—
If, as I cycled over the long bridge to the island of Langøya, I had known that I was still only halfway through the cycling day despite having already passed the 70 km mark, I might have been somewhat disheartened. The cycle along the coast to Sortland was, compared to the previous couple of days, pretty standard stuff. My expectations of Sortland weren't high but at least it had a campsite.
'They tried to charge me two hundred and fifty kroner so I didn't stop,' one female cyclist told me in the mid-afternoon rain. 'It wasn't that great either.'
Oh dear… I arrived in the centre of Sortland, which, under the rain, wasn't looking its best. The fact that it was Sunday didn't help, as most places were closed; a pizza place and a kebab shop were the only establishments showing any signs of life. I sat on a bench, pulled out my phone, took a picture of Reggie and some of the drab buildings, and tweeted the following:
'I have discovered #Norway's least inspiring town: #Sortland... #cycling'
I then dared to look at the reviews for Sortland Camping on TripAdvisor. 'Expensive', 'unfriendly', 'flee', 'we are never going back' and 'to avoid' were some of the comments. One reviewer even suggested the site might prove to be a good incentive for people to start wild camping, something that I had still not managed to do.
I found a nearby petrol station and bought some highly calorific food. Perhaps, with the rain, it wasn't the day to launch my belated wild-camping career. However, the adventurer in me was alive and kicking, and I had yet to make use of the very long days. There was no reason why I shouldn't carry on cycling until… another campsite? The next one on my map was at least 40 km away.
Throwing caution to the wind (yes, it was still blowing), I set off. The ride along the coast was a remote one in the slowly dimming light but three hours later, after a day in the saddle that had stretched to nearly 140 km, I arrived at the Andøy Outdoor Centre, pitched the tent, prised open my emergency can of ravioli and went to bed a tired but happy traveller. Little did I know that back in Sortland, the locals were about to become a little less contented with life. Or, more specifically, me.
THE THIRTY-FOURTH DEGREE
69°–70° NORTH
20–25 July
Andøya, the northernmost of the Vesterålen island chain, didn't just feel remote; it was remote. It would be my home for most of cycling day 89, and I discovered it to be a place of mystery and intrigue. Only the hardiest of tourists had made it this far. With low hanging mist and constant heavy drizzle, I had wrapped up for the ride. This time no de-layering took place. Barely any skin was visible and from the neck down I was waterproofed.
My bleak, sparsely populated route was as silent as it was still. No noise to speak of. No howling wind. Few animals revealing their presence. Even fewer cars on the road. The subdued level of light that managed to penetrate the clouds was insufficient to make the colours shine, and the landscape was one of dull, dark greens and browns. In the final scenes of Skyfall, 007 drives through the similarly bleak Scottish Highlands. It could have been Andøya. I loved it. I was James Bond, on a touring bike.
The presence of two large military listening stations added an extra layer of mystery and intrigue to the island. 'No photography' signs were the only written indication that the curious arrays of masts and wires were top secret, but they clearly were. Further north, a remote collection of satellite dishes next to an unmarked truck had my mind working overtime. There was clearly some serious eavesdropping going on.
The views from the campsite at the appropriately named Bleik were reminiscent of those of my first night on the Lofoten islands. Again, I was able to pitch the tent near a white sandy beach and look out across the vastness of the Norwegian Sea, with my back to the mountains.
I fell into conversation with my neighbour. He was from the Netherlands and travelling with his family in a Land Rover that supported two tents on its roof, accessible via ladders at either end of the vehicle.
'I bought it when I lived in South Africa,' he explained. 'It's designed to keep you safe from wild animals.'
'What did you do there?' I asked.
'I worked in personnel for the Dutch foreign ministry,' he replied.
I didn't believe a word of it. 'Personnel'? He wasn't fooling me. He was clearly a spy. Andøya was the kind of place where secret agents took their holidays.
