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

Posted on June 14, 2026 by Ruby Tuesday

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

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

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

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

Crossing from Bodø to the Lofoten islands.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ian & Uli finally arrive at a quarter to midnight.

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

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

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

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

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

“So am I”, says Uli.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

View from the top of the Reinebringen walk.

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

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

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

It does, and we reach the bottom intact.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There are. Eight generous helpings to be exact.

An enigmatic sculpture, a circle crossed, and a trapped crew member

Posted on May 31, 2026 by Ruby Tuesday

“Wow, I like these”, she says. “Oh to be young again!”

It’s a photograph of a group of young boys sitting naked in various poses on a large imposing rock.

We are on the island of Træna-Husøya after a pleasant sail from Lovund, the puffin island. We are tied up in the harbour, and are walking the 25 minute walk into the village to buy bread and milk. On the way, the First Mate has stopped at a house with photographs displayed in a glass case on the wall.

We’re both a bit old for that sort of thing, I think to myself. But I try to strike a pose like one of the boys to impress her.

“Are you having trouble with your knee again?”, she asks. “You’re standing kind of funny.”

We arrive at the supermarket 15 minutes before it closes at 1500. We manage to buy the milk and bread just in time, and reward ourselves with an ice-cream. We sit at the picnic tables outside the supermarket, enjoying the sun and watching a small motor boat coming in to tie up at the small pontoon below us. It seems to be a whole family – grandfather, Mum & Dad, and two children. They make a bit of a mess of tying up, but seem to have caught several good-sized fish.

“Pollack, I would say”, says the First Mate. “They look like the one that I caught last year.”

“It’s supposed to be the oldest continuously inhabited fishing community here in Norway”, I say, reading the harbour guide. “People have apparently been living and fishing here since Stone Age times.”

“That probably explains that mural over there”, says the First Mate. “Those two children feeding the otters.”

Mural: Early inhabitants of Træna-Husøya?

There is not much happening in the rest of the village. We come across a small café with a delicious aroma of coffee emanating from it, but which is just about to close too.

By the ferry pier, there is a globe mounted on a pedestal. “Welcome to Træna”, says the inscription at the bottom in Norwegian. “The realm that straddles the Arctic Circle.” Or words to that effect.

The Arctic Circle globe at Træna-Husøya.

“It’s not quite on the Arctic Circle”, I say, checking my phone. “We’ll cross that tomorrow, on our way to Rødøya.”

“I would quite like to see the Skulpturlandskapp”, says the First Mate, pointing at a road sign in the middle of the village. “I have no idea what it is, but it sounds interesting.”

We set off along the road towards the north of the island. We are soon out of the village, and pass a discordant cluster of modern buildings.

“Apparently it is a new hotel”, says the First Mate. “The Ytri Island Retreat. A lady back in the village was talking about it. It’s just been built, and the buildings are supposed to be in the same style as the fish storerooms that used to be there. Apparently it is very exclusive – it starts at around £500 a night to stay there. And the staff speak 14 different languages.”

A little bit further on, we come to a sign at the side of the road pointing to Skulpturlandskapp at the wild and windswept tip of the island. We pick our way along the muddy path through the heather and eventually come to a rather suggestive looking sculpture. A younger couple are already there.

“What on earth is it supposed to represent?”, says the First Mate. “Surely, it can’t be what I am thinking it is?”

“I don’t know”, says the young man of the couple, looking a bit embarrassed. “But it’s rather inappropriate. There was a lot of opposition to it from the local community.”

His partner giggles.

We find out from Google that the sculpture is called ‘A prose, a song, a poem look yonder’ by the Norwegian-Zambian artist Anawana Haloba commissioned as part of the Skulpturlandskapp Nordland international artwork project.

“The project was to promote art in remote coastal communities”, the girl says, with a slight Spanish accent. “A lot of the islands here have sculptures that were created as part of the project. Not all are like this one, though!”

The couple are working at the hotel, and represent two of the 14 languages spoken there. He is from Czechia and she is from Columbia. They met in New Zealand working in the hospitality sector, and are travelling the world, working to pay their way. Having experience in the same sector makes it easier for them both to find work, often in the same establishment.

“We would love to go sailing around the world one day”, says the boy, a dreamy look in his eyes, when we tell him what we are doing. “We’ll have to save up hard to buy a boat. Neither of us can sail at the moment, but we really want to learn. It’s so cool that you have come all the way from the United Kingdom from here.”

