An invincible fortress, a faulty bridge, and a blood moon

Posted on September 17, 2025 by Ruby Tuesday

“Phew, this is pretty steep”, pants the First Mate. “Let’s stop and admire the view.”

I’m glad of a break too. We are on our way up the steep hill leading to the Kristiansten Fortress overlooking the city of Trondheim. Unfortunately, our leg muscles don’t seem to be getting any sprightlier. Admittedly we are pushing the bikes as well.

“Look, you can see the Gamle Bybro bridge where we crossed over the Nidelva river”, I say, pointing to the bottom of the hill. “And the old town of Bakklandet with all its colourful houses. They look beautiful in the sunlight.”

“You just said ‘bridge’ twice”, says the First Mate. “Gamle Bybro means ‘old town bridge’, so you just said ‘Old Town Bridge bridge’. Just saying.”

Slightly refreshed, we push on, and before long we have reached the gates of the Fortress. A lot of people are milling around in the carpark outside. A notice says that it is the end of a mountain bike race. Not wanting anyone to get the idea that we chose to walk up the hill rather than pedal, I prod my tyres and mutter loudly about glass on the road and punctures. No-one seems very convinced.

The Fortress with its small museum is perched on the highest point within the walls. We learn that it was built in 1681 to protect the city against attack from the east. And not unreasonably, as 33 years later Trondheim was attacked by the Swedish.

“I’d forgotten that the Swedes and the Norwegians were at war”, I say. “It was during the Great Northern War when the coalition between Russia, Denmark-Norway and Poland-Lithuania were trying to limit Sweden’s power. Britain was even part of this coalition at one stage. I remember reading quite a bit about it when we were sailing around Sweden. They never said much about Norway though.”

“It says that Sweden attacked Trondheim in 1718, but the Fortress was too strong for them”, says the First Mate, reading from one of the panels. “Then the winter set in, and the Swedish troops, exhausted and without much food, had to beat a hasty retreat back to Sweden. Unfortunately, huge numbers of them died as they crossed the mountains on the way back. The Swedish went on to eventually lose the war at the Battle of Poltava, and had their vast empire drastically reduced.”

“A bit like Napoleon’s retreat from Moscow”, I say. “And Hitler’s too, for that matter.”

“Speaking of retreats, let’s beat one and go down to the city centre and have some lunch”, says the First Mate.

When we get to the main square, we discover that the annual Language and Culture Festival is in full swing. Small stalls representing a range of countries are arranged around the perimeter, each manned by people in national dress and selling food and arts and crafts from their respective countries. A large stage in one corner of the square has people dancing and singing. We decide to stop and enjoy the feeling of bonhomie everywhere.

Language and Culture Festival 2025, Trondheim.

“These samosas look good”, I say, stopping at the Nepalese stall. “I might get some for lunch. Want some?”

“I think that I might try some of those dumplings from the Polish stall”, says the First Mate. “The samosas might be a bit hot for me. Do you see the Eritrean national dress over there. So colourful!”

“We can eat our food at one of the tables”, I say. “And listen to the music that these Syrians are playing.”

“And Olav Tryggvason over there on that obelisk can keep an eye on us to make sure we put our rubbish into the bins”, jokes the First Mate. “He founded the city, so he probably wants to keep it tidy. He’s high enough to see everything that’s going on.”

In the evening, we walk along the breakwater in front of the marina. There’s a beautiful sunset.

We come to another statue.

“It says that it is Leif Erikson”, I say. “He’s thought to be the first European to set foot in America. Apparently he was converted to Christianity by Olav Tryggvason here in Trondheim, and told to go and convert the Greenlanders. Unfortunately he was blown off course, and landed up in America. He did eventually return to Greenland and fulfilled his task of converting them.”

“It seems that the statue was donated to Trondheim by the City of Seattle”, says the First Mate. “Apparently a lot of Norwegian emigrants settled there. They have an identical one.”

The next day, we visit the Sea Ivories exhibition at the University museum. In medieval times, before elephant ivory became available, ivory from walruses and whales was a sought-after commodity, and Trondheim became a thriving trade hub for it, both for raw ivory and for finished products.

We marvel at the intricate craftsmanship of the Wingfield-Digby crozier with St Olav amidst tree leaves painstakingly carved by a long-forgotten artisan. It was in the possession of the Wingfield-Digby family of Dorset who donated it to the British Government in lieu of inheritance tax.

The centrepiece of the exhibition are some of the Lewis chessmen, on loan from the British Museum. A hoard of these was found buried on a beach on the Isle of Lewis in Scotland in 1831, and are thought to have belonged to a wealthy merchant who was waylaid. It seems that they may have been made in Trondheim, as the style represent other ivory carvings known to have been made here.

The phone rings. It’s Tore from Riggmasters, calling about getting our shrouds renewed. He had been down a couple of days earlier and assessed the situation.

“We have a space now at our wharf”, he says. “If you can come into the canal tonight, we can do the shrouds tomorrow. There’s a bridge opening slot at 1920, so you could make that.”

Their wharf is in the canal through Trondheim, which requires us to go through the Skansen lifting bridge where the canal connects to the sea. It doesn’t give us much time to get back to the boat and get everything sorted for leaving our marina berth, but it is doable. We need to get the job done so that we can get on our way again.

We make it with ten minutes to spare, and wait for the bridge to open. Soon we are edging our way carefully up the canal, and tie up just in front of the RiggMaster workshop.

Waiting for the Scansen lifting bridge to open.

Tore starts on it in the morning, and by late afternoon we have new shrouds.

“I’ve tensioned them a lot tighter than the old ones”, he says. “You’ll notice that she will sail much more responsively now. If they are too slack, she’ll heel too much. You’ll probably get another knot of speed too.”

We plan to leave in the morning, and ring the bridge that evening to tell them we’re coming. If no one is waiting, they don’t open it. Just as we are about to leave in the morning, the phone rings.

“I am sorry”, a woman says. “We have a problem with the bridge. It won’t open. They are working on it now. We don’t know how long it will take.”

“The last time this happened, it took three weeks to open”, says Tore, overhearing. “You’ll just have to be patient.”

Three weeks! We have a flight booked in two weeks’ time, and we still have to put Ruby Tuesday to bed for the winter before then. Here we are trapped in the canal with no other way out! Panic!

The First Mate boils the kettle for a cuppa.

“Why did it have to be just now?”, she says. “Couldn’t it have just waited for another couple of hours before breaking down after we were through?”

At least the cup of tea tastes good. We kick our heels for a couple of hours, not quite knowing what to do. The phone rings. It’s the bridge lady.

“You’ll be very glad to know that they have managed to get the bridge working again”, she says. “You’ll be able to get the 1120 opening.”

Sighs of relief! At last we can make a bid for freedom. We cast off, wave goodbye to Tore and his crew, and motor past the island of Munkholmen before hoisting the sails.

“Apparently Munkholmen used to be used as a place for executions”, says the First Mate.

“Nice”, I say.

As we sail up Trondheimsfjord, the Hurtigruten ship comes up behind us. As it passes, two men lean over the rail at the back and wave.

“I wonder who is in that little sailing boat we just passed?”, says the elderly gentleman to his companion. “I saw them in the harbour yesterday just close to where we were tied up. It had a British maritime flag. Surely they wouldn’t have come all the way from Britain? It’s a long way.”

“I don’t see why not”, says Mr Fairlie. “Apparently cruising in small boats is becoming quite popular these days, and not just for the rich and famous. The Royal Cruising Club was formed just nine years ago. And of course Norway is seen as an exotic destination. If they’ve come from Scotland, it’s not that far across the North Sea.”

“Well, I hope they have enjoyed themselves as much as we have”, says the minister. “And now, we have to get ourselves back down to Bergen. Hopefully Messrs Higgins & Baillie will re-join us there after they left us for their fishing trip in the interior. I wonder if they had much luck? And I am hoping there will be some letters there from my daughter Meg. I was disappointed not to find any there on the way up.”

“Well, I have to agree with you that it’s certainly been a very pleasant trip”, replies Mr Fairlie. “Friendly people, spectacular scenery, and interesting history. I wouldn’t mind doing it again some time. But I am looking forward to getting back to Edinburgh now.”

“Me too”, says the older man.

“We have enjoyed following your route too, great-great-grandfather”, I say, as I wave back at the ship disappearing into the distance. “We’ve seen places we probably wouldn’t have seen otherwise. But now we have to go our own ways. We’re leaving the boat here for the winter, and will continue northwards next year. Have a good trip back to Scotland.”

“They’ll never hear you”, says the First Mate, coming out of the cabin with a plateful of ham sandwiches. “Here. It’s just about lunchtime. I’ve made your favourite.”

—–

“I can see Hekla”, shouts the First Mate from the pontoon. “They’re just coming around the corner at the top of the inlet.”

Sure enough, the familiar shape of Bob and Fiona’s wooden ketch Hekla of Banff appears and negotiates her way majestically through the perches along the narrow channel to the harbour.

We are on the island of Hitra where we will be overwintering our boats. Amalia had arrived back in July, Aloucia just last week, and we ourselves in Ruby Tuesday had come earlier this afternoon. The Fabulous Four are all here now.

Over dinner, we catch up. It’s the first time we have seen each other since the sea-foraging event in Sweden back in May. Bob and Fiona had gained a lead of at least a week when we had travelled to Oslo, and were already in Bergen when we were still in Sweden. Then they had had to return to the UK for a couple of weeks to see family and we had caught up, but somehow our paths had not crossed since then.

Bob and Fiona of *Hekla of Banff* arrive.

“We had a bit of a mishap when we left Hekla in Aurlandsfjord”, Bob tells us. “We were tied up to a pontoon there, and at some stage one of those high-speed ferries must have been too close. The wash from it rocked Hekla up and down, and somehow one of the gunwales got wedged under the pontoon and did quite a bit of damage. We’re looking to see if we can find a boatbuilder near here to repair it.”

“I can sympathise”, I say. “We had something similar happen to us in Lysefjord with those ferries. They should take more care.”

“Can I just interrupt to say that you can see the Northern Lights if you look up!”, Fiona suddenly calls out.

We sit spellbound watching the eerie green and purple lights of the Aurora borealis as the charged particles streaming from a solar storm reach the earth’s atmosphere. They writhe this way and that like giant glowing curtains before slowly fading away.

“Well, that was beautiful”, says the First Mate after they have gone. “We’re so lucky to see them.”

The next few days are spent preparing everything for the winter. Taking down the sails, packing away the spray hood, bimini and cockpit tent, changing the engine oil, replacing the oil and fuel filters, topping up the fuel tank, draining the cooling system and hot water cylinder. The First Mate stores all the clothes and other fabrics in vacuum packs and sucks the air out of them with the vacuum cleaner. It’s a big job.

In the midst of it all, Benjamin stops by. Benjamin is German, has a ponytail, and is wearing army camouflage trousers. He has a small boat tied up to the other side of the pontoon to us, and is waiting for some spare parts to arrive before he sets off back to Denmark where his partner lives. We end up talking politics.

“I voted for the AfD last time”, he says, flicking his ponytail behind them like a wild mustang. “We need a change. All the mainstream parties do is to talk, skirt around the issues, and make promises that they never keep. At least the AfD says it the way that it is.”

I ask him what he thinks about the Ukraine war.

“I hope that the Russians win”, he says. “Ukraine should never have provoked it by wanting to join NATO and the EU. It was quite predictable that Russia would respond in the way that it did.”

“But surely these days countries should be free to choose their own way forward”, I ask, somewhat taken aback. “Especially as it was a democratically elected government. If they want to be a member of NATO or the EU, why shouldn’t they be?”

“Nonsense”, he says vehemently. “That’s just Western propaganda. The reality is that small countries, especially those that are next to a major power like Russia, are not free to choose their own way, and have to consider what effect their choices will have on their more powerful neighbours. It’s just realpolitik.”

“Wow, he certainly does have very right-wing views”, says the First Mate later. “I haven’t met many AfD supporters before. Not who will admit to it anyway. Everybody that I have talked to says they don’t vote for them because of their neo-Nazi roots and ultra-right wing agenda.”

The day arrives for Ruby Tuesday to be lifted out and put on the land. We slowly motor over to the crane and position her in the narrow dock. Large bands are slipped around her and she is lifted out onto the apron to be hosed down to remove all the slime that has accumulated. Then she is transported to her place by the workshop for the winter.

“It’s good that we can stay on the boat while it’s on the land”, says the First Mate. “Not everywhere allows it. Now we can finish off all our remaining jobs.”

It’s our last night. Bob and Fiona have already left. Tomorrow we are to catch the 0720 bus to Trondheim, the train to Trondheim airport, then the flight to Copenhagen, and finally the train across to Malmö to collect our car.

