A remote archipelago, a friendly doctor, and farewell to a king

Posted on October 4, 2026 by Ruby Tuesday

“Ruby Tuesday, Ruby Tuesday, Ruby Tuesday”, says the VHF radio suddenly. “This is sailing yacht Morwenna. I’m just in front of you. Are you receiving?”

We are just in the process of leaving Sandviksberget harbour, where we had spent a couple of nights waiting out strong winds, resting my ankle, and buying provisions for the next week. Now we are heading for the island of Halten, the northernmost island of the Froan archipelago just north of Trondheim, a passage of about 30 miles westwards from Sandviksberget. I had seen a boat crossing in front of us as we were leaving, but was too occupied avoiding the rocks at the harbour entrance to take much notice of it.

“Morwenna, this is Ruby Tuesday. Receiving”, I say.

“Ruby Tuesday, we haven’t met, but I think that I might have met people that you know”, says the VHF. “I’m James.”

We had heard of James several times from our sailing companions, Simon & Louise and others, but had not yet met him.

“I’m just going to stop for lunch in a little bay up ahead, then I am planning to sail over to the island of Halten”, he continues.

“That’s just where we are heading now”, I say. “We’ll meet over there. Enjoy your lunch.”

The wind is from the south-east, so once clear of the small rocks and skerries at the beginning, we enjoy a pleasant beam reach all the way to Halten. We arrive mid-afternoon and tie up to the single visitors’ pontoon underneath the lighthouse. A fishing boat is also there.

“We use this as our base”, the young skipper of the fishing boat tells us. “I was brought up on the island, but my family have now all moved to the mainland. We still have the house here, and still come every summer. But now all the summer residents have gone and it’s totally deserted apart from visitors like yourselves.”

“How’s the fishing been?”, I ask.

“Not too bad”, he answers. “We caught 1500 kg when we went out yesterday.”

I am amazed. That’s about 500 fish. Multiply that by all the boats out fishing, and it makes you wonder how there are any fish left.

“We have our quotas”, the skipper says, seeing my surprise. “They’ve worked out what each boat is allowed to take to make it sustainable.”

Morwenna arrives a couple of hours later. We give him a hand tying up.

“I just happened to see you on the AIS back there”, says James over a coffee. “We seem to have done a fairly similar trip this summer, and I have bumped into people who knew you, but we haven’t actually met, so that’s why I called you up.”

We had also seen the name Morwenna on our AIS occasionally, so it was good to put a face to a name.

“Are you sailing alone?”, asks the First Mate. “I thought I heard that your wife is with you?”

“Well, she was for part of the trip”, he says. “But her mother is not very well at the moment, so she wanted to go back and be with her. So I have been sailing single handed for the last few weeks.”

James turns out to be a retired doctor.

“You should get him to have a look at your ankle”, says the First Mate. “In the last episode you were wondering where on earth we might find a doctor around here. Well, here’s one.”

“Are you sure?”, I ask him. “You must get fed up with everyone asking you medical questions. You are supposed to be retired, not working!”

“It’s no problem”, he says with a smile. “It makes me feel that I can still be useful. Now roll up that trouser leg.”

He prods and kneads it for a few moments, every so often asking me whether it hurts.

“It’s difficult to tell”, he says eventually. “It’s certainly swollen a lot. It could be broken. Sometimes the ligament is torn from its attachment to the bone and might take a little bit of bone with it. You really need an X-ray to be sure. I would take it easy in the meantime, and go and see your doctor as soon as you get back.”

In the morning, we explore the island. It’s a ghost island. All the houses are empty.

We reach the main harbour, which is being carefully looked after by the resident population of kittiwakes.

The old fish-processing sheds seem to have been converted into a museum of former island life.

“I was just thinking of taking the boat out after lunch to that spot over there to do some fishing”, says James on the way back, pointing to the gap between two of the islands south of the entrance to the harbour. “Want to come?”

I grab my rod. We cast off and motor out through the narrow southern entrance of the harbour to the first of the two islands.

“Harley told me that it’s good fishing here”, says James. “He was here about a week ago.”

Harley was the Canadian that we had met briefly while in Myken a few weeks ago. It’s a small world, I think to myself. Eventually you meet up with everyone else.

“We sailed together for a while when we were in Lofoten”, says James. “He’s a keen fisherman. His philosophy is that if you don’t catch something in the first ten minutes then move on to somewhere else. It means that there is nothing there. I’ve been trying to practise that.”

The slight current drifts us slowly around the island. James catches a fish. It’s a saithe. I have no luck. Ten minutes are up.

“I’ll just motor over there”, he says, pointing to the second island. “Then we can have another go.”

This time it is better. I catch a couple of saithe and James catches a good sized pollack.

“At least we’ve got enough for dinner”, I say.

In the evening, the First Mate fries the pollack and makes a bearnaise sauce. It’s delicious.

The conversation turns to the UK National Health Service.

“It’s changed a lot since I was a young doctor”, says James. “There used to be time to get to know your patients and their families. Because you knew their health histories you could advise them on wider issues concerning their life, health and happiness. It was a more rounded way of treating them. Now, in the interests of efficiency, it’s all been reduced to 10 minute appointment slots. You only have time to treat them for whatever they have come in for. There’s no time to talk to them in depth about how they might lose weight, get more sleep or exercise, or stop smoking, for instance.”

“It’s true”, I say. “And they rotate around so quickly. I don’t go to the doctor very often, but when I do, I don’t think I have had the same doctor for a few years now. A different one every time. Of course, they can look up your medical history on their computer, but it’s not the same as knowing you personally for a long time.”

“What I don’t understand is why they don’t put more emphasis on prevention rather than cure”, says the First Mate. “Surely it must be cheaper in the long run to stop people from getting ill rather than treating them once they are ill?”

“It depends on what you are trying to prevent”, says James. “Certainly with things like giving up smoking that’s true. Stopping it reduces the risk of cancer, heart disease, strokes and respiratory illness. Educating people to stop it can be relatively inexpensive compared with treating the diseases it helps to prevent. And controlling high blood pressure and cholesterol levels can help prevent heart attacks and strokes.”

“I suppose the big problem is that the costs of prevention have to be paid for now”, I say. “Whereas the benefits only come much later down the line.”

“Exactly, and the benefits don’t always come to who paid the costs”, says James. “A local authority may pay for a prevention programme, but it may be the hospitals who benefit in the future through reduced patient admissions. And treating someone now is visible and can be quantified, whereas it is more difficult to do that for something that was prevented from happening. So it is complicated.”

“But to be fair, the government did advocate last year for a movement ‘from sickness to prevention’. But it is all a bit meaningless if doctors are under so much pressure that don’t have time for such things as offering advice on lifestyle or vaccination requirements.”

“I suppose Brexit didn’t help either?”, says the First Mate.

“Well, it certainly contributed”, replies James. “The number of doctors coming from the EU to work in Britain declined, but this was more than matched by the numbers coming from other countries, so the total number has actually increased since 2016. But the problem is that the demand for medical services has also increased over that time.”

It’s been an interesting conversation, and one that concerns us all. We tumble into bed hoping that there will be enough doctors if we need one.

