Bergen & fjords (Norway)

...Norway's second largest city of Bergen has been an internationally renowned trading port. Its historic and breathtaking harbour front featuring the World Heritage listed "Bryggen" - in essence a unique collection of colourfully painted and beautifully preserved wooden houses - helps ensure its status as an extremely popular destination for tourism.

I'll be honest from the outset. Frankly, as an unattached 24 year old setting ...
...similar state of disgrace. Now Bergen also happens to be known as "The City Between Seven Mountains", and Pete decided that I needed to sample the ultimate Norwegian hangover cure. So with barely time for a Falderee let alone Faldara, we set off, minus the knapsacks, into the hills out the back of the campus. He assured me, a couple of oranges, and a quick hike to the top of Mount Floyen would sort us out in no time.

Despite ... more

Many moons ago, on a German language summer course in Mannheim, I became good pals with a Norwegian chap. We stayed in touch and a couple of years later back in 1994, I took up his offer to come and visit him in Bergen, where he was studying at University.

Affectionately known as the Gateway to the Fjords, for centuries Norway's second largest city of Bergen has been an internationally renowned trading port. Its historic and breathtaking harbour front featuring the World Heritage listed "Bryggen" - in essence a unique collection of colourfully painted and beautifully preserved wooden houses - helps ensure its status as an extremely popular destination for tourism.

I'll be honest from the outset. Frankly, as an unattached 24 year old setting out on a week's adventure, fully hoping to help a succession of fresh faced, blond Scandinavian students to fine tune their English language skills, the historical nuances of the city were never going to be at the forefront of my thinking.

****So Ferry, cross the North sea...****

First things first, I had to make the sea crossing first, which I must confess, being a stereotypically Nordic looking blond and blued eyed fellow myself, did feel a teensy weensy little bit like a return to my Viking heritage. There again, I wasn't feeling quite so noble half an hour or so after departing Newcastle on the Ferry as howling gales whipped up the North sea into a frenzy of 40 foot waves. The next 25 and a half hours were like some kind of perpetual theme park Pirate Ship ride. You literally couldn't walk around the ship without feeling like lead weights were hanging from your guts, what a nightmare.

Every once in a while being an impoverished student can have its small compensations, and in my case, because I could only afford the most basic of cabins, my room was so far down the pecking order it was below the car deck. To my surprise, when I finally made it to my bunk bed, when I lay down the rocking motion at this depth was actually quite pleasant and so I managed to eat up a whopping 15 hours of the journey sleeping.

So when we finally made it to port the next morning, whilst the vast majority were looking green around the gills I was like a giddy spring lamb ready to embark.

****Something fishy going on here****

Now as I had an hour or two to kill till my mate got out of his lectures, I found a place at the port to store my meagre belongings and took a stroll around the harbour front. The first thing that strikes you is the breathtaking harbour and surroundings, lined by a series of colourful painted houses, with dozens of sailing vessels of all size and description bobbing their way gently on the morning breezes.

At the mouth of the harbour, you can see dozens of market stalls lining the promenade, and as you walk a little closer, the intoxicating waft of fresh seafood fills up your senses. All manor of sea creatures are being traded here, and the sight of large pots of water densely packed with live crab, crayfish and lobsters, and sealskin furs and rugs, clearly doesn't make particularly comforting viewing. What really hit home for me were the trivial objects like pencil cases that were made from baby seal skins - call me an old softie but that really seems too much.

Being an international traveller of limited sophistication and budget, I ended up in the McDonalds just across the way from the markets. Knowing how bland the menu choices can be across the world I was pleasantly surprised to see a local option in the Lachs Burger - made with a salmon fillet. As I hungrily devoured said burger I did a snap survey on the number of blond ladies I could see milling around the place and was more than a little shaken to discover a good number of brunettes and darker shades.

When my host Peter arrived, naturally I was looking for reassurance on this front, perhaps it was a case of the tourists mixed in with the real locals. Alas no, after 26 hours on the ultimate big dipper, it turns out I'd come to completely the wrong Scandinavian region for flaxen haired lovelies - according to him they're all in Sweden or Finland. I needed a drink!

