Four men and their boats

(a short story)

Mark Treleaven-Jones

Preface

The following account is a tale of four friends’ first multi day kayaking adventure. We were a mix of serving and retired police officers with varied sea kayaking experience. The purpose of writing this account is for several reasons. Primarily, I want to encourage the relatively inexperienced to do something a little more adventurous. It is all too easy to live in awe of those we regularly read about in the more popular kayaking publications, believing that similar adventures are beyond our reach. They most certainly are not. Mere mortals with regular fulltime jobs can have their very own adventures. I also hope that the tale is informative, and so helpful to would be explorers, certainly those visiting the Stavanger area. I also hope it raises a smile or two. Additionally, I would like to take the opportunity to offer my help and advice to anyone planning a similar trip. If I don’t know the answer to any questions myself, I have a number of contacts in Norway that I can seek enlightenment from.

Four men and their boats,

in a Norwegian fjord.

“No, no, no! That will never do! Back to the drawing board!” With a very loud and disgruntled sigh, I empty my seventeen foot Valley Aquanaut sea kayak for the third time. Out comes a week’s supply of, well, everything I could think of needing for a week whilst living out of a kayak. Tent, sleeping bag, self-inflating mattress, pillow, head-torch, stove…………….. It seemed never ending. Surely I needed something more akin to my late father’s thirty six foot “Gentleman’s launch” than a mere seventeen foot long torpedo to store all this stuff. Did I even need all this stuff??

The trip had all started as a bit of a daydream some months earlier. Being a relative new comer to the sport of sea kayaking, I was learning slowly, having progressed from a Canadian canoe to sit on top kayaks and then sea kayaks with my two kids. After dabbling briefly with a local canoe club, we decided we had far more fun teaching ourselves on the lakes and beaches of North Wales, with the odd foray to my in-laws summer cottage in Norway. I eventually hooked up with Dave, an old work colleague and now retired. He and his brother, Gareth, had both been sea kayaking for some time and “took me under their wing” as it were. I am by no means a gnarly, weather beaten hero kayaker, the stuff of legend, but I progressed from small jaunts around a nearby headland to 20 mile paddles. Another work colleague, Ian, was a regular partner, and what we lacked in knowledge and experience, we made up for with a gung-ho attitude and buckets of luck. Our only real mishap occurred the day Ian and I took a third work colleague out for a trip on the sit on tops in the nearby river Conwy. Several important lessons were learned that day;

1. ALWAYS wear buoyancy aids!

2. NEVER take a complete novice onto a river at full flood at the height of the tidal rush, especially a river full of moored boats, floating pontoons and other such obstacles!

3. It really is incredible the amount of time someone can stay submerged and still live.

4. Ian is useless in a crisis as, lying prone on a sit on top kayak while laughing your wetsuit socks off is no help whatsoever!

Anyway, I digress, a common fault of mine. In 2000, to “take a break from it all”, I jumped on my trusty Honda CBR1000F motorcycle and headed for Norway, a country which holds a special place in my heart, but that is another story, as is the tale of my bike trip. One thing I did do during the short trip was to hike up to the iconic Preikestolen, or pulpit rock. This is a promontory with a 600m sheer drop into the waters of Lysefjord below, and photos of it regale much of the tourist literature for Norway, usually with some brave-hearted souls (complete idiots) sat or stood on the very lip. Although I allowed myself a respectable two to three metres safety margin from the edge, the views from the top really are breath-taking, with astounding views toward Lysebotn, the village right at the far end of the fjord. After that trip, I visited Norway very regularly, either alone or with my Norwegian partner and our three children. In 2007, I returned to Preikestolen with my partner and the kids and, whilst taking in the views from the summit, decided there and then I wanted to paddle up Lysefjord or, more to the point, I WOULD paddle up Lysefjord!!!

When I returned home, I quickly contacted Dave, Gareth and Ian to put my suggestion forward. It was eagerly accepted by all, so game on! There was, admittedly, an element of trepidation. We had all been following the various stories in the mainstream kayaking magazines, tales of mammoth trips around the islands of Japan, New Zealand, the tip of South America, or gnarly expeditions to the Arctic or Antarctic. Never had we read a published account of a group of inexperienced, but well meaning, group of friends setting out on their first expedition. But we had all been/were members of a specialist unit at work and understood the meaning of careful planning, team work and common sense which was to stand us in good stead.