The unbridled enthusiasm of youth.

We continue our walk to the western side of Træna-Husøya to look across the sound to neighbouring island of Træna-Sanna and its spectacular inselbergs. Below us, we see a salmon farm being attended to by its supply vessel. Further on, we see two fishing boats making their way purposefully through the sound.

We return to the village. Even less seems to be happening. We walk back to the harbour and the boat. Just as we arrive, the two fishing boats that we had seen earlier are entering, and tie up next to us.

“We’ve been catching halibut and ling”, explains one of the fishermen. “We’ve been out for the last two days and have caught four tonnes, and the other boat has caught 2½ tonnes in one day, so we are both happy. Here, you can have some.”

They give the First Mate a plastic bag full of fish, already filleted.

“That’s so very good of you”, she says. “They are so fresh. Where are you from? You don’t sound Norwegian.”

“We are from Poland”, he says, joined now by his co-workers. “We live on the island here, some of us for 14 years, but our real home is back in Poland. Our families are still there. Of course, we miss them, but the money here fishing is good, more than we could earn in Poland. That’s why we stay. But we go back to Poland every year for a summer holiday and to be with our families. It’s not an easy life, but we have got used to it. A lot of Polish people work in the fishing sector in this part of Norway as it is difficult for them to recruit Norwegians to do the work.”

We fry the ling for dinner. It is fresh and succulent, and goes well with dill sauce and boiled potatoes. The First Mate freezes the halibut to have later.

We leave around 0800 the next morning. It is foggy, but it soon clears to leave a glorious sunny day. There is a fresh wind from the starboard quarter, and we skim along at a good speed.

“We’re just coming up to the Arctic Circle”, I say. “Its current latitude is 66° 33’ 50.9”, the southernmost latitude at which the sun never sets at the June solstice. Once we cross it, we can say that we have been sailing in the Arctic.”

“Ah yes, that monument that we saw in the harbour at Træna said it was the village just below the Arctic Circle”, says the First Mate. “But you wouldn’t think that we are in the Arctic with this sort of weather. I was almost thinking of changing into my shorts. But why do you say ‘current position’? Isn’t it fixed?”

“It actually moves because the tilt of the earth’s axis varies because the distribution of the earth’s weight changes due to the moon’s influence on the tides”, says Spencer, butting in. “It’s moving north at the rate of 14.5 m per year. So if you were to come next year, you would have to sail another 14½ metres to reach it.”

“And it’s not that cold because we are now tilted towards the sun and because of the influence of the Gulf Stream”, I say. “The Gulf Stream brings warm water up from the tropical regions and help keeps here and the rest of western Europe warm enough for human beings to live in.”

We reach Rødøya and tie up to one of the three pontoons in the small marina. At the top of the marina is a hotel by the name of Klokkergården. It is still closed for the winter.

“We’ll be opening next week for the summer”, says a woman tidying up at the back of the hotel. “I am actually the owner. It used to be the boarding school for the municipality, but that closed in 1968, and the building started to fall into disrepair. For a while, it was even used as a barn. I was only a young girl at the time, but I thought that it was such a shame that such a beautiful house could be just left to fall to pieces. So I had a dream that I could restore it to its former glory, and run it as a hotel to pay for itself.”

“Which you obviously did”, says the First Mate.

“Yes”, says the woman. “When I got married, I managed to convince my husband of my dream, and together we worked on restoring it. Even though a lot of the house was dilapidated, the structure was made of strong Norwegian pine, and the roof of good Norwegian slate, so we were able to make use of that.”

“It’s amazing to think of the amount of work that you must have put into it”, I say.

“It was a lot of work, all right”, she says. “And a lot of people thought that we would never finish it. But I have a saying that ‘nothing is impossible, the impossible only takes a little longer’. We did eventually finish it, and that is what you are looking at now.”

“Why do you call it Klokkergården?”, asks the First Mate.

“Well, the headmaster of the school, who actually lived in the house, was also the local sexton”, she answers. “One of his jobs was also to ring the church bells to indicate the time. Klokker is the Norwegian word for clock.”

We decide to climb Rødøyløva, the mountain that dominates the island. Rødøyløva means ‘Lion of Rødøya’, as it is supposed to represent a resting lion. It kind of does, if you use your imagination.

A path leads from the hotel to the bottom of a rocky stream where an impressive suite of stone steps starts.

