Onfjords and Upfjords...

10am, Storlien, Norwegian-Swedish Border, 19 August 2009

It's Wednesday morning, and I'm sitting on a train at the border station of Storlien. The pretty young woman in Norwegian Railways purple who checked my ticket as we left Trondheim has left the train – from my window seat I can see her from my window seat chatting to the driver of the returning train – and in her place a skinny blonde girl with orange fake-tan glow and a mouthful of chewing gum has boarded our tiny red train. As she draws nearer, double-checking tickets from the Swedish side of things, I see that her navy blue polarfleece vest bears a familiar logo...Connex. No, it's not a nightmare...Nabotåget, the “neighbour train” which I am riding, is operated on the Swedish side of the border by none other than our own dear Connex. Or at least an entity with the same name...

Globalisation brings strange reminders of home to this corner of the world: “Genuine Australian Made Ice Cream” in Brussels (apparently we're renowned for our ice-cream...), an Aussie accent cutting through a crowd in the narrow streets of Stockholm's Gamla Stan, a rack of Yarra Valley reds in Copenhagen Airport duty-free. But Connex in a mountain pass in Scandinavia? Who'd have thought it...

My week in Norway began in the city of Bergen, on the Western Fjords. This fjord-side town of a quarter of a million is Norway's second largest city, and probably its biggest tourist centre; in summer it throngs with tourists come to see the UNESCO World Heritage listed medieval buildings of Bryggen and the incredible coastline of fjords and islands that stretches for miles in every direction. The predominantly wooden Norwegian cities have a distinct tendency to burn; the entire town, with the exception of a handful of stone buildings (mostly churches), burnt to the ground in 1702, and there have been other major fires since. Today the buildings are mostly eighteenth and nineteeth-century structures; regal constructions of stuccoed brick and stone lining broad avenues in the centre, pretty wooden buildings huddling together along narrower cobbled streets as the city rises steeply up the sides of its surrounding mountains, where the flecks of red, white and yellow houses can be seen nestled among the trees. The steep, tree-covered slopes, the blue sky and the green waters of the fjord give, by encroaching so close to the city's core, a sense of closeness to nature, allowing the visitor a feeling of both openness and security; a broad vista and an enveloping snugness. The city is blessed with plenty of parks, gardens and pedestrian squares (often built as firebreaks), the air is fresh and tinged with seaside saltiness, and (thanks to those tree-covered hillsides) the drinking water is delicious.

I have noted in my few weeks in Scandinavia a tendency to odd museums: a museum of matches, a museum of herring can labels, a museum of penises, and even a museum of those tiny glass bottles you get in hotel minibars... Bergen's offering in this field is the Leprosy museum, in a genuine old leprosy hospital near the railway station. Norway has the dubious honour of having had one of the world's highest incidences of leprosy – possibly exacerbated by its coastal geography and high levels of foreign trade – and the last of the lepers at the Bergen hospitals (there were several) passed away only in the middle of last century. It was an interesting place, but terribly sad; the suffering of these people would have been very great, not only their physical pain and disfigurement, but the fact that they were locked away from the world, and from a real life, with no hope of treatment.

Bergen is also the home town of Edvard Greig and Ole Bull, and I was lucky enough to arrive during the annual Greig Festival. My second night in the city was spent in the Korskyrke (Church of the Cross) enjoying a concert of Greig songs for soprano, interspersed with some of both his and Bull's lighter piano works, and a very interesting commentary on Greig's life and works by both Soprano and Pianist. I don't think I've enjoyed a concert quite so much for a long time...it is a pity that the Norwegian lyrics probably make these songs less accessible to most singers, because the Greig's melodic writing for the voice is superb to listen to.

