The Prologue

An epic tale of passion, lust, desire, rejection, sorrow and self-recrimination .....
...... and that's just Matthew during the first hours of the ferry crossing!
(She got off at Kristiansand; and he didn't even ask her name ..... shame on you Matthew!!)
Their eyes met over the nutty loaf at the restaurant's self-service bread counter ....

The Journey Out - Van Crew Venture Forth!

Thursday 1st August

Dynamic. This is going to be the prevailing word of this trip. The equipment, people, places will all be dynamic. We've spent quite a long time preparing for this trip. Discos to raise money, Cotswold marathon for fitness and map work, Norwegian lessons to allow easier cross cultural fertilisation and bivvying in the forest for when it all goes wrong.

So today is the day when everything (dynamically) comes together. Bags packed, ropes tied, mosquito repellent on, film loaded. Which all begs the question...

"Where's Phil?"
"Did he say 12 or 2 o'clock?"
"Half one I thought."
"Nah, he'll be here in a second."

Pause ….

"Is that a minibus coming?"
"No, that's the lawnmower on the bowling green."
"Oh"

Pause ….

"So are we going to take 6 crabs or will 5 be enough?"

And so it went on. Dynamic - perhaps not.

Then, over the top of our quiet chattering, a roaring noise rudely interrupted the peace. It wasn't just a noise though, this thing was a vast wall of vibration ripping through everything in its path - an alive beast screaming and fighting to be set free, not willing to be tamed by anyone.

"Minibus is here" someone chimed.
Bags on? - Check
Passports? - Check
4 people? - Check (Phil, Rich H, Alasdair and myself)

And so, this is how the great Norway 2002 expedition got underway. Four people, fifteen bags and one minibus. The plan (because there always has to be one of those as well) was to transport kit and bus on the ferry to Norway, whilst the other eleven caught the plane. Nice plan.

"I knew this was a stupid idea."
"Should have taken the A56 up all the way - the M1 is always busy."

And so (again) we found ourselves wandering through a feast of varying place names: Worksop, Doncaster, Ripon, Knaresborough, ...

Two hours later than expected, all thoughts of dynamicicity fully buried, we trundled into the caravan and camping site to find ... caravans. Just caravans, no camping. We checked quite thoroughly in fact.

"This is the field we camped in" says Phil.
"Where exactly?" asks an inquiring Venture.
"Where all that mud, sand, water, gravel, concrete, pipes and sharp nasty pieces of metal are."
"Its obviously been developed."
"Obviously."

Reverting back to classic survival techniques proved our saviour though (driving around in circles until you find something, if you didn't know). With pub and campsite we felt confident of our survival in North Yorkshire over the next few hours at least.

A few pints and pool games later (myself being on the winning teams on all occasions) in the Guy Fawkes Pub - which gets the 44th seal of approval by the way - we retired to our tents thinking of the boat journey to come …...

MATT

Swedish Episode I

Friday 2nd August

Having gone to bed in a campsite of townies, with the only human inhabitation being a family of Greebs and a few old, old women, we were much surprised to awake to the offer of a fresh brew of tea; offered by none other than Mother Greeb herself. In fact the tea seemed to banish all of the (quite substantial) rainfall into which we had awoken. And thus, with Matt complaining about his soggy sleeping mat (capillary action) and the intrepid foursome having to make do with just a slice of date & walnut cake for breakfast (along with an EU regulation banana), we began our second day of travel.

Moving swiftly on from Scotton, we made our way towards Newcastle and the ferry. Very uneventful, unless you class a very highly unusual navigational misinterpretation on my part as an event in its own right.

Prior to boarding the ferry we visited the twin shopping centres of Tynemouth (where it was Alasdair's turn to get lost in the torrential rain) and the 'Royal Quays Shopping Concourse' (where the girl's eyes in the 'Mountain Equipment' store fairly lit up when Matt entered the shop, noticed Phil; for the record they must have been looking beyond Matt to me).

Before long we found ourselves swept through the ferry check-in and customs ready to leave. After a much greater while we were beckoned onto the car deck far, far behind the nifty sports cars being transported as freight. Their red, white, blue or yellow exteriors being almost as intriguing entertainment as Matthew's neverending search for 'talent'. This fantastical search re-emerged on board; our early wanderings yielding a conversation with a group of Swedish Girl Scouts. Interesting conversation but of an age that even I wouldn't accuse Matt!

