OK, here we go again. A bit annoyed about this one, as I'd kept a detailed diary for the first week of my trip to Norway, and managed to loose it whilst at the conference. And the conference hotel hasn't managed to find it. So, off the top of my head, here goes. Saturday 24th. Managed to pack all my stuff up, decide that there was vastly too much of it, leave some out, decide that there was still too much, but took it anyway. Down the three flights of spiral stairs with the bike and bags (ok, Helen and Max did help with the bags), and found that Antibes was trying to break me in gently to the Norwegian weather. Yes, it was raining. And humid. So I got to try out the wet-weather gear a bit earlier than expected. No other problems on the way to the airport, other than it then decided to stop raining, so I had to take off all the waterproofs. This was also good training for Norway! Scandinavian Air Services had told me on the phone that the pedals would have to be removed, and the handlebars turned. At the airport they just took it away as it was. My (limited) experience of flying with bikes is that how you have to prepare it is fairly arbitrary -- for the return journey I was asked to take the pedals off and turn the handlebars. Someone at the next check in desk claimed that he couldn't get the pedals off, so his bike went like that. The flight was three quarters empty. Arrived on time, and more importantly, the bike arrived ok too. The approach to Oslo showed it to be a potentially extremely nice place -- islands in the fjord with little marinas dotted around. I had an extremely detailed list of instructions for how to get from the airport to the centre of town, from someone who posts regularly to rec.bicycles.*. These were psychologically very comforting, but it did really boil down to 'follow the bike path that runs parralel to the motorway, and keep going straight on if there are options'. So, I set off (in the rain) for the centre of Oslo. On the way, the bike path crosses the road a number of times. Once I'd stopped to look at the map and try and work out where I was, and a line of cars stopped to wait for me to cross! I had to show them that I was looking at the map and wave them on before they'd continue! I had two options at this stage: stay in Oslo for the night, and head out on the train in the morning, or take the night train (11pm departure) and get going immediately. I decided on the latter. Norwegian state railways took my bike off me, bags in the left luggage locker, and in to Oslo. Oslo has one main street, part of which is pedestrianised, which is a pleasant area. I could hear loud thumpy music coming from somewhere, and following it I found an outdoor concert of some form (in the drizzle), which partially explained the huge number of young people milling around in what I would call outrageous clothing. Back at the railway station, I settled in to the seat and thought about trying to get some sleep. The group of Italians two rows back had other ideas. Finally about 2am they went quiet. At 3.30am the conductor came to tell me that we were about to arrive at my stop! (The train continues to Bergen, where it arrives at a quite reasonable 7am.) So, 3.30am, I collect my things and bleary eyed hit the town of Geilo. It was closed. The few other people were all driven off by waiting cars, and I wondered what to do. The only place open was a taxi rank. I asked if I could sit there for a few hours. They said no. (The place was also full of cigarette smoke, so I probably wouldn't really have wanted to stay there very long.) Finally, I found a bench outside the station underneath an overhang of the roof, broke out the sleeping bag, and settled in. Geilo's at about 800m asl. The sky was completely clear. It was, to put it mildly, cold. Very cold. At about 7am the station cleaner arrived, and let me in to the warm waiting room to thaw out. I made the decision to try to sleep nearer sea level from then on! The next problem was that Norwegian shops don't open on Sundays! Fortunately, Norwegian petrol stations have taken the 'petrol station mini-supermarket' idea and perfected it. In many rural areas the petrol stations were the only shops, and sold pretty much everything. A museli yoghurt, a loaf of bread (Norwegian bread is great cycling food - good and solid), a jar of jam and a tin o mackerel later, and I decided to start moving. I'd read on the net about the old railway workers road, from Haugastol to Flam (the a has a circle above it, and it's pronounced Flom, with a long o), which has been developed as a hiker and cyclist trail. I was a bit concerned about a gravel road on a loaded touring bike, but I'd found a little tourist brochure about it in the station in Oslo, so decided to give it a go. I set off towards Haugastol (with an umlaut over the o) in the sunshine, stopping to eat breakfast by the side of the road with a view back over a couple of lakes by the roadside. For some reason almost half the cars that passed me at this stage had English registration numbers! At Haugastol I stopped again for some more breakfast, including something that looked very much like uncooked maza dough, sprinkled with sugar and cinnamon, and then rolled up. Very odd, but tasted good. At Haugastol they have a