On my second day in Bergen I rose early, and wandered down through the crisp morning air to the harbour, where I boarded a ferry to the tiny township of Flåm at the head of the Aurlandsfjord, an inner branch of the mighty Sognefjord. This magnificent natural wonder in the longest fjord in the world, cutting inland 204km (almost halfway to Sweden!), at its deepest point over 1300m deep, and lying between mountains over 1000m high. The glacier that carved it left behind perhaps the most breathtakingly beautiful natural scenery I have ever experienced. Steep green slopes rose majestically toward snow-capped peaks; massive grey cliffs plunged hundreds of metres into blue-green water as smooth as glass except where our wake disturbed it. Here and there tiny red farmsteads clung impossibly to the high slopes, and occasionally quaint little hamlets revealed themselves huddled into a cove or bend, or climbing the face of a lush green valley. From the plateaus above us, waterfalls tumbled from their glacial sources down almost sheer escarpments, or cut narrow gullies so deep into the face of the mountains that they could be see only for a few seconds as our boat passed by.

Despite biting winds from our ferry's passage, and the heavy summer rains, I remained on deck as long as I could stand it, taking photographs or just staring out at the incredible scenery that unveiled itself anew with each slight bend in the fjord, from time to time thawing my icy hands over the ferry's heat exhausts and venturing into the cabin only when my I could no longer bear the cold. Huddling over the chocolate Hannah bought me before my departure I gazed out of the windows, wishing for the first time on this trip that I had worn warmer clothing.

Arriving into Flåm at lunchtime, I left the ferry for the trip back into Bergen via the famous Flåmbana railway. The Flåmbana is a remarkable work of engineering: the cute little green train climbs over 860m in just 20km, at a maximum grade of 1:18, through nine tunnels and over three bridges to Myrdal station on the mainline between Oslo and Bergen. All this is achieved with regular electric traction; Flåmbana is no funicular and there are no lines or cogwheels in sight. The rugged beauty of the Aurlands valley is spectacular, particularly the wild waterfalls and the views through the “windows” cut into the sides of the mountain tunnels near the top of the valley, but nothing could compare to the fjord journey I had just undertaken.

My last day in Bergen was spent exploring Bryggen, the UNESCO World Heritage listed waterfront shop/office/dwelling/warehouses of the medieval Hanseatic merchants. For anyone totally in the dark on the Hanseatic League, they were a kind of trading guild of northern european cities controlled by German merchants and centred on the city of Lübeck in what's now northern Germany. They operated out of hundreds of cities around the Baltic and the North Sea, and controlled key trade links and commodities between ports as far afield as Iceland, Portugal and Russia, but they had just four principle Kontore (offices) outside Lübeck itself: London, Bruges, Novgorod and Bergen. The league began operations in 1159, and reached its peak in the mid-14th century, gradually dying away in the mid-16th century as the power of the region's states (notably Sweden, Denmark and the German principalities) increased. The Bergen Kontor was founded in 1360, and for over four centuries controlled the vital trade in Norwegian stockfish, exchanging it for the grains that Norway's harsh climate could not produce. Something of an anachronism in a new Europe of nation-states, it operated until 1754, some 85 years after the last formal meeting of the League.

Bryggen (which means “the wharf” in Norwegian) was a city within a city, where the Hansa merchants, their journeymen assistants and the “boys” who served them lived a life that faintly resembled monasticism, if a monasticism dedicated to wealth-creation... There were no women allowed (although the row of brothels behind the wharf tells another story), they ate together in a Schøtstuene (a sort of dining room/meeting hall), spoke their own language, lived by their own laws, distributed their own punishments and followed their own customs. They payed little or not tax to the Norwegian Kings (whose castle was only a few hundred metres up the road), who tolerated them only because they controlled 80-90% of the stockfish trade and without them, Norway would struggle to feed its population.

Before catching the night train to Oslo, I spent my final evening in Bergen warming my hands on a hot chocolate and watching the sun set over Bergen. From the lookout on top of Mt Fløyen, accessible from the heart of town via the very steep Fløibanen funicular, I watched the sun drop achingly slowly into the water beyond the outer islands, tinting the clouds with beautiful shades of pink, orange and purple as below me the lights of Bergen twinkled in the twilight. I rode the funicular back down into the city in the gathering darkness, and found my slightly space-age train awaiting me in the cavernous interior of Bergen's bluestone station.