As with any trip involving a group of friends, it is never really concrete until tickets have been booked and money paid, so I took a leap of faith and booked passage for the four of us, our boats and one car from Newcastle to Stavanger, although I should point out that at this point Ian didn’t even have a boat, just a couple of sit on tops. Suffice to say, I was reimbursed and plans progressed. Maps were acquired, as was GPS software, and emails winged backwards and forwards with suggestions as to kit, where to buy and what bargains were to be found. Ian even found himself a boat, bought sight unseen on Ebay. I’m not sure if we ever did actually find out what make it was, but it was old, tippy, and had the smallest hatches imaginable, which were later to provide quite a bit of amusement. Not wanting to be the odd one out in a plastic boat, I made a last minute purchase and upgraded my plastic Valley Aquanaut HV to a glass fibre Aquanaut HV. Dave would be paddling his Rockpool Alaw Bach and Gareth his Rockpool Alaw. Copious amounts of dry bags were purchased, gear packed, and dummy runs made on packing the boats, ditching equipment, re-packing boats etc., etc., until a happy medium was reached. Or as close to happy as was possible. I even had a diagram as to what went where lest I forgot!

Possibly the biggest boost the trip had was in the form of a new friendship, that being with an absolute gentleman named Erling from Stavanger. We hooked up with Erling through a sea kayaking forum, and he really went above and beyond in his efforts to help us out with our plans. On the other hand, a spanner in the works of the trip emerged at Gareth’s confession that he had invited a complete stranger to come along with us, also over an internet forum. To save embarrassment, I will call this fifth paddler Scott. This was to be a lesson well learned, namely, group dynamics. Travelling with people you have known and worked with for year’s gives some piece of mind in that you know what buttons to press, what buttons not to press and the limitations and abilities of the individuals. Scott turned out to be very much an unknown element.

Tuesday 29th April 2008

The big day arrived and I was ready to go! I was still ready to go an hour later when Ian finally turned up on my doorstep. Some things never change! Anyway, Ian and I were travelling to Newcastle from North Wales in my trusty Volvo estate with our two boats on the roof. The plan was to meet up with Dave and Gareth at Newcastle docks and load their boats and kit into my car. I would then squeeze into the Volvo while the others went on as foot passengers, with the intention being to launch in Stavanger right next to where the ferry docked, thereby negating the need for two cars. I was happy to take the Volvo all the way on the basis that, should some catastrophe befall us, a Scandinavian homing instinct might kick in and save the day. All went to plan though, with Ian and I arriving safely in Newcastle and meeting up with Dave and Gareth. Boats and kit were transferred and I was left alone with my thoughts as the other three continued as foot passengers. It was time to make a quick call home. The conversation went something like;

Me, ”Hi”

Her, “Hi”

Blah, blah, blah……….

Me, “Oh SH!T”

Her, “What”

Me, “There’s a funny little fat man wearing yellow Crocs with socks and staring at me. I’ve got a horrible feeling it’s Scott”.

Sure enough, it was. And his first comment to me was a query as to whether I had a spare wheel for his kayak trolley as one of his had fallen off!! Well, my response was to send him off to find the others, rather ignoble maybe, but he was that type of guy. I meanwhile endured the lengthy queue for the ticket booth. On arrival at the ticket booth, I was pounced on by another little man, this one wielding a measuring stick. Now, when you book ferry tickets online, one of the questions on the booking form pertains to the height of your vehicle, and fees vary accordingly. I always put the actual height of my car, not car plus kayaks, and usually managed to charm my way past the ticket booths. Not on this occasion! The little man took great pleasure in telling me I was 20cm too big, a complaint I’m sadly not accustomed to. I begged, pleaded and argued, to no avail. The bizarre thing is, that regardless of height, the car would occupy the exact same space on the ferry! I became so exasperated, I even contemplated letting the air out of the tyres as an “UP YOURS” to him, but thought better of that idea. I grudgingly handed over the extra £28.00 and drove onto the ferry before joining the guys in our cabin.

Leaving the Tyne and the UK behind us.

At that time the ferry journey was an overnighter, sailing between Newcastle, Stavanger and Kristiansand. Sadly the ferry operator, DFDS, withdrew the service several years ago. The only option at present (2012) is to travel first to Denmark and then Denmark to Norway. Moves are afoot to have the service resumed by another operator, so the current situation may change.

