I was given stern warnings about the weather in Norway before I left. First there was the cold – if I arrived too early in spring there could still be snow on the ground and subzero temperatures at night. The second (and more likely given my late-May ETA), was the rain. People say Norway’s west coast is the wettest place in Europe, but it hadn’t seemed all that bad so far..
I was still riding the tail end of the 3-day long mini-heatwave, so it would remain warm and dry for my ride up Hjørundfjorden towards the sea before island hopping to the outskirts of Ålesund. It is one of the many fjords where large sections along the edge remain steeply forested with no roads, so a convoluted triple ferry manoeuvre was required to get from Urke to the village of Store Standal, including a chunky four hour wait at Sæbø. It was a good chance to do some bicycle maintenance and enjoy some ice cream in the sun (although I did feel for the local shopkeeper who was rushed off his feet trying to keep up with demand from sweltering ferry passengers).
Ålesund sits on the end of a narrow island and is effectively surrounded by the sea. There aren’t really any camping options in the town itself, so the sensible option seemed to be to stay on a nearby island and get the ferry from Hareid in the morning. Hareid itself seemed a bit dodge (by Norwegian standards), so I headed north along the coast until the tarmac turned to a gravel path leading up to the Kvitneset WW2 fort.
I managed to find a nice patch of flat grass on what was presumably a former gun platform, where the grass was trimmed low by the resident flock of sheep. I wondered if they might infiltrate the tent to try and steal my food, but with the exception of some nearby bleating, chewing, and (uncannily human) coughing at around 4am, they otherwise kept well away.
On Sunday I caught the late morning ‘fast ferry’ to Ålesund. Around half-way through the short journey I stood up to go to the loo just as the ferry hit the crest of a wave and jerked forward, propelling my thigh into the solid metal armrest, which was completely non-retractable. I swear the notion of Scandinavian design being the gold standard is one of the greatest PR stunts of all time, I come across bad design over here on a daily basis, so don’t be fooled into thinking the entire place is one big well-designed paradise. I stepped off that ferry with a solidly dead leg, and I hadn’t even done any exercise.
Ålesund and an unexpected reunion
I’d heard Ålesund was a favoured stopping point for the big cruise companies, and the closest major town to the famously steep Geirangerfjord (a place I decided to give a miss to avoid a grueling 600m climb in 25°C). Sure enough there was a beaming white steel & glass behemoth sat in the dock with a steady stream of tourists funneling out of the sole exit before scurrying in different directions around the town like ants. This was feeding time for the various tourist industry workers who were standing at the ready: scooping up as many as possible into gift shops, open-top buses and walking tours.
It was surreal to be surrounded by so many non-Norwegian people all of a sudden – Germans in this instance – and although the cafés and restaurants must get plenty of cruise trade there is definitely something jarring about the sheer volume of people descending onto such a small town. It’s just a good job they didn’t all arrive on touring bikes because that really would be a mess.
But hang on a second now, did we establish the cruise ship was from Germany? Let’s take a closer look at that boat…
What a surreal moment. I imagined us racing neck-and-neck from Germany like Clarkson and Hammond in a carefully choreographed ‘Top Gear challenge’ segment. But that was far from the case: AIDA’s fjord tours last about 10 days and it was nearly 5 weeks since our last encounter on the outskirts of Hamburg, so I had probably been lapped, several times maybe.
Ålesund is full of attractive art deco buildings thanks to the fire that ravaged the preceding wooden ones in 1904. There’s a museum about the town’s architecture which is good to escape the rain, and if it’s still raining when you’re all architectured out you can hop over to the fishing museum on the same ticket and learn all about how Norway pioneered salt fish and cod liver oil production (although the exhibition on modern fishing is only in Norwegian, so I don’t know to what extent they touch on how the industry is managing a historically overfished population of Atlantic cod).
Hung up on the walls in black and white were old group photos of the fish processing plants’ workforce, with not a great deal of smiles on offer. It was dangerous work out on the fishing boats at sea, but it must have been grim just standing there slicing and gutting hundreds of cold wet fish all day, especially in winter. I hope they had good soap!
Wet, Wet, Wet
The plan from Ålesund was to straddle the coastline and hop between the various island archipelagos via bridges, ferries and one unavoidable tunnel (on a bus) into Kristiansund.
