In clear but cold springtime skies, the plane rises over the flat lands of the Thames delta. The warming sun casts drop shadows onto the blue water with small fluffy cotton wool clouds looking like tiny islands stretching out to sea. Silvery strands wind, twist and sliver like tentacles across the land. The imprints, channels, sandbanks and creeks look, from above like a finely drawn anatomical study of a lung. As the estuary widens the reflecting sun turns the water a deep blue green with shimmering turquoise ripples, making Mersea Island look like the pictures of Barbados in the airport. I’m heading to Norway where I have been invited to give a talk about my journey to an international school group and to join some local kayakers in their home waters. It’s a touch north of the northern boundary of North Utsira, a line cutting west from the entrance to the magnificent Sognefjord. I’m overheating as I’m wearing thermals in preparation for colder climes, coupled with an early start means I’m dopey and lightheaded as we drift over the familiar landscape of the North Sea coasts. A large image of the arctic explorer Otto Sverdrup is printed on the tail fin of the plane and on the advice of my hosts, I’m reading ‘Farthest North’ Fridtjof Nansen’s account of their famous voyage on the Fram. I’m in good company.
The plane starts to bank and change course to follow the Essex coast northwards. The long, straight strand of the pier at Southend slips beneath the wing and the Medway glints and falls out of view. The clouds cluster like paw prints on the water as I scan the briny ground for signs of the independent micro nation of Sealand, somewhere out there. The swooping concrete ribbon of the Orwell bridge signals Ipswich, Felixstowe and Harwich, bringing back childhood memories of time spent exploring these waters ‘We didn’t mean to go to sea’ and other stories by Arthur Ransome drift into my mind as a long view over the glinting seas towards the opposite coast puts this small island in a bigger picture. Cargo ships, ferries, fishing boats and tankers are scattered across the surface like twigs. We leave the east coast behind heading out over the North Sea from the air beacon at Cromer. The sandy strands of the dusty Friesian islands conjure up long hot days in the disappearing water and a night under the stars and the Auld Lauremie on Spiekeroog. The sound of Jonny Glut and his band flash into my mind along with the squawking cries of Germany’s only gannet colony on Helgoland. Clouds clear to a deep and rich blue, like the thick cream billowing and disappearing in the tea cup of an East Frisian Tea Sturber. The inverted image in the mirror sea seems like we’re looking at the sky in suspended animation. I think of the naked and sunburnt Danish rowers, recreating a Viking voyage on their way to Broadstairs, long days on the water and the wide expanses of sand, Danish surf spots, Cold Hawaii, UFO landings and haunted school houses. I feel a sense of intimacy and fondness for these waters full of stories, tracing the coastline with memories. Another familiar stretch of coast emerges from the cloud shadow merged with the snow topped mountains and I suddenly wonder if I might see Utsira.
Bergen seems more mountainous than I remember and there is a quiet calm in the airport. I sit in the old fish market overlooking the Bryggen eating fish soup, thick like chowder. Dried stock fish hangs from the ceiling connecting back to the cod fishing grounds much further north in Lofoten and a reminder of the trade on which this place was founded. A gentle breeze is fluttering the flags outside the old red and yellow stained timber buildings of the Hanseatic kontor and uncharacteristically for Bergen, the sun is shining. I board the fast Norled ferry which speeds out of the harbour. Phone charger cables hanging from plugs in the ceiling sway back and forth as the boat powers on and rounds the corner leaving the city behind. Blocks of flats rise out of the rocky ground at odds with the single storey timber houses and surrounding pine trees. The boat slows through narrow channels, dodging marker buoys, summerhouses and fishing boats, driving on top of the water like a bus. We make a couple of stops at small village quaysides, the timetable carefully coordinated with local bus routes. The uniformed captain with short blonde hair and a beard steps onto deck to welcome new passengers before raising the metal gangway and signalling for the off. It’s a quick and efficient turn around. Balancing the excitement of the journey with encroaching tiredness I buy a strong coffee from the small cafe kiosk onboard, happy to learn, given the eye watering price, its refillable. There’s no access outside so I settle for pressing my head against the window watching the spectacular landscape speed by. As we cross Sognefjord the view opens up dramatically and steep sheer faces of the black mountainous terrain drop sharply into the water. Other ferries coming from different directions speed across the fjord converging on a point to make their connections.