large number of bikes to rent for riding the 'Rallarvegen', sturdy mountain bike types (which you can ride one way, and then send on the train back - this is not so stupid - Haugastol is at 980m asl, the Rallarvegen tops out around 1300m, and then descends to Flam at sea level!) At the start the Rallarvegen is fairly flat, the surface is very fine gravel and easy to ride on, and you pass a couple of lakes with mountains behind them, and it's all very pretty. Most of the route is, in fact, very pretty, ruined only by the presence of the railway line, which for large parts of the route, is enclosed in a wooden tunnel against the snow. This is not particularly scenic. However, if the railway wasn't there, the railway workers' road wouldn't be there for you to cycle along either... In places the railway workers were still present -- building a new tunnel. Continuing up gradually, the glacier comes in to view over to the left, glimmering blue. It also starts to get a little colder. By the time I arrive in Finse around lunchtime, it's gotten seriously cold -- the wind's blowing (fortunately a tailwind) and the sky is grey. I stop at the youth hostel, where they'll let you eat your sandwiches inside, but not prepare them there, so I joined a German guy on the table outside for lunch. He warned me that there was likely to be snow on the path further on. (Fortunately he was wrong.) Because of the cold, I didn't want to stop for long. Unfortunately, because of the loss of the diary and the misplacing of the little brochure, the detail goes a bit hazy for a while now. At the highest point of the road, it started raining. And the road surface deteriorated -- instead of the fine gravel, it became large rocks, the size of your fist, which were impossible to cycle on. Towards the end of this section, the path goes through the old train tube, and just before there is a house - someone's holiday house. A man outside told me that the route gets better from then on, and also that that point holds the Norwegian record for the depth of snow in the winter! From this point the route went consistently down, which meant that it got warmer. Also it became more scenic -- the path was for a time on a narrow ledge by the side of a waterfall, and then followed the river. I caught up with a German couple a bit further on, and we discussed the ride and the weather (apparently it had been 24C and clear blue skies all the week before) before sharing apple cake and chocolate and continuing on together. We arrived at the top of the steep descent. The steep descent consists of 21 (or is it 22?) gravel hairpins! (with an excellent view down the valley from the top). I've never worked so hard going downhill. I had to stop at each bend to let my arms and hands recover. But I only fell off once! This would have made an excellent MTB downhill course - steep, bends, and large lumps of rock in the middle of the path. At the bottom it levels out, and the road has a good surface on it. You also have views of waterfalls crashing down the sides of the valley, from the meltwater from the glacier above. And finally you reach the first signs of civilisation! A picture postcard village. All painted wooden houses, beautifully tended gardens with flowers and fruit trees. There was a guest house, and as it was nearly 6pm, (and I'd been on the road since 8am) I was tempted to stop there, but the German couple convinced me to continue to Flam. Flam arrives all of a sudden. I'd expected something bigger. The road just ends at the quayside by the fjord. It was quite stunning, the fjord surrounded by the steep mountains, in the pale orange of the sunset. At the campsite/hostel I figured that after sleeping on a bench last night, that I deserved a bed. Unfortunately they didn't have any left, so out came the tent. I also figured that I deserved a good meal, but by the time I'd showered and organised myself, the good restaurant was closed, leaving me with just the cafeteria. shame, but I was too tired to worry about it much. Monday 26th. I decided on an easy day. And what easier way to spend the day than by sitting on a ferry or two? The first was a tourist sightseeing trip to Gudvangen. This goes down Naeroyfjorden (umlaut over the o) - the Narrowest fjord in Norway. I think it was something like 200m wide at the narrowest point, and 8m deep. And the scenery was stunning - a multitude of waterfalls, and some really weird effects of perspective, when you could see one cliff moving behind another, high up the side of the fjord. The captain was giving a commentary, pointing out the little settlements along the side of the fjord, some of which had schools well into the 1960's and 70's, but now are populated just by retired people (there's no road access to most of them!), and also Norway's smallest postal district, with just 6 people. Suddenly the captain cuts the engine, and sets the boat drifting towards the side of the fjord. Then he points out the family of seals sitting on the rocks just above the waterline - brown, grey, mottled - which slowly rolled off the rocks into the water as we approached. On the boat were a group of americans, who were surprised to learn that the purpose of my trip was to go to an IEEE conference! Gudvangen's another tiny place. By