by Gray, Gordon
I need not have worried about booking early as the ship was only half full for this October sailing. After looking around the ship, I sat down in the almost deserted lounge at the stern and watched the seas roll by. Out of nowhere an English voice assaulted me. ‘Are you the one from England who’s just got on?’ I twisted round to see from where the voice was coming. It came from an elderly woman, sitting on the other side of the deserted lounge. She was half hidden by a pillar.
‘Yes, I did join the ship today, but I have just come from Scotland.’ She continued, ‘Well you know what I meant, I am Chris. What’s your name and where are you from exactly then?’
‘My name is Gordon, and I live near Edinburgh’, I replied.
‘Oh I hear that’s a nice place. Oh, by the way they have put us together at dinner.’
Clearly I was going to have company on this trip after all. Chris came and sat by me and we chatted for a few minutes. She was about sixty, of medium build and well wrapped up in a couple of cardigans. She told me she came from Farnham in Surrey, was a pensioner, a widow and was out enjoying herself. She then told me all I needed to know about the ship. She had got on in Bergen six days ago and was doing the round trip. Chris was clearly a real fan of Hurtigruten, the Lofoten and her crew.
The ship rolled along, pitching slightly, as we headed northward the dark day turned to an even darker night. As we neared Vardo Island the clouds cleared and a weak moon shone down onto a stormy, white capped sea.
‘It will be rough tonight’, Chris told me.
‘Yes I can see that.’
‘No, you don’t understand’, she said as though I was six-years old, ‘This is nothing. Last night I was lucky to stay in my bunk it was so bad. You will see tonight!’ She happily warned me. She did have a point, as after we left Vardo we would sail round the most northerly tip of Norway where there was no shelter from the northerly gale now blowing. The ship had come round this way last night in the middle of the gale.
At dinner that night Chris and I are joined by Sheila. She had also joined at Kirkenes, but just after me. We made a tidy British trio for the waitresses. The other passengers seemed to be mainly German with a few Norwegians. A young couple from Glasgow had a table to themselves on the other side of the dining room and kept themselves to themselves throughout the trip. Apparently, they came on the trip, on this ship, every year.
Vardo.
Lofoten was a quiet ship. The only sounds were the creaking of the ship, the deep throb of the engine, the howl of the wind and the quiet murmur of a passed comment between passengers, or the slap of a wave smashing against the bows and spray that rattled the windows. There was none of the ‘ching, ching, ching’ of slot machines, or a bingo caller shouting numbers into a microphone. No bands or groups noisily rehearsing, or any unnecessary announcements that you got on larger cruise ships. This was what I wanted, a real working mail boat doing its job.
The Northern Ports
We sailed into Vardo where without any noise, raised voices or announcements, Lofoten docked. A couple of new passengers boarded, five pallet-loads of cargo were craned on board and we sailed within minutes out into the wild and black Arctic night. We went out past the breakwater at the harbour entrance and began to feel the wrath of the gale, as Chris had warned. I prepared for a night of wild gyrations and being flung about the cabin. During the night we stopped at the ports of Batsfjord, Berlevag, Mehamm and Kjollfjord, but I never heard, or felt, a thing and slept like a baby in my cosy little cabin. By morning the gale had died down.
Fishing boats near Havoysund.
At 5:45 a.m. the next morning we arrived at Honningsvaag, where it was still dark but the dawn was lightening the eastern sky. I had been here before. It used to serve as the main northerly point for servicing the British deep sea trawlers fishing in the Barents Sea off Norway, back in the 1950s, ’60s and ’70s, before the deep sea trawling industry died. In those days it was not often that a day went by in Honningsvaag without a British trawler or factory ship being alongside for fuel, or to pick up spare parts, or put a sick, or injured seaman ashore. I came ashore here to start my journey back to the UK from the factory trawler Arab in 1975 after I had spent a couple of weeks at sea. The town nestled on the south side of the island of Mageroya, which has as its northern point the North Cape of Norway – a popular tourist spot in the summer months, but not so much now that winter had arrived. We stayed for about half-an-hour then sailed and headed on south as a fine clear dawn broke over the eastern hills and the snow gleamed pink on the hills to the west. The storm had moved on leaving us in cold, clear sunshine and black clouds retreating in the distance. We called at the tiny village of Havoysund, before sailing round the corner to Hammerfest, classified as the world’s most northerly town.
As we approached Hammerfest, the ship swept round a headland with a vast engineering complex being built on it. This, we were told, was to be the biggest natural gas processing plant in Europe and would supply gas to Norway and the UK. Hammerfest had been built on the fishing industry, with its own fish processing factories, but today there were few fishing boats about. I went ashore, (just to say I had been ashore) and walked along the skiddy, icy, snow-covered streets for half-an-hour or so, window shopping, before getting back on board and seeking refuge in the ship’s lounge with a warming coffee.
Lofoten at Hammerfest.