I waited for a break in the rain to depart and managed a few hours of dry riding, but it wasn’t long before the weather caught up with me. I would take strategic coffee breaks or just pull into bus shelters during the heavier downpours to delay the onset of total saturation.
They say you shouldn’t mow your lawn when it rains, but I don’t know if that gets programmed into the robotic lawnmowers that slowly work their way around gardens right across Norway. I’ve seen one or two in Britain but here they are everywhere – and ok they might seem pretty benign, like someone taught Roamer how to garden – but when the robots rise up this lot will be right there on the front line, getting in our way and tripping us over whilst we battle against other Wi-Fi connected household appliances that have turned against us, wondering when it all started to get out of hand.
I lucked out that evening when I stumbled upon a large weather proof shelter in a small patch of woodland beside a beach, avoiding the ordeal of tenting in the rain. It felt great to be sleeping on a dry surface, and other than a deer making strange noises around 2am it was quite peaceful out of the wind.
The next day didn’t really have heavy downpours, but the rain was more consistent. I glanced ahead to see two more cycle tourists going a little slower than me – the road was quite winding so I waited for a safe moment to pass. As I did so the chap at the back asked in a German accent where I was from, and before I knew it we were chatting away. It was a real pleasure to slow down a little and cycle alongside Hartmut and Beatrice that day, who were both kind at heart and stoic in the saddle, not letting their age or past health issues stop them from an attempt to reach the Nordkapp. Danke schön for the sandwiches and good luck on your journey!
We reached the campsite where Hartmut & Beatrice settled down in the small small cabin they had booked for the evening and I took a short break before pushing on to find a camping spot of my own. I was feeling quite fresh after the reduced pace and my tent was bone dry so it seemed like a reasonable decision. However, the coast turned out to be quite limited in terms of camping options, especially ones that didn’t involve getting your feet soaking wet in long grass or risk puncturing the tent floor on rough vegetation. I came across a group of small islets connected by bridges and began to put the tent up at the end of the road next to a car park, only to be mobbed by mosquitos – the proper ones where it actually hurts and you get a bump – so I abandoned and found an alternative patch next to a tiny little harbour containing a single boat.
That night the wind really began to pick up. The tent was pegged in ok but it’s hard to get a real solid anchor on gravelly ground, so I reinforced my fabric seaside cottage by attaching the windward facing guy rope to a heavy log. It was the biggest test to date of the tent in strong wind, and despite the customary wobbling everything survived intact. The problem was despite my efforts to stall departure it was still pissing it down when the time came to pack up and go; despite my efforts to shield from the rain the inner tent (i.e. my bedroom) was now soaking wet, which is where I draw the line in non-emergency situations.
Foreseeing that such a situation might play out and that I would need a break from the weather that evening, I had booked an Airbnb the evening before, and with a relatively early check in time of 2pm the plan was now to cycle 14km between Askevågen and Farstad ASAP. I think because it was only 14km I didn’t bother putting my waterproof trousers or overshoes on – that was a mistake, I was absolutely dripping.
The Oasis
My Airbnb was by far the cheapest in the area, with the reassurance of plentiful glowing reviews accumulated over a decade. It was a recently renovated detached wooden cottage from the early 20th century which was also the landlady’s home, although given she was away that week I had the full place to myself…not bad for £22!
Conditions outside were getting progressively worse but by the time I had showered and changed into dry clothes the foul weather just made my cottage oasis seem even more cosy. I put Bach and Hummel piano concertos on the well stocked CD player, drank complimentary tea in Moomin cups, and basked amongst the trinkets and quirky objects gathered by the owner on her own travels.
My room was in the attic up the world’s steepest spiral staircase. It could sleep four or five, so I used the spare space to erect the tent and let it air out. By the time I left the following day everything was bone dry…except of course, the weather.
The push for Kristiansund
Kristiansund is almost exactly half way between Ålesund and Trondheim and a natural target for the day ahead. I learned from my previous mistake and went fully waterproof this time with trousers and overshoes. The main issue I have in this regalia is ventilation; it doesn’t take long to get quite sweaty, but it’s such a faff getting in and out of everything that I try and find other ways to keep cool. One method that works well is when descending after a sweaty climb, unzip your jacket and pull up your t-shirt to reveal your midriff: you might get puzzled squints from onlookers trying to rationalise the sight of someone cycling in a waterproof trousers and a tube-top combo, but it will dry off a sweat-soaked back in no time at all, give it a try!