“Did you see the name of it?”, I say, pointing to a small sign indicating the way that we are headed. “Sherpatrappa. It means Sherpa Stairs. It seems that they employed Sherpas from Nepal to build the steps as they have so much experience from doing that on mountain trails in their home country. There are about 1000 of them. Steps, I mean, not Sherpas. Teams of between four and eight Sherpas used the stones along the trail, and cut and shaped them by hand in situ.”

The steps are of varying heights. It is tough on our knees. But with regular stops, we eventually make it to the top of the steps, where it levels out into a saddle. The views on the way are magnificent.

We push on a bit further across the saddle, and start to climb again.

“The cloud is starting to roll in”, says another walker passing us on his way down. “You won’t be able to see much.”

He’s right. Already clammy tongues of cloud are reaching around the summit and starting to engulf us. The views disappear. We decide reluctantly to make our way down again.

“It’ll be even tougher on our knees going down”, says the First Mate. “Some of those steps were so steep.”

But it isn’t as bad as we thought, and before long we are back at the bottom, to find that a French boat has tied up next to us. They are on their way to Tromsø to meet others in their group. They have motored all the way from Ålesund non-stop as the winds were against them, and leave again early the next morning.

“I’m just going to cycle to the village”, says the First Mate, after breakfast. “We are allowed to use the bicycles by the side of the hotel if we are marina guests.”

I am busy on boat jobs, so she sets off by herself.

Half an hour later my phone rings.

“Can you come and help me?”, a plaintive voice wails. “I am locked in the supermarket and can’t get out. There’s no-one else in here.”

Norway has a growing number of unstaffed supermarkets dotted around the country, particularly in remote areas. You need to scan your credit card to enter and your receipt to exit. Inside the shop, security cameras are located strategically and are monitored centrally somewhere to ensure there is no stealing. It seems to work.

“Have you stolen anything?”, I ask, fearing the worst. Perhaps she was seen on camera doing something she shouldn’t, and the barriers had slammed shut. “Maybe the police are on their way to arrest you.”

“Nothing like that”, the Plaintive Voice answers. “The machine that scans the receipts has broken down. I can’t get the door to open to let me out. Can you come over? Maybe you can open it from the outside.”

The First Mate trapped inside the automated supermarket.

I take one of the bikes at the side of the hotel and clamber on. A cycle ride at speed doesn’t really appeal. After some frantic pedalling, my phone rings again.

“It’s OK”, says the Voice, not Plaintive any more. “Another customer has just come in and let me out. Apparently there is a notice saying that they know the machine isn’t working and that you are supposed to press a button to get them to let you out. But of course it is in Norwegian. By the way, why are you panting?”

I needed the exercise anyway.

A copper mine, fat birds, and a snowy start

Posted on May 17, 2026 by Ruby Tuesday

“Are you from England?”, the woman on the seat opposite us asks us.

“No, Scotland”, the Skipper answers. “We are sailors, and are sailing around Norway at the moment. We left our boat near Trondheim over the winter.”

We are on the Dovre Line, a scenic train trip from Oslo to Trondheim. We had arrived in Oslo the previous day, having flown there from Scotland. We had decided to take the train to see some of the stunning scenery in the hinterland of Norway.

The train winds its way through the spectacular Dovre valley, climbing gradually through the snow capped peaks and sheer walls of rock. Lakes, their low water levels waiting for the ice melt to replenish them, sparkle like diamonds in the dark gloom of the forests. Spring has not yet arrived, the grassy meadows still a dull beige from the winter. We learn later that there has not been so much snow this year, and that the lakes might not fill to their capacity. But there still seems to be some snow, at least.

Reaching the summit of the Dovre valley.

“We have a cottage on Trondheimsfjord”, the woman continues. “We spent Easter in it. It has become a bit of a tradition in Norway to retreat to your cottage over Easter, and binge-read crime novels that you have accumulated over the previous year. It’s called Påskekrim, or Easter crime. New crime novels are released by the publishers just before Easter for people to buy. There’s even a big crime fiction festival in Oslo just before Easter. They say that it is Norway’s moody landscapes and the long winter nights that inspire our love for crime.”

“It’s strange that Norway is one of the safest places in the world, and yet you like reading about crime so much”, I say.

“And Scandi-Noir is famous the world over”, says the Skipper. “Despite the Scandinavian countries always ranking high in the happiness index.”

“Perhaps that is the reason”, the woman says. “We have so little real life crime, so we make up for it by reading and making films about it!”