We then called at Oksfjord and Skjervoy, both tiny settlements tucked up small fjords. It was difficult to work out how people get to these places other than on the Hurtigruten. A glance at the map showed them to be miles from anywhere, at the end of very long and very winding roads. Oksfjord seemed to be held to the side of a mountain by glue. It had one street and behind that, the mountain face. In fact Norway seems to be one vast jagged rock on the edge of the Arctic, with thousands of rocky shards and splinters of islands scattered around the edge. There must be tens of thousands of islands and islets all along the coast. They offer fantastic harbours and sheltered areas for houses to be built. Houses and towns cling defiantly to these rocks, through all weathers and seasons, and the hardy folk earn their livings from fish and tourists. Up here in the North, the islands are grey barren rocks, some black and forbidding, but nevertheless beautiful with the snow and sunshine. After we sailed the wind increased and the sea developed into a white topped maelstrom, but the islands sheltered us enough so that although we rolled gently it was far from unpleasant and I enjoyed the dinner of smoked reindeer and roast pork.
Lofoten passed down through the fjords and passages between the islands that run all the islands. There was always something to see: another village, a small house all on its own by the water’s edge, another mountain, snow fields in the sunshine, passing fishing boats, or the daily excitement of seeing the northbound Hurtigruten ship rushing past us in the opposite direction. It was a daily event accompanied by one of the few announcements and tooting of sirens. Both ships always tried to sail fairly close to each other, if conditions permitted, to give the passengers some added excitement. Today it was the Vesteralen that passed us, her wet hull glistening black and red, and her superstructure dazzling white in the sunshine after being doused by a wild snow flurry.
Church on the shore.
Life Onboard
One Hurtigruten ship leaves Bergen every day of the year and stops at the thirty-two ports on the way to Kirkenes before turning around and heading back. Therefore, every day we passed one of the other ships somewhere along the way. The ships we passed were the new, bigger ships of 12,000–15,000 tons and fitted out like small cruise liners with multiple restaurants, bars, shops and spas. They sometimes offer night time entertainment with discos and cabarets as well. On Lofoten we made our own entertainment, even if it was just sitting with a coffee, watching the fabulous scenery slipping silently past the window, reading, or having a quick nap.
During the day I spent most of my time out on deck, even if it was bitingly cold. A small perspex shelter on the upper deck at the stern
allowed us to keep out of the worst of the wind and still see everything. The ever changing scenery and weather made it impossible to want to go back inside. Snow storms swept down from the mountains, blanking out whole sections of the view, then they approached the ship. Their approaches were announced by white horses on the sea, then a swirling wind and finally a battering as the snow blew and billowed around the viewing shelter, while the ship drove forward through the storm. The world turned grey and damp, the cold nibbled at my neck, nose and fingers. The few of us that remained on deck stood in parkas, hats and gloves, watching as the snow eased and the sun emerged from the other side of the storm. The world was instantly blue and clear again. So we passed the time, until one by one we succumbed to the cold and went below for a warming coffee or something stronger. Or, just as we were about to move down below, another small port would appear round the corner and we would stay to watch the berthing, loading and sailing again. The Glaswegian couple, her with her pointed orange hat and he with his orange hair, beard and sandals, spent their time walking round and around the small deck.
The northbound Hurtigruten ship.
The Hurtigruten ships are well organised and proficiently run. There are always two officers on watch at any time meaning that the captain also stands watches, which is unusual in deep sea ships. The captain, or chief mate, whoever was on watch, would bring the ship straight in alongside with the minimum of fuss so the ship stopped at exactly the right spot on the jetty. The one man on the jetty would handle the ropes; fore-spring first, so the ship could use this as a lever to bring the stern in, the bow rope was next before finally securing the stern ropes. Then he would jump onto his fork lift truck and in seconds have the gangway manoeuvred into position. He shot off on his truck into the warehouse. Then he shot back out from the warehouse with the first of the pallets of cargo that had to be picked up. He jumped down and man-handled the ship’s lifting cradle, which hung on the end of the crane hook, under the pallet. As that was being craned aboard and stowed, he had been back to the shed and got the next pallet ready to load. Any joining passengers came on board while this went on. When he had moved any unloaded cargo off the dock into the warehouse he lifted out the gangway, let go the ropes and away we went again. During the whole activity not a word was said, no orders were yelled out and no panic ensued. This routine happened at port after port. I wondered what a British Trade Union representative would have made of it all! One-man operated docks?
The meals were good on Lofoten. The buffet breakfast had all you could want from warm rolls and eggs to cereals, herring and smoked salmon. At lunch there was always a choice of three or four hot buffet items as well as a cold buffet. Dinner was waitress served with a set menu. It was always fish one night, meat the next. Lofoten always offered good Norwegian cooking and plenty of it. At dinner Chris, Sheila and I enjoyed our evening chats catching up on the day. In spite of Lofoten being a small ship we often went many hours without seeing each other around the ship as we all found our own favourite spots to sit, read, knit, paint or just watch the world go by. So the evening dinner was a chance to catch up on the scenes of the day.