****Drinking Viking style ****

Now it's a widely recognised fact that the alcoholic drink prices across Scandinavia are heavily burdened with tax, so much so that back in the mid 90's the standard price for a beer was already a staggering five pounds a pint even in the dingiest of bars.

Luckily the locals are a highly resourceful bunch and as I arrived back at Pete's student digs he revealed his own personal home brew collection, with rack after rack of his patented Mondschein wine (you do the translation!) each complete with a knock-off black and white picture of a scantily clad Cher swinging from a lamppost in Moonstruck for that added authenticity.

Later that evening, I certainly wasn't complaining about the quality, and then my good pal unveiled the ultimate Viking cheap night tactic. As part of the brewing process, as a by-product small quantities of 60-70% proof pure alcohol are left over. Rather than spending an hour or two sipping back the drinks at home, simply mix a tiny sliver of the strong stuff in with a Sprite, and instant Viking power confidence is guaranteed.

Clearly with my older and hopefully wiser 38 year old head on, I certainly wouldn't plan on repeating the technique anytime soon, but suffice to say it did the job extremely effectively and before you knew it I was in the thick of the action down at the student bar. Just like I'd hoped, as word got around that there was an Englishmen in the midst, before long I was centre of attention. Trouble was initially it was all of Pete's male housemates, determined to let me know just how great the English Premier League is , how they follow it avidly every week on live Saturday broadcasts. There was one bloke who could name pretty much every single current player in league 2, much more than I needed to hear.

****Fairytales can come true, it can happen to you****

At last my salvation arrived in the shape of a pretty little blond lass who arrived at the bar - Pete gives me the intro Hey Paul this is Anne Christin Hansen ( I swear that really was her name) she's an au pair , loves any chance she gets to practice her English. Despite my already blurry state of mind, a little Terminator style processing chip managed some quick calculations - affirmative target match, with a name bearing remarkable similarity to Hans Christian Andersen - could it really be that I had found my fairytale maiden? (yeah, yeah, I know he's technically from Denmark - work with me people!)

Then she started talking "that's awwww....some, great to meet you, have a nice...." I'd heard enough - she was talking in an almost incomprehensibly artificial American accent almost as if she'd accidentally swallowed a teen prom movie. As luck would have it, our taxi arrived right on cue, and before I knew it I was heading out with Pete, Arne and Bjorn down to one of Bergen's top (well probably only) night spots.

****Strangers in the night (club)****

The lads had quickly cottoned on to the fact that the English stranger was a great conversation opener. Before long, we got talking with a new set of ladies, and suddenly my blond ambitions were consigned to the history books. One of the girls, Maria, had the most entrancing light blue eyes, effortless smile and jet black hair flowing to her shoulders. She had always wanted to visit the UK, she was incredibly articulate, gloriously unattached and miracle of miracles she was genuinely laughing along with my little quirky tales of my Britishness. Just one small problem, she turned out to be a passionate advocate of the practice of Whaling, telling me all about the 4 generations of whaling in the family, how it has always been part of the true Norwegian heritage, how Norway sent the EU packing when they wanted to get it banned....

I'm reasonably ashamed to say that at no point did I interject any sense of objection to her viewpoint here, due to being entirely mesmerised by her every word. So much so that I'd entirely failed to notice the other lads and lasses having headed to the dance floor.

****No Stairway!!****

A rocking number came on, Maria was up on her feet, and naturally I seized the moment and lead her downstairs. I could hardly hear her as she shouts "I love Led Zeppelin" as we're bouncing around the place, then it hits me. In that same instant, the pace slows down completely. It's only the never-ending "Stairway to heaven" what a tactical disaster! Neither of us wanting to leave the dancefloor early, we went into an ultra awkward where do I put my hands slow dance clinch discomfort , and somehow all the magic disappeared in that embarrassing final couple of minutes.

On some flimsy excuse of having to be up early for lectures in the morning / going back with the girls, we parted, though being good gentlemen we walked them to the bus stop, while I desperately pretended not to feel the artic chill having left my coat back at the student bar, giving her one last chuckle at the "crazy" English guy.