the water's edge is a large cafe cum gift shop for the tourists, most of whom, I would imaging, get no further from the boat. The people who live there have quite sensibly put their painted wooden picture postcard houses a little further back in the valley. I ate lunch by the quayside (and was filmed by a Brazilian, who claimed to be a cyclist) whilst waiting for the next ferry. A cruise ship steamed into the fjord and dropped anchor, unloading tourists into small boats to come ashore. The ferry I took was a genuine car ferry, and took me across Sognefjorden to Kaupanger. From Kaupanger it was a quick 10 or so mile ride to Sogndal, quite a pretty little town, with a town centre with shops and cafes (remember, so far I'd seen places with no more than a few hundred inhabitants). There also seemed to be a lot of young people about. This I later learned was because there's a college in the town, and term had just started. In a town of 5,000 people, the college took 1,700 students! I pitched the tent in the old orchard that's now a campsite, and cooked myself the standard cyclist meal (lots of pasta) before going for a wander round town. Tuesday 27th. I woke up to the sound of rain. It was a sound I was to get used to during the day. So I dismantled the tent from the inside and took it to the shelter by the side of the showers. I also discovered a consequence of riding a bike along a road made of fine gravel. Your chain and the rest of the drive train become covered in fine gravel. So a happy hour was spent with a rag trying to remove most of it from the chain links. The aunt and nice German motorcycle tourist duo didn't look too impressed by the weather either. A Swedish friend told me once that there's no bad weather, only bad clothing. We agreed to disagree with him. I set off in the drizzle along the side of the fjord, with the mountains shrouded in mist. Very atmospheric. At Hermansverk and Leikanger I decided not to stop at the shops, but to find a shop at Hella, the ferry port, where I was to cross to Dragsvik. Hella is a ferry port. Nothing else - the road stops at the edge of the fjord, and that's it. Ok, there was a snack bar, where I decided to have some of the best cycling food going -- greasy chips. Here I met the only Norwegian who didn't like fjords! He'd been driving some relative from the States round them for a week or so, and had seen enough. At Dragsvik I had thought about continuing along the fjord towards Hoyanger (umlaut over the o), but there's a very long tunnel just before the town, which ruled that one out. Instead I tuned north, along Vetlefjorden, eventually arriving at the village of Meland at the end of the fjord. From there the road follows the valley, climbing gradually. The rain also starts becoming more persistent. I can see infront of me that the valley seems to end, with nowhere for the road to go. Ah, the road goes over the top, that wasn't marked on the map. The problem with 1:350.000 maps is that they don't show gradients, or the fact that the road goes up a series of hairpins! So, down into the granny gear, off with the waterproofs (which were just too hot), and settle in to a slow climb. Just before one of the hairpins, I hear the sound of air brakes. Just round the bend, a large tour bus had seen me coming and was waiting for me to go past. At the top of Gaularfjell there's a car park with an information board and a viewpoint. The view was of light grey clouds in front of slightly darker gray mountains. But I'm sure it's a great view on a sunny day. So, back on with the waterproofs and on we go. This is lake and stream country. If you don't come with a fishing rod and a set of flies, people ask you why. (I later looked more closely on the map. The high point of 745m was marked...) Somewhere further on (I think it was Eldalsosen, or thereabouts), I came across a campsite, or rather, a hut-site. Clearly the Norweigans realise that it's going to rain a lot, and so instead of expecting people to camp, they provide small (one room, no running water) huts. With grass and small trees growing from the rooves. Because it was off-season, there was a note in the office window - 'the keys are in the doors. find an empty hut. check in later'. I looked at a hut, and it looked warm, dry and inviting. However, I didn't have enough food with me for dinner and breakfast, so I made the decision to press on. At Sande there was a motel. I was happy. I was also wet and bedraggled, but that didn't seem to bother the woman on the check in desk at all. So I checked in, and asked where I could leave the bike for the night. 'Outside'. 'But it might get stolen'. 