We reach Trondheim station and find a trolley to wheel our luggage to the hotel nearby.

The next morning, we visit the Police Station to register ourselves to stay longer than the ninety days permitted by the Schengen Agreement. I have the right to stay longer by dint of my German nationality, and the Skipper because he is married to me, an EU citizen. The policewoman is efficient, collects all our documents, and immediately issues a permit to me to stay up to five years. For the Skipper it is a little bit more complicated – his documents need to go off to the Department of Immigration, and it will be a few weeks before he gets his residency card. But she assures us there is unlikely to be a problem.

“Well, that was relatively easy”, says the Skipper. “Let’s get some lunch, then we can go and pickup the car that we have booked.”

We have reserved a car from Rent-A-Wreck, specialising in senior, but reliable, cars at prices not quite so eye-watering as those of newer cars. We had used the same company to drive around Gotland a couple of years earlier, and had had a good experience with them. No frills, no nonsense.

Checking our Rent-A-Wreck car for scratches.

We drive to Røros, a small mining town two and a half hours south east from Trondheim, and designated as a UNESCO World Heritage site. We find the museum and meet Oliver, his dark flowing locks giving him the appearance of a Viking. He is to be our guide for the day through the museum, village, and one of the mines.

“Mining started here in the mid-1600s, and was very profitable when the price of copper was high”, he tells us by way of introduction. “When the copper price plummeted in the 1900s, the town went into a slow decline to the point where it became uneconomic, with the mines closing for good in 1977. However, the town remained, and it now attracts tens of thousands of visitors every year, not only to see the mines, but also for the winter markets and summer music festivals.”

“The Swedish captured Røros in the early 1700s and took possession of all the copper that had been mined”, he continues. “They didn’t stay long though, as when the main Swedish army were beaten in battle In Trondheim, the remnants retreated here, and then eastwards back to Sweden across the mountains. Unfortunately, many of the soldiers perished on the route due to not being prepared for the extreme cold. Even now, one of the annual music festivals commemorates the Swedish troops who died.”

“I myself am of Swedish extraction”, he continues. “It may be that we are descended from one of those soldiers who were stationed here in 1718. But whether I am or not, Røros is my home – I was born here, and even though I had a high-paying job in Oslo for a few years, I missed the place here so much that I decided to return, buy a small farm, and do this tour guiding as a side line. I have always been interested in history.”

We take a break for lunch, then rejoin Oliver in the Olavsgruva, one of the copper mines not far from Røros. Donning hard hats, we descend into the depths of the mine.

“It’s a bit scary to think of all that rock above us”, I say, scanning the roof of a rough-hewn cave. “I hope that it doesn’t decide to collapse in on top of us!”

“It’s pretty safe”, says Oliver, his locks now tied in a ponytail. “The rock is very stable here. They even hold concerts down here, because the acoustics are so good. But the path can be slippery due to the water dripping on it. Just mind your step.”

“While it was operating, 1,131 million tons of rock were mined”, he continues. “With an average copper content of 1.39%, this yielded 15,720 tons of copper. The copper ore was taken by an overhead bucket and cable system to Nedre Storwartz, where it was processed into copper concentrate. From there it went to the smelter in the town of Røros.”

“An interesting day”, says the Skipper on the way home. “But I can sympathise with the Swedish soldiers. It was bitingly cold while Oliver was showing us around the town. And that was with my fleece, anorak, scarf and gloves. Imagine not having any of those!”

At the weekend, we make it to the island of Hitra, where Ruby Tuesday and the other boats have stayed for the winter. She is in good shape, despite having withstood fierce winds, icy temperatures, and a covering of snow. Well, almost in good shape, as the Windex at the top of the mast, which indicates the best wind directions for sailing, have come off, and are lying on the deck.

“It was caused by birds sitting on them”, the Boatyard Manager tells us. “They like to sit on them to get a good view. Unfortunately, some of them are too heavy and they snap the arms of the Windex off.”

We discover that the same thing has happened to two of the other boats in the same yard.

“I’ve never heard of birds breaking the Windex arms off before”, says the Skipper with a sniff. “Perhaps it was a sea eagle? They’re big enough. We saw a couple of them around here last year.”

“I reckon that you have been training the birds around here to do that”, I say to the Boatyard Manager as a joke. “Just so that you can get the job of fixing them.”