Aside from the drab island of Langøya, the Lofoten and Vesterålen had been great places along which to cycle and I had enjoyed almost all of my time there. I was also beginning to appreciate northern Norway through the filter of weather that wasn't always so great. It had been such a pity about 'uninspiring' Sortland. Talking of which, I had received an email from a journalist called Sanne. She worked for the Sortlands Avisa, the local newspaper. Could I talk? Yes, but perhaps away from the electronic ears of Andøya. I didn't want to cause a diplomatic incident. I replied, asking her to call me the following morning.
There were more listening stations, a military base and a curious tunnel with an uncountable number of wires feeding into it (as well as more 'No photography' signs…) squeezed into the 10 km between Bleik and Andenes. The ferry to what I assumed was the mainland departed from the end of a tentacle of land that formed the northernmost point of the Vesterålen islands. Four hours after having left the campsite, I was back on dry land at Gryllefjord, on the island of Senja. I hadn't reached the mainland after all.
I had suggested a time of 11 a.m. for Sanne to get in touch with me. I took her call whilst sitting on the crash barrier of a deserted bridge across the Gryllefjord, immediately in front of what appeared to be a brand new tunnel through the mountain.
'I really don't want to make any enemies in Sortland,' I explained, a little anxious that my tweet may have gone viral amongst the chattering classes of the town.
'Don't worry. I want the article to be positive, to stimulate debate,' she assured me, and started asking questions. 'Why was Sortland uninspiring? What suggestions do you have for improvements? How does it compare with other places in Norway?'
I must have only been in Sortland for under an hour. Perhaps I had been a little rash: the poor weather, everything closed as it was Sunday, the campsite... I tried to emphasise the extent to which I had enjoyed cycling through most of the rest of the country. Just not Sortland.
As I made my way through the tunnel, I wondered if any of my words could be misconstrued. I hoped not but only time would tell; I'd soon find out, when the article was published the following week. It would quickly be forgotten, right?
Senja's west coast consisted of a series of long fingers of land and narrow fjords. Some I would have to cycle along but with others I could cut through the knuckles via a tunnel. Towards the end of my 80 km ride across the island, the cycle route sliced off three of the fingers by climbing away from the coast a little and then falling back down to the ferry terminal at Botnhamn.
These were, however, no mere fingers of land. They were none other than the teeth of the Devil himself. Or so said an information board reminding me that I was again following one of the National Tourist Routes. Further south I had been taken aback not only by the spectacular view from one of the designated viewing platforms along the Turistveger, but also by the viewing platform itself. I had similar feelings at the Bergsbotn utsiktsplattform, where a slender structure of wood and metal enabled a casual fjord gazer such as me to move away from the land. Raised from the platform was an arc formed from curved wooden planks, elevating me to a position where the platform itself was almost out of sight. I never thought that art could be expressed in a simple viewing platform. Norway had proved me wrong.
Upon arrival in Botnhamn I was delighted to find that Hans and Veronika were already waiting for the ferry. I hadn't seen them since the previous Friday and we spent time catching up on our journeys along the Lofoten and Vesterålen islands. I avoided any mention of Sortland. They had embraced wild camping in a way that I hadn't and they planned to wild camp again somewhere near Brensholmen, on the n
ext island of Kvaløya. Would I ever reach the mainland?
Not far from the ferry terminal on Kvaløya, I paused next to a bright yellow distance sign. Just one destination was listed:
Tromsø 55
There had been something of a turnaround in the weather and my body cast a long shadow on the road in the direction of Tromsø. It was 7 p.m. and I had already cycled 90 km. My shadow would, however, only increase in length very slowly over the subsequent few hours. Indeed, it might never disappear; this was, after all, the land of the midnight sun. I saw no reason to stop.
As evening rides go, it was a memorable one. There was no wind to speak of and, with the sun on my back, I powered over the island like a salmon returning to spawn. The route was by no means flat, but rarely anything other than spectacular – big mountains, big valleys, big sea – and, at times, alarmingly remote. Could Norway's eighth city really be within cycling distance? Descending from the hills, I first spotted signs of its existence at around 9.30 p.m., when one of the long bridges to the small island upon which Tromsø had been built finally came into view.
