Fjord Fiesta

Our journey through Norway pressed on, with our spirits high but our wallets visibly wilting, as we descended into Geirangerfjord—a place that doesn’t politely introduce itself so much as throw its arms wide and yell, “Behold!” Sheer cliffs plunge into impossibly green waters, waterfalls cascade down with intimidating force, and cruise ships loiter about with an air of entitlement, photobombing every angle. Driving along the fjord’s single road is equal parts thrilling and terrifying. The scenery is jaw-dropping, but so are the narrow, winding paths that cling to the cliffs with pure stubbornness alone. Vishnu managed the twists and turns with more grace than we did, although we frequently heard its brakes muttering insults under its breath. Our fjord-side camping spot was certainly worth the damage, though, both mechanical and financial.

From Geiranger, we were required to climb through thick morning mist that hung heavily over the road, obscuring much of the view and making the already winding route feel even more precarious. Waterfalls streaked the cliffs around us, their steady roar audible even as the visibility dropped. Eventually, after summiting one fjord and descending into another, we ran out of road entirely and needed to find a ferry to continue our utterly ridiculous route. Thankfully, Norwegian ferries are marvels of efficiency, whisking you across any waterway with the speed and precision of a Swiss watchmaker armed with a to-do list—we were soon across and on the move.

The famed town of Ålesund is a masterclass in Art Nouveau architecture, its colourful buildings perched elegantly along the water’s edge. While visiting, it is compulsory to tackle their famous hill, Mount Aksla, a steep climb that rewards you with panoramic views of the town and the surrounding archipelago. Norway, we are learning, has a knack for pairing incredible scenery with mild physical trauma. In need of a hoppy reward, we wandered into a dive bar straight out of 90’s Carmarthen and above the taps, to my utter delight, was a Welsh scarf, proudly on display. There’s something reassuring about finding a small piece of home in such an unlikely place, a reminder that wherever you go in the world, you’ll find two things: a cold pint and evidence that the Welsh, or Irish, have drunk there first.

From Ålesund, we headed north to Åndalsnes, a small mountain town that greeted us with grey skies, a biting chill, and the distinct feeling that winter was somewhere just around the corner, sharpening its icicles. The town itself wasn’t exactly bursting with activity, but to our great surprise, a massive funfair had rolled in, bringing with it a surreal collision of towering peaks, moody weather, and flashing carnival lights. The funfair was a spectacle in itself, complete with the obligatory stalls selling candyfloss, questionably stable rides, and, inexplicably, a man enthusiastically hawking hot tubs because nothing says “Norwegian mountain adventure” like impulse-buying a ten-thousand-pound jacuzzi.

Our final destination on this leg was Trondheim, a city that does not scream for attention or demand admiration with grand attractions. No, Trondheim is altogether more reserved. The wooden houses along the river were, of course, the city’s opening gambit—brightly painted in cheerful defiance of the endless winters. The nearby Old Town Bridge, with its elegant carvings and weathered wood, invites you to linger, even if the weather doesn’t, to soak in the reflections shimmering in the water below. Trondheim appeared to be a bit of a slow burner. It doesn’t knock your socks off; it steals them quietly, warms them up, and hands them back slightly improved.

By this point, as we ventured further north, the weather seemed to be conspiring against us, as though testing our resolve with every icy gust. The snow had yet to fall, but the air carried a biting chill so sharp it seemed to whisper promises of winter’s imminent arrival, its claws already sharpened and poised. We plotted our next steps with equal parts optimism and delusion, convincing ourselves that the Lofoten Islands—remote and perched at the very edge of the Arctic—might somehow offer warmth and respite. Yet, despite the chill, the cost, and the occasional threat of fjord-induced vertigo, Norway was proving to be a place that refuses to be anything less than spectacular. And so, we remain captivated, our discomforts tempered by the undeniable truth that we’ve never seen a country quite like it.

J