Landing at the small timber jetty at Rysjedalsvika I follow instructions and jump onto a waiting bus to ‘Dale’ which I wonder if it means the same as it does in English. The bus will take me to the small town of Flekke where Alastair has offered to pick me up. Alistair is deputy rector at UWC Red Cross Nordic which is where I’m heading. The bus winds and climbs up the mountain sides, dropping and weaving through sharp hairpins, valleys, forests and lakesides in the last of the evening sun. Small, red stained timber farmsteads pepper the landscape with bouldery streams turning to foaming white water rivers dropping quickly into gorges and falls. New landscapes unfold as the bus weaves its way. Alistair is tall and thin with a wiry stance and long contemplative gaze, wizened, weather beaten features tell of a life lived outdoors. He’s friendly and welcoming, moving his wife Lesley’s yoga mats aside in the back of the car to make room for my bag. We drop down along a narrow road to the college campus which sits at the end of Flekke Fjord with views towards the mountains. It’s an incredible spot, the grass roofed coloured timber buildings are hunkered down beneath the rocks.
Alistair and Lesley’s house is open plan with a view out over the fjord. On the walls are photos, artwork and objects from faraway places and other cultures, they are a well travelled couple. I notice dramatic photos of a climber hanging off a sheer face, Alistair excitedly explains it’s one he took of his son in their native South Africa. Lesley is warm and gentle, her accent gives away her Canadian roots and has a soft, slow tone. We talk of climbing, kayaking, the outdoors and the importance of having a connection to nature. We discuss the links to mental wellbeing and Alistair tells me about deep ecology, the writing of Arne Ness and the Norwegian concept of ‘Friluftsliv’ something I’ll learn more about over the coming days. He tells me the unlikely story of how he and Lesley met when he was living alone with a vulture colony observing their breeding and migration patterns. he shares climbing stories of shimming along tiny ledges and the absolute focus thats required. Together they recount journeys snd livers lived in far flung places. Our conversation moves to yoga and relaxation which reminds me It’s been a long day. Saying goodnight, I walk down the hill to my room passing a tall figure of a man carrying a suitcase who introduces himself as Gudmundur. Gudmundur is the rector of the college and source of my original invite. He is returning from a trip to Serbia. We briefly compare tales of long journeys and, both exhausted, agree to catch up properly in the morning.
I wake to a low mist hanging in the fjord partly shrouding the brooding mountains, the water is still and a thick frost has gripped the ground. The next few days start in similar ways, clearing to patches of blue skies and mirror flat reflections on the water. Occasionally the Norwegian version of the well know Scottish dricht, known here as yr, blows in with an enveloping wetness. A timber rack with coloured sea kayaks sits in the frost near the waters’ edge and a group of students gently break the morning silence with splashing ripples and the dipping oars of a traditional rowing boat. The flat lake duplicates the mountains and houses on other side in perfect symmetry. Amongst meeting students and staff, talking about my travels and thoughts on sustainable development, I walk though the woods and hills surrounding the college. Yellow marks on the rocks and trees show a pathway through the undergrowth. Slightly damp, long grassy tufts are like heads of hair amongst the flat slabs of rock spilling into dark waters where fishing huts, boat houses and platforms perch on the edges. A makeshift bench in a clearing provides a perfect spot to soak it in. I lie down and listen to the distant sounds of a waterfall, watch the shimmering water drift across the fjord, feel the warm sun on the side of my face and drift off in a doze.
The skies are clear at night and I walk out into the darkness, the bright twinkling stars bringing the depths to life. I sit amongst the stones watching and waiting as the long exposure on my camera opens and closes in an attempt to capture the magical view. I’m still learning how to use the camera in dark skies which in a way is good as I spend a lot of time fiddling with settings and retaking images for longer and longer periods. It gives me more time to grow accustomed to the light and look more closely. Eventually the cold seeping into my hands and then deeper into my bones signals time to leave, reluctantly I walk back through the stillness of the night to warm up.