We spent the next few days exploring the rest of the Froan island group south from Halten. Like Halten, the islands were traditionally home to bustling fishing communities, but most of them now have no permanent residents. Nevertheless, there are still large numbers of people that spend their summer holidays there, including former residents or their descendants. The islands have been designated as a bird reserve because of the significant breeding populations of eider ducks, European shags, and great cormorants, as well as the long-tailed ducks, common and yellow-billed loons, purple sandpipers, and black guillemots that overwinter there. Nutrient-rich kelp forests and shallow wetlands provide plenty of food for them.

Sauøya is one of the islands south of Halten. We decide to stop for lunch there and tie up to the old wharf. A number of houses are dotted around the small harbour, but again not a person is to be seen. A notice says that the last ferry for the summer was last week.

“We could go for a walk up to the church”, I say. “The harbour guide says that it was built in 1904. Apparently the islanders at that time were clamouring for their own church as the nearest one was on another island, Sletta, which was 30 km across open sea, and they were finding it difficult to get there, particularly in the winter. The local bigwigs, the Borthen family, raised the money, and the church was opened in 1904. Apparently 350 people attended the inaugural service, so it shows you just how many people lived on the island in those days.”

“Ah yes”, says the First Mate. “I was reading about the Borthen family. They first settled here in 1779, and ended up owning several of the Froan islands. They were the force behind the development of a lot of the fishing communities. And did you know that Sauøya apparently means Sheep Island, so it must have been where they grazed their sheep?”

A message has just come in on WhatsApp. It’s from James. He had left before us in the morning.

“I am just heading for Gjæsingen”, he says. “It’s the next harbour south from where you are. Apparently, there’s a pontoon there with power and water. I am thinking of staying the night there.”

Finishing our sandwiches, we push on. It’s not far, and soon we are approaching Gjæsingen.

“It’s tight, but if you just follow the poles in you should be OK”, says James via WhatsApp. “There is plenty of space on the pontoon.”

As we tie up, we spy a couple of people walking along the small road down to the harbour.

“Apparently there are three people who live here permanently”, says James, passing the stern line back to me. “Although I don’t know where they get their provisions from – there’s no shop. But there is a ferry from Dyrøy on the mainland, so I guess they must go there to stock up. There’s even a school here still, although it is more the community centre now, as there are no children to teach. It has a small café which is open during the summer months.”

“I still have a fish left of the ones that you two caught the other day”, says the First Mate. “Why don’t you come over to our boat for dinner again tonight, and we can finish it off?”

As we pick the last pieces of flesh from the bones, the sun decides to put on a performance for us to remember. For half an hour or so, rich gold, orange and red hues colour the western horizon, as though it is on fire. We sit and watch it, spellbound. Eventually it disappears for the night, and the cold descends.

“I have just been reminded of why I like to go sailing”, says James.

The winds remain from the south east in the morning, and we have a pleasant sail down to the next harbour, Mausund. A motorboat is just leaving, so we tie up in its place just behind Morwenna. The open jaws of some kind of fish look down at us from the nearby fish processing plant.

“Ugh”, says the First Mate. “It’s grotesque. I wonder what sort of fish it is?”

“I don’t know for sure”, says the owner of one of the motor-boaters tied up behind us. “I think it could be a wolf fish. Possibly an anglerfish. Either way it is pretty horrible. I wouldn’t like to meet one of those while I was swimming.”

We don’t disagree.

“Did you hear that King Harald has just died?”, says James, coming down the pontoon. “It’s just been announced.”

We hadn’t heard. But we knew that he had not enjoyed good health for some time, and that in the last few weeks had suffered from an infection of the bloodstream. I think back to the time that I had actually met him in Zambia while working on a Norwegian project, and had had to explain to him the work that we were doing out there. This was followed by lunch with him before he had boarded the small plane to fly back to Lusaka.

“I think you already mentioned that in the blog last year”, says the First Mate. “When we saw Queen Sonja’s house in Lillehammer Open Air Museum with Staale and Gunvor. Don’t repeat yourself.”

—-

It’s nearing the end of the season. We had sailed yesterday from Mausund to Hasselvika, where we had walked up to the ruins of the German fortifications guarding the entrance to Trondheimsfjord, and watched the ferry coming from Trondheim.

Now we are heading up Trondheimsfjord. It’s our last sail of the year. The wind is against us, so we need to tack from side to side of the fjord to make progress. But it is sunny and warm. Two harbour porpoises pass us. Hurry back, they say. It’s a fitting farewell to a stunning part of the world.

We spend the next few days preparing Ruby Tuesday for the winter. She is lifted out by crane and placed on cradles. We drain the engine oil and change the fuel and oil filters, pack and stow away the bimini, sprayhood and cockpit tent. The fresh water system and boiler are drained to avoid damage from freezing. We cover the whole boat with tarpaulins to protect her from the snow.

“Don’t forget that you have an appointment at the police station in Trondheim this week to pick up your Temporary Resident’s Permit”, says the First Mate at the weekend.

“It’s on Thursday”, I reply. “We can get the bus in to the railway station and walk from there. It’s very close.”

In the afternoon, I get an email from the Police Station telling me that my appointment has been postponed for two weeks as King Harald’s funeral is on the Thursday and they are closed. The problem with the new date is that it is after our flight home.

“You had better try and contact them to see of they have any other slots before we leave”, says the First Mate. “But it was difficult enough getting this one, wasn’t it? I won’t hold my breath.”

I send them an email. The next morning, there is a response in my inbox saying that there is a slot this afternoon if I can manage it. I look at my watch. I have a couple of hours to get there.

“You’ll just have to drop everything that you had planned for today and go and get it”, says the First Mate. “You need it to get out of the country. You wouldn’t want to have to spend the winter here in jail, would you?”

A beach cleaner, the problems of wealth, and a coal-fired lighthouse

Posted on September 27, 2026 by Ruby Tuesday

“I guess you are going off to work?”, says the First Mate to the young chap clambering off the boat tied up in front of us.

We are in the harbour at Rørvik, preparing to continue our voyage south.

“Well, I am already at work at the moment”, he responds with a smile. “I work for an organisation called “In the Same Boat”. It’s a non-profit organisation dedicated specifically to countering marine rubbish. We use sailing boats as mobile bases to take teams of volunteers around the coast to clean up remote beaches, and are also involved in raising public awareness and educating people how to minimise the rubbish they throw into the sea. Our focus is mostly plastic pollution from the fishing industry – it’s very bad for the environment as it breaks up into very small fragments called microplastics, which enter the human food chain when marine creatures eat them. I’m sure you’ve heard about them? So far we have removed more than 1,800 tonnes of waste.”

“Impressive”, I say. “Who funds you? The government?”

“Unfortunately not”, he answers. “It’s mostly private individuals and some companies. We’re always on the lookout for new sources of funding, though. Luckily we have teams of very enthusiastic volunteers – I am just off now to buy some provisions and collect my group for the day. Then we’ll be heading out to one of the islands.”

“It’s very admirable”, says the First Mate after he has gone. “To see them so enthusiastic doing something about the environment.”

