Spain to Norway on a Bike Called Reggie

by Andrew P. Sykes

  My corner room on the fourth floor had the kind of carpet-to-ceiling panoramic view over the Namsosfjord that I had thought only existed as the backdrop to purpose-built television studios at Olympic Games or royal weddings. Not bad for under 50 quid. The only blot on the landscape was the large copper-clad building next to the Scandic Rock City: Rock City itself. Once I had dried out, I went to investigate.

  My coastal road bible had already informed me that some of Norway's 'best known rock artists' grew up in Namsos and that 'on 11-11-11 at 11:00, Rock City was opened, an adventure centre for rock 'n roll from Trøndelag'. This information posed more questions than answers.

  Rock City was having a quiet day. Perhaps that was due to the rain but something about the place suggested that quiet days might have been the norm. I wandered through the entrance and got chatting with the two young people manning the reception area. Reluctant to fork out the 100NOK entrance fee, I was keen to imply that I had no intrinsic love for Trønder Rock (how could I when I didn't know what it was?) but was open to being persuaded.

  'Let me show you around,' invited the man.

  'Do I need a ticket?' I asked.

  'Don't worry, you don't have to pay,' he went on, clearly eager to have at least one customer, even a non-paying one, to give him something to do.

  Over the next half-hour I discovered that Trønder Rock was actually just 'rock' performed by musicians from the Trøndelag region of Norway. Of all the local rock stars, the name Åge Aleksandersen was the one to crop up most often. He, it seemed, was the Paul McCartney of Norway. Born in Namsos in 1949, he was a founding member of the group Prudence – named after the Beatles song – and was responsible for such classics as 'Drunk and Happy', the 1980 Eurovision entry 'Bjørnen sover' (or 'The Bear Sleeps', a political song aimed at the Russians who had just invaded Afghanistan; it came a respectable second place) and that favourite Norwegian ditty 'Fire pils og en pizza' or 'Four Beers and a Pizza'.

  I may mock his choice of song titles (as the author of three books with ...on a Bike Called Reggie in their name, who am I to criticise?) but he has sold over 1.5 million records during his career to date and has won a string of awards in doing so.

  'He's playing the Royal Albert Hall in London next summer,' explained my guide.

  'Does he have a big international following?'

  'Not really but back in the 1970s he wrote a song called "It's a Long Way to Royal Albert Hall" about his struggles to make it on the music scene. To celebrate his forty years in the business, he's playing the venue.'

  'But will he sell any tickets?' I queried.

  'It's already sold out.'

  And so it was. Not by the British but by Norwegians who, according to newspaper reports, 'filled around a dozen chartered jets from Trondheim to sing along with 27 of Aleksandersen's hits'. Åge's dream (and that of 4,300 of his fans) had come true.

  I thanked my host and wandered back to my hotel room with newfound respect for ageing rockers. Especially one Norwegian rocker called, most appropriately, Åge.

  The highlight of cycling day 79 was the huge buffet breakfast at the Scandic Rock City. I filled my boots (and a couple of pockets) but from then on, in most respects, it was downhill all the way. Except, alas, being downhill all the way. It was the first day of the entire trip when it rained from the beginning of my cycle to the end. Not once did the droplets of water stop falling. How nice it might have been to stay for a second night at the Scandic and spend the day investigating more stories of other Norwegian rock stars.

  Instead, I plodded up the road, ticking off the kilometres. Just as a falling object quickly reaches its terminal velocity and stays there for the rest of its descent, I quickly found my terminal level of wetness and stayed there for the rest of the cycle. The only respite from the elements came at a remote café, when I took an hour-long pause to stare out over the sea and then, towards the end of the day, when I caught the Lund–Hofles ferry.

  Arriving in non-descript Kolvereid, I sought out the campsite in the hope of renting a small, cheap cabin of some description but the price was not only excessive, it would have been more than I had paid for the night in the posh Scandic. The local hotel would have to suffice. Constructed from the Norwegian equivalent of Portakabins, it was at least warm and I spent the evening in my room, drying clothes whilst listening to Liberal Democrat Tim Farron MP and former Chancellor Norman Lamont debate the political comings and goings back home in the UK on Radio 4's Any Questions?. The panellists were politely asked: 'How has the budget affected you personally?' and 'Should the Greeks leave the Euro?' but not, alas, 'When will it stop raining in Norway?' so I looked online and… goodness. Tomorrow!

  I had avoided looking at the forecast for fear that it might tell me what I didn't want to know. In reality, it was exactly what I did want to read.

  Saturday – sunny – 11°C – 0 mm precipitation – 2 m/s wind

  Sunday – sunny – 19°C – 0 mm precipitation – 2 m/s wind

  Monday – sunny – 18°C – 0 mm precipitation – 2 m/s wind

  I double-checked that I didn't have the location set for southern Spain. No, it was correct. Summer, it seemed, was about to arrive on the coast of northern Norway.

  When I woke and thrust open the curtains the following morning, the sky was blue and the sun – remember that? – was shining. Marvellous.