After a sleep disturbed partly by the unfamiliar motion of the train, but mostly by my highly addictive copy of World War Z: an Oral History of the Zombie War (is it weird to assess each place you visit not only for aesthetics, tourist appeal, friendliness, etc...but also for likely fate given a Zombie Apocalypse?) I blundered bleary-eyed from my cosy compartment into the crisp Oslo morning. As the tourist office was closed at this ungodly hour of 8am on a Saturday, I made myself a breakfast of sorts out of the food I was carrying: packet waffles from Trina, chocolate from Hannah, and fresh strawberries from the Fiskmarkt beside the harbour in Bergen. The friendly young woman in the tourist office looked at my askance when I asked her for directions to my hostel: “That's not even in Oslo” she said, raising her eyebrows. “You'll have to catch a bus for about 15 minutes.” Her voice betrayed more than a little incredulity at what was in her eyes a horrendous commute.

Once I had my things safely stowed in the rather cheerless hostel room, I returned to the city centre and, on a whim, caught a ferry out to the Bygdøy Peninsula, intending to visit the open-air Norwegian Folk Museum. The weather had other plans, however, and as the rain churned the surface of the Oslofjord I made my way between the puddles to the Kon-Tiki Museum. Thor Heyerdahl, anthropologist, explorer, seafarer and all-round adventurer, was a Norwegian, and this museum is a tribute to his exploits, his scientific achievements, and his firm belief that people of different cultures can work together for a better world. On the side of the museum is a quote of his which I liked:

Borders?
I have never seen one.
But I have heard they exist
in the minds of some people.

I found the exhibits on his expeditions to Easter Island particularly fascinating, especially the video of the local people demonstrating how the famous Malcolm-esque statues might have been cut, shaped, and moved the vast distances required. After lunch I dashed through the puddles to the Norwegian Maritime Museum – an afterthought in many countries, but in Norway something central to their history and way of life. The place was immense; some highlights for me were the “Supervideografen” panorama film of the beautiful Norwegian coast and the temporary exhibition on “boat refugees” which featured Australia (deservedly, given that Tampa was a Norwegian ship) in a less than positive light. There was a whole building full of coastal boats of various types, and an entire floor of model ships which put me in mind of Joe's house – I imagine that if Steve lived for two or three more centuries, he would create this place.

With fairer weather on my second day in Oslo, I was able to return to Bygdøy and visit the Folk Museum – a sort of medieval Norwegian Sovereign Hill made up of genuine historic buildings taken from places all over the country. They're a interesting things actually, another Scandinavian museum phenomena: there is one on the island of Djurgården in Stockholm, and another in Trondheim, and (according to Wikipedia) perhaps a dozen more in various spots around the region. According to my tour guide, they were mostly put together around the turn of the century as part of Norway's resurgent nationalism and the widespread desire to break the union with Sweden. For some reason, the nationalists decided that the inland farming peoples were the “most Norwegian”, and although they made up only a tiny part of the population their habits, costume, dress, language – and in this case, their houses – were given a privileged position in the national psyche. In many of these isolated farming communities, life had gone on unchanged since the middle ages, and so the nationalists inadvertently preserved much which was of great value.

The place is fairly large, but the highlight for me was the beautifully carved stave church. They were apparently constructed in the most amazing way: all the pieces were cut beforehand, and then put together like a huge 3D jigsaw puzzle. In the choir, our guide pointed out runic carving beneath the painted tableaux of the Last Supper. Consisting of prayers, thoughts, quotations and instructions, their origin is something of a mystery, as only the priest was allowed in the choir. The engraving on the door of the sacristy is plain enough though, above the high step below it reads: 'Do Not Fall Down'. Other highlights were watching folk music and traditional dancing, eating the sweet, flat lefse fresh from the griddle and dripping with butter, touring an apartment building with apartments done up to represent different periods in history (including one decorated as Ibsen's Dolls House) and visiting the quirky and slightly terrifying exhibit on Norwegian Dentistry down the ages...they really do have a museum for everything up here...