We sail from Rørvik into a light south-west wind, heading for the island of Sør-Gjæslingan 17 miles southwest of the town. At first progress is slow, but after about an hour or so the wind picks up, and we have an enjoyable close-hauled run on a smooth sea.

“That must be the Gjæslingan Lighthouse”, I say, pointing to a building perched on one of the skerries as we approach the archipelago. “According to the guide, it was built in 1877, and fully automated more than a hundred years later in 1987. No-one lives there any more. It is still operating, but I suspect not many people use the pier these days.”

Now we are heading directly into the wind, so I start the engine for the last mile or so. It’s quite a complicated entrance, so I want to take it carefully. The last thing we want to do at this stage is hit a rock.

We follow the poles marking the edges of the narrow entry channel, semi-submerged rocks sliding past menacingly just metres from our hull. At one point the depth is just one metre under the keel, not a lot of room for error. But we somehow make it through to the guest pontoon and tie up.

Carefully wending our way through the rocks.

“Phew, I’m glad that’s over”, I say, breathing out. “I could see the bottom in several places, it was so shallow.”

“There’s supposed to be a small shop here”, says the First Mate. “Let’s try and find it. We have to pay the harbour fees there. And we also need some milk.”

We find the small path leading away from the pontoon towards the neighbouring island. The strains of Mozart’s Clarinet Concerto in A major reach us from one of the houses along the way. It turns out to be a man listening to the radio while sunning himself on the small deck in front of the house. A ginger cat stretches languidly, regards us curiously, and goes back to sleep.

“Do you live here?”, says the First Mate. It’s not clear if she is talking to the man or the cat.

“Yes, I do”, the man replies, stroking the cat. “I was a fisherman, but I retired several years ago. It’s very quiet here now, particularly in winter. During its heyday in the early 1900s, there were around 5000 people on the island. Mostly fishermen, after the cod. Almost as big as Lofoten, by all accounts. You can see the racks where they dried the fish over there. The men would come and build rorbu – fishermen’s huts – to live in while they were here for the summer. They were pretty basic and unhygienic, until women came to settle there. They made things a bit more civilised!”

“Then in the 1930s, the number of cod declined, and with it, the number of fishermen”, he continues. “Then in the 1970s, the government pursued centralisation policies to get people to move to the mainland, so the population collapsed completely. Now there are only about three or four people who live here permanently. And all old, like myself.”

“We’ve heard several stories about how all these islands became depopulated in the sixties and seventies because of that government policy”, I say. “I suppose there was some kind of logic to it at the time, but from our standpoint now, it clearly was a disaster.”

“We’re looking for the shop”, interrupts the First Mate. “Are we on the right track?”

“Just over there”, he points. “Opposite the yellow house. But I am not sure they are open. They normally close at one.”

On the way, we stop to look at a memorial stone to the fishermen who had died in storms while out fishing – 210 fishermen in 1625 and 31 in 1906.

Just as we reach the shop, a door in the yellow house suddenly opens and a man with a beard hurries across the road clutching a bunch of keys.

“I heard that you were coming, so I can open specially”, he says. “It’s no bother. Now, what was it you wanted again? Milk, wasn’t it?”

Clearly, the village telegraph has been active.

“Yes, and to pay the harbour fees”, says the First Mate. “Oh, and we’ll have an ice-cream each too. A pistachio and a chocolate, please. Do you live here?”

“I am actually an employee of the KystMuseet in Rørvik”, the Man with the Beard answers. “But I come here every summer to run the shop and organise the volunteers that come to keep the islands tidy.”

“How come the KystMuseet does that?”, I ask.

“Well, after everyone left in the 1970s, the local municipality decided to preserve the island for posterity and make it available for tourism”, he says. “The museum has the responsibility for maintaining the facilities and managing the accommodation. It gets quite busy here in the summer with the tourists. And a lot of the families who used to live here kept their houses, did them up, and now use them as summer cottages.”

“Yes, everyone in Norway seems to have a summer cottage”, says the First Mate. “You Norwegians certainly seem pretty well off.”

“Well, it’s clearly because of the oil”, says the Man with the Beard. “We do have a lot of money, but it hasn’t always been good for the country. It distorts all the other sectors. It’s what economists refer to as ‘Dutch disease’. Apparently, when the Dutch discovered gas in their part of the North Sea in the 1960s, the revenue they got from that caused a decline in the manufacturing sector by increasing wages and making those other exports too expensive to sell abroad. We have a similar problem, although we have got around it to some extent by focusing on making things where labour is a small part of the cost, and can also be easily automated. Things like equipment for the oil and gas sectors, fishing, aquaculture, ship building, and so on. But anything that is labour-intensive is very expensive here. In the 1960s, it used to be that materials were expensive and labour was cheap, now it’s the other way around.”

The First Mate discusses the Wealth of Nations.

“Yes, we’ve noticed that eating out here is an example of that”, I say. “We almost have to take out a mortgage to go to a restaurant. “

“That’s why we are getting a lot of people from Eastern Europe and elsewhere coming to Norway to work in the hospitality and cleaning sectors”, the Man with the Beard responds. “Norwegians don’t want to do that sort of work as they can earn more money doing something else, but people from eastern Europe are happy to do it as it is more than they would earn in their home countries. Restaurant owners are also happy to pay them a bit less than they would have to pay a native Norwegian, as they can keep costs down.”

“Has this caused an anti-immigration feeling in Norway?”, asks the First Mate.

“Not so much as in Sweden”, he says. “Most Norwegians realise that the country needs them, and that they contribute to our economy and culture. But there is a feeling now that it should be restricted more than it has been in the past.”

We finish our ice-creams.

“But at least you were wise enough to invest a lot of your oil wealth into your Sovereign Wealth Fund and in the country’s infrastructure”, I say. “We’re always impressed at the amount that has been spent on bridges and tunnels. I even read the other day that they’ve approved the construction of a giant tunnel through the Statlandet, big enough to let cargo ships pass through and avoid the dangerous currents off its headland.”

“Yes, there certainly has been a lot of money spent”, he says. “But there’s also been a lot of waste. The government realised this, and they have an independent office, the Riksrevisjonen, to make public-sector bodies become more efficient and reduce administrative costs to ensure better value for taxpayers’ money. One of their recent reports found that almost two-thirds of government agencies said they have little incentive to propose savings and cuts during the budget process.”

We leave the shop to go and explore the island. Down at the water’s edge kittiwakes have colonised one of the walls of a warehouse. They don’t seem to be bothered by us creeping closer to get a photo.

We climb to the top of the small hill overlooking the village. The view out over the archipelago is stunning.

Below, there is a solar panel array under construction.

“At the moment, all the power on the island is produced by a diesel generator”, one of the islanders explains. “When it is finished, it will mean that we can reduce our reliance on fossil fuels.”

The next day we sail to the island of Villa down the coast. The wind is coming from the north-east and we have a nice broad reach. On the way, we stop to do some fishing, and catch a cod for dinner. We arrive at the small harbour at the south-east of the island, and tie up to the single pontoon there. It isn’t easy, as the wind blows us off the pontoon, but after a couple of attempts, we finally make it. We have it all to ourselves – apart from a couple of empty holiday cottages, the island is uninhabited.