  THE THIRTIETH DEGREE

  65°–66° NORTH

  11–13 July

  The north-western coastline of Norway had so far failed to deliver. Clearly, the weather had been a factor, but the scenery had yet to live up to my high expectations. With the exception of the view of the setting sun from the campsite near Osen, much of what I had seen was nice but my jaw had yet to drop by any significant measure. Things, however, were about to change.

  It was now Saturday morning and, as had been forecast, it wasn't raining and there were large blue patches in the sky, although it remained cold. But I could cope with the cold by wrapping up and keeping moving on the bike. The energy was provided in quantity via a slap-up breakfast. It may have had all the physical attributes of post-war emergency housing, but the Kolvereid Fjordhotel didn't skimp on making sure that I – their only client that morning – was fully fuelled.

  Between Trondheim and the sixty-fifth line of latitude, Norway had been comparatively flat. Although my cycling route had taken me along valleys, and beside lakes and fjords, the mountains I was passing were modest in size. There was little to excite your average Munro bagger along the coast of Trøndelag and drag him from his bothy, other than the realisation that he had gone to bed in Scotland and woken up on the other side of the North Sea.

  Along the coast of Nordland, however, peaks above 1,000 m were increasingly common. The greatest mountains of Norway were, of course, behind me – I had glimpsed the distant snow caps to the west as I cycled from Oslo to Trondheim but, from my own elevated position, it had been difficult to take in their true size. Here on the coast, however, from my location at sea level, every one of the 1,000 plus metres could be appreciated in their full glory.

  And what a coastline it was. You may remember me commenting upon the smashed-plate nature of Denmark with its 400 islands. In comparison, Britain has over 800. Impressive, right? It's not that impressive when you consider that the estimated figure for Norway is over 50,000 islands. That's a lot of ferries and bridges. Meanwhile, National Geographic Magazine reports that in 2011 the Norwegian government recalculated the length of the coastline using new technology. It grew by 18,000 km and now stands at a phenomenal 101,000 km. Perhaps news of the lengthening coastline was scaring away the masses, as the road north of Kolvereid was not just quiet, it was, at times, silent. Just the sound of me breathing, Reggie purring, water flowing, small flies buzzing and an occasional bird tweeting.

  A sign that the terrain was gradually becoming more challenging, I began to encounter unavoidable long tunnels. Up until this point they had been modest affairs, just a few tens of metres
in length, or longer tunnels that were easily avoided thanks to the option of using an adjacent old road. That had been the case along the shore of Lake Mjøsa. Now, however, they were black holes into which I had no alternative but to plunge, rather reluctantly. I had always assumed that the reason the cycling route to Nordkapp jumped over to the Lofoten islands after Bodø was because of tunnels on the mainland from which cyclists were prohibited. In the back of my mind, I worried that my route would one day end abruptly because of a sign banning me from continuing on two wheels. Logic dictated that by following cycle route 1, this wouldn't be an issue, but from past experience I knew that my ability to be loyal to a cycle route for 100 per cent of its length was low. Perhaps now was the time to start sticking rigidly to where I, as a cyclist, was being told to go. In most places along the coast, this wasn't difficult, as there was usually only one road to follow. Side roads would, more often than not, have taken me to a dead end at the sea or on tortuous climbs into the hills.

  My first long tunnel of the entire cycle from Tarifa was the Hestnes Tunnel, about 50 km along the coast from Kolvereid. At 600 m in length and with the road taking a distinct turn to the left, there was no sign of an exit at the other end. All that was visible from the entrance was the long row of lights on the ceiling, sufficiently bright to light the road but insufficient to give a clear view of approaching traffic. Or indeed to give a clear view of me to other users of the tunnel, so I dismounted, switched on my lights and hoped for the best. I took comfort from the knowledge that up until this point of the day, the traffic had been extremely low. The flip side, however, was that a driver might not be expecting to meet a cyclist in the tunnel. Somewhat hesitantly, I set off.

  The Norwegians are the undeniable masters of tunnelling and there are, according to the Norwegian Public Roads Administration, over 900 road tunnels in the country, with a cumulative length of 750 km. That's about the same distance as driving from London to Dundee. You'd think there would come a time when the tunnellers of Norway could stand back and say, 'OK, that's it, we've finished.' But no. Of the ten longest road tunnels in Norway, eight have been opened since the year 2000. That was the year when the longest road tunnel in Norway (and, incidentally, the world) was opened. The Lærdal Tunnel cuts through 24,509 m of prime Norwegian granite and such is its length that every 6 km there is a large cave-cum-rest area. And they're not done yet. It was reported in 2016 that a system of floating tunnels is under consideration to enable ferry-free transport across seven fjords between Kristiansand and Trondheim. The concrete tunnels would float under the water at a depth of 20 m. You can't fault their ambition.

  Back in the 600 m of the Hestnes Tunnel, I was beginning my slow plod to the other end. Despite the day being a dry one, the tunnel was as damp as it was dark. There were large puddles on the floor and my body collided frequently with globular drips of water from the ceiling. The temperature had also plummeted sharply. On a scorching day, this might have come as a blessed short-term respite from the heat, but with the temperature outside barely reaching double figures, it sent a chill through my body. I was, at least, spared from any other road users thundering beside me over my left shoulder. That was an experience I would gladly leave for another tunnel on another day.