“There’s supposed to be a blood moon tonight”, I say. “Let’s have dinner in the cockpit and watch it.”

We cook the last of our food and put on our fleeces. At first it is too cloudy, and we can see nothing. Then slowly the clouds clear to reveal the moon with a reddish tinge.

“If we were superstitious, we’d be thinking that war, plague and a royal death will follow”, I say. “Omens of the End Times.”

“We’ve had all those already”, says the First Mate. “What with the Ukraine war, COVID, and the Queen dying. Do you suppose there is more?”

“These days a blood moon is seen more as a time of revelation and renewal”, says Spencer, joining us. “A time when one chapter closes, and another opens.”

“I like that interpretation better”, says the First Mate.

Ancient Norwegians, the salted-cod city, and a deserted fishing village

Posted on August 31, 2025 by Ruby Tuesday

“Yes, I am from Kristiansund”, says Lars. “Born and bred. It’s not the most exciting city, but it’s pleasant enough. Apparently it is where the first Norwegians are supposed to have lived, at least according to the archaeological evidence. It was first named Christiansund after the Danish-Norwegian King Christian VI in 1742, but the name was changed in 1877 to Kristianssund, then to its present spelling of Kristiansund in 1889. People often confuse it with Kristiansand in southern Norway, so we usually refer to it as Kristiansund N to indicate it is the northern one. We are heading back there now.”

Lars is the skipper of the boat tied up next to us at Håholmen. We are chatting to him as he gets ready to leave.

“We are still debating whether to get there by the outer route or to go round the island of Averøya”, I say.

“Both are fine”, he says. “But if you go around Averøya, you’ll go under the ‘Atlantic Road’, the road that connects many of the islands between Bud and Kristiansund. We are very proud of it. Some people think that it is a work of art – its sweeping arches and graceful curves are supposed to complement the natural landscape. It’s worth seeing.”

We leave a few hours after him, carefully following the perches marking the southern channel out of Håholmen. Soon we are at Storseisundet Bridge, the main bridge of the Atlantic Road. There is a strong current against us which buffets us from side to side, but we slowly make it through into Kornstadfjorden.

Approaching Storseisundet Bridge of the Atlantic Road.

There isn’t much wind, so we drift along at 2½ knots, Kornstadfjorden giving way to Kvernesfjorden, which in turn becomes Bremsnesfjorden. Soon the sun comes out, and we relax in its warmth.

Lars’ comment that the first Norwegians had lived around Kristiansund has intrigued me, and I think back to the book that I have just finished reading, Ancestral Journeys: The Peopling of Europe, by Jean Manco. In the case of Norway, the ice sheets had prevented anyone living there for thousands of years, but as the ice retreated around 12,000 years ago, two groups of hunter-gathering people had begun to move in – one group originating in south-east Asia and migrating along the northern extent of the ice across Russia, and the second migrating northwards from continental Europe through Denmark. Sure enough, they met in Norway roughly where Kristiansund is nowadays.

“I wonder if that means you can see a difference in their descendants in Kristiansund?”, asks the First Mate.

“It wasn’t really a clear cut border”, I say. “There was a lot of intermarriage, and of course people from both groups moved in both directions along the coast. But the ones in the north were the ancestors of the Saami people of today. In the south, it is more complicated, because the hunter-gatherers gave way to the Neolithic farmers around 3500 years ago bringing agriculture as they spread across Europe from the Near East, then later by the Indo-European peoples from Central Asia, who brought their language that became the basis of most of the European languages we hear today.”

“Fascinating stuff”, says the First Mate. “So immigration has been going on for a long time, hasn’t it? Look, there’s a sea eagle in that tree.”

The eagle lets us take a picture of her, then flaps off languidly.

We eventually reach the Kranaskjæret Gjestehavn in Kristiansund. Lars is already there. He comes to give us a hand tying up.

“So you made it then”, he says. “Welcome to Kristiansund, the ‘salted-fish capital’ of Norway. It’s famous for its klippfish – you should visit the Klippfish Museum if you get a chance. It’s just over there, across the harbour.”

The next morning we walk around to the Klippfisk Museum.

“Hi”, says the young man behind the desk. “Welcome to the Klippfisk Museum. Would you like to have a guided tour? It’s included in the price, and you also get a free bowl of bacalao to try afterwards.”

“It sounds like a good idea”, says the First Mate. “I always think that you learn a lot from these guided tours. You can ask questions if you don’t understand things. Especially when things are in Norwegian. Where do we meet the guide?”

“I’m your guide”, the young man says. “I’ll do my best. It’s just you two. My name is Arne, by the way.”

“Klippfisk is basically any white fish that is salted and then dried in the sun”, he tells us. “Traditionally, they were laid out on rocks, hence the name klippfisk. Klipp translates as ‘cliff’ in Norwegian. Most of the time the fish used is cod, but it can also be pollack, saithe, or ling. Once it is dried, it will keep for several years.”

“The technique was developed in Spain, and was introduced to Norway in the late 1600s by Dutch merchants”, he continues. “Later the Scots also got in on the act – indeed, this very building we are standing in was built by a William Gordon from Cullen in 1749. He settled here and became fabulously wealthy buying and selling klippfisk. When he died, he left his wife and daughter £42 million, an absolute fortune in those days.”

“And not too bad these days either”, says the First Mate. “I think I need a new fishing rod. I’ve only caught one fish on this trip!”

“Good luck with that!”, laughs Arne. “But we shouldn’t forget the workers. Most of the hard work of salting and drying the fish was done by women – there is a statue honouring one of the Klippfiskkjerringa, or fish women, in the harbour. You should look out for it.”

A *Klippfiskkjerringa*, or fish woman (the one on the right).

“Was klippfisk all eaten here in Norway, or was it exported?”, I ask.

“It was exported all over the world, but the main markets were, and still are, Portugal, Spain, Brazil and Philippines. They are Catholic countries, and fish was an acceptable substitute for meat during Lent. Ships used to take the klippfisk to the Iberian Peninsula on the way out and fill their holds with soil for ballast on the way back. It was then emptied to make room for the next load. They say that most of the soil in the Kristiansund cemetery is Spanish soil.”

“A small part of Norway that will be forever Spain” (with apologies to Rupert Brooke).

“How do you cook it?”, asks the First Mate. “It looks too dry and hard to eat it as it is.”

“Absolutely”, says Arne. “You need to rehydrate it by soaking it in water for a couple of days, replacing the water two to three times a day. That softens it and makes it much less salty. The classic Norwegian dish is boiled klippfisk with creamed peas and potatoes topped with a light cream sauce. However, another dish is bacalao, developed in Portugal, which is made by frying onions, garlic, and peppers in olive oil, adding tomatoes, sliced potatoes, olives, seasoning it with bay leaves, chilli and pepper, then pouring it over layers of the fish and simmering it until it is flaky and the potatoes are done. That’s also very popular here in Norway.”

After the tour is over, we sit in the café and taste the small bowls of bacalao that he gives us.

“I read somewhere that the Portuguese have developed it much more since then”, says the First Mate in between spoonfuls. “By adding lots more ingredients, such as eggs, cream, or chickpeas, and either grilling, frying, or baking it, and using different spices, such as coriander or parsley. So much so that they are said to have 365 different varieties – one for every day of the year!”

In the afternoon, we decide to walk up to the Varden viewpoint overlooking the city. On the way, we pass a impressive looking modern building.

“It looks like a block of flats”, I say. “I wonder who lives there?”

“It’s supposed to be a church”, says the First Mate, consulting the guide book. “Built in 1964 after its predecessor was destroyed by bombing in WW2. The most modern and daring one in the whole of Norway. Apparently it is worth having a look inside.”

“The theme is called ‘Rock Crystals in Roses’”, she whispers, once we are inside. “There are 320 coloured glass windows, and when the light strikes them, there is a burst of colours. The dark blue ones at the bottom represent man’s sinfulness, while the red, orange and white ones as you go up represent the process of enlightenment.”

Whether you believe the symbolism or not, it is certainly impressive. The ceiling beams and the side columns all contribute to the airiness and focusing of one’s attention on the chancel at the front.

We eventually reach the lookout tower at the top of the hill. Entry is free. A woman opens the door at the bottom for us.

“It was originally built as a watch tower to see ships coming to Kristiansund during the Napoleonic Wars”, she tells us. “Later it was the base station for an optical telegraph between Kristiansund and Trondheim. Be careful not to slip on the stairs. They are quite steep.”

The view from the top out over the city is magnificent. The walls between the arched windows are painted to give a panorama.

View over Kristiansund from the top of Varden watch tower.

In the morning, we walk down to the waterfront to catch the Gripruta, the ferry across to the island of Grip.

“It’s definitely worth seeing”, Andy had told us. “But there is no room in the tiny harbour for a sailing boat to tie up. You are best to take the ferry across.”

We had tried to book places on it yesterday, but the sea had been too rough and the ferry service had been cancelled. Today, however, it is running.

The trip takes about forty minutes each way. We are surprised by the number of people boarding, and surmise that some of them must be ones like ourselves who would have gone the day before but couldn’t. When we arrive at island, we are organised by a young woman who was on the ferry, whom we had thought was one of the passengers.

Hanna tells us about the history of Grip.

“My name is Hanna”, she tells us. “I am your guide today. My grandmother used to live on the island, and I can remember visiting her here when I was a child. So I have a personal connection with it. Nowadays it doesn’t have a permanent population, but most of the cottages are owned by former residents or their descendants.”

“The island has been an important fishing community since around 900 AD. It became quite wealthy through exporting fish during Hanseatic times, and although the population did fluctuate due to the vagaries of fishing it probably always had a permanent population of around 200-300 people. But this could swell to 2000 people during the summer when fishermen would base themselves here rather that Kristiansund to be closer to where the fish were. However, the population eventually dwindled, and the last permanent residents left in 1974.”

“How did the island get its name?”, someone asks.

“Good question”, answers Hanna. “No-one really knows for sure, but one theory is that it came from the Old Norse word Gripar, meaning ‘to catch’, possibly referring to the fishing activities.”

“Does anyone own it?”, asks another person.

“Well, the first owner was the Archbishop of Norway”, she answers. “But in the 1500s, the King Christian III of Denmark seized it along with much other property of the Catholic church. It remained crown property until it was bought by a merchant called Hans Horneman in the early 1700s. Unfortunately this also gave him the fishing rights round about, and the fishermen had to sell him their catches at prices that he determined. They were more-or-less his vassals. These days it is owned and administered by the local municipality. Now if you just walk this way, we can see the church.”

Grip church on the highest point (10 m) of the island.

“The church was built around 1470 AD on the highest part of the island, an impressive 10 m above sea level”, she continues. “The idea was that any violent storm wouldn’t reach it. It seems to have worked – there have been some very severe storms over the years, often destroying several houses, but the church has remained standing.”

Paintings on the walls of the stave church.

The church is one of the stave churches that we had become familiar with by now, with the added distinction of being one of the youngest of such churches in Norway. At the front is the altar and a triptych.

“The story is that the triptych was made in the Netherlands, but was given by a Princess Isabella of Austria”, Hanna tells us. “She was only 14, but was on her way to marry the King, accompanied by the Archbishop of Norway. The ship she was on encountered a severe storm and nearly sank. However, it did survive, which Isabella put down to the Archbishop being on board, so she gave the paintings to the Norwegian Church by way of thanks.”

We move on to the power station and fire station of the island.

“The island’s electricity comes from two diesel generators that run from 0700 in the morning to 2300 at night”, she tells us. “And the fire station has the world’s smallest fire engine.”

The fire station (left) and the power station (right).

“And over there is the Old Schoolhouse”, she continues. “Inside, you can still see the platform where the schoolteacher would stand. Nowadays, the building has been converted into a bar and café, and you can post letters there. Coffee, tea and snacks are also available.”

Old Schoolhouse on Grip (the one in blue).

“It’s certainly all very picturesque”, says the First Mate as we carry our cups of coffee out and sit in the warm sunshine. “But I am not sure that I would like to have been brought up here. It’s a bit too cut off from the rest of the world.”

“If you had been brought up here, you wouldn’t have known anything else”, I say. “You’d probably be quite happy.”

Surviving Storm Floris, a notorious passage, and the Last Viking

Posted on August 24, 2025 by Ruby Tuesday

“I think we should press on”, says the First Mate over breakfast. “Storm Floris is coming from the south-west in a couple of days, and we don’t want to be caught out. As nice as Molde is, it is rather exposed to the southwest and there’s not much protection in the harbour.”

She has a point. Storm Floris is approaching the UK and gusts of up to 90 miles per hour are being talked about. It’s only a matter of time before it reaches Norway. We really don’t want to be sailing in that.