Anyway, not much else happened. We had dinner. I had very little to eat (didn't like the food). Mr Key had nothing to eat (his stomach was evidently exercising on the dance floor at will) and Alasdair and Phil both stuffed themselves silly.

We watched a Bulgarian band perform some popular titles for the gathered "lounge" bar audience, roamed the ship a few more times before retiring to our cabin number 7310. We left Phil listening to the band until well into the early hours; he tells us they started playing more blues and jazz numbers as the lounge audience dwindled, playing more for themselves and true lovers of good music. He said he was watching the drummer's technique but our suspicions inclined towards him studying more closely the lead singer, a strikingly attractive girl with gorgeous eyes and clad in a figure-hugging costume!

RICH

Satuday 3rd August

Although I didn't realise it, the third day of August began : I was out on the deck of the ferry pursuing satellite reception and watching the distant oil rig platform lights slide by over the dark waves of the North Sea, Phil was relaxing in the lounge bar with the band and I can only assume that Matt was tracking the Swedish Scouts, aided by Rich. He can't have been very successful since by the time I got back to our cabin all was quiet with everyone tucked up in their bunks for the night.

In the morning Rich and I got down to breakfast a tad later than Matt and Phil, so Matt had got a head start at establishing international relationships. Matt convinced us that the girl had had him pinned against the crusty bread counter as their eyes met over the breakfast rolls but it was only 10 minutes later that the same young lady was observed escaping down the gangway onto the dockside of Kristiansand, first port of call on Norwegian soil. We can only have supposed that she would have swam if port had not been reached so fortuitously.

We were lucky enough to get the final set of tickets for spiderman but then spent what seemed like hours wandering around the boat as every conceivable seating had been occupied by those who boarded at Kristiansand.

As it turned out we might as well have joined Phil in the sauna since the cinema, a glorified TV in a cupboard, was right next door and likewise full of sweaty Swedes.

ALASDAIR

The rest of the passage passed without further incident and Matthew seemed resigned for the moment to forego any romantic ideals - he indulged Alasdair with a visit to the bridge, persuading the Chief Navigation Officer to pose with the Tommies scarf (-why?).

Early evening found the 'fearsome four' fitting headlight beam deflectors in a deserted carpark nearby the Goteborg quayside where the ferry had some 20 minutes previously smoothly docked. Alasdair decided at this point to start adorning the van with "44 VSU" logos and lettering in blue electrical tape, until Phil sharply reminded him that we still had some three hours drive ahead of us and the exact location of the campsite had to be determined.

Superb driving conditions through Swedish countryside took us to the southwest edge of woods surrounding Lake Vänern through which we cautiously drove down a tiny unmarked road until some 5km later we came across Ursands Campsite, a sprawling and quite well populated area right bang along the edge of Sweden's (and northern Europe's?) largest inland body of water.

Literally dragging Matt away from the two rather attractive receptionists, we pitched tents among the trees almost on the shoreline, quickly had a curry supper and enjoyed the beautiful balmy summer evening and lakeshore scenery. The northerly latitude meant sunset did not occur until gone 11pm, dusk was a glorious drawn out affair and the twilight lingered long into the early hours of the next day.

Sunday 4th August

Key Points-

1 : Today Alasdair revealed his legs! The VSL likened them to pipe cleaners dangling from the legholes of his shorts; the midge and mosquito populations around Gjeddevasskoie however loved them to bits ... or bites to be more precise;

2 : Rich discovered that he did not like sjokolade pudding and found the replacement for the taxonomic system of measurement rather hilarious;

3 : The minibus rolled up outside Gjeddevasskoie at 18:00hrs on the dot - exactly ON TIME!! ("I can do it, honest guys!" said Phil);

4 : Matt sai "Hei!" to a stunningly blonde girl outside Kongsvinger 'tog stasjon' .... and was totally ignored (again) (again);

5 : The VSL tackled the multilingual phone system inside the Kongsvinger venterom and spoke to his dear wife and daughter simultaneously;

6 : Everyone concluded that Ursands Camping on Lake Vänern was a splendid place to stay ... sun, sand, "sea", wooded shady spots .... and 2 eventually willing receptionists.