'That doesn't happen'. Nevertheless I brought it inside. After a long, hot shower I turned the room into a laundry -- clothes hanging infront of the radiator, and a tent adorning the shower rail in the bathroom. The hotel restaurant served a very good poached salmon with cucumber sauce in the evening, and for breakfast -- well, this hungry cycle tourist was faced with the first breakfast buffet of the trip! A Norwegian breakfast buffet, as well as cereals and bread and cheese also includes all sorts of pickled and marinaded fish, and I had to stop myself eating enough for lunch as well. Wednesday 28th. Back on the bike. Two minutes later, the rain started. On with the waterproofs. Two hundred yards later, the rain stopped. I couldn't really complain, as it didn't start again. I followed another trout stream north until Dalsfjorden, and then turned west towards Dale (pronounced Dar-leh). From here the ferry crosses the fjord to Elkenes, and then I continued west to Askvoll. Here I stopped in the petrol station/supermarket to ask about ferries, with a view to deciding where to stay the night. The woman behind the counter consulted with a customer, and told me that there was a ferry from Flokenes to Floro (umlaut over the o, pronounced Florah) at 9.40 each morning. On the 'tourist guide board' just outside (lots of the little Norwegian towns had these - simple plans showing where the shops/restaurants/hostels/ hotels/campsites are, usually just outside the town), there were some huts indicated at a tiny place called Holevik, right on the west coast at the edge of a peninsular. I decided to go there. The road down the peninsular was single width, but no problems as there was no traffic. Stongfjorden looked very different from the more inland fjords, it was more like the open ocean. The waterline was more like a seashore, with seaweed covered rocks along the beach. Somewhere along this tiny road was a sign at the side, pointing out some prehistoric rock carvings on the beach. The first of these showed two horses pulling a cart, and was incredibly well preserved and clear. Another showed a whole collection of ships in different styles, which presumably came from different eras. There were also many burial mounds, including a 'barrow' 40m long. Holevik was the end of the road, literally. At Holevik there were indeed huts. There was also an old schoolhouse, a single room that seated about 10. The huts were locked. A man in a house that I asked said that the man with the key wouldn't be around until next summer. But that I could camp in that field over there. So I did, with a view of the ocean and the islands offshore, and the boats traveling up and down the waterway. I took my dinner down onto the beach, and ate my pasta looking out to sea, watching the waves and the sunset. The sunset was glorious. The islands peaks rising out of the water were suffused in a gentle orange and then red glow, and the sun shone rays from behind a cloud that lit the sky in glorious colours. It was wonderful. I went to bed watching the lighthouses winking on the islands in the distance. Thursday 29th. I woke up early to a sunrise behind the hill to my right. There was not a cloud in the sky. There was, however, a cloud of midges just outside the tent, which proceeded to bit me viciously as I packed up. Finally I was so annoyed that I stuffed everything in the bags, put a banana and some cake in my pocket as breakfast, and set off just to get away from them. The coast was stunning, the rocky islands glowing in the early morning sunshine. I arrived at Flokenes in plenty of time for the ferry. 24 1/2 hours in advance - the ferry runs every day _except_ Thursday! So I sat on the quay and munched on some more breakfast, and studied the map to work out where to go instead. (This was a bit of a shame - the coastline was stunning, and I would have liked to have seen more of it, rather than head directly back inland. Also, I met other people who told me that Floro was well worth visiting. Oh well, another reason for a return trip!) So I continued back inland. At a farmhouse I stopped to ask for water, and the man invited me to come sit on his porch in the sunshine for a while. While he rocked his daughter in her pram we watched his two small sons drag their plastic ride-on tractors up the path, and then come hurtling back down before going and doing it all again. The farm faced a sheer wall of rock, over which the sun doesn't rise for most of the winter. I could have sat there all day, but eventually thanked the man, and pressed on. Along the route I saw many fields being harvested for silage. Some of the steeper ones were being harvested by hand -- cut mechanically but then raked down the hill and collected manually. I also saw hay cut and draped over low washing lines to dry, and enormous numbers of fruit trees of all varieties, still laden with ripening fruit, and fields full of strawberries and raspberries, unfortunately all finished. From here my memory gets a bit fuzzy. I know the route -- I followed Fordefjorden (umlaut over the o) inland to Forde (umlaut...) and from there around the fjord to Naustdal. Here I encountered the first real tunnels, a few hundred metres long, so nothing to worry about too much. At Naustdal the road disappears into a _long_ tunnel (about 6km) through which cycling is not surprisingly not allowed. At the bottom of the old road there's a sign saying that the road is blocked at Ramsdal (just the other side of the top). I figured that they'd be daft to block the road completely, that it must be passable either on foot or by bike, and so headed off up the hill. The great thing about a road that goes nowhere as far as cars are concerned, is that they don't use it. So you have this wide road, which is so free of cars that the sheep droppings are still whole and not rubbed in to the tarmac all the way along it! And it was a very pretty