“We can get to Bud today”, I say. “And then try and get around the Hustadvika before it comes. We could then shelter in the tiny island of Håholmen. Alternatively, we could stay in Bud itself – I’ve heard that it is quite well-protected.”

The Hustadvika is another of the officially designated ‘exposed or dangerous areas’ in Norway, and consists of a cluster of rocks, skerries, and small islands open to the vagaries of the Atlantic Ocean. Like the Statt and Godø, a benign weather window needs to be found to traverse it safely. Storm Floris doesn’t sound like it would be one of those.

We set off. Once we are round the Julneset point and into Julsundet, we catch the wind from the southwest, and have an exhilarating sail past the islands of Otrøya and Gossa right up to Bud. We have had a month of glorious sunshine, and while we wouldn’t have wanted to see the fjords in any other way except that, it had meant that there was very little wind for sailing. It is great to be able to stretch our wings again.

When we arrive in Bud, there is another British boat tied up to the landing. It turns out to be a father and daughter.

“We’ve been up to the Lofoten Islands”, the daughter tell us. “Now we are on our way back again. We need to get the boat back to the west of Scotland where we keep it, but I have leave my Dad to do it on his own from Ålesund as I need to be back to work next week. I’m a vet.”

“I’m used to sailing by myself”, says the father, anticipating the question from the looks on our faces. “So it’s not a big deal, although I will miss her company. She’s a good sailor. But this Storm Floris coming is going to delay things a bit. I’d be sailing right into it.”

We spend the next day exploring Bud. It’s a small picturesque fishing village with a supermarket, café, church, and museum. It’s claim to fame is that it was where the last independent Norwegian Privy Council met to vote in 1533 to secede from the Kalmar Union with Denmark and Sweden, and to become an independent country and reject the adoption of Lutheranism as the national religion. Unfortunately that didn’t end well, and Norway ended up in being a province of Denmark for nearly 300 years.

“It’s amazing to think that if they had succeeded in seceding, Norway would still be a Catholic country today”, says the First Mate. “And not Lutheran like the other Scandinavian countries.”

We come to the coastal walk north of village. The sun is shining, there’s no wind, and it’s hot. We climb one of the rock outcrops and look out over the Hustadvika, the route we will be taking northwards.

Looking out over the Hustadvika from Bud coastal walk.

“It’s so calm and peaceful now”, says the First Mate, wiping her brow. “It’s hard to believe that a violent storm is on its way.”

In a sense, we could have set off this morning, but we had heard from some other sailors we are in touch with that our intended destination, Håholmen, is low-lying and quite exposed, so we had decided that discretion is the better part of valour, and that we would sit out the storm in Bud instead.

The peace and quiet is suddenly shattered by a frenzied cacophony of seagull cries up ahead. Several seem to be harrying another large bird, swooping and diving at it from all angles.

“It’s a sea-eagle”, I say. “They are warning it to stay away. Perhaps it lives near here, out on the skerries.”

We end up on top of the small hill overlooking the town where German troops built gun emplacements as part of a series of fortifications called the Atlantic Wall to resist an Allied invasion. As it turned out it was never used in action, and may have even contributed to Germany’s defeat by diverting troops for its operation away from mainland Europe.

The storm is forecast to reach us sometime in the night. We have been keenly following the havoc that it is causing in Scotland, knowing that we would be in for something similar. Already there are some preliminary strong gusts. I double up on the mooring ropes just in case one breaks or works itself loose.

“I’ll put some rubber snubbers on as well”, I say. “That’ll stop sudden jerks stressing out the ropes. You can batten down the hatches.”

“I don’t think we have got any battens”, says the First Mate.

“I didn’t mean it literally”, I say. “I just meant to make sure all the windows and skylights are shut. It’s nautical-speak.”

As predicted, Storm Floris hits us in the early morning. I am awoken by the sound of the halyards whipping against the mast and the boat listing alarmingly to port as the winds howl over the harbour breakwater and catch the top of the mast. Luckily the breakwater protects the hull from the worst of the force, although from time to time, plumes of spray come hurtling over it, drenching the boat and joining the rivulets of rain already coursing down the canopy tent.

We eat breakfast huddled in the cabin, listening to the wind whistling through the rigging. Outside we see a seagull struggling to fly against the wind, making no progress at all, giving up, and going with the flow. I check the windspeed to find that it is up to 42 knots. That’s a Force 9 gale. And that’s in the harbour – what is it like out at sea?

In the afternoon, I notice that I have forgotten to take down the courtesy flags and that they are starting to work their way loose. When there is a lull, I clamber out onto the fore-deck and manage to retrieve two of them, but the Scottish one has somehow managed to get itself stuck on the port spreader. Without climbing up, there is nothing I can do except pray that it will somehow hang on.

It doesn’t. Two hours later it is gone. I have a quick scan around the harbour on the off-chance that it might still be floating on the water or have blown onto a jetty, but nothing.

After two days of incessant lashing, the storm dies down. We consult the BarentsWatch website and calculate that the sea should have calmed down enough the next morning for us to attempt the Hustadvika. We have decided to do the inner passage through the rocks and skerries, the so-called Stoplane route, which although requiring greater care in navigating our way through narrow gaps, is more protected from the Atlantic swell.

We awake early and cast off. There is still some residual swell left over from the storm, but it is not rough. We wend our way through the twisting route, making sure that we approach each marker pole on the correct side. Jagged rocks pass only metres away from our hull. We eventually reach the narrowest part, between the two Stoplane islands that give their name to the passage, where the marked channel is only two boat-widths wide.

Navigating through the Hustagvika inner route.

Eira looks at the boat approaching. It is the same one that she had seen a few days earlier on her visit to Romsdalfjord, and again when the seagulls had harassed her.

I know who you are, she thinks. I have seen you before. But you are in my world now. Your kind may have driven us out from the land you have colonised in Romsdal, but this is our domain. Yet still your minds are set on bending nature to your will, of claiming the seas as your own. You say that we have no right to your livestock, why then do you assume you have rights to our fish? Have you forgotten that once there was enough for all; now your numbers and your machines take almost everything and leave little for the rest of us? But we are all part of nature, you are not set to rule over us. If you can’t or won’t learn that, the Doom will return; but this time it will be for us both.

“Look, there are two sea-eagles on that pole”, exclaims the First Mate, pointing to one of the markers. “One’s just flown off.”

“They are beautiful creatures”, I say, trying to take a photo at the same time as I attempt to manoeuvre the boat through the narrow gap . “Especially when they fly. So big. I wonder what she is thinking about?”

“Deep philosophical thoughts, I am sure”, she answers.

Eventually we reach Håholmen and find a berth at the small harbour.

Several people are milling about as though they are waiting for something.

“The boat back to the mainland is coming soon”, explains a neighbour. “A lot of people come over for the day, have a walk around the island, something to eat and drink, then go back in the evening.”

“Unfortunately, the restaurant is fully booked for tonight”, the receptionist at the hotel tells us. “It’s very popular. You need to book well in advance. But there’s a couple of videos you might be interested in in the small museum at the back. One’s of the history of the island, and the other is of the things that the previous owner, Ragnar Thorseth, got up to. If you want to see them, let me know and I can switch them on for you.”

We decide to have a cup of tea and then see the videos. On the way back to the boat, we meet another British couple.

“We’re sailors too”, says the woman. “But our boat is in Greece. We’re on a car tour through Norway, as it is too hot to be in the Mediterranean at the moment. We’re staying at the hotel. The food here is great – we ate at the restaurant last night. But we have decided not to go tonight, so you could have our table if you like. I’ll talk to Reception.”

A stroke of luck! We had heard good reports of the restaurant, and had been keen to try it. Soon we are booked in for the 6pm sitting.

We find our way to the small museum at the back. The receptionist turns on the video projector.

“Håholmen was founded in the 1700s and soon become a hub for fishermen and traders”, the first film tells us. “Around 1900, it was purchased by a Bård Bergseth, who lived here with his family, and maintained the fishing industry. In the 1990s, it was taken over by his grandson, Ragnar Thorseth, who turned it into a hotel and conference centre.”

Ragnar Thorseth is a larger-than-life Norwegian adventurer, not all that dissimilar to his more well-known countryman, Thor Heyerdahl, we learn from the second film. In the 1960s, he had rowed single-handed from Norway to Shetland in an open rowing boat. Later, in the 1980s, he had built a replica Viking trading ship, the Saga Siglar, and had sailed around the world in her. He also managed to pack in a trip by boat through the Northwest Passage, an overland trip to the North Pole, and overwintering on Svalbard with his family. His exploits earned him the name of ‘The Last Viking’ in Norway.

Ragnar Thorseth rowing from Norway to Shetland.

“He still keeps coming to the island from time to time, even though it is now owned by Classic Norway Hotels”, the receptionist says as she comes to turn off the projector. “He lives on another island a bit further south from here. In fact he was here just a couple of weeks ago. In his Viking replica ship. He’s quite an amazing character.”

At 1800, we find ourselves at the restaurant. Knowing the history of the island, how could we have anything but fish? The First Mate goes for the monkfish; I decide to have the klippfish.

“Klippfish is a white fish, usually cod, that has been split, salted and then left to dry in the sun”, the waiter explains. “It is a traditional dish in this area. I can guarantee you will like it.”

He’s right. It’s delicious, with potatoes, minted green pea purée, cured pork belly bacon, and beurre blanc sauce, all rounded off with almond cake for dessert.

“I’m not sure that I am going to make it back to the boat”, says the First Mate. “I think I have eaten too much.”

“I’ll see if I can find a trolley”, I say.

A rock concert, a town of roses, and a new song

Posted on August 16, 2025 by Ruby Tuesday

“There’s a rock concert on for the next three days”, says the captain of the boat tied up in front of us. “Rauma Rock. It’ll be really loud. We were here last night, and we could hardly hear ourselves think until about four in the morning. But the music was good. There will be even more boats coming tonight. It will be packed.”

We are in the tiny harbour of Andalsnes near the top of Romsdalfjord. There had been no berths free when we had arrived, and we had rafted up to another small yacht while we decided what to do. It was then that we had noticed that a large stage had been constructed on the quayside, with the twanging of guitar strings warming up emanating from it.

“I don’t really want to be kept awake all night”, says the First Mate. “I am at that age where I need my sleep. But it would be somehow nice to hear some of the music.”

“Me too”, I say. “My hearing is bad enough as it is with old age, without finishing it off completely. Why don’t we go and anchor a little bit further up, where can still hear the music, but it isn’t quite so loud? And we wouldn’t have to pay either!”

The last sentence is the clincher.

“Good idea!”, she says. “But let’s have a quick look at the town first to see what it is like.”

The First Mate explores the town centre, while I take a walk down to the Rauma river running through it.

“Well, the town was pretty average”, she says, when we meet again. “I didn’t find it very inspiring.”

Later we motor a little further along the shoreline of the fjord and drop the anchor.

“Perfect!”, says the First Mate as we sit on deck with our glasses of wine watching the gondolas taking their passengers to the top of Mount Nesaksla, and listening to Rauma Rock getting underway. “That’s much more enjoyable.”

Listening to Rauma Rock from a distance.

“Andalsnes was one of the places that my great-great-grandfather visited”, I say. “Or at least Veblungsnes, which was the main settlement in those days. Since then, Andalsnes grew to be a town, while Veblungsnes remained a village. The Rauma river divides the two. In his letters he talks about the striking wonders of the Rauma river, but he says that he doesn’t have time to describe them.”

“The guide book says that the Rauma is famous for its salmon fishing, the emerald-turquoise colour of its water, its towering mountains, deep gorges, and sheer cliffs, and its waterfalls at Vermafossen and Slettafossen”, says the First Mate. “It was the inspiration for scores of Romantic artists, writers and explorers.”

“It would be nice to go and see it”, I say. “But we’ll never get in to the harbour now with all the boats that have been arriving.”

“We’ll have to come back another time”, says the First Mate.

In the morning we set off back along the Romsdalfjord. I keep a sharp eye out for sea-eagles.

Far above, wheeling on the updraft from the cliffs, Eira looks down on the waters of the Romsdalfjorden. She doesn’t come here often these days, instead spending most of her time with the other sea-eagles on the islands and skerries at the mouth of the fjord where the fish are plentiful. But from time to time she likes to revisit her birthplace and recall the stories that her father Clew and her mother Aran used to tell of Cuillin, the last of the great sea-eagles of Skye, who had flown alone from there to Romsdal to save her kind. And of her daughter Mourne who had returned to Skye with her motley collection of vagrants to repopulate those islands.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees a boat heading for the tip of Okseneset and the shapes of two humans. They won’t be able to see her, she is too high and against the sun. She does not fear them in the same way that her parents had done – the Doom that she had heard in the old stories had passed now and there seemed to be a new understanding between her kind and the humans.