“Let’s go for a quick walk up to the lighthouse before we cook the cod”, says the First Mate. “It’s about an hour each way. We need some exercise.”

We put on our boots and set off along a path marked by white poles and lined with stones colourfully painted by children. We follow a rocky ridge with the shallow gap between Villa and the next island on one side, and stagnant pools covered in water-lilies on the other. Eventually the path gives way to a boardwalk traversing marshy wetlands before climbing some higher land on which the lighthouse has been built. The view out to sea is magnificent.

“Look, there’s a QR-code on that sign”, shouts the First Mate. “It might tell you something about the history of the lighthouse.”

“It was part of a string of lighthouses constructed to help shipping along this part of the coast”, I read on the website. “It was built in 1839 out of granite, soapstone and brick by 70 workmen who took less than a year to complete it. It was unusual in that it used burning coal to provide the light, even though it was obsolete technology at the time. Newer lighthouses used oil.”

“I wonder why they did that?”, says the First Mate.

“Apparently, it was because it was simpler and more reliable to use coal in these remote places, as it didn’t need any sophisticated equipment”, I read. “The coal was shipped from Scotland and Somerset as it was of higher quality than here in Norway. The tower was 15 meters high and used ventilation channels to provide a draught to the fire. In any case, it was converted to oil in 1859. Then in 1890 it was closed down for good.”

“Fifty years of service”, says the First Mate. “Not all that long.”

“True”, I say. “But in 1976, apparently local people decided to restore it from the ruin that it had become. Now, it’s even protected as a cultural monument, and the lightkeeper’s house is let out during the summer for get-away-from-it-all holidays.”

“We should think of getting back”, she says. “I’m getting hungry. The cod is not getting any fresher.”

The island of Villa showing the harbour (foreground) and lighthouse (background).

In the morning, I decide to go for a little walk before breakfast to take some drone shots. On the way back, I slip on a wet rock and twist my ankle. It’s excruciatingly painful, but I still seem to be able to walk on it.

“I hope you haven’t broken it”, says the First Mate. “Perhaps you should see a doctor.”

“Where are we going to find a doctor around here?”, I wail, trying to be brave.

Viking violence, a kidnapping, and continental collisions

Posted on September 21, 2026 by Ruby Tuesday

“There’s another boat coming in just now”, says the First Mate, peering out of the window. “We should give them a hand – it’s pretty wet out there.”

We have just arrived in the small harbour at Brønnøysund, with the rain tipping down. We had left the island of Vega in the morning, and had had a pleasant sail tacking our way southwards against the south-easterly wind before it died altogether and we had had to start the engine. As luck would have it, it had also started raining heavily. By the time we were tied up, we were soaked, and were just having a hot cup of tea to warm up.

“I have to admit that I am not that keen on getting wet all over again”, I grumble. “But I suppose we must.”

We struggle out on to the pontoon again. As we grab the ropes of the newcomer, we notice that their flag is British.

“How far have you come?”, I ask.

“Today from Leka”, the man answers in a Scottish accent. “But we are from Scotland, and sailed over to Bergen a few weeks ago. We’re now making our way northwards.”

“Snap!”, I say, as I tie them up. “We’re also from Scotland.”

At 27 feet in length, their boat isn’t large. I’m impressed at them crossing the North Sea in it.

“We’ve sailed everywhere in her”, says the Scotsman, spotting my look. “Even across the Atlantic. I wrote a book on the trip, but it has hardly sold any copies. The reviews weren’t very good. I’m not depending on it for my retirement. But it was very satisfying to write it, I have to say.”

I make a mental note to look it up.

“Why don’t you come over for a cup of tea, once you are settled in?”, asks the First Mate.

“That’s very kind of you”, says the woman, in an even broader Scottish accent, “I am Katherine, by the way, and this is Nick.”

“We are wondering if we have left it too late in the season”, says Nick, over a cup of tea. “We’ve had nothing but bad weather since we have arrived in Norway. We planned to leave Scotland much earlier, but with one thing and another, we lost track of how the summer was going. We are thinking of overwintering in Bodø.”

We can sympathise. With the exception of a few days here and there, much of July and August so far had been wet and misty. A typical Norwegian summer, some of the locals had joked, and not at all like the hot dry summers they had had for the previous two years.

Nick is in IT, designing websites.

“I use AI all the time these days”, he says. “It’s amazing for coming up with content for the websites all tailored to the style that customers want. What I like about it particularly is that it is very patient and never gets angry. Even if I am a bit short with it myself sometimes, it never answers me back.”

“Do you think that AI could ever become conscious?”, I ask. “Richard Dawkins seems to think that it might be already.”

“Ha! The million-dollar-question”, Nick answers. “The problem is that we don’t really have a good definition of what consciousness is anyway, so it is difficult to say whether something is conscious or not. A philosopher called Thomas Nagel suggested that for something to be conscious, there had to be something that it felt like to be that something, if that makes sense. But even that is tricky – I know what it feels like to be me, but I have no idea what it feels like to be you, another human – let alone a tree, or a stone, for that matter.”

“But doesn’t something have to be living to be conscious?”, I ask.

“Panpsychists don’t think so”, he says. “They believe that everything has a degree of consciousness. But the truth is that we just really don’t know whether consciousness requires biology or not. Is there something special about neurons and their biochemistry? If that were the case, AI based on silica may never become conscious. But what if it is just the organisation and complexity of information processing that creates consciousness, and not the material that is doing it? Then AI could well become conscious – if not already, then sometime in the future.”

“But you hear people saying that AI will never be conscious because all it is is a machine following instructions programmed into it by humans”, I say. “It is just trained on large amounts of data and text that humans have written, and uses statistical techniques to predict the next idea from the preceding context. But surely it is more than just that?”

“Yes, that is a bit simplistic”, he says. “When it is being trained, it learns about objects and what their properties and relationships are, causes of things and what the consequences are, human intentions and emotions, and logical relationships. It’s able to put these concepts together in a logical way, develop an internal representation of the way the world works and its own place in it, have memory of experiences and things learned, break down a problem into its component parts, formulate goals, and integrate all these together. That, after all, is just what humans do.”

It’s been a fascinating conversation, but we are all getting a bit hungry. Nick and Katherine brave the rain and go back to their boat to cook. We heat up the leftovers from yesterday before tumbling into bed.

They have already left in the morning by the time we are up. The wind is from the south and they want to make the most of it while it lasts. We decide to stay another day in Brønnøysund and wait for the winds to change overnight as forecast.

“I was just reading about the history of the town”, says Spencer as we eat breakfast. “Apparently it used to be the centre of power in Helgeland in Viking times. Unfortunately it got caught up in the Norwegian civil wars between a nobleman by the name of Skule Bårdsson and the king, Haakon Haakonsson, who was Skule’s own son-in-law. It didn’t end well, with the entire population of the town being killed in the fighting.”

“That was a bit unfortunate”, I say. “Who won the war?”

“The king won in the end”, says Spencer. “Skule Bårdsson fled to Trondheim and took refuge in the cathedral priory there, but the king caught up with him and burnt the priory down, killing him in the process. That was in AD 1240, and brought an end to the civil wars in Norway at that time. It was only many years later that the town of Brønnøysund was repopulated by people from southern Norway and Sweden. Apparently there are still traces of the Swedish accent here.”