“Well, we did get someone to order a new one for you”, says the Boatyard Manager, “but unfortunately when he came to fit it, he put it on one of the other boats. As it turned out, it didn’t actually need one. But it wouldn’t have fitted yours anyway. We won’t charge you.”

We are a little bit disappointed that our new batteries haven’t been installed. The old ones had reached the end of their lifespan last year, and would only hold a charge for half-an-hour despite being fully charged overnight. We had left instructions for new batteries to be installed over the winter. In fact, the new batteries had only been ordered a couple of weeks before our arrival, they still hadn’t even been delivered. And it’s only a few days until our scheduled relaunch date.

“It seems that the supplier sent them two weeks ago”, says the Boatyard Manager. “They seem to have been sitting in some depot in Trondheim, and we weren’t told that they were there. They should be here tomorrow.”

They do turn up in the first delivery of the day, and are immediately lifted into Ruby Tuesday. It is no trivial task, as each one weighs more than 30 kg. The Skipper tries to lift one, and nearly puts his back out again. I try, and fail miserably. However, they are soon connected up, tested, and we have a working electrical system again. They are needed to power our fridge, lighting, communications, electronics, and navigational system.

Andy, Anne and Rick arrive a few days later. They have driven all the way from Britain to Hitra in their new electric car. They assure us that they didn’t have any worries about running out of battery power. Especially in Norway, which has made a concerted effort to switch over to electric transport, so charging points are almost everywhere. We are suitably impressed, and wonder if we should have gone for a full electric car rather than the hybrid we bought last year.

One by one, the others arrive – Simon and Louise in Aloucia, and Bob and Fiona in Hekla of Banff. The whole team is now assembled to explore the barren arctic wastes. Our plan this year, carefully researched over the winter, is to sail north from Trondheim and explore the stunning scenery of the Lofoten Archipelago, and possibly further north if time and weather permit.

The next few days are frantic. Painting the hulls in anti-foul to prevent algal growth. New anodes to stop the underwater metal parts from corroding. The polishing of propellers. Evenings spent in the small communal kitchen cooking, eating, and planning.

Splash Day arrives. One by one, the boats are lowered into the water, Ruby Tuesday first. Hasty last minute checks to make sure that there are no unplanned leaks, that the engines start, that the bilge pumps pump. Everything seems to be working.

More work now the boats are on the water – sails on, provisions stowed, solar panels attached, anchor windlass checked, navigational software updated.

Overnight, it decides to snow.

“Someone told me that the sailing season in Norway starts at the end of April”, grumbles the Skipper, trying to do a Roald Amundsen polar explorer impression. “I wasn’t expecting snow. But I suppose we are not far from the Arctic, so it’s hardly surprising. I hope that it warms up soon though.”

Finally we are off! At least, Ruby Tuesday and Amalia are. The other two boats are still waiting for parts which should arrive in the next day or so. They’ll follow as soon as they can.

Ruby Tuesday spreads her wings and slowly starts to fly, her muscles stiff after her long winter sleep. But soon she is skimming along, better than ever before. The Skipper even looks happy!

“Having the rigging checked and adjusted last year has really made a difference”, says the Skipper with a smile on his face. “She feels much tighter and more responsive, and doesn’t heel so much.”

Forty nautical miles later, we reach the small harbour of Kuringvågen. A cold wind is blowing, but at least the sun is shining. We tie up and Amalia’s crew come over for a cuppa.

“I can’t understand how you got in front of us”, says Anne. “We started off about half-an-hour before you, then we lost you on the AIS, and then suddenly you appeared out of nowhere in front of us.”

“We couldn’t see you on our AIS either”, says the Skipper. “We took the seaward route around that group of islands, and there was more wind out there. We had an exhilarating sail with a consistent wind. The islands probably got in the way of the AIS signals.”

“Yes, you are probably right”, says Andy. “We took the inner route, and the wind was quite variable, broken up by the islands. We were constantly trimming the sails.”

Later we go for a walk. I spot some klippfish drying on the side of the wall.

“Just like the ones we saw in Kristiansund last year”, says the Skipper. “At the Klippfish Museum.”

We explore the club house of the local sailing club, open to fellow sailors.

“Look, a British boat passed through here two days ago”, says the Skipper, looking at the visitors’ book. “Morwenna. They must have set off in all that bad weather we had.”

“I am sure that we will meet them somewhere along the line”, I say. “Sailors have a habit of staying at the same places.”

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.

Ruby Tuesday

Catch your dreams before they slip away

Tag Archives: Sailing