monastery in the UK was in AD 793.”

The film ends, and we explore the museum. We learn of Harald Fairhair who won the Battle of Hafrsfjord in AD 872 against his main adversaries and in so doing unified the whole of Norway under one ruler. He chose Avaldsnes as his seat of power.

“I read that Harald Fairhair is a big deal for Norwegians, as he gave them justification and a sense of identity when they became independent”, I say. “It’s their foundation story.”

Unfortunately, it seems that modern scholarship has cast doubt on whether he even existed. Most of what we think we know about him comes from the Icelandic Sagas, which are not known to be terribly accurate in the details.

“Look, it says on this panel that the church outside is generally thought to have been built by Olaf Tryggvason, who forcibly converted people to Christianity by the sword and became Olaf I of Norway”, says the First Mate. “Perhaps not surprisingly, he wasn’t well liked, and was eventually killed in a battle orchestrated by his third wife and King Svein Forkbeard of Denmark.”

“Marvellous names”, I think. “But if you live by the sword, you die by the sword.”

We decide to have a coffee at the cafeteria, and go and sit on a grassy mound outside. A sign tells us that it is the Cellar Mound. It seems that Augvald, the original king that gave his name to Avaldsnes, worshipped a favourite cow that gave him good luck in battle, so the two were buried in adjacent mounds when they died. The story goes that when Olaf Tryggvason opened the mounds, sure enough he found human bones in one, and cow bones in the other.

Olaf Tryggvason finding the remains of Augvald in the mound.

“It certainly makes a good story”, says the First Mate.

Ruby Tuesday

Catch your dreams before they slip away

Monthly Archives: July 2025

Two royal statues, an iconic church, and a hotel with a view

A Nordic Hanseatic city, letters from home, and a repaired radio aerial

A long tunnel, a retreating glacier, and a preserved manor house

Our first fjord, midsummer revelries, and a national foundation story