We leave Bronnøysund the next day. Once clear of the wind shadow of Torghatten mountain, the wind picks up from the west and we have a comfortable beam reach all the way down to the island of Leka.

We arrive at the small harbour of Skei in the late afternoon, and tie up alongside to the visitors’ pontoon facing north. There are strong winds from the north predicted for tomorrow, so we want to minimise the area we present to the wind.

“There’s supposed to be a café here”, says the First Mate. “Let’s go up and see if we can get an ice cream.”

We order two cones.

“You can go outside and sit in the sunshine”, says the waitress. “I’ll bring them out to you.”

A few minutes later, a man in a chef’s hat comes out carrying two bowls and spoons.

“I know that you ordered two ordinary ice cream cones”, he says. “But I have just been developing a new flavour of ice-cream, and I took the liberty of wondering if you might like to try it? It’s made from Norwegian brown cheese.”

We are not quite sure what to think, but we try it. It’s delicious.

“You’ll have to call it Leka ice-cream”, says the First Mate. “Lecker means ‘delicious’ in German.”

“It’s a joke”, I explain.

“I got it”, says the chef. “We have the same word ‘lekker’ in Norwegian, meaning ‘beautiful/.

“Did you hear the story of the little girl and the sea eagle?”, he asks, sitting down at a table opposite. “It’s a kind of island legend.”

“No”, we say. “Tell us.”

“Well, back in 1932, one of the families living here was attending a christening”, he continues. “They had a three-year-old girl called Svanhild. After the dinner, the parents wanted to chat so they let their daughter go out to play. But when they came to look for her, she was missing. They searched everywhere, but there was no sign of her.”

“A sea-eagle had taken her?””, says the First Mate.

“Well, they didn’t know what had happened at that point”, says the chef. “So a search party went out to look for her. They found her handkerchief and a shoe, but there was no sign of the little girl. Then someone noticed sea-eagles flying around a mountain in a strange way, and thought that they might have snatched her. Three men offered to climb up the mountain to see if they could see anything, and were astounded to find the three-year-old unhurt and fast asleep on a ledge near one of the nests. She was lifted to safety and subsequently survived to a great old age.”

“Did she remember what had happened?”, I ask.

“That’s the strange thing”, says the chef. “She had no recollection of it. Of course, that caused a lot of speculation since as to whether it was a true story. It was too far and too high for her to have walked there by herself, and yet she was probably too heavy for a sea-eagle to carry her, as big as they are. But true or not, it’s a great story, and the Leka island council decided to put an eagle’s wing and claw on the coat-of-arms to make it part of the island’s identity. Now, enjoy your ice-cream.”

We have already finished it, listening to the story.

“There’s a small information centre just behind the café”, says the First Mate. “About the island. I saw it while you were ordering the ice cream. It looks quite interesting.”

“Leka is the Geological National Monument of Norway”, the introductory panel tells us. “Because of the unique geology of the island. The story begins 600 million years ago, when the supercontinent of Rodinia started to break up. One of the parts was called Baltica, which became the Europe we know today, including Norway. As it broke up, it drifted towards another chunk of Rodinia called Laurentia, which is North America and Greenland today. At one stage during this drifting, it was covered by a shallow tropical sea, when many layers of sediments were laid down.”

“Eventually Baltica and Laurentia collided with each other, about 500 million years ago”, the next panel tells us. “The collision was so powerful that it pushed up bits of oceanic crust and even the earth’s mantle. Leka is one of the few places nowadays that you can see both of these on the earth’s surface. It’s called the Mohorovičić discontinuity, or MOHO for short. Later, they split up again, then came back together to form the supercontinent of Pangaea.”

“I always find it hard to believe that the continents were moving around like that”, says the First Mate. “Like bits of wood floating on water. They look so stable nowadays.”

The next panel tells us about how oil was formed in the North Sea.

“Pangaea started breaking up about 200 million years ago, and Baltica and Laurentia drifted apart again, forming the Atlantic Ocean and the North Sea basin between them. Marine organisms living in this basin fell to the sea floor when they died, and were covered with more layers of sediment. Over millions of years, tremendous pressures and temperatures slowly converted this organic layer into oil and gas which tried to migrate to the surface but became trapped under impermeable rock. It’s only now that humans are drilling through this rock and bringing the oil and gas to the surface again.”

“And bringing with it lots of wealth to countries like Norway”, I say. “But contributing to global warming by releasing carbon dioxide when it is combusted.”

We wander back to the boat. In the evening, there is a knock on the hull. It turns out to be the harbourmaster, who has come to collect our harbour fees.

“You should go and see Herlaugshaugen”, he tells us. “You can see it just over there. It’s the largest burial mound in Norway. According to the sagas, it is of a local king called Herlaug, hence its name. The story is that there were two brothers, Herlaug and Rollaug, who were local rulers in the time of Harald Fairhair. They didn’t want to subjugate themselves to Harald, who was trying to unify Norway during the Viking Age, so they built the mound to hide in. Herlaug entered it with a large amount of food and sealed it behind him, but Rollaug chickened out at the last minute and surrendered to Harald.”

“Not a very nice way to die”, I say. “Suffocating yourself to death.”

“Well, back in the 19^th century, they excavated the mound and found a skeleton leaning against a stone slab with a sword nearby”, the harbourmaster continues. “There were also bones of animals, including sheep, pigs and cattle, along with other human bones. It seemed like they had discovered Herlaug and his storeroom of goodies for the afterlife.”

“I get the impression there’s a twist to this story”, I say.

“Yes, you are absolutely right”, he answers. “In 2023, archaeologists had another dig and discovered ship’s rivets, which they dated to around 700 AD, a bit earlier than Harald Fairhair lived. So the mound didn’t contain Herlaug, or if it did, he didn’t oppose Harald. But we still don’t really know who it belongs to.”

“We’ll probably never know”, says the First Mate profoundly. “Lost in the mists of time.”

A preserved shop, a poet-priest, and the duck-women of Vega

Posted on August 23, 2026 by Ruby Tuesday

“Another twenty minutes and we would have made it”, says the First Mate. “As it is we are going to get drenched tying up.”

We are just arriving at the island of Myken. We have had a pleasant sail down from the Fleinvær islands, but for the last hour we could see the dark storm clouds gathering in the west. Now the heavens have opened.

“There’s another boat already there”, shouts the First Mate through the rain. “With a Canadian flag. We’ll have to go on the outside of the pontoon.”

It’s Harley and his family in their boat Prudence. We had heard of them last year when in Trondheim, but so far had not met them.

*Prudence* and *Ruby Tuesday* in Myken harbour.

“We’ve been here a couple of days”, Harley says. “But we are moving on first thing in the morning to Træna. It’s a lovely little island here, though. You’ll enjoy it. They have a distillery that’s worth a visit. And a restaurant and a museum. Everyone is very friendly.”

When we awake in the morning, Prudence has gone. After breakfast, we explore the village. There is a coffee morning in the grocery store.

“We meet here every morning for a coffee and waffle, and to do our knitting”, says one woman. “We’re trying to get a quilt finished by Christmas time. Visitors are welcome too.”