I crossed over the famous Atlantic Ocean Road sequence of humpback bridges that connect a chain of small islands between Vevang and Kårvåg. The bridges are impressive to observe with their steep and bendy inclines, but not particularly pleasant cycling with the abundance of traffic (especially motorhomes), so I was glad to get across onto the large island of Averøya.
During a supermarket pitstop I picked up a litre of chocolate milk with the intention of attaching it to my bottle cage (as I have been doing with regular milk) but the bottle was a funny shape and wouldn’t fit, so I drank the full litre. Riding the sugar rush, I headed for what I thought was a shortcut across the island, but turned out to be a tediously winding climb on gravel roads. Mercifully the heaviest rain held off until I had safely descended into the southern village of Kornstad, where I immediately dumped the bike under a tree and ran for the sanctuary of Kornstad church’s eaves (I’ve found the actual church buildings to be invariably locked in Scandinavia).
But even in the heaviest of rain there can be sunshine close behind.
I continued to push onwards, playing hide & seek with the heavy downpours along the way. It was slow progress, but with intermittent highlights such as the incredible light show following that storm and the village of Kvernes with its well preserved stave church and abundant ancient burial mounds.
The weather finally improved around 10:30pm (which is still quite light) and I decided my best bet was to get myself to the lighthouse that overlooks the bay around Kristiansund. The path was gravelly and a little steep in places, but the decision was a good one: there was beautifully short well-drained grass just next to the lighthouse, and thanks to the wonders of mechanisation the old lighthouse keepers are a longtime redundant, leaving the place to just me and the gulls.
It felt good to get a high quality coastal camping experience in the bag, most to date had been tainted by the bad weather. I felt a misplaced sense of importance being up there on that precipice, like I was the new lighthouse keeper watching over the trawlers and ferries below. Fortunately for them their safe passage was nothing to do with me, and I took a bus through the tunnel into Kristiansund to relax and eat pizza before carrying on.
Lock-gate
One thing I like about Kristiansund is on one side of the street you have the sea front commercial properties – cafés, bars, architects etc. – and on the other you have the dock. So if you’re in a good sized ship and want to park up for a pie and a pint, you don’t have to lay anchor in some distant industrial port and book a taxi into town: just rock up, lower the access ladder and you’re in amongst it. Now that’s a proper seafarer’s town.
Usually when I use Google Maps to do a quick route for me it works out fine, and it saves time over using dedicated cycling software (Komoot). When I used it to guide me to my ferry en route out of Kristiansund, it took me around the back of the airport on the steepest gravel path I’ve ever attempted to ride the bike up – it was a full gas effort just to move the thing forwards without tipping over: utterly exhausting. The route wasn’t wrong, it just took me an insanely difficult way because that route had a bit more cycle path and that’s what the algorithm prioritises. The lesson being sometimes it’s worth checking what terrain lies ahead before you blindly follow the nice robot lady’s directions.
When the ferry rolled into port at Tømmervåg I felt pretty good. I’d had a good chat with an older Norwegian gentleman who I’d befriended in the passenger waiting room. He was being collected by his wife, and as I waved him goodbye and pedalled off into the evening light my legs felt strong – like a load had been lifted. Fuelled by a huge bag of dried fruit & nuts and a strong tailwind I was whizzing along at a rapid pace.
Stopping for a brief rest in a bus stop between Nordheim and Ånes, I got the unsettling sensation in my bones that something wasn’t quite right. I recalled briefly contemplating at the last stop that my lock was not in its usual place strapped on top of my rear rack bag, assuming I must have placed it inside the bag (as I occasionally do). I always remember a colleague once saying to me “Never ASSUME, it makes an ASS out of U and ME” – well this was a prime example: the lock was gone.
I actually stitched together a daft little video about this incident on the social media platform Instagram – which is not all that easy to access if you don’t have an account – but I will probably upload these little videos to YouTube at some stage to make these clips a bit more accessible. In short, I turned around and started cycling back in the direction I came from (into a savage headwind) hunting down my beloved Kryptonite D-lock. I prayed it had just been placed on the floor in the last place I’d stopped 17km away, but deep down I knew it wasn’t there…I distinctly remember taking it off on the ferry and had no memory of picking it up again.