To keep the costs down, we had booked a cabin for four which was what you could generously call “cosy”, two sets of bunk beds with about 50cm down the middle of the cabin between them. Certainly, with four burly blokes squeezed in, it helped to be good friends. After a celebratory beer and a wave goodbye to Newcastle, we duly retired to the cabin to prepare for dinner. What ensued was a scene worthy of a comic script, with the four of us jostling for position in a room hardly big enough to swing a mouse, let alone the proverbial cat. A semblance of order was eventually found with one in the shower, one at the sink and the other two in the main cabin, which worked rather well until I “lost control” of the shower head. This resulted in me stood stark naked in the shower, covered in soap suds, wondering at Dave, freshly showered and dried, getting a complete soaking as the high pressure shower head snaked around like a crazed serpent. Eventually Dave, with total disregard for his own safety, did his best Bear Grylls and wrestled the errant shower head to the floor where we quickly overpowered it in fits of laughter. Once order had been restored and aftershave liberally splashed, it was off to the restaurant for what was always a highlight of the overnight ferry, the eat all you can buffet dinner. Copious amounts of prawns, crayfish, cold meats and a selection of hot food, all washed down with equally copious amounts of beer. You’ll note that it was still just the four of us, with Scott electing not to splash out on either a cabin or a dinner, a situation which pretty much set the scene for the following week.

Wednesday 30th April 2008

After an early night, we awoke to a bright dawn and excited banter about reaching Norway. The approach by sea to Stavanger has always mesmerised me as you sail amongst the many scattered islands, or skerries, as they are known locally. I love the colourful wooden buildings and abundance of watercraft littering the Norwegian coastline, always feeling extremely envious of the owners of those buildings with their private jetties and boats bobbing about ready to motor off at the drop of a hat. That really would be my idea of utopia, to return home from work, go in through the front door, through the house, out of the back door, down my very own wooden jetty, climb in my very own boat and motor off to sea for an hour or so of fishing!

We were met at the port by our now good friend Erling and a colleague from the Norwegian police by the name of Tom.

Arriving at Stavanger.

Our initial plan had been to start paddling from a nearby slipway used by the Stavanger kayaking club, but after a discussion with Erling and Tom, we elected instead to launch from an alternative spot. This was only made possible by virtue of the fact Erling was able to carry Scott’s kayak on the top of his car as well as a few bodies inside. The launch site was in fact a school premises at Kisteneset which fronted right onto the fjord. What a lovely location to get an education it was too, although having said that, I’m sure I would have spent more time admiring the view than listening to a teacher. You tend to forget that people who have grown up with such sights are far more blasé about what is on their doorstep, and I’m sure that when such a view is a daily occurrence, as it is living on the Norwegian coast, you eventually take it for granted.

The school premises at Kisteneset.

With the kayaks lined up on the golden sands of the private beach came the moment of truth, as dry bags were stuffed, hatches opened and kayaks packed. Would it all fit? Although in Ian’s case, a slightly different process was involved. Due to the size of his hatches, he first had to stuff empty dry bags in through the hatches and then fill them once they were already in the kayak. There was no way he could get even the smallest dry bag through the hatch if it had anything larger than a pair of socks inside. Of course, we didn’t laugh at his predicament, much!!

And so, the moment had arrived. Boats were packed, we were dressed accordingly and wielding our paddles in anger, this was it. Without further ado, we waved “Hardet” (goodbye) to Erling and paddled away from the shore and into the unknown, well, relatively unknown. Due to a later than anticipated start, 6pm, our target was a small island called Tingholmen. It was a shorter than planned paddle of 9.1km which wasn’t a bad thing. We were paddling into a strong headwind which caused a reasonable swell and most of us were paddling fully laden boats for the first time. One thing that quickly became apparent was how much more stable the boats were loaded, this after all being what they were designed for.

The heavier than normal weight of the boats had become apparent when carrying them on dry land and this led to a couple of mishaps. First of all, Dave had been helping carry Ian’s kayak prior to our initial launch, holding it by the toggle at the rear of the boat. As they walked along, the toggle came off in Dave’s hand and the fibreglass hull crashed down onto an unyielding patch of tarmac with an almighty CRASH! As Ian stood transfixed in shock, Dave, quite nonchalantly, and without a word, hammered the errant toggle back into place with his fist and walked off as if nothing had happened. We could do nothing other than laugh like goons before checking there was no damage to the boat. When we eventually landed on Tingholmen, Dave, ever the willing team member, rushed to help Gareth carry his boat. They had only taken a couple of steps before, BANG, Gareth’s boat went crashing to the floor, leaving Dave a little red faced this time. Needless to say, all further offers to help carry boats from Dave were gracefully declined for fear of someone being stranded with an unseaworthy boat.