Daily coffee morning in the grocery store.

“There are only 16 permanent residents here now”, says another. “But a similar number of former residents who now live on the mainland still come every summer. And, of course, there are people like me that were born on the mainland, but who came here on holiday and loved it so much that they keep coming. I bought a small fishermen’s hut called a rorbu, and sell my glassware there.”

On the way back, we pass the distillery. At the other end of the village is the so-called ‘Distillery Cathedral’, a modern looking building where whisky tasting tours are offered.

In the afternoon, we visit the Gamla Butikken, the ‘Old Shoppe’, at the end of the village. It used to be the village store, and has been preserved just as it was when it closed in the 1960s. Rather than the customers serving themselves and paying at the end, they tell the shop keeper behind the counter what they want, and he or she will go and fetch it.

“It was our grandfather’s shop, and his father’s before that”, Hannah tells us. “It’s been in the family for generations. When our grandfather died, our grandmother left it just as it was and locked it up. It stayed that way for many years, but one time when I was here I thought that it might be a good idea to open it as a kind of museum so that visitors can see what it is like in the old days. My grandmother liked the idea. The problem was that the building was becoming more and more derelict and it would have soon needed to be pulled down. She saw this as a way of preserving it.”

Hannah was brought up on the island, and still spends summers here, but lives in Bodø during the winter.

“What was it like being brought up on the island?”, we ask.

“I loved it”, she says. “There were quite a lot of people living on the island in those days, and there were several children my own age. We had a lot of fun.

“But the population started declining in the 1970s”, says her brother, who has joined us. “The government’s policy at that time was to do away with all these remote communities with their traditional low paying occupations, and persuade people to move to the cities where they could get better jobs and contribute to the nation’s wealth.”

“What about your father?”, asks the First Mate. “Was he involved in the shop as well?”

“No, he was a fisherman”, answers Hannah. “On a trawler. But he died while out fishing. Did you see the memorial in the middle of the village? He’s the one at the top. We don’t know the reason, but he had come off his watch at night, and was seen going downstairs to his cabin. But in the morning he was missing. His body was never found.”

“What happened?”, we ask.

“Well, it was presumed he had fallen overboard. But my brother here had a heart attack a few years ago, and we wonder if our father’s disappearance had possibly been something to do with his heart. Weak hearts can run in families, you know. But we’ll never really know for sure.”

“Who were the other names on the memorial?”, I ask.

“That was a boat that went down with all on board”, says Hannah’s brother. “A storm blew up, and they tried to make it back to safety, but they were too late. The storm caught them and the boat capsized. Not far from here. A father and his two sons and four others were lost. It was devastating for the whole community.”

“It just shows the perils of making a living from the sea”, says the First Mate after we leave. “I am not sure that I could have coped with it.”

—-

In the morning, we set sail for Sandnessjøen, 50 miles to the south. We pass Lovund on our starboard side doing volcano impressions.

The wind strengthens in the afternoon, and we have a nice sail with the genoa only, arriving at Sandnessjøen in the evening.

The next morning we visit the Tourist Information Office to find out if there is anything we should see in Sandnessjøen.

“There’s not much here”, the man behind the desk in the Tourist Information admits. “It’s mainly a setting off point for trekking and skiing in the Seven Sisters. But one thing that might be of interest is the Petter Dass statue in the town centre. He was a Lutheran priest back in the 17^th century, who was born on the island of Dønna across the fjord from here. He wrote a lot of texts and hymns, which were used right up to the present. He is seen as an important literary figure who put northern Norway on the literature map, so the town has made quite a thing of him.”

“Yes, we keep coming across his name in our travels”, I say. “There was a Petter Dass walk on Lovund and a Petter Dass chapel on Træna.”

“Well, since you have your own boat, you might also be interested in seeing the giant statue they made of him on one of the skerries in the fjord”, the Tourist Information Man continues. “The base of it gets covered by the tide, so it really looks like he is walking on water. The story behind it is that the king requested him to give the Christmas sermon in Copenhagen, but for various reasons Petter didn’t receive the request until the day before Christmas. Myth has it that he made a deal with the Devil to fly him there in time in return for the Devil gaining the souls of anyone who fell asleep during the sermon. Of course, Petter gave such a powerful sermon that no-one fell asleep.”

Petter Dass riding the Devil to Copenhagen.

In the morning, we push on southwards towards Vega. The wind is from the south-west, more-or-less just where we want to go, so we need to tack. It’s slow going, but we make some progress. We feel smug when we see other yachts pass us with their sails furled away and their engines running. Purists, us! Well, sometimes.

Between tacks, I recall a book that we had both read over the winter, Place of Tides, by James Rebanks. In it, he tells the story of Anna, one of the ‘duck-women’ of Vega. He spends a spring and summer living with her and her helper Ingrid, learning about her family, the history of the islands, and the decline of the eider-down tradition. It’s a delightful story about sense of place, loss of the old ways, and finding a way to live more deliberately and with purpose. We are both keen to visit Vega and learn more of this ancient practice and life on its archipelago.

The bulk of the island of Vega looms out of the haze, its top wreathed in cloud. We had initially planned to stay at the harbour at Igerøya on the east of the island, but the First Mate has been on the phone.

“I talked to the UNESCO Vega Archipelago museum”, she says. “They say the best thing to do is to come to Gardsøya on the north of the island. You can tie up right next to the museum. The problem with Igerøya is that you need to get a bus to the museum and they only run at certain hours. Gardsøya is much easier.”

I haven’t planned a route to Gardsøya, and to get there we need to thread our way through an intricate system of shallow channels and low-lying islands, all the time avoiding submerged rocks and drying mudflats. But we have good charts, and we decide to give it a go.

It’s a tortuous route, but at least it is well marked. We get good at identifying the marker poles and beacons and matching them with those shown on the charts. On either side, dark jagged lumps of rock slide past, and the depth falls on occasions to just a metre or so clearance below the keel. But somehow we make it, and soon we are edging our way gingerly into Gardsøya harbour and to the pontoon below the distinctive UNESCO museum. We are the only boat there.

“Well, that took a bit of concentration”, I say, breathing out. “But at least we made it.”

Not long after we tie up, we see another boat entering the harbour.

“It has a British flag on it”, says the First Mate. “I wonder who it is?”

It turns out to be the Chairman of the Cruising Association, Nick, in his boat Spellbinder, along with his wife Sue, and two friends. We also belong to the Cruising Association.

“We were just thinking of having an eclipse-watching drink”, says Nick. “Would you like to join us?”

It’s partially cloudy, with patches of clear sky. Two G&Ts later, it’s completely cloudy, with no sun at all.

“Oh well”, I say. “It looks like the eclipse has been eclipsed. You can’t win them all.”

The eclipse that wasn’t. Even the birds didn’t care.

In the morning, we walk up to the museum.

“The UNESCO Vega Archipelago museum is a tribute to the sustainable way that generations of fishermen/farmers have lived in an inhospitable seascape near the Arctic Circle, based on the now unique practice of eider-duck down harvesting, and celebrates the contribution made by women to the eider down process”, the museum brochure tells us. “The Archipelago was included into the World Heritage List in 2004.”