route, climbing out of the trees and into the rough heather and moss. About half way up I saw someone coming downhill towards me, in what looked like a downhill skiing position, tucked in with ski poles. Odd. And when he came closer, it was indeed someone skiing -- on short skis with wheels at either end! At the top I was fortunately proved right -- the short tunnel had concrete blocks at both ends, but with sufficient gaps to wheel a bike through. And then the descent. Why do there always seem to be more hairpins on the descent than the ascent? And then I found myself back in the valley, and a few miles later found the campsite/hutsite at Endestad. It was more of a hutsite than a campsite (I found only one place where there was enough soil to put up the tent) but at least there was no time limit on the showers. The site was by the side of a river (more trout), and I ate watching, or at least trying to watch, the trout jump out of the river to catch flies. The only other occupants of the site were four Germans in one of the huts, who invited me to join them round the fire for tea and singing. I have no idea what the songs were (I speak almost no German), apart from one which was to the tune of 'Auld lang syne', but they were very beautifully sung. As we were about to call it a day, the drizzle started. Friday 30th. It's amazing how the sound of rain on the tent can make you go back to sleep repeatedly, to avoid getting up and facing it! Eventually I did emerge, and transfered everything into the porch of a hut to pack up in the shelter. I can't remember much about today's ride, other than there seemed to be a lot more uphill than was indicated on the map. Eventually I left the streams and lakes behind, and arrived at Hyenfjorden. Along the road along the side of the fjord I encountered my first real tunnels -- a series of three. The first is 1400m long, uphill, and a slight curve to the left. The second is much shorter and downhill, and the third up hill and curving. The problem with long tunnels is that any vehicles sound incredibly loud, so you've no idea if what's about to pass you is a mini or an articulated lorry. I then turned down Gloppenfjorden to Sandane. I figured it was Friday night, and I deserved a hotel. Don't you just hate busloads of tourists who take up every room in both the hotels and force you to go sleep in a hut in the campsite? Oh well, the view down the fjord was good. Until I came to get ready to go back into the town to find some dinner, when the view disappeared suddenly behind a mass of grey from which the rain descended. I'd arrived in Sandane at the same time as their annual fete. There was a fair by the fjord, and stalls set up in the streets. One man tried to convince me to go on the bicycle treasure hunt - 'it's only 12km', with the chance to win a colour television. I had to explain that cycling with a 23inch television strapped to the bike might be a little difficult! That I turned up at the Gloppen Hotel for dinner (a large white wooden building, apparently one of the earliest hotels in the region, catering to the English salmon fishermen) in full cycling waterproofs didn't phase the reception at all, the woman at the reception desk calmly took them away and hung them up to dry. The food was excellent. A creamy broccoli soup, salmon grilled to perfection, and where they found the fresh asparagus to accompany it I don't know. And finished off with a creme caramel. Hmmm. So I think I made up for having to stay in a hut! I'd decided to have another day off on Saturday, partly because I was only really one day away from Loen (where the conference would be), and there wasn't really an obvious extra day's ride to do. And also because I felt like a day off. Whilst talking to the guy in reception about buses to Maloy (circle over the a, umlaut over the o) (you can't get there and back in a day at the weekend) he told me about his year in West Bromwich! Not that I've much against the midlands, but if you come to England for a year, I can think of more scenic places to go. Friday evening I hit 'Fjaera' -- this is a pub/nightclub by the fjord (where a couple of seaplanes were tied up for the night), and the only one for miles around. So it was lively, the band were good, but the other entertainment slightly odd. At one point an arm-wrestling competition was organised, and I left just before the tug-of-war was about to get underway. I have no idea if this is typical Norwegian Friday night entertainment, but I suspect it had something to do with the town fete. Also, the beer was nearly a fiver a pint. Saturday 31st. More rain. I started the day at the Folkemuseum in Sandane, where they've collected together some of the old wooden buildings, and turned them into a museum. The guide explained the difference between the uses of the different buildings (storage, animals etc) and took us inside some of the huts. The older huts were simple, 3 room affairs (an entrance, a bedroom and a large bed/kitchen/living room), with tiny windows, and an open stove with no chimney (so the heat doesn't escape). Even after years of not being occupied it still smelt of smoke. The more modern 3 room hut had larger windows, a wooden (rather than dirt) floor and a proper stove with chimney. Apparently it