And yet, from time to time there was a niggling feeling in the back of her mind that the Doom had not gone completely. To be sure, few of the Romsdal eagles died these days by being shot or poisoned, but she had heard that there were increasing numbers flying into the high towers with rotating blades that had appeared in Møre og Romsdal. And then there was the rumour that was going around the Pairs that the eggs being laid were hatching earlier in the year, there seemed to be more rain than she remembered in her younger days, and the weather appeared to fluctuate more between extremes. But surely humans couldn’t be blamed for that, could they? Clever as they seemed to be, they were just too small and insignificant to be able to change the forces of Mother Nature herself, the might of the winds and rain sweeping in from the Atlantic, the strength of the sun’s light bringing warmth and life to the earth. Surely only Haførn, the mother of them all, had the power to do that …?

As she circles, she sees another sea-eagle gliding over the island of Sekken. She recognises from his flight that it is Arvid, her mate. She dips her great wings and flies to meet him, the humans in their small boat disappearing from her view.

“Are you day-dreaming again?”, the dulcet tones of the First Mate interrupt my reverie.

“I was hoping to see a sea-eagle”, I say. “I was just thinking of the book I re-read over the winter – The Stonor Eagles by William Horwood. It’s about how sea-eagles went extinct in Scotland in the 1930s through the farmers shooting them to stop their sheep from being attacked, and how they were reintroduced in the 1970s from Norway. Romsdal was one of the areas that they brought them from. I read somewhere that you do see them here.”

“I imagine that there would be more down towards the ocean”, says the First Mate. “That’s where the fish are, after all.”

We arrive at the town of Molde on the northern shores of Moldefjord, and head for the small municipal marina. It’s sweltering. A woman in a tank top and shorts helps us tie up.

“That’s my boat just in front of you”, she tells us. “I live on it throughout the summer and then go back to my apartment for the winter. It’s kind of like a summer cottage, but on the water. I don’t sail far – there are enough beautiful places to visit around here.”

After a cup of tea, we decide to explore the town centre.

“It’s a pity we weren’t here a couple of weeks ago”, says the First Mate. “We could have gone to the Jazz Festival. They have one every year.”

Molde is well-known for its Jazz Festival.

“Look, here’s the Salmon Centre”, I say, pointing to a building in the town square. “We should go and have a look at it.”

“It’s free entry”, says the girl at the reception. “And that includes a free sample of raw salmon, which you can use to make your own snack with taco shells and various dips.”

For the next little while we are absorbed in creating our own culinary delights, learning about the life cycle of the salmon from ‘roe to plate’, how the cages are made and installed, and how it is becoming more sustainable, including ways to prevent farmed salmon escaping to mate with wild salmon and weakening their gene pool.

Learning how to create our own salmon delicacy.

“That was fascinating”, I say, as we emerge. “I now know more about salmon than I ever thought I would.”

“Yes, it was”, says the First Mate. “Come on, let’s have a coffee and cake. Look, there’s a nice looking place over there. We can sit outside. You grab a table, and I’ll go and choose the cake and order.”

“Earl Grey tea for me, please”, I say.

“Well, this is a nice little watering place”, says the minister to his companion as they sit down. “I enjoyed the walk around the town this morning. Such lovely weather. And what a nice smell from all the flowers they grow.”

“Molde is famous for that”, responds Mr Fairlie. “Especially the roses. Their fragrance is everywhere.”

“I had a look at the new church”, says the minister. “Apparently the old one burnt down four years ago, and they just finished building a new one last year. I must confess that I like the look of the old wooden one I saw in pictures better than the new one. All red-brick now.”

“I suppose it will be more fire-proof, at least”, says Mr Fairlie. “That’s always the problem with wooden buildings in this part of the world. It’s only a matter of time before they get burnt down.”

Molde’s present day Domkirke (successor to the redbrick one!).

“And I have to say that I was impressed at the beautiful resting place of the departed here”, continues the minister. “With its small mounds of earth crowned with the loveliest flowers. The graves are tended with the fondest care and mothers come and sit by their loved ones’ dust for hours, with a book in hand or plying the needle, engaged on some piece of useful or fancy-work.”

“Here we are”, says the First Mate, bringing a tray with the coffee, tea and a cheesecake. “What a nice spot. We can sit and watch the boats coming and going. But why are you putting in pictures of the cemetery? That’s a bit macabre.”

“My great-great-grandfather went to see it”, I say. “I thought I should too. He seemed to like that sort of thing.”

“You seem to be enjoying this cruise, at least?”, says Mr Fairlie.

“Immensely, but I have to admit I never feel relaxed on a boat”, says the minister. “Ever since I lost my younger brother Andrew at sea.”

“I didn’t know you had a younger brother”, says Mr Fairlie. “What happened?”

“He was on his way out to New Zealand”, replies the minister. “Another brother of ours, James, was already out there farming near Dunedin, and Andrew was intending to join him. He was a minister like myself, and had been in Canada but had fallen out with some of his superiors there. I don’t know what about. He always liked his drink and was a bit of a hothead, so maybe it was something to do with that.”

“So he was looking for a fresh start in New Zealand?”, asks Mr Fairlie.

“Yes, that sort of thing”, says the minister. “He was on board a ship called the Burmah sailing from London to Lyttelton. It seems it might have been overloaded, as in addition to the passengers, it was carrying a consignment of high-class horses and cattle. But it never arrived in Lyttelton. Another ship fourteen days out from New Zealand reported passing it in the Southern Ocean, and also that they had seen icebergs in the area at the time. So we are guessing that the Burmah must have hit an iceberg and sank.”

“What a story”, says Mr Fairlie. “Your poor brother. To have all his hopes dashed when he was so close to realising them. It’s a salutary reminder of the perils of sea travel.”

“Yes”, continues his companion. “But the story doesn’t end there. One or two years later some ship’s timbers were washed up on a beach to the south of Dunedin with the letter ‘B’ written on one of them. The supposition at the time was that it was from the Burmah.”

“And it’s sad to think of your brother James already in New Zealand waiting patiently for Andrew to arrive”, says Mr Fairlie. “Looking forward to seeing a member of his family again, then the slow realisation each passing day that his brother may not be coming. But never really knowing for sure.”

“No closure”, says the First Mate, as she takes the last of the cheesecake. “As we might say today. It’s a poignant story. But I can understand how your great-great-grandfather felt about the sea. I never feel at ease with it myself.”

“Who does?”, I think to myself.

In the evening, we sit on deck and eat our dinner. Suddenly three men from one of the neighbouring boats come over.

“We’ve been composing songs to amuse ourselves”, one says. “We’ve made one about your boat. We wondered if you might like to hear it?”

He presses the Play button on his portable stereo. A Scottish folk song plays.

Ruby Tuesday

She was born on the Clyde where the river runs wide,
Painted red like the fire of the morning tide.
With her sails full of dreams and her heart on the sea,
Ruby Tuesday’s the name, and she’s calling to me.

From whisky shores and bagpipes’ cry,
She’s chasing sunsets, kissing the sky.

Oh Ruby Tuesday, rolling with the waves,
From Scotland to Molde, where the fjord light plays.
We’ll sing and we’ll dance as the moon shines through,
On a deck full of laughter and a sky so blue.

The gulls sing along, and the wind hums a tune,
As we sail through the night by the light of the moon.
There’s a fiddle on board, and the stories run wild,
Of whiskey and freedom and the heart of a child.

She’s got no fear of the stormy skies,
‘Cause Ruby’s a queen with fire in her eyes.

Oh Ruby Tuesday, rolling with the waves,
From Scotland to Molde, where the fjord light plays.
We’ll sing and we’ll dance as the moon shines through,
On a deck full of laughter and a sky so blue.

Raise your glass to the Northern light,
We’re sailing strong through the soft midnight.
Every mile that we leave behind,
Brings us closer to peace of mind.

Oh Ruby Tuesday, you’re my guiding star,
From Scotland to Molde, no journey’s too far.
With the wind in your sails and the sky so true,
Every song that I sing, I’ll be singing for you.

It’s brilliant. Not completely factually accurate, but who cares about details? We’re touched.

Escaping the storm, a Devonian wonder, and a clenched fist

Posted on August 3, 2025 by Ruby Tuesday

“It’s right behind us”, I call out to the First Mate. “It looks like we are going to get wet.”

We are coming into the small harbour of Leirvik on the northern shore of the vast Sognefjord. A storm is chasing us from the south, and we are trying to get to shelter and tied up before it reaches us. About 200 m behind us we can see the ruffling of the water’s surface as the wind reaches it, our world reduced to a writhing mass of greys and blues. Raindrops begin to fall around us, spattering on the cockpit cover and the cabin roof.

For the last hour or so, we had seen the heavy dark clouds gather over the mountains to the south, and watched them with trepidation as they moved slowly across the fjord, wondering when it would be our turn to be engulfed. This looks like it might be it. But somehow it misses us. At the last moment it veers off towards the east, leaving only the perturbed water and the few raindrops in its wake.

“We’re not off the hook yet”, the First Mate shouts back, looking at the radar map on her phone. “There’s another one coming in. I’d say we have about ten minutes to get there.”

I push the throttle lever forward. We enter the small inlet, avoiding the salmon farms to starboard, and motor through the narrow marked channel leading to the harbour. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the clouds appearing over the surrounding hills. Luckily there is a free space. We loop the lines around the cleats on the pontoon, quickly connect the power cable, pull down the sides of the cockpit tent, and retreat inside as the heavens open and the torrential rain starts.

“Phew, that was close”, I say. “I am glad that we didn’t get drenched. There’s something very nice about being warm and dry inside, listening to it pelting down outside.”

The rain stops in the early morning. We have a leisurely breakfast, top up with fuel, and set off northwards through Tollesundet. The wind is fitful, sometimes filling the sails and giving us a pleasant sail, other times dying to nothing so that once again we have to run the engine.

“This topography plays havoc with the wind”, I grumble, as we take a line between the islands of Skorpa and Sula. “It always seems to be against you, whatever way you are going.”

“Just be thankful for the magnificent scenery”, says the First Mate. “And that we have the weather to be able to see it.”

In the late afternoon we reach the delightful little anchorage of Hatløy.

“Let’s stay here for the night”, says the First Mate. “It’s such a fantastic view. And there is no-one else – we have it all to ourselves.”

“Sounds a good idea”, I say. “It’s designated as a nature reserve and landing is prohibited from April to July for the nesting season, but we can stay on board.”

We drop anchor and chill out. A heron screeches from the reeds at the water’s edge, two ducks paddle by, looking expectantly for titbits. A cormorant flies overhead. There is a splash as a fish jumps and disappears again. It’s idyllic.

We carry on northwards the following day. The landscape widens, with more sea room and less feeling of being hemmed in by steep fjord sides. Nevertheless, it is still impressive. We pass the imposing bulk of Alden island with its Norskehesten mountain.

“Norskehesten apparently means ‘Norwegian horse’”, says the First Mate. “But I can’t really see a horse in it. Perhaps from another angle. But it certainly is impressive. And look at the way the rock is twisted in this one we are just passing now. It looks a bit like a Swiss roll.”

We eventually reach the bustling harbour of Florø. On the way in, we pass the iconic Stabben lighthouse.

“We don’t need to stay too long in Florø”, says the First Mate. “I just have the washing to do and we can stock up on provisions. Then we should press on to Maløy while this good weather lasts.”

The next day we enter the Frøysjøen fjord. As usual, there isn’t much wind, and what there is is against us, so we have to motor until we turn eastwards where we are able to catch it on just enough angle to unfurl the sails. Even though we are only able to make three knots, we find it relaxing to sit back and enjoy the scenery without the noise of the engine.

“There looks to be a nice little anchorage coming up”, I say. “Hennøysund. Tucked in behind an island. We can stay there the night.”

“Sounds good to me”, says the First Mate.

It is good. Surrounded by high mountains on each side, it feels as though it is just us and nature. That’s if we ignore the occasional muffled throb in the main fjord on the other side of the island of ship engines carrying cargo or passengers from Florø to Maløy.

“Even in Norway with its small population, you never feel far from ‘civilisation’”, I muse.

In the morning, just around the corner from our anchorage, we find we are dwarfed by a massive cliff rising straight out of the sea.

“It’s the Hornelen Sea Cliff”, says Mr Fairlie in awe. “Nearly 3000 feet high. The highest sea cliff in Europe, by all accounts. Devonian sandstone. At one stage it was a sedimentary river basin. Then when the Baltica plate collided with North America, it was forced upwards.”