A small building surrounded by a timber deck reaches out towards the water and is home to a boathouse, a familiar smell of new neoprene and wet kit hangs in the air, buoyancy aids, dry suits, boots and paddles neatly arranged on racks. A powerful and haunting sound mixed with drifting and rising piano music fills the room providing a dramatic accompaniment to the mundane changing rituals. I later learn there is a music room above where a particularly talented student was training her voice. I join a group of students on the water as part of their outdoor leadership programme. The curriculum recognises the positive benefits of spending time outdoors and learning new practical skills can have. Students from a range of backgrounds and nationalities take turns to lead the session teaching young children who are there as part of a youth programme. They challenge and support each other under the watchful eye of Josh, a member of the college team who as it turns out is from Wales. At the end of the session whilst still on the water, the students gather together and take time to stop, listen and take in their surroundings, something we could probably all do with doing from time to time.
Later I meet Joachim who leads the outdoor activity programme. He’s a softly spoken Swedish skier with blue eyes and a lyrical voice. He tells me more about the kayaking, hiking, skiing and camping activities and how they use the amazing landscape surrounding the college, encouraging students to engage with the wider environment whenever they can. There’s such an implicit understanding of the benefits here, I wish that more students could have these opportunities. We take a short walk from the college buildings over a slatted timber bridge to a small wooded island. The light cuts sharp shadows as we stand and chat overlooking the fjord in the early springtime sun. Joachim explains more about the concept of Friluftsliv as a philosophical movement. He says everyone has their own understanding of if but the direct translation ‘open air life’ represents a strong connection to and, importantly respect of natural systems. He believes that to implement bigger picture behavioural changes required to live more sustainably, we need to understand the impacts our actions have on a place we love and have a deep connection with.
Gudmundur and his wife Katarina both have very interesting stories. Gudmundur is tall with dark hair, a deep authoritative voice but gentle manner. Katarina is full of energy with a bright smile and wild laugh. They met on a dig whilst both working as archaeologists. Gudmundur had a previous career as an Opera singer and has memories of turning up to the Icelandic national opera covered in mud. They have spent time in the south of Iceland, London, the Balkans and the UAE. I’m invited for dinner and we sit on the terrace of their house in the warm sun overlooking the fjord, I wonder in a way how they ended up here. It’s a shoes on house, they have two children and a long haired cat called Kate Bush. We watch the sun setting and feel the chill of the nordic night settling in. Maps and drawings hang on the wall along with artefacts and artwork. A collection of easter chicks made from plastic beads hang from the houseplants. Katarina tells me about their project to refurbish a town house in Belgrade and her dedicated research into the previous life of the building, the windows, walls and doorways all holding stories. We drink Hansa beer and talk about their experiences of people with gold encrusted jumbo jets and schools with private helipads. It seems a world away from the modest collection of turf roofed building that surround us. They tell me about the survivors of conflict programme that is part of the school ethos, welcoming students from war torn countries on the basis of potential rather than fees or grades. Kate Bush purrs on a wicker chair in the corner and rolls over to have her tummy tickled.
The following evening, I join the staff pot luck dinner in the old bakehouse, a small stone building with a green roof sitting amongst the trees. Roast lamb, potatoes and bread are cooked on the open hearth making them tender and smokey. Gudmundur gives a tour of the building and the adjacent silent house. Ducking low under a small doorway he takes us into a small stone room with ceiling lined in timber and candle sticks providing the only lighting other than some small windows. Fur animal hides are draped over the chairs. ‘Oh, you went in the Game of Thrones room?’ Laughs Maya, an art teacher from Norfolk via Berlin who is there for an interview. I’ve never seen it but know what she means. The building (previously a farmhouse) and a collection of artwork were donated to the school by an artist with a connection to the Norwegian Royal family. It now forms a social gathering place and I’m given a warm welcome by an International group of teachers and staff. I can’t quite believe this place, it’s worlds away from my comprehensive school in the midlands.