  Within half an hour of emerging from the gloom, I was standing alongside a quay, waiting for a ferry to take me across the fjord to Vennesund. My hope was to spend the night at the Vennesund Brygge og Camping. As the ferry neared its destination and grey skies turned to blue, I could see the campsite on the shore only a few seconds' walk from the dock. After disembarking and presenting my credentials at the reception inside a grand, white, wood-panelled building beside the water, I proceeded to pitch the wet tent in glorious sunshine.

  Then Concord arrived to spoil the view. It was big, white and noisy. Perhaps that's why the manufacturers of this particular campervan had named it so. Was it really necessary to park it so close to my little inoffensive green tent overlooking the water?

  I gave the elderly couple who had positioned it there the kind of hard stare from which even Paddington Bear would have recoiled. But not, it seemed, the superannuated Norwegians. They ignored me in the same way they had ignored the tent so, to make my point (as well as reinstate my personal tent space), I proceeded to unpeg and drag my little home to a nearby plot where the view wasn't obscured by a vast wall of white steel.

  With the evening sun beating down to heat me from the outside and piping hot ravioli doing the same job from the inside, I was a happy man. Despite the increasing number of campervans – each arrival of the ferry deposited another handful that came to park on the grass – the views across the fjord on one side and the sea on the other were exactly what I'd come to Norway to appreciate. Looking north, the panorama was particularly enticing, with distant but seemingly ever larger mountains dominating the scene. Eight hours later I was delighted to reappear from the tent to find that things had barely changed. Only the sun had altered its position; everything else was just as I had left it, notably the deep blue sky.

  Since having said goodbye to the shores of the Mediterranean some three months previously, this day was promising to be one of the best. I would be spending most of it cycling beside the coast and it turned out to be a predominantly flat route, involving two ferry crossings, increasingly magnificent mountains to the east and the seemingly endless expanse of the Norwegian Sea to the west. There was not one thing from which to take displeasure. The traffic on the roads continued to be light and the weather was simply perfect, with the only wind to speak of being that generated by my own swift movement through the air.

  Such was the length of the days – on a cloudless day it was now sufficiently light to cycle without lights for 24 hours had I been so inclined – that it made sense to keep going and make the most of the almost perfect cycling conditions. Pretty, isolated towns came and went; rusty red sheds beside the water contrasted beautifully with the lush green vegetation on land, and the blue of the sea and sky. The bright white houses and churches looked resplendent. This really was the Norway I had seen in the tourist brochures and it was as welcome as it was enjoyable.

  With no traffic to distract me for most of the cycle between the two ferries, my eyes could concentrate on other things. To the north I could see a distinctive long massif with several peaks rising, teethlike, from its summit. Consulting my map I discovered that they formed an island called Alsta and that the massif itself was called the Sju søstre. I had identified a campsite on the other side of the island as a likely place to spend the night but to access it meant either an impromptu off-road hike to around 1,000 m (perhaps not…) or a more feasible but lengthy cycle around the mass of rock – 20,000 horizontal metres were much more appealing than 1,000 vertical ones and, an hour or so later, I had arrived at my destination.

  'Have you seen the Seven Sisters?' asked the campsite owner, looking out from the window of his office. I couldn't see anyone, let alone seven sisters.

  'No, sorry. Are they on bikes?'

  'And those two,' he said, ignoring me and pointing upwards, 'are the Twins.'

  'On a tandem?'

  'Have you come to climb them?'

  What was he suggesting? We appeared to be having two completely separate conversations.

  'The Sju søstre: the Seven Sisters,' he clarified. 'Many people stay here to climb them. They are very famous in Norway.'

  He was, of course, referring to the peaks on the other side of a small airport that separated the campsite from the road.

  'Here, have one of these,' he said, pushing a wrapped boiled sweet into my hand in the same way he might donate one to a rather dim child to keep them amused for a while.

  'Thanks.'

  It had been a long day – nine hours of cycling, waiting for ferries and gazing out to sea from ferries – but I had covered some 125 km. I had so far cycled 6,400 km and today's efforts had pushed the average over 81 days to nearly 79 km per day. The plan was still to arrive at Nordkapp by the o
ne-hundredth day. If my calculation of 7,500 km from Tarifa was anywhere near accurate, I might even arrive quite a few days before that.

  But then again, why would I want to rush things? 'Travel slow and explore' had declared my little guide and if what lay ahead was anything like I'd experienced on cycling day 81, I had no incentive to do anything apart from taking my time and enjoying the ride.

  That night I was surrounded by hikers.

  'We've climbed one of them,' explained my immediate neighbour.

  'I've done two today,' added another, 'and I met someone who is doing all seven. He's probably still up there.'

  I had no plans to summit any of the Sisters but the fact that I had cycled from southern Spain brought nods of appreciation. It was good to share adventures.

  THE THIRTY-FIRST DEGREE

  66°–67° NORTH

  13–16 July

  I'd never thought about why the Arctic Circle was where it was. 'Because to the north of the Arctic Circle it gets bloody cold!' would probably have been my rather flippant answer. Unsurprisingly, that's not it.