“Ah, you and your natural processes trying to explain everything”, says the minister. “I’d forgotten that you had a passing interest in geology. You’ve been reading too much of James Hutton’s ramblings.”

“Well, I have to admit I am a strong admirer of the work of our countryman”, rejoins his companion. “Through observation of the country around him, he came to the conclusion that the components of the land were once formed by the tides and currents under the sea into a consolidated mass, and then raised up out of the deep by unimaginable forces. And if that is true in Scotland, then it must also be true in Norway.”

“But where is God’s hand in all this?”, chides the minister. “Isn’t he the Creator of all things?”

“Far be it from me to disagree with such a learned man as yourself”, answers Mr Fairlie. “But as with any craftsman, He makes use of the natural laws to produce what He wants. It is the calling of geologists such as Mr Hutton to determine what those laws are.”

“Well, whatever its cause, it makes one feel humble just to contemplate it”, says the minister, looking again at the cliff. “We don’t have anything so spectacular in Scotland. I suppose people must have climbed to the top?”

“Apparently, you can walk to the top”, says the First Mate. “There’s a marked path you can follow. There’s a little harbour around the corner you can start from. It takes about four hours to get to the summit.”

“Shall we tie up and have a go?”, I say, tongue in cheek.

“Ten years ago I would have said yes”, she replies. “But now my knees aren’t up to it.”

Mine are the same.

“If the steamship were to stop, I would do it”, says Mr Fairlie. “But I don’t think that there is any chance of that. We need to get to Maløy by tonight. But it was worth seeing. Perhaps I might come back sometime.”

“Rather you than me”, says the minister. “I’m too old for that sort of thing now.”

We eventually arrive in Maløy and find a place in the small marina. There is a huge cruise ship tied up across from us.

“I suppose that is the modern equivalent of the cruise steamship that your great-great-grandfather was on”, says the First Mate. “But I have read that Norway is bringing in tough regulations in 2026 that will require cruise ships and tourist boats to be zero emissions, particularly in the UNESCO World Heritage fjords like Nærøyfjord and Geirangerfjord. I wouldn’t imagine that they would have worried about that in 1889 with their coal-fired ships belching smoke and other nasty gases.”

“That’s true”, I say. “And I read somewhere that they will even be using sniffer drones to check up on emissions from cruise ships in the fjords. But I wonder how it will affect sailing boats like ours? It’s not easy to use the sails only in the fjords, what with the fallvind and the like.”

“I guess we will have to replace diesel engines with electric ones eventually”, she says. “Some sailing boats are already doing that.”

“And a lot of the ferries that we see around us are already electric”, I say. “Or at least hybrid. They are taking it all very seriously. Good on them.”

The next day we sail for the island of Silda, to the north of Maløy.

“It’s hard to believe that this was the site of a battle between the British and the Norwegians in 1810 during the Napoleonic Wars”, I say, remembering something I had read in the travel guide. “Two British frigates engaged with some Norwegian gunboats based at the pilot station on Silda. The British captured two of the Norwegian boats, while a third was scuttled by its crew.”

“Hey, keep your eyes on where we are going!”, shouts the First Mate as we enter the tiny harbour. “You almost hit that boat!”

Strategically placed at the end of the breakwater is a shapely young woman who seems to have mislaid her clothes. She seems blissfully unaware of the effect of her presence on the psychology of sailors who have been too long at sea. Not that that applies to me, of course.

“I was just concerned that she might be feeling the cold”, I shout back.

Discussion over dinner that evening centres on the challenge tomorrow.

“I have to say that I am not really looking forward to rounding the Statt”, says the First Mate. “I’ve heard so many horror stories about it, it’s making me scared.”

The Statt is a peninsula that juts out into the Atlantic ‘like an angrily clenched fist’, as the Cruising Guide puts it. It is notorious for being dangerous in certain conditions, so much so that an escort service is provided for small boats wanting to round it. In fact, work has started on drilling a tunnel through the base of the peninsula large enough so that ships can sail through it and don’t have to go around it. With the Norwegian penchant for tunnel-building, I am surprised that it hasn’t already been built. Cost, I assume.

“We’ll be OK”, I say, not feeling as confident as I try to sound. “It’s just a question of picking your weather window. And with all this calm weather we have been having, there’s been nothing that could have made it rough.”

We study every weather app we can lay our hands on. One particular one gives the wave heights and wind speeds at the headland at three-hourly intervals. I painstakingly work these out for the week ahead trying to find a slot that has small waves and a southerly wind to blow us north around it as well as following the north-flowing current. Nothing is ideal, but there is a window that is relatively calm, albeit with a wind from the north.

“At least the wind is very low, so I think it should be OK”, I say. “We’ll just have to motor around it. Otherwise, we will have to wait a whole week before the wind changes to the south, and who know what the waves will be doing by then?”

“I hope you are right”, the First Mate says, not very enthusiastically. “How high does it say the waves will be?”

“It’s predicting a maximum wave height of 1.3 m”, I say. “That’s from the top of the wave to the bottom of the trough. And a 0.7 m significant wave height, which is the average of the top third of all waves. That’s not too bad. It’s a bit like the wash from a speed boat passing us. A bit bouncy, but tolerable.”

We set off in the morning. The sky is overcast, but at least there is not much wind. The sea is calm, but as we approach, the waves grow slowly in height, and Ruby Tuesday starts to plunge into each successive wave. The clouds thicken and seem to grow darker. A gust of wind rocks us from side to side. Or is it my imagination?

Eventually we reach Kjerringa, the peak at the outermost corner of the promontory. This is where two currents meet and the water is confused, with waves from one stream interacting with waves from the other. Ruby Tuesday pitches and rolls, not sure what is happening. Luckily it doesn’t last long, and we are soon back in more straightforward water.

Kjerringa, on the end of the Stattland penensula.

“We’re over halfway now”, I say.

Slowly but surely the waves subside. Before long we are turning the corner eastwards again, and the water suddenly becomes smooth and the sun comes out.

“It really does generate its own microclimate out there”, says the First Mate. “I read that somewhere, but I didn’t really appreciate it.”

“Well, at least we made it”, I say. “We can relax now.”

“For the time being”, says the First Mate. “We still have two more designated ‘dangerous sea areas’ to go. Godø and the Hustadvika.”

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

Posted on July 5, 2025 by Ruby Tuesday

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Utstein Kloster, Norway’s only preserved medieval monastery.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The two men look perplexed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eric Anderaa’s boat *Tessie* in Haugesund.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Olaf Tryggvason finding the remains of Augvald in the mound.

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

Crossing the Skagerrak, a blind alley, and a dodgy radio aerial

Posted on June 29, 2025 by Ruby Tuesday

“We need to get an early start tomorrow”, I say. “The wind is from the north-west from about midnight, which is good for us as it will be on a reach and it should carry us more southards. The problem is that it is forecast to go then around to the south-west at around noon, which will then blow us north. So we need to get as much of the north-west wind as we can. I suggest that we leave at 0300 just as it gets light.”

We are planning the crossing across the Skagerrak from Sweden to Norway, a notorious piece of water that is essentially open sea. Depending on where we make landfall on the Norwegian coast it could be a distance of 60 to 90 nautical miles. As we are then heading south along the Norwegian coast and around the bottom, we want to get as far south in our crossing as we can.

“Ugh, I don’t like these early starts”, says the First Mate. “But I guess we have to do it.”

“Once we get going, you can go back to sleep”, I say.

We edge our way out of the harbour in the half dark, and with little wind in the protected area of Strömstad, we motor clear of the rocks and skerries north of the Koster Islands before raising the sails. As forecast, the wind picks up and we sail on a fast beam reach. Looking back, we see the sun begin to peep above the horizon.

“It’s times like this that I really love about sailing”, says the First Mate. “It’s so beautiful. Now, if you don’t mind, I am going to try and get a bit more sleep. Let me know if you need anything.”

“Just a cup of tea before you go”, I say.

The land disappears out of sight behind us, and Norway is yet too far to be seen. We are alone on the sea. The miles slip effortlessly under the keel, interrupted only by the passing of the ferry from Kiel to Oslo.

At mid-day, the wind drops to almost nothing. We consider starting the engine, but moments later, the wind starts again, this time from the south-west. Just as predicted.

“I’m always amazed how quickly these wind changes can occur”, says the First Mate, awake now. “You’d think that the change would be much more gradual than that, going around slowly. But it often happens all of a sudden.”

“I guess we must be at the boundary of two airstreams moving in different directions”, I say. “We would need to look at the wind map.”

As anticipated, the change in wind direction means that we will be pushed further north now. I do some quick calculations and work out that we should be able to make landfall at Risør, further north than I had hoped, but not too bad. By all accounts it is a pretty town.

Soon we are edging our way through the islands and skerries guarding the entrance to Risør harbour and tie up on the outside of the L-shaped pontoon.

“You need to report your arrival to the police if you have just come from Sweden”, the couple on the American-flagged boat in front of us tell us. “As well as the Customs. They came down to inspect us earlier in the afternoon. Luckily we had declared everything and paid the duty on it.”

We had heard that the Norwegian Customs were tightening up on the entry of foreign boats into Norway, and that it was highly advisable to be proactive and up-front in registering your arrival and declaring what you are bringing into the country. We had just heard a story of a British boat which had been heavily fined in the previous week for not completing their formalities correctly.

We had already declared online the small amount of alcohol we had in addition to the meagre limit we were allowed. I spend the rest of the day trying to phone the police in Oslo, but no-one seems interested. Eventually I reach the local police for the area.

“That’s fine”, the young-sounding officer on the other end says. “I’ll make a note of your arrival, and send you an email to confirm that you have entered correctly. Let me just find out if Customs want to come and see you. They are just in the next room.”

“No, they don’t need to see you”, he says on his return. “You are free to sail in Norway now. But don’t forget that if you want to leave your boat here over the winter that you need to ask them formally for permission after six weeks from the date of entry.”

“Well, that was all very easy”, says the First Mate, with a sigh of relief. “I thought they would at least come and search us, after what the Americans told us. We could have been real smugglers for all they know.”

Risør is a picturesque little town with all of its houses painted white. It has a strong maritime history, with many wooden boats being kept and maintained here, and an international wooden boats festival every August.

We climb up to the Risørflekken, a patch of bare rock painted white, overlooking the town. The story is that it was created by Dutch sailors in the 17^th century as a navigational aid, and is still visible several miles out to sea. Its white colour has been maintained ever since then.

“Not quite”, says the First Mate. “I read somewhere that they painted it black during the Napoleonic Wars to stop the English boats from seeing it.”

In any case, it gives a good view over the town and the harbour. We sit for a while and watch the comings and goings of the small boats.

“Did you see that there is a pub here called ‘The Peterhead’?”, says the First Mate on the way back.

I had seen it. Peterhead is a major fishing port in north-east Scotland, where we live, and where we had kept Ruby Tuesday for a winter during the covid pandemic.

“I asked the landlord how it came to be called that”, she continues. “Apparently it was because of the strong timber trading links between Risør and Peterhead in the 18^th and 19^th centuries. A lot of Norwegian pine was taken from here to be used for shipbuilding and house construction in Scotland.”

The next morning, we head southwards from Risør. The wind is now from the north-east, and the Norwegian current is also flowing southwards parallel to the coast, so we have an effortless run down on the genoa only, passing Arendal, Grimstad and Lillestad. Past that, we have decided to take the Blindleia route, the inner route through the islands off the coast.

“The name translates as the Blind Alley”, I say. “There are a lot of nice anchorages on the way. The only thing is that it is very narrow in places, with the occasional sharp turn, so we will need to take it carefully. There is also a bridge at the beginning that has only 19 m clearance, which is a bit risky for our 18 m, but luckily we can join it a few miles further down. Better safe than sorry.”

“There seems to be a nice looking anchorage just close to where we join it”, says the First Mate. “It’s called Mortensholm. We could anchor there, chill out, and stay there the night.”

Mortensholm turns out to be a beautiful sheltered little inlet surrounded by steep rock faces and forest. Three or four other boats are already in there, and there isn’t much room for us, particularly as there is a large shallow area in the middle we must avoid. We find a place between two other boats and drop anchor. But our swinging around the anchor brings us very close to one of them, and the occupant glares at us, his privacy disturbed and his boat in danger. A small Jack Russell bounds onto the deck and barks aggressively.

As a clever forestalling manoeuvre, the First Mate engages the man in conversation. She’s good at that. It turns out that he has worked in Africa, and knows Zambia well. We have an instant rapport, and the imminent collision is forgotten.