Although the campsite near Tromsø was inundated with campervans, all parked up in lines on a vast expanse of tarmac, the free camping area was beside a stream, and full of nooks and crannies, overgrown paths, small open patches of ground and more secluded woods. The cycle had put me in a good mood and the campsite had gilded it, so it was no surprise that late the following morning I could be seen cycling over the long bridge back into the centre of Tromsø with a broad smile on my face. Was I being prematurely happy? The straight-line distance to Nordkapp was still over 300 km, significantly more via cycle route 1. Perhaps 500 plus? It was difficult, however, to fight the urge to celebrate my achievement just a little.
That said, my celebrations were modest and initially came in the shape of food and coffee at the Helmersen Delikatesser, where I ate and drank away a couple of hours watching the world go by and the seagulls try to steal my lunch. Tromsø had a charm that had been absent from so many of the other coastal towns. The buildings were smart and colourful, with many having their origins in the nineteenth century. Yet there was nothing claustrophobic about the place, with its wide avenues and open spaces that made full use of the abundant sunlight. Smart, modern constructions along the fjord complemented but didn't detract from the older ones and, from beside the water, perhaps Tromsø's greatest asset was on display: its location.
In an almost continuous 360-degree ring, snow-capped mountains surrounded the city. There may have been hints of southern Scandinavia whilst strolling down the Storgata, or main street, but cast your gaze beyond the pretty buildings and there was immediate confirmation that this was unmistakably northern Norway.
The employee of the delikatesser was not a great fan of Tromsø – 'Too quiet, nothing ever happens here…' – but I most certainly was. After so many disappointing small towns, it was good to find one that ticked most of my boxes. One of these was to locate a nice place for a beer so I reached for my guidebook to see what was recommended. The Amundsen Restauranthus, former home of the explorer Roald, of South Pole fame? The Blå Rock Café? Or the Ølhallen Pub adjoining the Mack Brewery, the world's most northerly? How could I turn down the opportunity of tasting the world's most northern beer?
The brewery had been opened by the entrepreneurial Ludwig Markus Mack who, in 1877, realised the potential of brewing beer in a city that was rapidly growing rich from the 'seemingly inexhaustible' natural resources of the Arctic Sea. Soon, the beer that he was producing in his brewery was considered the beer of northern Norway and so it remained. Well, according to Mack. The company was still in the family and now the fifth generation of Macks were in charge, although the boss himself went by the name of Bredrup. Somehow a pint of Mack sounded better than a pint of Bredrup.
The Ølhallen – 'beer hall' – Pub, located in the cellar of the brewery, was opened in 1928 by a previous boss, one Lauritz Bredrup, who persuaded the town council that it would be so much better if people could drink inside and under control rather than out on the street. Ever the rebel, after ordering my pint of Mack I chose to sit and drink it outside on the terrace, presumably much to the disapproval of any passing town councillors.
The view was somewhat obliterated by a second brewery building opposite where I was sitting and supping, but my eye wandered in the hope of being amused. After a few minutes, I noticed a sign across the road upon which the crest of the United Kingdom was emblazoned. Around its edge it read: 'British Consulate'. A quick Google search revealed a curious fact. Not only was the local consulate for the United Kingdom located in the brewery, but the 'head of mission' – the honorary consul – was listed as a certain Haakon Bredrup of the fourth generation of Macks, father of the current boss and chairman of the board. Should a diplomatic incident take place with the Sortland tweet issue, I would at least know who to call. If nothing else, he might allow me to drown my sorrows with his beer. Perhaps that was the recommended course of action with troubled visitors from Britain and the key thing on his CV that had got His Excellency Mr Bredrup the job in the first place.