We meet early, having loaded the kayaks onto the trailer the previous day. Alistair and I are joined by two students Esbjorn and Rasmus along with two of Alistair and Lesley’s friends Øystein and Anh Loan. We plan to kayak out from the coast to the island of Alden described in Nansen’s journey and a trip promised by Alistair to the students before they leave Flekke in the summer. We wind our way along the road leading out of the fjord amongst forests, farmland and snow capped mountains. Small houses are clustered around the gravel track where we park. A German bunker now used as a dojo has Japanese script on doorway. We joke as we launch at our multicultural team. There is a slight offshore wind and crystal clear deep blue skies. As we paddle over amongst low scattered islands, some small waves pick up and we catch a bit of surf. Snowy peaks appear along the coast as the land reveals itself the further out we get. I’m told that the Norwegian wind always follows the sun as it blows from the east in the morning and the west in the evening. Alden rises steeply out of the water amongst otherwise flat neighbouring islands, as we pull closer, the scale of it is more apparent, steep inclined faces rising sharply. We skirt the coast and follow the rocky edges into a small harbour with deep blue water lapping the small stony beach at the base of the mountain. Hauling the boats up the beach, we change and pack bags with water and supplies for a hike to the top. It’s more of a quick dash than a slow amble as we scramble up rocky steps gaining height quickly.
Alden rises to 481m above sea level, it is also known as the Norwegian Horse, visible to sailors more than 100km out to sea. Smoke rises from a fire below and becomes more visible as we near the top, farmers burning heather, says Alistair giving the Norwegian word for it. There is a distant haze on the far horizon and everything has taken on the deep blue hue of the sky, the snow on the mountains is bright white and the rocky ledges absorb the yellow of the afternoon sun as we look towards the furthest west point of Norway. It’s this area from which many of the fishing boats involved in the so called Shetland Bus would have operated during WWII, making the treacherous 2-3 day crossings under the cover of darkness to supply and support the Norwegian resistance as well as transporting refugees. Looking out along the fragmented coastline, the views are spectacular. I’m nervous around the edges, looking down steep crevices and gullies to the sea below. Alistair jumps nimbly around with Esbjerg and Rasmus stepping over cracks and checking out routes for belays or inserting fixing pieces into the rocks. I find it interesting how people can read a landscape totally differently, sharp overhangs and sheer faces look like it could be a climbers paradise but not for me. We take a break with hot tea and apple cake at the cairn marking the highest point. A metal box houses a visitors book in which there are names from around the world. I like the idea of a mountain having a visitors book. We look down towards our tiny kayaks on the beach and after a fast descent, paddle back, making the 50km round trip with the wind behind us.
On the last day, we drive back to the tiny ferry terminal in a small black minibus, we are all wearing sun glasses in the low sun. I feel like a celebrity or a drug dealer, neither of which I have experience of. Katarina wears a blanket shawl and their daughter carries a bag with a picture of a cat on it and a glitter unicorn also wearing sun glasses. We are near a statue commemorating the first settlers of Iceland Ingólfr Arnarson and his wife, Hallveig Fróðadóttir who left from this part of Norway in search of new horizons. We talk about Icelandic language and strange cross cultural traditions. Gudmundur explains how no new words can be introduced into official Icelandic meaning that new inventions have composite descriptive names such as ‘fast moving fiery thing;’ for ballistic missile or ‘numbers and woman who can see into the future’ for computer. We laugh at strange Christmas traditions and the confused, creepy story of Father Christmas trolls who hang around the house peering in through the windows, sniffing the keyhole and eating children.
Leaving Flekke I reflect on the visit as one that I’ll remember for a long time. It’s sad to say goodbye to Gudmundur and his family. I feel inspired by the work of the college and the kind welcome I have received. . There is a strong breeze blowing across the fjord, a light swell and small white caps form on the water. The surface sort of judders in the stuttering wind. I sit down on the grey bulbous slabs of rock coated in orange lichen. There’s a chill in the air as I look over towards a collection of gingerbread timber houses that look like life sized cuckoo clocks. I move around to the other side of the small cluster of buildings around the pier as my hands are getting cold. The peep peep of oyster catchers bustling around make me feel like I’m in a familiar place. In the distance, the purring of an outboard motor and the whooping of fishermen disturbs the peace for a moment as the small dot of the ferry on the horizon grows larger and approaches the pier. I stare out of the window as rain and spray smears across the glass, feeling emotional and lucky to have met such interesting people in such a special place. I speed back to Bergen, returning again to the waters of North Utsira safely back on the map.