“I was working for a mining company there as an engineer”, he tells us. “Diamonds. We were looking for diamonds. I was in South Africa, Namibia and Zimbabwe too. Eight years in total, but in the end I decided to come back. There’s something about Norway that I like. I bought myself a boat and I spend the summers just exploring here and there. If I like a place I stay a bit longer; if I don’t, I just move on. Charlotte here keeps me company.”

Hearing her name, the Jack Russell wags her tail in agreement.

“It’s funny, isn’t it?”, says the First Mate to me later. “I haven’t thought about Zambia for years, but here we have been talking about it in the last two blogs.”

In the morning, we set off southwards along the Blindleia, passing through narrow gaps only a bit wider than the boat and only a few centimetres deeper than our draft.

We pass the small island of Småhølmene, the focus of a book we had both read over the winter called Island Summers, by Tilly Culme-Seymour. In it the author describes how her grandmother, a descendent the Norwegian shipping family, Olsen, buys the island just after WW2 in exchange for a mink coat, and, in true Norwegian fashion, builds a wooden cabin on it for summer holidays. She and her family then come every summer to escape their hectic, albeit somewhat privileged, lifestyle in England and enjoy the peace and freedom that their Norwegian island offers, a tradition that continues for at least three generations. It’s a charming enough story, at least the first part, giving a glimpse of relaxed Norwegian summers enjoying nature, fishing, swimming, sunbathing, cooking and eating. However, it seems to lose its way towards the end when the author and her boyfriend decide to stay the winter in the cottage, but in reality are there only from March to May, hardly the winter, even in Norway.

We continue to weave our way through the rocks and islands of the Blindleia, through tiny hamlets clinging to the banks on both sides, and eventually reach Mandal, the southern-most town in Norway, at the mouth of the Mandalselva River. Mandal built its wealth on the back of salmon fishing and timber trading in the 1700s, and still has a well-established, self-contented charm about it, with its white-painted wooden houses and beautiful golden-sanded beach.

We still have the infamous Lindesnes and Lista capes to negotiate. These two rocky headlands where the waters of the Baltic and the North Sea meet have been designated ‘Dangerous Sea Areas’ by the Norwegian authorities, as ferocious winds and high waves can build up suddenly, particularly from the predominant south-west. They are not to be taken lightly.

Luckily for us, the winds have gone round to the east, and are forecast to stay that way for several days. We need to make the most of them to go around the capes and as far as we can up the west coast before they turn.

In the morning, we set off from Mandal and head westwards, using only the genoa again and not the mainsail, due to the risk of the latter gybing. We had just heard a story of a boat the previous week which had gybed accidentally going around the Lindesnes due to a sudden change in wind direction, which had damaged its mast. Even with only the genoa out, we still make 7 knots, so we don’t complain.

In the event, we pass the Lindesnes and then the Lista without incident. The seas are choppy, but not dangerous.

“Well, that wasn’t too bad”, says the First Mate. “After all I read about them, I was a bit worried that it was going to be pretty rough. But that was tolerable.”

We stop for the night at the small island of Hitra, and its beautiful harbour of Kirkehamn, so named after its iconic white-painted church standing on a small promontory jutting out into the harbour. As luck would have it, there is a wedding in progress, and the small marina is full of the motorboats of the guests. We have no option but to tie up on the far side of the harbour against some old tyres with no facilities or power.

“It’s only for a night”, I say. “But we can walk around to the church and restaurant and have dinner there to make up for it.”

In the morning, the easterly winds are still favourable but are forecast to change in a couple of days, so we decide to leave at 0300 to make the most of them and to sail all the way to Tananger, a distance of more than 60 NM.

“The last few days have been quite long sails”, says the First Mate. “I’ll be quite glad when we get to Tananger, so that we can chill out a bit. But it is great that we have finally managed to get to the west coast of Norway in good time.”

We make it to Tananger in late afternoon. The wind is strong and it makes tying up to the jetty difficult, but there are several helping hands and soon we are secure.

On the way in, I had noticed that the VHF aerial on top of the mast was swinging from side to side, even though it still seemed to be working. The next morning, I send the drone up to have a look and take some photos, but it is still not clear what exactly has happened.

“My guess is that the retaining nut on the bottom has worked itself loose”, I tell the First Mate. “But it seems to be still attached at least. We’ll have to find someone who can go to the top and have a look at it. I’m too old for that sort of thing.”

I phone every boat repair company in Tananger, but none have free time to be able to do it as it is the start of the boating season in Norway. Eventually, I find someone north of Bergen who says that he can look at it.

“Bergen?”, says the First Mate. “But we won’t be there for at least two weeks. I hope that it stays on until then!”

So do I.

Existential despair, cottage country, and a Norwegian culinary treat

Posted on June 22, 2025 by Ruby Tuesday

“I enjoyed the Munch museum yesterday”, says the First Mate, taking a bite from her sandwich. ”It was good to see The Scream at last. It gave me some inspiration for my own painting classes in the winter. I hope that I can remember it all.”

We are on the train to Gjørvik, two hours north of Oslo, to see our friends Ståle and Gunvor. Once clear of Oslo, we wend our way through deep valleys, lush forest, and fertile farms . It starts to rain heavily, the raindrops streaking the train windows. I reach for my coffee.

“Yes, he certainly taps into our deepest emotions of fear, anxiety and despair”, I say, recalling what I had read in the brochure we had been given. “All particularly relevant to today’s world. What I didn’t realise though was that he painted several versions of The Scream – I had imagined there was only one. And none of them are quite the same.”

“You certainly get the feeling that a lot of his work was based on his own personal experiences”, she says. “The early deaths of his mother and sister, and his own struggles with mental health, strongly influenced his depiction of illness, death and emotional turmoil. And the look of jealousy on the faces of the two women in Dance of Life. You could almost imagine that he, as the man, was enjoying it.”

We reach the station at Gjørvik. Ståle and Gunvor are there to meet us. We had first met them in Zambia in the late 1980s, when we had all arrived at the same time to work on various development projects – building roads, teaching, administration, agricultural research – coincidentally all funded by the Norwegian Government. We had somehow lost touch with each other over the years, but now that we are retired and have the time, it is nice to catch up with old friends again.

They look much the same as we remember them from 30 years ago.

“Well, apart from turning rather grey”, says Ståle. “And suffering the ignominy of new hair sprouting in senseless places!”

I know the feeling. Not to mention the teeth that have to be extracted, and the various aches and pains that seem to appear for no reason and take longer to disappear than they used to.

“Anyway, welcome to Norway”, he continues. “We have been preparing these last 1000 years for the retaliatory sea-raids out of Scotland after we did a little bit of looting and pillaging there. So we’ve been expecting you.”

Ståle is engaged in development and relief work as head of the Programme Department in an NGO in Gjørvik, while Gunvor processes building applications at the district municipality.

“We’ll pass my office on the way home”,Ståle says. “If you are interested, I can quickly show you around.”

We stop at a modern building not far from the centre of town. Inside, the walls are covered with posters of scenes in tropical countries and smiling happy people.

“It’s pretty much all funded by the Norwegian Government”, he says, as we tour the building. “Our work is on safeguarding children in developing countries, with particular focus on alcohol and substance abuse, mental health, children’s rights, and gender equality. We work through local partner organisations to support home-grown initiatives. A big part of what we do is to help with fund-raising for those initiatives.”

I ask him if he has any plans for retirement.

“There has been the odd hint that maybe I should start thinking about it”, he says. “But I haven’t risen to the bait yet. I love my job.”

We arrive at their house with a stunning view looking out over Lake Mjøsa, the largest lake in Norway.

“At 453 m depth, it is the fourth deepest lake in Europe”, Gunvor tells us. “In the winter, most of it can freeze over.”

“When I was young”, says Ståle, “I got my name in the local newspaper for ice-skating from one side to another. Unfortunately, I was seen as a reckless idiot rather than a hero. The thickness of the ice can vary considerably, and there is a real risk of falling through it. But I somehow survived to tell the tale.”

I shudder. The thought of being trapped under thick ice and not being able to find the entry hole before my breath runs out fills me with dread.

Over dinner, the conversation turns to economics.

Sorting out the problems of the world over the last 30 years …

“I’ve never really understood why everything is Norway is so expensive”, I say. “I suppose for Norwegians, though, you have the salaries to match, so things don’t seem so expensive to you? It’s only if you are coming from the outside that it does.”

“They were expensive because of the oil”, says Ståle. “We paid ourselves high salaries, even unskilled workers, because we could afford to. But actually now, salaries are levelling off so people are now starting to find things more expensive. It’s really only alcohol that is terribly expensive.”

“Yes, we are still trying to get to grips with the very strict rules that Norway has on the amount of alcohol you can bring in”, says the First Mate. “Do you think that it has any effect?”

“I know it is strange that we are so draconian now after the reputation the Vikings had for drinking”, says Ståle. “But I think that it’s helped to reduce a lot of family and social problems we used to have through alcohol abuse. Whenever they are asked, the public generally support the policy for that reason.”

We sleep that evening in a small cottage belonging to Gunvor’s niece, right by the shore of the lake. It’s idyllic. Particularly an early morning walk and watching the sun rise over the hills on the far side of the lake.

“I thought that we could drive to Lillehammer today”, says Ståle. “That’s where they hosted the Winter Olympics in 1994. There is an open-air museum there with a collection of houses from all over Norway and from different eras, which you might find interesting. Maihaugen, it is called. We can also have lunch there.”

After lunch in the museum restaurant, we find ourselves in front of an impressive-looking wooden church.

“It’s called a stave church”, a museum guide dressed as some sort of friar explains. “Due to its method of construction. Strong wooden posts rise vertically to give the structure strength, with lighter boards filling in the gaps between. The original church was built in the early 1200s in Garmo. It was dismantled in 1880 and transported here in 1921. The altarpiece and pulpit are both from the original church.”

Further on, we watch a woman making soap the traditional way.

“It’s amazing how you can mix fat and wood ash to come up with something that cleans”, says the First Mate.

“Did you see this house over here?”, calls Gunvor, pointing to a well-appointed, but distinctly suburban, house. “It’s Queen Sonya’s actual house. Don’t you remember that you met her in Zambia?”

There had been a royal visit by the then Crown Prince Harald and his wife Sonya to all the Norwegian-funded projects in Zambia. I had been asked to give a talk about the work that we were doing, and I distinctly remember standing in the middle of a field trying to explain to the royal entourage what agroforestry was all about. Later we had had lunch along with them, along with all the other Norwegians there. Sonya herself had been born a commoner, albeit a relatively well-to-do one, and the young couple were obviously very popular. More than a few tears were shed as they were taken to the small airport and their plane disappeared into the African skies towards Lusaka.

“The couple kept their courtship secret for nine years”, a panel in the house tells us. “In those days, royalty weren’t permitted to marry commoners. But Harald told his father that he wouldn’t marry anyone if he couldn’t marry her. Faced with the threat of his royal line dying out, his father agreed. Harald eventually ascended the throne in 1991 to become King Harald V of Norway, with Sonya becoming his queen.”

“She’s just repaying you for that interesting talk on agroforestry in Zambia you gave her in 1990 by inviting you into her childhood home”, jokes Ståle, taking a photo of me standing outside the house.

I am not so sure. I had always thought that I had bored them with my enthusiastic but technical talk of ecological farming. But who knows?

“I thought that we could drive over to our cottage west of here today”, says Gunvor the next morning. “Actually, my sister and myself inherited it when our father died, so we share it with them. They are there at the moment doing some tidying up work, so you’ll meet them.”

“We Norwegians love our cottages”, says Ståle. “They tend to stay in the family, passing from one generation to the next. Mostly they are quite basic with limited facilities, but offer a respite from the pressures of city life. I suppose it is all this getting back to nature thing. I actually have a cottage myself on the west coast on an island near Trondheim that I inherited from my father, although we hardly ever use it. We don’t even rent it out as it is more hassle than it is worth to find housekeepers and so on to look after it.”

It’s not all that different from the Cottage Country area in Ontario, Canada, where we had lived for a year, or, for that matter, the ‘bach’ culture in New Zealand, where I grew up. When we were children, my parents had had a small cottage at a local beach, which we visited from time to time in the summer. Happy memories of sunny days, playing in the sand on the beach, swimming in the small stream that flowed towards the sea, and, of course, eating ice-creams. Eventually we sold it, as us children grew up and moved away from home.

We drive up a winding, unsurfaced road, and arrive at a white-painted cottage in a large clearing in the forest. A ravine tumbles almost vertically from the mountain at the back, and an eclectic mix of agricultural implements lie next to a small shed.

“They’re Gunvor’s toys”, says Ståle, following my gaze. “Being an engineer by training, she loves mechanical things that can do serious work.”

Gunvor’s sister Sigrid and her husband Ragnor, along with their small dachshund, are already there. They are also both engineers, working on military projects.