It wasn't a long session of boozing, as the Ølhallen Pub closed in the late afternoon. I pushed Reggie back through the centre of Tromsø, cycled over the long bridge for the final time and returned to the campsite to plan the final stage of the journey to Nordkapp. I found Hans and Veronika in the communal cooking room doing the same thing and we combined our thoughts as we bent over my last map, Norway North Cape. Tromsø was on the left-hand edge and Nordkapp was at the top. Although only one and half degrees of latitude separated us from our ultimate destination, the greater challenge would be in cycling across the nearly seven degrees of longitude that remained. What's more, such was the twisting nature of the coastal route that we would pass through the line of 70 degrees of latitude not once but three times, the final crossing being just north of Alta. This would be the next, and last, major town en route to Nordkapp. What remained after Tromsø would have made a decent cycling expedition by itself.
Although we had agreed on probable locations where to stop overnight, I was still keen to cycle independently, at my own pace. And so, it seemed, were the Germans, as when I set off at around 9.30 a.m., they were already long gone. The busy E8 out of Tromsø reminded me of the horrible E6 further south but, after a while, the cycle route split away to follow the almost deserted ferry-hopping coastal road. My senses could drift away from monitoring the cycling to admiring the mountainous scenery that had been visible from the centre of Tromsø. Most peaks were now well in excess of 1,000 m and covered with fresh snow. If cycling day 91 were to be replicated over the final week of the trip, I was in for a memorable and fitting finale to the cycle from Tarifa.
After the second ferry crossing – much longer and choppier than the first – I was alarmed to see that the cycle route would now follow the dreaded E6. Such was the thinning nature of what remained of Norway that it was perhaps inevitable that our paths would again coalesce. I'd done a pretty decent job of avoiding major roads for most of the cycle from Lillehammer but here I would have to admit defeat.
A simple, isolated, mosquito-ridden site near Rotsundelv would be home for the night. Hans, Veronika and I were the only campers and in the morning we again set off at different times. The fickle weather had taken a turn for the worse and cloud hung low in the sky, obliterating the dramatic views of the previous day.
Although most of the cycling in recent days had been much flatter than I had expected, it was punctuated by short, sharp climbs. None more so than the energy-sapping ascent from sea level to 400 m to a viewing point beside the Badderfjord. However, even the clouds couldn't diminish the panoramic vista of mountains and fjords that stretched away in all directions. At the top, a large hotel-restaurant, the Gildetun, served a constant stream of holidaymakers from the cruise ships that were heading in the same direction as me. Adjacent to its large car park was the burnt-out stump of a tree that had been fashioned into a sign. Etched
into one of its remaining three branches was the information I'd been looking out for since leaving Tromsø:
NORDKAPP 370 km
At the bottom of the hill, I found Hans and Veronika scratching their heads, trying to find the campsite that I was also aiming for. We pooled our ideas and within the hour had found what we were looking for, near Sekkemo.
Aside from the viewing point, it had been a subdued day and I suspected that my fellow long-distance cyclists were having similar thoughts. After eating, we retreated to our tents early but I couldn't sleep. I was certainly tired. Was it excitement? Anticipation? Yes, but tinged with a certain amount of sadness that my transcontinental adventure would soon be finished. A strange maelstrom of emotions was keeping my mind active and I remained wide awake.
In the early hours I reached for my iPad, wirelessly tethered it to my phone and went online. There was a Hurtigruten ship, the MS Lofoten – the smallest and oldest of the fleet – leaving the port of Honningsvåg on the island of Nordkapp at 5.45 a.m. on Thursday 30 July. My ETA at Nordkapp was the end of cycling day 96, on Tuesday 28. I reached for my credit card and booked a passage to Bergen. Not only did I now have a ticket to travel south, but I also had a deadline to meet. Not arriving at Nordkapp by Wednesday at the very latest would be a costly mistake. With that worry added to the maelstrom, there was little chance of me drifting off into the land of slumber, and I didn't.
Spain to Norway on a Bike Called Reggie Page 28