had been lived in until the 1930's. We also visited the schoolhouse. Compulsory education for both sexes started early in Norway, replacing the itinerant teachers who wandered from farm to farm, staying a few days at each. In the museum hall itself they had a display of Norwegian folk instruments, including a Norwegian violin, much the same as a standard violin, apart from minor changes to the shape of the sound board, there was also a second set of drone strings running _under_ the fingerboard. They also had a photo of an English gentleman (complete with tweeds) and his 43lb salmon. Back in the town centre the fete was in full swing. Long tables were laid out along the main street, and barbequed meat was served at the side. Because of the rain most people chose to eat in the covered areas at the side, but I took my sandwiches and sat in the rain to listen to the brass band as it marched up and down with a clown wielding the baton. Finally I decided to move on to Byrkjelo, about 10 miles away, just to take the edge off the ride to the conference tomorrow. This was a pleasant ride (apart from the rain), partly along a lake, and the view of the valley looked like it would be impressive if you could see it properly! In the Youth Hostel I was the only person, and in the cafeteria next door, I was the only person too. The man claimed it was trout, but if so, it was the largest, pinkest trout I've ever seen. Sunday 1st Sept. Clear blue skies and sunshine, which was to remain for the rest of the week. Temperatures cool, those glorious early autumn days. From Byrkjelo the road climbs Utvikfjellet, reaching 630m asl. The view back down the valley was indeed impressive, and once over the top, the view down to Utvik and the fjord was even more so, with the sun on the mountains and the water. Another screaming hairpinned descent, followed by a gentle meander along the fjord to Olden, where I ate lunch in the garden of an old age home by the waterside, and then the last few miles to Loen, and the Alexandra Hotel. Loen has a population of about 300. It has two huge hotels, either of which could easily accommodate the entire population! The conference was at the better of the two, which was listed in my guide book as being specially recommended for the food. They weren't wrong. Dinner was an all you can eat buffet, of extremely high quality and variety. Meats of all descriptions for those who eat them, hot fish dishes, veggy, and a cold buffet of seafood, smoked fish and salads. Followed by an enormous desert buffet. Putting this in front of a cycle tourist was not a good idea! In fact, I had trouble sleeping due to the amount I'd eaten. But I did get to talk to some genuine Norweigans. They explained to me the t-shirt that I'd seen in Sandane. It was 'a map of Scandinavia, without Sweeden' (apparently the Sweeds have a similar one). They told me that it goes back to the War, and that the last king of Norway never made an official visit to Sweden after the war. The Norweigans also look down on the Danes and as for the Finns... But all in good humour. Monday 2nd Sept. The first day of the conference proper. More blue skies and bright sunshine. This was annoying, to have to be inside on a day like this. But some of the presentations were interesting, which made up for it a little. After lunch I had a walk up to the village. Outside the church are two stone slabs, commemorating two villages which were flooded when large parts of the mountain fell into the fjord and sent a wave of water over them. The first was around 1905, and the second in the 1930s. What was interesting was that the first time, almost all the people killed shared two surnames, and these were the names of the village. The second time round, there had been an influx of newcommers. Monday evening was the conference banquet. It was advertised as a 'typical viking meal'. Hmm. I doubt the vikings drank beer that had sprite in it. Or went around wearing silly plastic helmets with plastic horns on. But it was in good humour, and the food was again excellent. And the folk music, played on the Norwegian violins described above was very pleasant on the ear. Tuesday 3rd Sept. In the morning was the conference, in the afternoon was a trip to the glacier at Briksdal. Onto the buses and off we went. It was very odd to be traveling in the countryside, but to have a view obscured by the roof and struts of the bus! The views were superb; the road crosses between to lakes, and there's a view along the lake with the glacier descending the valley at the end. The glacier itself is a short walk from the coach park, up a path through a bit of forest, with signs marking where the front of the glacier was in 1890 and 1920 (it's receded a lot since then, but has started advancing again -- the lake in the postcard has almost totally disappeared). The glacier itself is most impressive. I always imagined glaciers to be smooth. They're not -- the end of this one was a multitude of crevasses and contours, with water flowing out of holes and making tubes in the ice. And it was blue. Like bright blue where you could see the interior. Very strange, but very beautiful. In the evening the conference restarted, and I ate far too much for dinner and had trouble sleeping again. Wednesday 