A film is just starting in the small cinema.

“After the ice retreated 20,000 years ago, the land started to rise”, it tells us. “Vega itself was settled by hunter-gatherers from Northern Europe about 11,000 years ago. But the low-lying islands and skerries didn’t really appear until much later. They weren’t settled until about 1500 years ago, when the fishing/farmer and eider-duck tending culture started to develop. By the time of the Viking era in 900 AD, the Archipelago was already an important centre for eider-down production. It has carried on since then to the present day.”

“The ducks return from their overwintering areas around March to mate, after which the females always return to the same breeding sites and the males leave”, the film continues. “The eggs are laid in May and June. After hatching, the ducklings stay in the nests for a few days before they venture to the sea, and swim with their mothers for the rest of the summer. Females and males meet up again in the wintering areas in late autumn to form new pair bonds.”

“Over the years, the islanders learnt how to build small nesting houses to protect the birds, using seaweed to make the shape of the nest which the ducks line with their own down. At the end of the season after the ducks have left, they collect this down, clean it, and sell it. It takes 60-70 nests to make one eider down duvet. One duvet is worth as much as a cow. But it’s important to realise that these are wild ducks, not domesticated ones.”

“The population of the islands was at its peak in the 1900s. Then it started to decline due to government policies to encourage people to move to the cities for ‘proper’ work rather than persisting with these antiquated practices. But slowly this view changed, with the UNESCO World Heritage status now having given the archipelago a new lease of life.”

The film comes to an end, and we move on to the rest of the museum.

The section on the geology of the archipelago finally clears up a minor mystery for me. When we were on the Fleinvær islands, we had seen layers of rock that were pockmarked with cavities, but, not being a geologist, I had not been able to find a satisfactory explanation for what these were. Had they been where bubbles of gas were trapped in some volcanic lava long ago? It seemed unlikely, as most rocks on Norway’s coast are metamorphic rather than volcanic in origin.

“The story starts 600 million years ago”, one of the panels explains. “Lime particles attached to slimy bacteria settled to the bottom of the ocean and were sandwiched between layers of sand and clay. Then when the two continents of Laurentia and Baltica collided millions of years later, the enormous pressures transformed the limestone into marble.”

“Marble is a relatively soft rock, so when these layers were exposed again, molluscs called piddocks burrowed into the marble to create a home for themselves to live in and to obtain raw material for their shells. Acid rain has since widened these pits and sharpened the edges.”

As we leave the museum, the man at the front desk stops us.

“Close your eyes and cup your hands”, he says. “I am going to put a ball of eider down in them.”

We close our eyes and wait. And wait. Nothing happens.

“You can open them now”, he says.

We open our eyes. In our cupped hands is a large ball of down. It weighs nothing.

We walk slowly back to the boat.

“It’s interesting about the Norwegian government’s policies to move people away from the islands in the 1960s and 1970s”, says the First Mate. “It’s a similar story to what we heard in Myken. Discarding the old ways in the name of modernisation.”

“But I wonder if what they are doing now is truly sustainable?”, I say. “It’s good that these traditional practices are not being lost, but preserving them is dependent on an influx of money to keep them going. If budgets get tight, I wonder if that can continue?”

A maelstrom, Cold War games, and an island for artists

Posted on August 17, 2026 by Ruby Tuesday

“We have to go and see the Saltstraumen while we are here”, I say. “It is supposed to have one of the largest tidal currents in the world. If you remember, we missed it on the way up because we had to take advantage of the favourable winds to get across to the Lofotens.”

We are back in Bodø, the administrative centre of Nordland. The Saltstraumen channel lies about ten kilometres southeast from the town.

“The maximum flow is at 1500 this afternoon”, says the First Mate, consulting her phone. “We can take the number 300 bus which arrives there at 1330. That gives us an hour and a half to explore the area and maybe even have a cup of coffee at the café there before we see it at its peak. There’s a bus back at 1536 we can catch.”

We have lunch and catch the bus. When we arrive, it is pouring with rain, so we take shelter in the café overlooking the channel. The First Mate orders coffee and waffles.

“Apparently there is an old legend associated with it”, I say, reading a pamphlet I find there. “Back in Viking days, there was a powerful king called Raud the Strong who ruled an area around the stream. Rumour even had it that he had magical powers that could control the elements. Anyway, in the time that Olav Tryggvason was trying to Christianise Norway, Raul wanted to have nothing to do with the new religion, rather sticking to his traditional pagan gods. So Olav Tryggvason sent his men to capture him, and then ordered them to to force a snake down his throat until he converted to Christianity. Raud stubbornly refused, even when the snake gnawed its way out of his stomach. He eventually died, and Olaf supposedly confiscated all Raud’s lands and longship for himself.”

“It’s a bit of a gruesome story”, says the First Mate as she swallows the last piece of waffle. “I thought Christianity was supposed to be all for love and peace?”

“Well, yes”, I say. “But if people don’t want love and peace, they have to be taught to want it. The hard way, in some cases.”

It stops raining, so we walk along the shore path towards the bridge. Several fishermen are there with their rods. Apparently it is a good place to catch cod as they swim upstream. The flow is impressive – 400 cubic metres forcing its way through the narrow channel every six hours at a speed of up to 20 knots.

Whirlpools and maelstroms form here and there, some up to 10 m in diameter.

“I think I found the Corryvreckan in Scotland more impressive”, says the First Mate on the way home.

“The flow there is less”, I say. “But you get standing waves being set up because of the rock pinnacle in the middle, so it looks more frightening. Do you remember that time we tried to sail through it, but I got the tide times wrong, and we ended up going against the current. We had to take refuge in the little bay to the side of it until the tide changed.”

“I’ll never forget it”, she replies.

The next day dawns bright and sunny.

“I might go and see the Norway Aviation Museum”, I say over breakfast. “That’s another thing that we missed last time, because it was closed over the weekend.”

“I think that I’ll do a bit of browsing in town”, the First Mate says. “Aircraft are not really my thing.”

“Can I come?”, asks Spencer. “I am quite interested. I promise to behave.”

Spencer and I clamber on the bus that takes us to the museum on the outskirts of Bodø.

“Pets can go free”, says the bus driver.

We spend the next couple of hours immersed in a fascinating collection of aeroplanes past and present detailing the history of military and commercial aviation in Norway.

We learn about how the Nazis built airfields for the Luftwaffe to operate their Messerschmitts from.

After the Second World War, the Cold War started. All sorts of powerful missiles were built to defend and attack the enemy, which is, of course, both unstated and stated, Russia. Neighbours who share a border, but who don’t trust each other.

“Wow! You humans certainly know how to destroy your own species”, says Spencer in astonishment.

“You spiders are no different”, I respond. “You often eat your young when times are tough. And what about the Black Widow who eats her own husband. We don’t do that sort of thing. Well, not as a rule anyway.”

We learn that the U2 spy plane that was shot down over Russia in 1962 was actually heading for Bodø airport. I vaguely remember it being in the news when I was in school, but the details had passed over my head. At first, the Americans had pretended it was just a routine weather research flight, but when the Russians released photos of the air-force pilot and high resolution cameras recovered from the wreckage, they had to admit it was a spy plane. It was all a bit of an embarrassment for them and resulted in the cancelling of a summit meeting and a cooling of relations between the two countries for years.

