Norway We’re Going Home

Our three-week Norwegian escapade began with high hopes and the kind of optimism that only comes from seeing a campsite as absurdly scenic as the one we’d found just south of Oslo. With flawless views of Oslofjord and its scattering of tiny islands, we almost decided to avoid the city altogether and unwind by the fjord’s edge but agreed on one last day of urban exploring. We ventured into the capital on a bus that, like everything else in Scandinavia, was absurdly punctual and cost more than a three-course dinner at The Ledbury. Our first stop was to be the Royal Palace, an impressive stately building that remains the official residence of the Norwegian monarch: Harald V. The palace guards were stood motionless at their posts, dressed in full regalia, and wearing the kind of expressions that suggested they’d been promised something far warmer when they signed up. We didn’t linger long, mostly because their glares suggested they’d prefer we take our plebeian presence elsewhere.

Continuing down Oslo’s version of The Mall, we passed the National Theatre and the Norwegian Parliament building (Stortinget), both of which were suitably grand but unsuitably dreary, with the latter looking like the kind of building where herring quotas are debated with great gusto. The harbour offered a bit more life, with boats bobbing in the choppy water and a faint smell of fried reindeer wafting through the air. However, nearby Akershus Fortress was the highlight of the day—a medieval stronghold that came with a side of live sword-fighting. Watching two fully armoured knights reenact battle scenes with alarming enthusiasm was both thrilling and slightly unnerving, particularly when one let out a roar that made a nearby gull flee the scene, leaving an unwelcome gift on the pavement below.

Next was the Opera House, a strikingly modern structure that appears to be trying to slide into the fjord as part of some dramatic Scandinavian art installation. You can walk up to its roof for panoramic views of the harbour but between the gale-force winds and our general aversion to being blown off large objects, we opted to admire it from ground level where our chances of being swept into the fjord were slightly lower, though still not zero. The city centre had all the hallmarks of an appealing capital—wide streets, impressive facades, a few fountains—but it lacked an indefinable charm that Copenhagen, for example, exuded in bucket loads. It felt as though Oslo was the responsible sibling in the Nordic family, always turning up on time, paying its taxes early, and organising the Christmas rota. Functional, efficient, and pleasant, yes—but fun? Not so much.

After a couple of days in Oslo, we packed up Vishnu and headed north to Lillehammer, a name that conjures images of Olympic glory, dramatic ski jumps, and bobsled crashes of great repute. We camped in what was essentially a glorified car park, though it happened to overlook Lillehammer’s iconic Olympic ski jumping arena. From our unique vantage point, we watched as jumpers flung themselves down the hill with a speed and nonchalance that bordered on absurdity. It was impressive, certainly, but also deeply confusing. What kind of person wakes up at six in the morning, peers at a towering ramp of icy doom, and thinks, “Yes, I’ll strap two, thin planks to my feet and hurtle off that and a hundred kilometres an hour”? As they soared through the air with the grace of flying gazelles, I couldn’t decide whether to cheer for their bravery or gently suggest therapy.

Lillehammer itself is a delightfully quaint resort town that seems to take its role as “adorable mountain village” very seriously. The shops and cafés were painfully charming, the streets were unnervingly spotless, and everyone we saw looked like they’d just completed a triathlon and were on their way to rescue a stranded hiker. The nearby Mesna Falls at Collets Bru Bridge provided a bit of dramatic scenery, with water thundering down a rocky cliffside in a way that made me feel both awed by the spectacle and slightly concerned about how much trust I’d placed in a damp wooden railing.

Evenings in Lillehammer were surprisingly snug and peaceful, with the temperature just warm enough to convince us we could sit outside with a beer without succumbing to hypothermia. There’s something uniquely satisfying about watching the sun set over a ski slope you know you’ll never attempt and sipping a drink that you definitely paid too much for. While Oslo hadn’t quite lived up to the hype, Lillehammer had delivered in spades—charming, peaceful, and early enough in the season to avoid the adolescent après skiers. With the fjords of Geiranger and Ålesund on the horizon, more of the same would be ideal.

J