It was raining as we arrived in TromsØ, the ‘Gateway to the Arctic’, at midnight, sailing under the beautiful road bridge over the harbour in the dark but with the lights from the Arctic cathedral, sitting majestically up the hillside above the harbour, shining out through the rain. At the dockside a group of six joining passengers sheltered under the eaves of the dockside warehouse to keep out of the rain. A dockside streetlight illuminated the drifting curtains of rain. Once the gangway was in place, they ran across the quay and through the puddles to get on board keeping their heads down, their bags swinging behind them. The shafts of rain blotted out the lovely wooden fronted shops and houses of the town centre just beyond the quay, and only the masts of the fishing vessels moored in the nearby harbour were visible. Then we were off again.
So the voyage passed; day after day of ever changing scenery and weather, new villages and small towns appearing every couple of hours, twenty-four hours a day. The snow-covered mountains sweeping down to the shore or diving vertically down into the deep, cold Atlantic water of the fjords.
TromsØ, The Arctic Cathedral.
The Lofoten Islands
The ports rolled by, Finnsnes and then Harstad, capital of the Lofoten Islands. It is situated on Norway’s largest island, Hinnoya and has about 25,000 inhabitants. The Lofoten Islands were the highlight of the trip for me. This beautiful chain of islands with their dramatic, jagged mountain peaks and narrow deep, sword-slash cuttings are only passed in daylight on the southbound trip. One of the nice qualities of the Hurtigruten is that what you see in daylight northbound is passed in the night when southbound, and vice versa.
We passed through narrow gaps that seemed far too narrow for the ship, but the officers steered us through without any problem. After a stop at Risoyhamn, the sun bathed the hills in brilliant autumn sunshine and we could see for miles up the valleys opening off the main channel. As we approached Sortland, a blizzard descended upon us. Snow flew everywhere and visibility dropped to nothing. The road bridge we were soon to pass under vanished, only to emerge at the last minute as we sailed under its sweeping arch. We docked and in minutes the quayside was inches deep in snow. However, the routine did not miss a beat. A fork-lift truck, manropes and pallets were loaded on and off. In Stormarknes, Hurtigruten have a museum showing the history of the company and even have one of the early ships, the old Finnmaken in dry dock had been preserved as a fixed exhibit. The main museum has a collection of ship models and paintings of the ships that have sailed the route over the years. Unfortunately there was not enough time to study them all and this would have to wait for another visit.
After Stomarknes we sailed through the Lofoten Wall. The ship appeared to be heading for a solid mountain range with no visible way through whatsoever, but as we finally reached the wall the ship gave a little jink to port, slipped past one island, then another jink to starboard and navigated round the back of another – suddenly there in front of us we saw a long passage opening up. This was the Raftsundet. It is 26 kms of dramatic mountain scenery. The low cloud and frequent snow flurries often blocked out the snow covered summits but when they cleared briefly they appeared even more dramatically right above our heads and revealed sides that fell straight down into the deep waters of the Sound. Everyone was on deck now, clad in coats, parkas, hats and gloves but video cameras whirred and cameras clicked as we made our way down this fantastic seaway.
The Lofoten Islands.
Trollfjord
More was to come. In spite of the bad weather the captain announced that he would take the ship into the Trollfjord. Trollfjord is a small fjord, just about 2 kms long and was the scene of a battle in 1980 between fishermen using modern steam-powered boats and those still using open boats with oars and sail. This detour was a real bonus as it is normally only done in summer and even then, only in good weather.
At the southern end of the Raftsundet, Lofoten swung round a small pine tree-covered rocky island and headed into a small fjord with no obvious exit. We seemed to have reached the top of the fjord and wondered if this was the Trollfjord. Someone said, ‘I think we are going in there!’, and pointed out to port. As she spoke, the ship swung to port and we looked at each other: ‘Where are we going?’ There were only rocks in that direction. ‘Maybe we have a steering breakdown’, I suggested to Sheila, who had appeared at my elbow on the upper deck. The ship rounded a rocky outcrop and we saw that there was a very narrow strip of water leading off between two sheer rock faces. Sheila looked concerned. ‘Surely we cannot get up there and if we can how on earth can we get out?’ I shared her concern! This seemed impossible even for our Viking captain! But we did. The ship glided into the eye of the rock needle and straightened up.
She was now aligned with the middle of the channel and we were heading right into the tiniest fjord in the world. The mountains came down to the water
on both sides and we could almost touch the flat slabs of rock. Amazingly, as we entered the fjord we spotted a bright yellow kayak coming out. In it was a bearded man, in a bright-yellow oilskin and sou’wester. There was barely room for us to pass each other! ‘What is he doing here? Where is he from? We have not seen a village for hours’, Sheila wondered. The man skilfully tucked himself and his kayak against the rocks and allowed us to pass into the Trollfjord. He must have been annoyed as he would have thought that he had the place to himself and would not be sharing it with the ‘Hurtigruten hordes’. Snow clung to the rough rock ledges and the sides towered upwards into the cloud as we moved slowly up the half mile or so of the tiny fjord. At the top, the fjord seemed to widen just a touch and the ship started to turn around. We all waited for the crunch – it seemed far too narrow to turn round in, especially with just a single screw ship. Slowly, without any fuss, the ship backed up a bit, eased forward again then backed up a bit more, and in doing so the bows slowly swung round and in spite of the lack of yells, graunching noises or expensive sounding crunches we realised that the ship was now facing back out of the fjord.