Light or Dark?

No, not some kind of theological question just a practical problem that needed to be answered at eight o'clock in the morning. For, by some strange coincidence of nature the tent had been shafted in half by the light of a rising sun. The dark side was chosen for a brief moment before Richard wriggled his way towards me and the only evasive action possible led to the light side of the tent.

The view, once free from the tent's close confines, made this early morning dilemma worth while and I instantly put Sweden on the good country list; deep blue skies, vast expansive lake, high pure white clouds and alpine style trees would transform any country from bad to good.

A slight dampner was put on the morning when a friendly welcome to a blue-eyed blonde (in pink bikini) was completely ignored next to the toilet block. We move on ....

Kit was packed slowly and the Alasdair began fiddling with blue insulating tape and a scalpel to fashion "44 VSU" on the back of the minibus, so departure was delayed!

With the disappointment of the morning (in the female sense) a new challenge was set by the VSL to obtain not only the daily bread from the camp shop but also (with consent) a photograph of the blue-eyed, blonde receptionist.

Bread rolls in hand, the request for the photo was initially refused, quite firmly too. I admit to being ready to give up in the face of such rejection but guidance from the VSL made me persevere. Ten minutes later and I had my girl - in the photographic sense that is!

Deciding enough was enough, we ventured onwards with windows wide open to the fresh Swedish air. A relaxed journey of a few hours (hardly any cars, good roads, not complex map reading) saw us needing lunch so we pulled up next to the lake, unfortunately obscured by foliage. It was decided Scandinavian bread was alright - better than any other continental stuff - but that 'Salt og Pepper' crisps would remain an acquired taste. Setting off we found 500m later a dedicated picnic site with splendid unobscured views. Perseverance, once again, is the moral of this story.

Then suddenly, without much notice (and definitely no beautiful Swedish police) we were in Norway. My word, all that travelling and the only recognition that we are in a different country is a change in the central road markings colour (Sweden is white, Norway yellow, if you're interested). Oh well, it was good to be there at last - the expedition could truly start!

A brief stop in Kongsvinger to break the journey included a tour of closed shops, use of the station phone by Phil to call home and a solitary yet unrequited "Hei" to a rather beautiful girl. Perhaps I should give up now?

A cry of "I remember this" from Phil left us in full confidence that we were nearly there. And sure enough, we were. A few forest tracks and a suspect bridge later led us to Gjeddevasskoia and our home for the next week.

We met Ernst, someone who I had collectively heard quite a lot about and had always wanted to meet, and we were led into the lovely wooden huts. A welcome cup of tea was had and plans for the immediate future made, then Ernst left us to a dinner of pasta with mackerel and chocolate blancmange. This by the way is something that Rich Holland does not like and is therefore an extremely good thing to fill pantries with to ensure protection from raiding.

Digestion was aided by a midnight walk. The aim was to reach the natural swimming pool (complete with slide, from which several famous pictures were taken in '99), which promised to be "on the right any minute now". Encounters with Hereford cows - of which I have a personal fear - and a suspect elk, which terrified Rich H, slowed us down so that our original aim was never met. I say "suspect" elk because it didn't appear to move for several minutes and didn't run away when it saw Alasdair - most things do. When we walked back fifteen minutes later the "elk" was still in situ - the logical conclusion being that it was a troll shaped as an elk or a log, depending on your point of view.

MATT

Taken from Daily Log Book Entries 

VSL's Personal Log - Torsdag 1 August 2002

The journey out .....

12 noon - the planned time of departure for the "boat crew" (myself, Rich H, Matt & Alasdair). But it was holiday time, my holiday; personal kit still lay in its prescribed cupboard locations and rucksac empty draped the chair. Provisions and kit for the unit strewn on the garage floor needed urgent attention.