****Some day my Prince will ....kip****

Momentarily inconsolable, I soon revived on the back of a bottle of home brew vintage back at the digs, and before long we were heading to a party on the campus. And like it was written in the stars, there she was again....

No, not Maria, my little princess Anne, and she had even rescued my abandoned coat from the student bar. This was Cinderella in reverse. The Prince now found her accent quite charming, as it turns out she was able to stay out way past midnight, she did possess a couple of well placed pumpkins, and so we got chatting. She'd au paired in the States for 3 summers, but she much preferred English culture. We went back to hers for coffee, she got out her geography books, I showed her where Scunthorpe was on the map, and our fairytale romance began via a good old snog, a quick fumble, before I fell asleep still wearing that coat...

****Funiculee, Funicul--eeeurgghh****

The next morning , ok I'll admit it, afternoon, I awoke with a monumental throbbing head (oh please behave - I'm talking strictly in the hangover sense here!). We said our heartfelt farewells and I returned to Pete's flat to find him in a similar state of disgrace. Now Bergen also happens to be known as "The City Between Seven Mountains", and Pete decided that I needed to sample the ultimate Norwegian hangover cure. So with barely time for a Falderee let alone Faldara, we set off, minus the knapsacks, into the hills out the back of the campus. He assured me, a couple of oranges, and a quick hike to the top of Mount Floyen would sort us out in no time.

Despite the blinding sunlight and heavy terrain, I didn't think we were doing too badly until at one point a couple of 70 plus years olds went skipping past us with ease like a couple of spring lambs. Shamed into picking up the pace a little, we finally made it to the top, and to the relief of a café. Whilst enjoying the spectacular views across the city, at the same time I was desperately trying to summon the strength to head back downwards , Pete pointed out we could just take the Funicular railway - known locally as the Floibanen.

Seemed like a great idea, we took our seats and down we went. Now it was a wee bit steeper than I'd anticipated, and clearly not everything had worn off just yet. So I can't say I was particularly absorbing much of the view as we came down, in fact suffice to say I was far more concerned about what was coming back up if you get my drift....

****Fairytale ending****

So there you have it, Paul's extremely rough guide to Bergen. Job done!

Hang on what's that I hear you say, if this is a fairytale are we going to get the happily ever after bit. Plus where's the real detail, so far you've told us "Berger" all about the place really.

Just so happens I can help on both fronts.

10 years on in 2004, I was fortunate enough to return to this beautiful city with wife and mother-in-law on our midnight sun cruise up the Norwegian coast. The fish market was still thriving with all it's dubious offerings, and this time around we got a proper guided tour around the Bryggen including the Hanseatic museum where you get a fascinating insight into how the merchants lived and worked. Here you'll also find the oldest surviving building, the 12th century Mariakirken church (don't laugh - do you know to this day, everytime I hear Bob Marley and the "Whalers" - No woman, no cry it still sets me off!!)

Our local tour also took us up into the hillside, and lo and behold as fates would have it right opposite that very same University campus. This was the leafy woodland setting for the ancient, all-wooden Fantoft "stave" church, which was totally gutted by fire in 1992 and had been painstakingly rebuilt using the original architects drawings.

It's a truly remarkable building, layer upon layer of intricate carving, reaching like a house of cards high into the deep blue sky above. Inside its so homely and yet serene, there's an indefinable sense of spirituality. The original wooden font had been salvaged and restored, and our guide told us that it had a reputation locally as an aid to fertility, with reports of women falling pregnant not long after touching it.

Little know to us, (and we'd been privately trying for a baby for over 3 years by this point), Mum-in-law made a secret wish on our behalf, not knowing whether we wanted to try for children, but just in case we did. And almost a year to the day after our visit my wife finally fell pregnant - and we got our precious little boy.

Now, I ask you, is that or is that not the ultimate in happy endings?

And, before you ask, no we didn't christen him Berger.....

Summary: A whale of a time on the borders of the Fjord(ers)!

Also published on dooyoo as yabbadabbadoo 

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