Not only did I end up retracing the full 35km back to the ferry but I was too late to board the last of the day to have a look, so I had to find somewhere to camp. In a bid to avoid pitching my tent I ended up following a footpath through a forest towards a hiking hut, before turning back again when the terrain became unmanageable. It was 1:30am on this footpath in the woods when I spotted a baby owl up in a nearby tree, screeching away whilst looking at me. It’s amazing how wildlife can lift your spirits in moments of hardship. I camped on some grass at the edge of a field beside the footpath.
The next morning I boarded the ferry only to find no lock in sight. I had braved myself for this because the local shopkeeper had warned me there were actually two ferries on that route – I boarded the second and held my breath as I approached the cycle parking corner.
At that point it was not about the cost of replacing a lock, it was about not letting that time and effort go to waste. I had psychologically prepared myself to ‘let it go’ if the lock couldn’t be found on either ferry, because at that point I would have done everything I can within reason to get it back. But a successful mission is bloody good for morale, and it was only a few hours until I was beyond yesterday’s turning point and making new ground.
One last rain dance
I was making good ground but the forecast predicted a tremendous volume of rain from around 4pm: I needed a shelter. The small town of Aure has a pizza restaurant that is also a café and a bar, where I managed to stretch out a coffee, pizza, and bottle of pop over five hours without being asked to leave. I timed my departure for a break in the rain, and tweaked the route so that it would be a monster tailwind for the duration.
Clearly not learning anything from my previous ‘shortcut’, the new route took me over a mountain pass rising well over 200m above the valley floor in just a couple of kilometres. The conditions were far from ideal but I had the wet weather gear and took it especially steady on the downhills. It was beginning to feel like I was up against the final boss of Norwegian foul weather: everything had been leading up to this battle, culminating in sideways rain under dark grey skies wondering whose idea it was to place a Hollywood-style “Aure” sign at the top of this hill? California can only dream of rainfall like this.
I made my way to a roadside ‘rest place’ and pitched the tent as quickly as I could before the wind picked up again. It howled from around 1-3am, but then that was it. The rain stopped, the wind subsided, and the sun slowly began to show its face throughout the day.
Riding the solstice
Trondheim was finally starting to feel within reach just as the weather was picking up again. The landscape was saturated even more than usual from the relentless rain and one valley in particular seemed to have a waterfall cascading down every nook and cranny, they were everywhere.
I turned a corner and immediately recognised the couple patiently pushing their loaded bicycles up the long incline – it was Hartmut and Beatrice! We must have been doing a bit of cat and mouse since our last rendezvous, although it sounded from the faint hint of trauma in their voices that they’d spent a good amount of time pedalling through heavy rain instead of hiding in restaurants nibbling on pizza in slow motion. They were happy to see the sun again though and we rode together for another hour or so before parting ways.
It’s amazing what Beatrice and Hartmut have already accomplished on their trip, regardless of where it takes them next. I do wonder if they might find their next cycling adventure a little less arduous with a sprinkle of E-bike magic for those pesky hills…and at least one GPS!
When I rolled into the outskirts of the attractive town of Orkanger my eyes were drawn to the golden arches of McDonald’s. Clearly not something you should eat every day, but at 10pm when everywhere else is closed and with no desire to whip out the stove and start cooking, it was a no brainer. I even saw a couple of beavers play fighting in the river outside…that’s Norway for you!
With my evening meal sorted and in perfect conditions on the longest day of the year 63° north of the equator, here was an opportunity for a memorable night ride. I decided to push ahead to Trondheim at an easy going pace and camp at a nice looking shelter & camping spot run by the Norwegian Trekking Association (DNT) at Rønningen, up on a hill in a forest just outside of Trondheim.
I will finish with some pictures from that blissful evening ride. It was perfectly still, and the sun dipped below the horizon at 11:40pm before rising again at 3am – there was no real end to the sunset or beginning to the sunrise, just one continuous blending of burnt orangey pink light shifting slowly from west, to north, to east. My flysheet was wet from the night before but it was so sunny I didn’t need it, and by the time I got into bed at 4:30am the sky was blue. It was the shortest night of my life, and a special one.
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PHOTOGRAPHY: Urke to Trondheim
The Cycling Brit 
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