"Time for a cycle ride" thinks I. After two false starts, pre-requisite films and shorts were purchased and pausing only to glare at the petty officialdom of some jumped up traffic wardens, I wended (is that sound English?) my wobbly way (handlebars loose) to the VSU hut at STRS. Everyone was there with kit awaiting minibus. Bike in bus I sped back to Tredworth before anyone noticed. Time now 11am. Chance of a coffee? Yeah, why not!

Double check, all aboard, nothing left, passport, tickets, ball of string, yep it's waggons roll time. Let's get this show on the road!

Grateful to Adam for chivvying up and helping to organise the stowage of kit bags. Surprised that all the rest of the group stayed to cheer us off. Thus the boat crew left STRS in an air of great anticipation, all eagerly looking forward to the travel ahead, especially the ferry crossing and drive up through Sweden, all wondering what exciting and adventurous times lay beyond in Norway.

The weather deteriorated badly as forecast the further north we drove. Prospect of floods and diversions were real. A brief m-way stop on M1 was a welcome break (or was it Granada?) - so much traffic, so many lorries raising spray and making driving a nightmare. Unexplained queues some 15-20 miles before M1/M82 link-up south of Leeds caused frustrating annoyance and delay. We elected to abandon m-way and eventually started making better headway on a parallel route which took us into and through Doncaster. Here we stopped for supper - fish and chips (except Alasdair who had to have Chinese from takeaway next door to the chip shop). "Twice."

Rain by now had started to ease back and looked like stopping. We made good progress from here and it wasn't that long before we were looking for the Scotton campsite, frequented on previous trips to Scandinavia via Newcastle.

Disappointment accompanied its discovery - caravans, hardstandings, no room for tents! Completely revamped for the tin-can traveller. Bastards! "We could pitch here" said Rich indicating the warden's nicely mown front lawn.

Fortunately, Kingfisher Camping, a sprawling mix of fixed caravans and grassy tent space just a mile the other side of Scotton village, came to the rescue. We found a not-too-damp patch and pitched tents. Now all that was required was a quick reccy to the local hostelry, the Guy Fawkes Inn, Scotton village.

Barely noticing the light but persistent rainfall, we enjoyed the opportunity to stretch cramped limbs on our nocturnal foray, there and back. Suitably warmed up by our jaunt and the superb Yorkshire ale, we succumbed to slumber, snug in our warm sleeping bags with just the gentle patter of rain on the tents providing effective lullaby.

VSL's Personal Log - Fredag 2 August 2002

Rain still falling from a gray leaden sky. Lady in caravan opposite provided welcome brew while we packed away sodden tents. Paid our dues and chatted with warden while Alasdair finished sorting himself out at the washroom. Was this going to be a common trend throughout the trip - us waiting for Alasdair? Probably.

Journey to Newcastle mainly uneventul - except that it stopped raining and even the sun weakly shone through as we sped passed the "Angel of the North". By the time we got to Tynemouth though it was stair-rodding it down again.

Another trend for the trip was set too. Matthew, spying firstly the outdoor equipment shop then secondly the very "fit" (= pretty, attractive - I would say beautiful in this instance) shop assistants, decided he had to contrive a situation to engage one of them in conversation. Easy enough? One would think so. Not for Matthew - he hovered, hummed, harred; he completely failed to pick up the signals of recipricol interest given by the brunette (the object of his desire) and went and asked the evidently dis-interested blonde a finite question about batteries before hurrying from the shop, confused and embarrassed, with ne'er a backward glance but rapidly formulating excuses for his ineptitude in the face of a beautiful girl.

We've all been there, I know, and for some encounters with the opposite sex are terrifying, tongue-tied moments, the moreso the more beautiful the girl and the more attracted to her you are. (I speak from many years of bitter experiences!). So to see Matthew struggling so was a paradox of comic pathos, oft to be repeated in the days to come.

A further factor that would compound his misery and dejection is his complete inability to judge the age of his prospective 'girl friends' - he displayed an uncanny consistancy in over-estimating ages by 5-6 years!!

"Matthew - she's only 14 at tops - more likely 12 years."

"What! I don't believe it! They should be made to wear warning stickers or something. It's disgraceful!"

So we were destined to act as Matthew's keepers on our travels through Sweden and Norway, steering him away from trouble and advising him when he had a "green light" - at which point he inevitably stalled.

PJB