“We are sailors too”, Ragnor tells us over a lunch of waffles. “We used to have a boat and sailed it in the Skagerrak a lot, both in Sweden and Norway. In fact , I have always been fascinated by the idea of travelling by wind power. In my younger days, a group of us kite-skied from the south to the north of Greenland. It was an amazing experience.”

I am suitably impressed. It had never occurred to me that such a thing was even possible, let alone achieved.

“Try some of this Rømmegrøt”, says Gunvor. “It’s a traditional Norwegian dish made with sour cream, milk, wheat flour, butter, and salt mixed into a kind of porridge. You can drizzle it with butter, and sprinkle sugar, cinnamon and sultanas on top. You normally eat it to accompany salami or ham and a flatbread. It’s quite rich.”

‘Quite’ is an understatement.

“Phew, that was absolutely delicious”, I say, after a second helping. “But I don’t think I can squeeze any more in without bursting.”

“Me neither”, says the First Mate. “I am going to have to diet for the next month.”

“When I was growing up, it was my absolute favourite dish”, says Ståle. “I couldn’t get enough.”

On the way back to Gjørvik, the conversation turns to our Zambian days.

“Do you remember that trip to Zimbabwe?”, asks Gunvor. “The time there was no flour in the whole of Zambia because the parts for the mill at Kabwe hadn’t arrived. We drove down to Harare to buy flour, a journey that took two days just to get there.”

“I do remember getting to the border at Victoria Falls on the way back”, I say. “What we didn’t realise was that there was a 10 kg limit on flour that you could take out of Zimbabwe. Most of it was confiscated by the border guards. I was heartbroken looking in the rear-view mirror at our precious flour bags piled up in a heap by the border post. Our whole trip was wasted.”

“You can be sure where that ended up”, says the First Mate. “I bet the border guards enjoyed their bread that night.”

The next day, it’s time to go. We need to catch the 0735 train from Gjøvik to Oslo to get back to Ruby Tuesday. The winds to make the 70 nautical mile Skagerrak crossing from Strömstad in Sweden to Risør in Norway are in our favour tomorrow, and we have to make the most of them of them or wait another week.

“We’ve really enjoyed our stay with you”, says the First Mate. “It was wonderful to catch up with you both again after all these years.”

“It’s somehow quite special, isn’t it”, says Ståle. “I mean, that four young people could meet in a remote corner in the deep interior of Africa, that this led to two marriages that still are intact and thriving after 35 years, that we could meet and exchange memories half a life later in the deep interior of Norway, and that we are as comfortable in each other’s company now as we were back then.”

I couldn’t have put it better myself.

A cement town, a wartime evacuation, and unexpected winds

Posted on May 30, 2025 by Ruby Tuesday

“You can leave your car with a friend of mine”, says Ingemar, over a beer. “He has a big barn, so it will be under cover.”

We had met Ingemar on the Danish island of Christiansø last year, and had sailed along with him to Limhamn marina on the outskirts of Malmö, where he was also storing his boat over the winter. Limhamn was where he had been born and grown up, so despite now living in the south of France, he knew the place and its people well.

“It’s better than leaving it at the marina, where it is likely to get covered in salt spray from the wind”, he continues. “I always leave my motorhome with him.”

He has a large motorhome that he uses to travel around in when he is not sailing. We had been most impressed with it – it is fitted with state-of-the-art gear, and even has a small garage in the back of it in which he keeps his SmartCar for travelling around locally in when he reaches his destination.

A home away from home? (Similar to, but NOT Ingemar’s mobile home.)

The next day, I follow him to his friend’s place and park our car in the barn. His motorhome is already there. Several other cars are also in the barn, some classic, some covered in dustsheets. Our car will have others to talk to.

“Your car will be fine here”, says Ingemar’s friend. “I won’t move it from its place. Remember to disconnect your battery so that it doesn’t go flat.”

On the way back to the marina in his SmartCar, Ingemar talks about the local history of the area.

“Limhamn actually means Lime Harbour. There was a huge quarry, the Limhamns Kalkbrott, from which they used to extract limestone and take it by train to the harbour where it was converted into cement. I can remember as a young boy being woken every morning by the huge explosions as they blasted out the limestone. Our whole house shook. The cement was shipped all over the world – the ‘Christ the Redeemer’ statue in Rio de Janeiro was actually made using Limhamn cement.”

“Do they still make it here?”, I ask.

“Not any more”, he says. “Nowadays, most of Sweden’s cement is made on Gotland. They have turned the quarry here into a nature reserve with a lake in the middle which attracts wildfowl and other animals. Apparently the nature reserve has one of the very few populations of the European green toad left in Sweden. Look, the observation point is just off here. I’ll take you to see it.”

We stand on the edge of a giant crater and look down at the small lake and regenerating vegetation. On three of the sides of the rim are new-build housing areas, and on the fourth is the motorway to the Øresund Bridge.

All that material removed from the earth and used to make the cement to construct the hallmarks of modern civilisation, I think.

“Ironically, they have to keep pumping water out of it so that the whole area doesn’t become a lake”, says Ingemar. “It makes you wonder how sustainable it will be in the long run.”

—-

We set sail the next morning. We are a little nervous, not only because this is our first sail of the season, but also because it is the first proper test of everything on the boat after the winter repairs – particularly the engine which had had the heat exchanger removed. Will it all function, or did I forget to reassemble some vital bolt or screw, I wonder.

But everything works as it should, and we are soon sailing merrily northwards along the Øresund. It is just as well, as we had arranged to meet three other boats by a specific date in the small village of Smögen some 200 miles away well up the west coast of Sweden, and we already don’t have much time to get there. But at least we are finally on our way.

“Look, there’s Kronborg Castle over there”, says the First Mate, pointing to an impressive looking structure on the Danish side. “The town nearby is Helsingør, where we used to catch the ferry across to Sweden the times we drove to Stockholm.”

We cross the shipping lane at right angles to reach the Danish coast. Now the wind is on the nose, and we have to furl the sails and start the engine. Eventually we reach our destination for the night, the small town of Gilleleje on the north coast of the island of Sjælland.

“It looks like we’ll be here for a few days”, I say, perusing the weather charts and forecasts in the evening. “Strong north winds and lumpy seas are forecast for the next three days at least. We can’t sail into those.”

“Well, I am sure we can find enough things to do here for a few days”, says the First Mate. “It seems a nice little place. I read that there’s a good fish shop here with fresh fish from the fishing boats.”

Looking for fresh fish in the Gilleleje fish shop.

In the morning, I walk over to the shower block for my customary shower, taking with me the card we were given to access and pay for the toilets and showers.

“I am not sure how much money is left on the card”, the First Mate says. “I had rather a long shower last night, and I may have used quite a bit of it. But there is definitely some left.”

Outside a group of people are busy doing aerobics, led by an athletic hunk in his twenties.

“Legs up and twist”, he chants. “Arms straight in front, and bend. One, two, three four.”

Inside, I undress and wave the card in front of the reader. The shower starts. I stand underneath it and soap myself up. After one minute there is a click, and the water stops. I wave the card again in front of the reader. Nothing. There is a beep and a message appears on the reader display.

“Insufficient funds on this card to continue.”

Consternation! Dripping soapsuds and shampoo, I have no way of rinsing them off. The machine for topping up the card is at the yacht club, 100 metres away. And I can’t put my clothes on top of wet suds anyway.

The brilliant idea occurs to me that the only way is to rinse myself off at one of the basins in the common washroom. But what if someone comes in? I have to take the risk.

Starkers, I stand on my towel and slosh myself with water from the sink. The aerobics chanting outside ends, and there is the sound of the outer door opening. I just manage to wrap my towel around myself before the washroom door opens.

I avert my eyes from the curious gazes of the Athletic Hunk and several other sweating faces.

“Shower not working”, I mumble, pretending to be a foreigner not used to Danish bathroom technology. No one looks convinced.

The Athletic Hunk waves his card in front of the reader. The shower spurts out water perfectly. I pretend not to notice, dress, and beat a hasty retreat.

“I have a bone to pick with you”, I say to the First Mate when I get back to the boat.

“I told you there might not be much on it”, she says unsympathetically. “You should have topped it up before you went in.”

In the afternoon, we visit the Gilleleje museum, the central focus of which is the evacuation of Danish Jews to Sweden in October 1943. Two of the museum staff are sitting outside the café in the sunshine drinking coffee.

“The Jews in Denmark were left relatively alone for the first part of the war”, one of them tells us. “Mainly because Denmark had an official policy of cooperation with the Germans. But in October 1943, this arrangement broke down, and the Germans began arresting Danish Jews.”

“Suddenly, Jews from all over Denmark started coming to Gillerleje”, the second one tells us. “It’s the closest point to neutral Sweden, and they were trying to flee to there. Many came by train to the station here. You can find out more about it in the exhibition over there.”

“Local people hid the fleeing Jews in their lofts”, one of the panels tells us. “Then when a boat became available, they would be taken down to the harbour in the dark of night and put aboard the boat. Children were even sedated and carried down in cardboard boxes so they wouldn’t cry out and arouse the suspicions of any chance German patrols. The boat would then take them across to Sweden.”

Some of the refugees weren’t so lucky. Someone informed the Germans that there were Jews hidden in the loft of the church – a patrol was dispatched there, the Jews were arrested and taken to the nearby Horserød prison camp, and from there to Theresienstadt concentration camp in present-day Czechia, where many of them died.

The Gilleleje church where several fleeing Jews hid in October 1943.

“Look, here’s one of the boats that transported people across”, says the First Mate, pointing to a dinghy in the middle of the exhibition. “It’s so small. I wouldn’t have liked to be on the sea in one of those in the middle of the night.”

“You probably wouldn’t mind if the alternative was being taken to a concentration camp”, I say.

One of the boats used to evacuate Jews from Gilleleje to Sweden.

Later, we walk out to the outskirts of the town to see the memorial of the Jewish evacuation and of those who died.

Teka Basofar Gadol, it says in Hebrew. “Let the Great Ram’s Horn proclaim our liberation.”

The *Teka Basofar Gadol* memorial to Jews evacuated from Denmark to Sweden.

—-

“Well, I have to say, this is the type of sailing I like best”, says the First Mate, stretching out languidly in the warm sunlight bathing the cockpit. “A nice light breeze to keep us moving, no heeling, and no waves to make us roll from side to side. Bliss.”

We are on our way from Læsø to Marstrand in Sweden. The winds had changed, and we had been able to sail from Gilleleje to the island of Anholt and from there to the island of Læsø. We had originally planned to explore both islands in detail, but a quick scan of the weather forecast had convinced us that if we were ever to get to Smögen to meet the others, we had to press on. The next three days were to be strong winds from the north again, which would confine us to port. We weren’t too keen to do that. Today was to be light winds and smooth seas all the way to Marstand, so much so, I was expecting that we would probably have to motor some or most of the way. We promised ourselves that we would visit Anholt and Læsø on the way back and do them justice.

The First Mate is right though – it is pleasant. Except is doesn’t last long. After about half an hour, as I had expected, the wind drops to three knots and the sails flap listlessly. Shortly we are drifting along as less than two knots. At this rate, we might be lucky to get to Marstand by the morning. But at least the sun is shining.

I go downstairs to make a cup of tea. While I am down there, the boat suddenly lurches and begins to heel. Out of nowhere, the wind has picked up. I glance at the instruments – 18 knots! Where has that come from? I try to carry my cup of tea up the companion way without spilling it; by the time I get there, the wind is touching 25 knots and we are speeding along at 7½ knots.

“I thought it was supposed to be calm all the way”, shouts the First Mate. “We need to reef. We’re heeling far too much.”

We put in two reefs just to be on the safe side. The boat stabilises, but she is still hurtling along at almost undiminished speed.

Driven by the wind, the waves slowly begin to grow. Unfortunately, they are an our beam, coming from the side, and Ruby Tuesday rolls as each one travels underneath us.

“I’m feeling a bit squeezy”, says the First Mate, starting to look green. “I think I’ll go below.”

“Queasy”, I say. “You mean queasy.”

“Whatever”, she says, disappearing.

Ruby Tuesday settles into an uneasy rhythm – rolling precipitously with each successive wave, but somehow managing a consistent seven knots. Clouds roll in and the sun disappears, adding to the melancholy. From time to time, the bow plunges into a wave, sending green water cascading over the foredeck and windows of the spray hood.

Crossing the Kattegat in high winds and strong seas.

A ship appears out of the haze. We are crossing a shipping lane and I have been keeping a watchful eye out for ships to avoid. The AIS tells me that our closest point of approach to this one is 75 m. That’s a bit too close. I adjust the autopilot two degrees to the south.