“Look at this one!”, calls Spencer, excitedly. “It’s all about the collision between a Soviet fighter aircraft and a Norwegian patrol plane in 1987. I haven’t heard about that one.”

It is something that I knew nothing about either. Apparently the Norwegian aircraft was in international airspace observing Soviet navy manoeuvres when it was buzzed by a Soviet fighter to try and ward it off. The Soviet pilot had flown his plane underneath the Norwegian one, so close that the tailfin of the fighter actually came into contact with one of the propellers of the other. Pieces of the propeller ended up inside the Norwegian plane, actually embedded in a vacuum cleaner. Both planes landed safely at their respective bases. The Soviet Union officially apologised for the incident, although they did reward the pilot by giving him a medal for his work.

“My mother used to have one of those vacuum cleaners”, I say. “I didn’t realise that it was tough enough to be able to stop a piece of propeller. Mind you, it did last for about 50 years.”

“Ah, they built things differently in those days”, says Spencer.

We move on to the civilian aircraft section.

“Norway’s constitution states that it is to be an undivided kingdom”, one of the displays tells us. “But that wasn’t true when it came to communication and travel in the early days. The remoter parts of the country were very poorly connected to one another, to the extent that it would often take several days to travel from the north to the south. With the advent of air travel, the government committed itself to connect every part of the country.”

At first, this was by seaplane. But from 1935 more and more land-based airports were built, initially by the Nazis when they occupied Norway. In the 1950s and 1960s, much of this was funded by NATO to provide defence infrastructure during the Cold War. Several airports served both military and commercial purposes, Bodø being an example.

“It says that because of the terrain, many of the airports had to be STOL, Short Take Off and Landing”, says Spencer, gesturing towards a panel with his fourth leg. “And that the aeroplane best suited to this was the Twin Otter. Look, there’s one over there.”

By the 1980s, air travel had become an integral part of the mass transport network.

We come to the stairs leading to the control tower.

“It’s actually the old control tower for Bodø airport”, says Spencer. “Not a reconstructed one.”

I sit at one of the screens and pretend to bring in an incoming flight.

“SK 4104, Bodø Tower, runway 07, wind 060 degrees at 8 knots, cleared to land”, I say.

“Cleared to land runway 07, SK 4104”, says the pilot of SK 4104.

“SK 4104, after landing vacate left on Charlie and contact Ground 121.8”, I respond.

“Vacate left on Charlie, Ground 121.8, SK 4104”, confirms the pilot.

“Hey, didn’t you see that other plane still on the runway”, shouts Spencer. “They are going to hit.”

It’s too late. There is an almighty explosion as both planes are engulfed by flames. Fire engines race to the tarmac and begin spraying the wreckage with foam.

“It’s probably time we left”, I say to Spencer. “Perhaps we can find a back door we can sneak out.”

In the evening, the First Mate and I compare notes.

“Spencer behaved really well”, I say. “I might take him again.”

“Well, I went to a lunchtime concert in the town centre”, she says. “There was a young female singer and songwriter called Soetkin Baptist, originally from Belgium, but who has been living in Bodø for eleven years or so. She had a beautiful voice and was really into audience participation. She took us line by line through a song, so that by the end we could all sing it. At least the Norwegians could – I couldn’t understand a word of it, so I hummed along. But she had infectious passion and enthusiasm, and the audience really warmed to her. I really enjoyed it.”

In the morning, we continue southwards. The wind is from our starboard quarter, so we start sailing almost as soon as we leave the harbour. It strengthens as we leave the Bodø approaches, and soon we are touching seven knots with the genoa only. Three hours later, we reach the Fleinvær islands, south-west of Bodø.

“There’s an anchorage shown in the pilot book that we can stay tonight”, I say. “Let’s try that.”

But the wind is too strong and the low flat islands offer little shelter.

“There’s a pontoon a bit further round on the island of Sørvær”, says the First Mate, consulting the harbour guide. “It might be better.”

Marginally better, as it turns out. We try to tie up to the leeward side where there is space, but we kept being blown off by the wind. After the fourth attempt, I am just about to give up.

A man appears walking his dog. He comes down to the pontoon and offers to help. Eventually we manage to secure a line to one of the cleats and tie up.

“Phew, that was a bit of an effort”, says the First Mate. “That wind is strong. Thanks so much for your help. Do you live here?”

“Yes, I am an artist”, the man says. “I am the only permanent resident on the island.”

The dog barks.

“Oh, yes, of course, you live here too”, says the Resident Artist, fondling the dog’s ears.

“I studied in Cardiff”, he continues, noticing our flag. “I loved it there. But here I find the peace and quiet I need for my work.”

Later we go for a walk around the island. I can see why he finds peace and quiet here. Although there are several houses, and in good condition, almost all are empty. Many even have silent robot lawnmowers to keep the grass well-trimmed.

“They are summer homes”, a girl we meet on the way tells us. “Most belong to people that used to live here. They moved to the cities for jobs, but the houses have been in the family for generations, so they come back in the summer. And some come back to look after the eider ducks, but even those are declining now. It’s sad.”

“Were you brought up on the island?”, asks the First Mate.

“Yes, I am the artist’s daughter”, she responds, somewhat wistfully. “I loved it here. I knew every inch of the island, and everyone knew me. There was only one other girl my own age, but we were the best of friends. Now I live in Bodø, but I still come back with my husband to stay with my Dad. We’ve been here two weeks, but we are going back on the ferry tonight. My Dad is cooking a farewell dinner at the moment, so I need to hurry back.”

“It’s interesting how we keep meeting people who were brought up on these islands in Norway and keep returning to them from the wider world”, I say.

“I suppose if you don’t have anything else to compare it with during your formative years, then that’s how your personality develops”, says the First Mate. “I would find it too quiet.”

“That’s because you were brought up in a town”, I say. “It’s what you know.”

We eventually come to an eclectic collection of modern wooden buildings overlooking the sea, not far from the pontoon where we are tied up.

“I saw these buildings from the boat”, says the First Mate. “What do you suppose they are?”

A door of one of the buildings suddenly opens and a girl comes out clad only in a towel.

“This is an artists’ retreat”, she says in response to our surprised faces. “It’s called ‘Arctic Hideaway’, and was the brainchild of Håvard Lund, the composer and musician. Artists come from all over the world to interact with other artists and be inspired by the island. Are Andreassen, the resident artist on the island, also comes and gives classes. We just finished a session last week, so the place is empty apart from my friend from Spain and myself. We are the caretakers at the moment. We are expecting someone to arrive tonight on the ferry, but we just wanted to have a sauna first.”

Another girl appears, also clad only in a towel.

It certainly is an island of, and for, artists, I think.

Later, as we sit in the cockpit of the boat sipping our wine, two stark naked girls emerge from the small wooden sauna hut on the jetty near the Artists’ Retreat and dive into the sea.

“Just keep drinking your wine”, the First Mate says. “You’re far too old for them anyway.”

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.

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.

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.”

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.

Ruby Tuesday

Catch your dreams before they slip away

Tag Archives: adventure