4th Sept. The last day of the conference. The Finnish trio presented the last of their posters. At the start of the session they had a one minute presentation. They ditched the science, picked up the harmonica and tried to teach everyone a traditional Finnish song. I noted down the words, but since I've lost my notebook, I haven't them in Finish any more. If anyone knows the translation, I'd be grateful.. In English it went My Wooly Hat, My Wooly Hat, My Wooly Hat is Stuck up a Tree. Livened the proceedings up no end. After lunch I set off on the bike again, destination Hellesylt, on Geirangerfjorden. (There's been a break of about a week since I wrote the above, so the rest may be in a different (more brief?) style.) The route follows the fjord for a while, and then after Stryn it hops over to Hornindals-vatn, Europe's deepest lake. I seem to remember that this was especially beautiful in the sunshine - the water was almost completely stationary, reflecting the houses and mountains like a mirror. From there the road went up and over to Hellesylt. I can't remember much about the route there, but there's quite a steep descent into the town, which they're in the process of replacing with a tunnel. The town itself is pleasant enough. I decided it was too cold to camp, and also I had to be on a ferry early the next morning, so I sought out the youth hostel. This was halfway back up the hill! And closed. But they did have huts in the grounds, which were open. The next thing to go wrong was that I discovered that I'd left my notebook in the hotel, (and wasn't about to ride the 80 mile round trip to go and get it), and then at the only hotel in town, the only thing on the menu was pork. At the snack bar, they were winding down at the end of the season, and didn't have any fish. Not good. So a plate of chips and a packet of nachos later, I headed back to the hut for some sandwiches. Thursday 5th September. The longest (distance) cycling day, with the most climbing. But it started with a ferry -- Helesylt to Geiranger, along the Geirangerfjorden. This is a scenic one, and it didn't disappoint. Turning in to the fjord, the sun was rising behind the mountains opposite, so that they appeared as a dark silhouette against the deep blue sky, with bits of cloud lit up from behind above them. Being a tourist route, the commentary was in five languages, and pointed out all the old, abandoned farms along the fjord, including the one perched high on a ledge (which for years had avoided the tax man, by simply removing the ladder). Other points noted were 'the pulpit', a rock formation, which, viewed from the side, did look remarkably like a pulpit, the 'seven sisters' waterfall (which wasn't in full flow, as it was the end of the summer (so much of the snow would already have melted)) and cold, 'the suitor' waterfall opposite, and the names of the cruise ships, painted on a rock wall at one side of the fjord. There are two roads out of Geiranger. One goes up to 1038m, and is the one that all the tourist brochure photos are taken from. I went out the other one, the Ornevein (Eagles road?), which winds its way up the side of the valley. Just before the start of the climb, I saw an area roped off at the side of the road -- a German tourist had been killed here (apparently by another tourist) recently. This was major news in Norway, because it just doesn't happen. So I wind my way up the hairpins, with a more impressive view down to the fjord from each one. The cars coming the other way arrived in 'packets', eight or ten at a time, every half hour. Guess how often the ferry at the other end of the road runs? Some of the drivers wiped their brows as they approached, wishing me luck on the hot ascent. From the top my memory's a bit hazy until I get to Eidsdal, the ferry port, with its large tourist gift shop and supermarket. The ferry's a quick 10 minutes to Linge, and then a few miles along the edge of the fjord to Valldal. From here the day's major climb started, up to 850m at the top of the Trollstigveien (Trolls' Road). Fortunately, from Valldal it climbs steadily, and not too steeply, and for the first two thirds, there was a tailwind! Up through the pretty little villages, and eventually into the high mountain valley, with rough grass and small trees, and more waterfalls coming down the steep valley sides. Why is it that the last mile or so before the summit is always much steeper than the five miles before? At the top, next to the sign, there's an area of flat rocks and gravel, completely covered in small cairns. So of course I stopped and assembled my pile of nine rocks, one on top of the other. A couple in a car looked at my bike and looked at me like I must be mad. A little further on there's a little car park, and a path running off to a viewpoint, which gives a view down over the waterfall and the hairpins of the Trolls' road. It makes you dizzy just looking at it! Here I met an (East) German cycle tourist, who'd come from Trondheim. And also two Israeli couples, one of whom started telling me about their son who'd spend 3 months that summer cycling round Europe. So we're not _all_ mad! At the little car park there's the sort of road sign you come across every day Parachuting and the carrying of parachute equipment