“Ruby Tuesday, Ruby Tuesday”, suddenly crackles an Indian voice on the VHF. “Your course is very close to ours. We’re closing fast.”

“Ship calling Ruby Tuesday”, I respond. “I am aiming to go behind you.”

I adjust the autopilot a further two degrees to the south just to be on the safe side. A few minutes later we pass behind the giant cargo ship, and I am watching its stern disappear slowly into the haze again. The AIS tells me she is bound for Baltimore.

The hours pass. There is no let up in the windspeed and the waves are as high as ever. But we are making progress, uncomfortable as it is, and gradually Sweden comes into view. Eventually we reach the entrance to the fjord where Marstrand, our destination, is located. Like the flick of a switch, the wind suddenly drops and the waves calm down, and we sail sedately up the fjord with only the genoa up as we pass the imposing Carlsten Fortress on the hill guarding the entrance to the town.

“Well, I am glad that is over”, says the First Mate. “I didn’t enjoy that at all. It was odd wasn’t it? When we set out it was calm, and here it is calm. Did we just imagine all those strong winds and waves in between?”

A good question.

Celestial mechanics, a Viking with bad teeth, and meaningful motorcycling

Posted on May 22, 2025 by Ruby Tuesday

“Well, we have decided to head for Tunisia in the boat”, says Harry as he grinds the coffee beans with his traditional manual grinder. “We want to get there in time to see the solar eclipse in August 2027.”

We are at Harry and Beate’s place in Germany. Beate previously shared a flat with the First Mate when they were both single, and we have kept in touch with them since then. We share a mutual interest in sailing, and, indeed, had previously visited them on their boat in Makkum in Holland.

Harry & Beate with their boat in Makkum, Netherlands.

“The plan is to start off this year from Holland and enter the French canal system”, says Beate. “We’ll see how far we will get in the canals, leave her somewhere over the winter, then carry on in 2026 down to the Mediterranean.”

“Then in 2027 we’ll sail across the Mediterranean to Tunisia”, continues Harry. “I have just finished rewiring the whole boat, so she is in pretty good shape now. Everything works the way I want it to.”

Harry is used to doing such things. When we first met, he was in the process of converting a double-decker bus into a mobile home, with the kitchen and living room downstairs, and the bedroom upstairs.

“I’ve even been taking celestial navigation classes”, he continues. “Look here’s the sextant I have just bought.”

We go out on the balcony and I measure the angle between a block of flats and the power station cooling towers. It’s 87°. It could be useful.

“It all sounds very exciting”, says the First Mate. “Although don’t forget that it gets terribly hot in the Mediterranean in August. We were there a few years ago, and it was almost unbearable. I couldn’t sleep at night. But good luck anyway.”

We spend the next few days in the First Mate’s home town, visiting her family and friends. Her mother is now 91 and in a care home. The plan is that I then drive up to Ruby Tuesday in Malmö and start preparing her for the new season. The First Mate will then come up by train a week later and we will set off.

On the way up, I stop for the night with our friends Hans and Gisela in Denmark. Their son Arne and his girlfriend Evie are also there for a few days, back from Holland where they live.

“Perfect timing”, says Gisela, as I arrive. “Dinner’s almost ready. We’re having garfish that Arne caught today in the sea.”

I have never eaten garfish before, but I remember that they have a long nose.

“And the bones are green”, says Arne. “They contain some stuff related to haemoglobin called biliverdin that is bright green in colour. I hope it doesn’t put you off. Green bones look rather weird.”

Continuing the colour theme over dinner, the subject of Greenland comes up.

“What do the Danes think about America’s plan to annex it?”, I ask.

“Most people think that it is ludicrous”, says Hans, almost choking on a green fish bone. “America is supposed to be one of our allies, and here they are talking about taking Greenland by force just to extract minerals. The most ridiculous thing is that as an ally, they could have want they wanted through joint ventures anyway. No need to annex the place.”

“And it is also not true to say that Denmark has not done anything for Greenland”, says Gisela. “Of course, mistakes have been made in the past, but in recent years the Danes have spent a lot of money improving services in Greenland. And it is completely untrue to say that Greenland is not defended against the Russians. Greenland is part of Denmark, and Denmark is a member of NATO, so Greenland is well defended by NATO.”

“People are also trying to work out what it means for NATO”, says Hans. “Article 5 states that if one NATO country is attacked then the others would all help to defend it. The US is a member of NATO, so does that mean the US would help to defend Denmark against itself?”

Welcome to the new world order, I think.

The next morning, after breakfast, we decide to visit the Trelleborg Ring Fortress not far from Slagelse.

Trelleborg Ring Fortress (from Leibrandt via Wikimedia Commons)

“The fortress was built by Harald Bluetooth in the mid-980s”, one of the museum guides dressed as a Viking tells us. “Harald is credited with introducing Christianity to the Viking world, and with consolidating Denmark into one kingdom. For a short time he also ruled parts of Norway. He built his capital at Jelling, and constructed a series of ring fortresses to demonstrate his power to the German Emperor to the south. But he didn’t live long to enjoy it all – in 987 he was killed in a civil uprising led by his own son Svein, who was the one that invaded Britain.”

We wander out of the museum and head towards the Ring Fortress. On the way is a reconstructed longhouse.

Reconstructed Viking longhouse at Trelleborg Ring Fortress.

“Apparently there were quite a few of these inside the fortress itself”, says Hans. “Families must have been living here, but there never was a town associated with it. Presumably they were the soldiers’ families.”

Back at the small café, we sit in the sun and eat our ice creams.

“We haven’t been here for a while”, says Gisela. “It’s interesting to see the progress they are making in developing the museum.”

In the evening, I arrive at Ruby Tuesday. Spencer is there to greet me. Both he and the boat appear to have weathered the winter well. There is no mould inside and the air smells fresh. I check the data loggers that I had left running and find that the temperatures inside her had not dropped below zero over the winter. Our worries about snow and ice seem to have been unfounded.

*Ruby Tuesday* in her winter berth, Malmö.

I spend the next few days preparing for the voyage. I had taken the heat exchanger home to clean and service it – just as well, as I had found that nearly half of the small cooling tubes had been blocked by scale. Soaking the unit in vinegar had helped to dissolve that and left it coppery clean. The job of the heat exchanger is for saltwater from the sea to absorb the heat from the coolant running through the engine, so it is essential that it functions properly to prevent overheating.

Servicing the heat exchanger – nearly half of the small tubes have been blocked by scale.

I also decide to check the anode inside the hot-water heater. We have never done that since we had bought the boat, so it is high time. Extracting the heater from under one of the seats isn’t too difficult, but undoing the nut on top of the cylinder is. It is corroded in position, and none of the tools I have are up to the job of freeing it. In the end, I have to borrow some larger ones from the harbourmaster. With a combination of these and brute force, it slowly comes undone. There is no anode left! No wonder it has corroded. I am sure that no-one has looked inside the cylinder since it was made. I decide to replace not only the anode, but also the heating element, thermostat and pressure relief valve while I am at it.

The First Mate arrives in due course. I collect her from the train station.

“I hope that you have got everything clean and tidy for me?”, she says, as I load her bags into the car. “I don’t want to start cleaning as soon as I arrive.”

Luckily it is dark when we arrive back at the boat.

The next evening, we drive over for dinner to some friends, Martin and Mia, who live just north of Malmö. We had first met them on the Swedish island of Borgholm when Martin had kindly given us a hand tying up, as well as a list of must-see places on the east coast of Sweden, which we had now seen most of. He had offered to kept an eye on Ruby Tuesday over the winter, visiting her from time to time to check that everything was OK and that the batteries were kept charged.

“That’s his second wife”, says Mia with a wink as we walk past the Porsche in the garage as we arrive.

“Well, a man has to have a few pleasures in life”, says Martin, grinning.

Over dinner, the conversation turns to Swedish politics. When we were sailing near Stockholm two years previously, it had been the time of the national elections, and the far-right Sweden Democrats had won a sizeable share of the votes, giving them a strong influence in government. I am curious as to how they have performed since then.

The Sweden Democrats campaigning in 2022.

“Well they have lost some popularity since then”, Martin says, as he serves the salmon. “Last year, for example, they were found to be using social media to spread disinformation and attack political opponents online. People were put off by that. Then, this year, the government proposed stricter gun control after the country’s worst mass shooting in Örebro, but the Sweden Democrats opposed that, saying that they had concerns for hunters and farmers. That further eroded a lot of people’s confidence in them.”

“People also think they focus too much on immigration and crime”, says Mia. “Sure, it was a concern two years ago when they were elected, but overall it is less so now. But the Sweden Democrats don’t seem to be able to move on from then.”

“The next national elections are next year”, says Martin. “It will be interesting to see whether they still have the same amount of support then.”

We have booked a slot to have Ruby Tuesday lifted out of the water to have her bottom seen to.

Lifting out *Ruby Tuesday* for a bottom inspection.

The next few days are spent washing, scraping, sanding and painting, and replacing the anodes. I am astounded at the state of the propeller anode – I fitted a new one only a year ago, and it has almost completed eroded away.

Aluminium anode almost completely eroded after one year.

“Sometimes if you are tied up next to a steel boat, that can happen”, explains Peder, the harbourmaster. “But at least it is doing its job.”

Soon Ruby Tuesday is back in the water to complete the preparations. In the afternoon, we receive a WhatsApp message from Simon and Louise, whom we had met on the Cruising Association Rally in 2023, and with whom we had explored Gotland together in 2024.

“Are you still in Malmö?”, they ask. “We have a rip in our sail, and need to have it fixed. Is there a sailmaker there? We’ll be there in the afternoon tomorrow.”

They arrive in time for coffee and cakes.

“I am not quite sure how it happened”, explains Louise. “I was sailing, and I wanted to tack, and I think the sail must have got stuck on something sharp on the self-tacking mechanism.”

We give them a hand in taking down the sail, packing it in a bag, and putting it in our car to take it to the sailmaker in the morning. The tear is quite small, but unless repaired such rips have a habit of getting much bigger quickly. It’s always better to get them fixed as soon as you can.

In the evening, we have dinner on their boat.

“As soon as we get back from this trip in October, I’m setting off for a motorcycle trip in Nepal”, Simon tells us. “It’s a sort of spiritual motorcycle ride with a group of other like-minded bikers. I came across this chap who organises trips combining motorbiking and discussions on spirituality. It sounded interesting, so I thought I would give it a go. I even had to be interviewed by him to see if I would fit into the group.”

“It sounds like something you could write a book on”, I say. “Did you ever read Zen and the Art of Motorbike Maintenance? In it, the author, Robert Pirsig, writes about a motorcycle trip he made from Minnesota to California in the 1960s with his son. The trip is interspersed with philosophical discussions on the pursuit of truth. He developed his theory of the Metaphysics of Quality in which quality is the driving force of the universe.”

“I like these philosophical discussions”, Louise says. “I am not religious now, but I was brought up as a Quaker. Both of my parents were members. We were taught that God doesn’t exist as a supreme being, but that something of what you might call God exists in everyone and emerges when people interact. Just meeting and having an interesting conversation like we are now is being part of God. Quakers believe that you find spiritual truth through your own inner experience of every-day life and human relationships, and for that reason we don’t have any need for ritual, ceremony or even clergy. They just get in the way of the relationship between yourself and God.”

“It all sounds very logical”, I say. “But I always thought that Quakers were a sect of Christianity. This sounds more like Humanism, I think.”

“Yes, they do follow many Christian traditions”, says Louise. “But a lot of Quakers wouldn’t describe themselves as Christians, more as members of a universal religion. And they don’t believe that the Bible, or any other book for that matter, is the ‘Word of God’, although they do think that it provides inspiration along with many others. So yes, a lot of their concepts are similar to humanist ideas, and in fact, a branch of the Quakers are actually affiliated to the Humanist Association.

“Wasn’t there a lot of resistance to them at one stage?”, asks the First Mate.

“Yes”, answers Simon. “George Fox, who was one of the founders, taught that all people have equal value. This didn’t go down too well with the rich landed gentry at the time, who saw it as a challenge to the established social order, and he was brought before the magistrates several times for blasphemy. His followers were officially persecuted for a time.”

“Well, that was interesting”, says the First Mate as we walk back to Ruby Tuesday. “I didn’t know much about the Quakers. You don’t hear much about them these days.”

“That’s true”, I say. “But their ideas certainly contributed a lot to the Enlightenment and to the way we think nowadays. Their condemnation of slavery, their campaigns for social justice, and focus on individual conscience and spiritual experience all align with the Enlightenment values of human rights, social reform, and reason. Quite an impact.”

Ruby Tuesday

Catch your dreams before they slip away

Tag Archives: Sailing