My last stop in Oslo was the Viking Ship Museum, which houses three ships – and their contents – uncovered in burial mounds around the turn of the last century. One, the Tune Ship, is quite badly broken up, but the other two, the Oseberg and Gokstad ships, are in remarkable condition, looking almost as if they could set sail any day now. Important Viking leaders were buried in their ships with all the supplies it was thought were needed for the journey to the afterlife. While grave robbers had stolen the most valuable grave-goods, much remains today: beautifully carved carts and sledges, tent poles and pegs, buckets, tools and cooking equipment, needles, combs, cloth...and of course the skeletal remains themselves. I think when I put the photos of this on Facebook, my mother the Viking Studies student will be here on my doorstep within three days...

The following morning I boarded a train heading northward to Trondheim, Europe's northernmost Catholic pilgrimage point, and the last stop on my own pilgrimage. The train journey was long – my “cheap” cut-price ticket (399 NOK, around $80 AUD) meant two changes and an eight hour journey – but the views were often beautiful. Norway has something of the “toyland” landscapes I described in Sweden, but they are tempered by a wildness in the natural beauty that seems less prevalent on the other side of the border. On the second train of the day – between Hamar and Røros – my neighbour attempted to strike up a conversation. As he was both unable to speak much English and (I suspect from other passengers' glances) something of a “train crazy”, this proved difficult. That his topic of choice was comparative literature made things no easier...

With just one full day in Trondheim I rose early, and walked along the ridge line through the pretty wooden houses of one of the city's hillside suburbs. I eventually reached a park, and cresting a hill found myself gazing out over a large expanse of grass to a solid, impressive-looking Festning or fortress surmounted by an enormous Norwegian flag. From the battlements I had a fantastic view of the town; the curving arcs of the River Nid winding out into the Trondheimsfjord, the surrounding hills and valleys and directly beneath me my next destination: the magnificent Nidaros Cathedral. The massive stone structure – sitting as it does somewhat apart from other buildings in a green and tranquil churchyard – conveys an aura of power and majesty, soaring upwards toward the heavens in the bright August morning. It's enormous, intricately-carved West Front stops even the modern viewer in their tracks, leaving them to stand rapt in awe and to contemplate the effect that seeing this structure might have had on a medieval pilgrim.

Entering the gloom of the Cathedral from the harsh light outside, the very “Gothic-ness” of the architecture dominated my thoughts. While the excellent tour guide pointed out the rougher Norman and Romanesque features of the lower parts of the transept, the overpowering effect of the cathedral was unmistakably Gothic: huge scalloped pillars towered upwards to pointed arches, supporting a groin-vaulted ceiling of great intricacy. In the walls of the aisles, stained glass in dark medieval reds and blues told the stories of Old and New Testaments to queuing pilgrims waiting to see the jewel-encrusted shrine of St. Olav, patron saint of Norway, and take the waters at his holy fountain. The shrine itself was stolen by the Danes and melted down to make their Crown Jewels, but Olav is still buried here somewhere in the cathedral, the location unknown because the Danes did not want their barely-subjugated Norwegian vassals to have a religious rallying point. As I leave the cathedral, the huge semi-precious stone in the centre of the West Front's rose window casts a heavenly red glow over the forest of columns in the Nave, the early-afternoon light catching the tableaux over the entrance, warning departing pilgrims with its depiction of the Last Judgement. The remainder of the day was spent wandering in the town centre and in the museums of the nearby Archbishop's Palace: I visited the Royal Coronation Regalia, the palace and cathedral history exhibits, the Rustkammaren (Military Museum) and the Norwegian Resistance Museum. The moving Memorial Hall listed the names of over 1300 Norwegians who died just in this county, Trøndelag, in the five years of occupation.

I've been in Norway for just seven full days – not nearly enough to explore this wild and beautiful country – and now I'm forced to turn south and head for Uppsala, my home for the rest of this year. I bring my journey to an end with somewhat mixed emotions. On the one hand I wish desperately for more time, particularly to push further north, perhaps even go as far as Nordkapp and gaze out over the Arctic Ocean towards the top of the world. On the other hand I feel relief that I can settle down, have my things around me in comfort and security, not have to worry about how long something will take to dry or what foods will pack well or whether it is safe to leave a valuable item in my room. And of course there is also the excitement of starting my exchange, with all the experiences and possibilities that brings.