in this area is strictly forbidden. With a vertical rock face of 3,000 ft, the local rescue services had grown tired of picking up failed base-jumpers. And then, down the Trolls' Road. Another set of screaming hairpins down to the valley floor and then a gentle ride into Andalsnes, watching the rugged mountains go orange in the sunset. This was a bit sad, because it meant that the cycling part of the trip was over. I booked myself on the overnight train to Oslo, went and ate pizza, and then tried to get some sleep on the train. Friday 6th. I got off this overnight train at a reasonable time! But then had to wait over half an hour for my bike to arrive at the luggage office. But this meant that I arrived at the tourist info office just as they opened. They have two maps, one of just the downtown area, which they give you when you ask for a map, and then a much more complete one, which shows bus, tram and subway lines also, which they give you when you ask for a map that goes as far out as the youth hostel. It's all uphill from the railway station to the youth hostel. But they do have hot showers available all day, even if you can't get into the room until the afternoon. Then I started playing (non cycle-)tourist. Downtown Oslo. One main street, and the area around the harbour. Easy. So I wandered up to the Palace, just in time to see the guard being relieved (why do they still have ceremonial guards?), and later on, whilst sat outside a a cafe, the new guard marched along the road, trumpets sounding. I also stopped in on the National Gallery, to have a look at 'The Scream'. Very different colours than I seem to remember from reproductions. I'd arranged to meet Michael (someone from the conference) at 7pm, but, as I say, Oslo has one main street, so while I was sitting watching the guard change, he wanders along and joins me. We head off for the Ski Jump. This is the actual ski jump from the 195? winter olympics, and looks like it's now used for concerts. There's a little museum at the bottom, showing the development of skis and skiing, and then you can go up to tower, to look down the slope and think just how mad you must be to want to go down it on skis! The ski run is about 8ft wide. And the stopping zone at the bottom isn't that big. But there's also a great view over Oslo, down to the fjord where the ferries were heading out of harbour, sounding their klaxons. From there we headed down to the Oslo sculpture park (I forge the name and don't have my map with me). This was great. In the middle of this large park the people of Oslo had commissioned a sculptures life's work. The man had an obsession with contorted human bodies, of all ages and both sexes, and the centrepiece is a huge tower, built of bodies entwined and interlocking, with smaller collections of people round the dias. Back in town we headed for a recommended restaurant, which closed just as we arrived (at 8pm), so instead hit the only vegetarian restaurant listed in my guide book. Another all you can eat buffet. I'm sure I gained weight during this trip. And then down to the harbour, which was busy, and had numerous bars and cafes, often with live music. Saturday 7th. Off to Bygdoy (sp?) Oslo's museum centre. At the harbour, waiting for the ferry, the fishermen were selling their fish straight off the boat at the quay, and just next door were a couple of stalls frying it and serving it in buns. The kids had also started arriving on the roller-blade park nearby, some showing off on the large U, others still trying to learn how to stay upright. At Bygdoy I started off at the Kon Tiki museum. I'm sure it's been said before, but those guys must have been completely out of their tiny minds! Both the Kon Tiki itself, and Ra II (the papyrus reed boat that they sailed from Morocco to the Bahamas) were tiny, and looked incredibly insubstantial. I'll stick with two wheels rather than a set of balsa logs. The maritime museum had a great wide screen presentation of some of the Norwegian coastal scenery, but besides that was mostly models of boats. They did have one hall with real boats, and a display of dried cod, two tied together by the tails, hung over a wooden framework, jaws gaping. The viking boat museum holds a couple of extremely well preserved viking boats (from burial mounds) and a much less well preserved one. Again, to think that people went across the north Atlantic in things like that boggles the mind. Back in the centre of town I again failed to go to the same restaurant as we'd tried yesterday -- it closes at 5pm on a Saturday. So I went to a very smart little restaurant a little out of town, where the smoked mackerel salad with cucumber sauce was stunning, and that was only to start with. But then the trip was over. I spent a while in the youth hostel kitchen boiling water to burn off the gas in my primus stove, talking with an Italian and a German -- the common language being French! As I was getting my things together in the morning, a voice from one of the bunks said 'is it really 10 to 6?' Unfortunately, yes, and apart from a few wrong turnings in the centre of town on the way to the airport, I arrived back with no problems, and proceeded to sleep the whole of the afternoon! Photos may appear on a web site sometime soon (maybe).