All in all, by the time we landed on Tingholmen, it had been a rather long and somewhat exhausting day, so it was with some relief we beached the boats and unpacked tents and kit. What struck me immediately was how pleasant the chosen site was. There was a small dock finished with wooden decking at the water’s edge for touring boats to berth overnight. Upon the dock was a bank of refuse bins, suitably marked with the differing contents for recycling. A swathe of grassed area led from the shore up a gentle hill before falling away to the shore on the other side of the island. On the crest of the island was a wooden shed containing a simple, but adequate, drop toilet. For those not familiar with these contraptions, they consist of what at first appearance appears a normal toilet, but with neither cistern nor plumbing, simply because there is no running water available. When you look into the bowl, you are met with the unsightly view of a festering pile of excrement several meters below the toilet itself. Sounds awful, smells worse, but far more luxurious than the holes we had anticipated having to dig! We were to discover that this was the norm rather than the exception on many of the small islands in the Stavanger area, all thoughtfully provided by the local government. We even had wooden picnic tables at which to serve dinner. As with the rest of Norway, certainly the areas I have visited, the area was impeccably clean, with by far the majority of Norwegians having a great respect for the environment and their surroundings.

So, the time came to set up camp in these idyllic settings. That was where the learning curve took a rather steep upward direction for me. Until that point in my life, any camping I had done had been in one of a number of ridge tents, with the height of the tent being universal along its length. Prior to the trip, I had splashed out on a Vaude Taurus tent from a nearby Cotswold store. It was small, compact, lightweight, and was recommended to house one and a half people. I had crawled into a demo tent that the store had erected outside and, on the basis that there were no “half persons” travelling with us, decided that the tent was more than adequate to house just myself and kit quite comfortably. We each surveyed the land around us like seasoned travellers before jumping onto our respective patches and claiming them as our own. The patch I selected had a slight gradient to it but was free of rocks and branches, so looked quite comfy. Yes, I know what you may be thinking, I’ll come back to that later! The pitching of the tent went quickly as the Vaude is very user friendly. Having always slept in my old ridge tents with my feet toward the door, I positioned the tent with the opening in the downhill direction and looking out over the waters of the fjord, very picturesque I thought. I stood back in satisfaction, admiring a job well done, as Ian finished pitching his similar sized tent next to me. Dave and Gareth had decided to reduce the amount of kit they were carrying by bringing along just the one two man tent and distributing the relative parts between them. Scott had a small carbuncle of a tent which looked just about big enough to house one slightly overweight hamster. I wasn’t quite sure if this was a sensible purchase to keep weight to a minimum, or whether it was yet more evidence of his reluctance to spend money. Scott by name and Scot by nature!!

Prior to the trip, Ian and I had done a joint shop at the local supermarket, with the intention of going halves on the cost, storage and cooking of the food. As we knew we were going to be staying in secluded areas away from shops, buying fresh food along the way was not an option, so we opted for packets of dried rice and pasta dishes. These meals were then to be bulked up a bit with long lasting smoked meats that would not spoil without refrigeration. All we had to do then was make sure we carried plenty of water between us. I myself had a 10 litre water bladder which I stored behind my kayak seat, tied down of course in case of capsize. I’m sure that there are lots of alternatives to this, but it most definitely worked for us. Breakfast was to consist of porridge or muesli, and we carried a couple of containers of long life milk with us, all quite civilised really. We also shared one stove between us, this being a Primus Etapower, which is fast boiling and more than adequate for two people’s culinary requirements. The main foods were supplemented by various cereal and power bars. Suffice to say, we never went hungry.

The first night saw a rice dish with smoked sausage and a beer, yum, yum. Once everything had been cleaned away and stored, and after some affable, and laughable, banter between us, it was bedtime. After ablutions, into my tent I crawled. As I snuggled into my comfy goose down sleeping bag, with my head to the back end of the tent, I wondered to myself about how confining it felt having the tent fabric so close to my face. It was like crawling into a sleeping bag the wrong way, ………… Doh!!!!!!!! So, in my sheer ignorance of the design of modern tents, I was trying to sleep the wrong way round, so that every breath I drew risked me choking on a mouthful of tent fabric. I couldn't turn around as I would then be lying with my feet uphill with all the blood rushing to my head, which I decided wouldn't be at all good. As it was pitch black outside, and the others were fast asleep, re-pitching the tent the other way round wasn't an option either. So, what to do?? Oh well, I resigned myself to making the best of a bad situation. Easier said than done! Due to the fact I was sleeping on an incline, albeit slight, I kept starting awake to find myself drowning in the depths of my sleeping bag. Due to the restless nature of my sleep pattern, and the incline, every time I dozed off gravity began sliding me towards the bottom of the sleeping bag. Every time I woke up, I found myself having to do an impression of a 188cm human slug. Zipped into the confines of my sleeping bag, I had to first shuffle my way to fresh air, and then do a further shuffle to take me and the sleeping bag back up to the back of the tent. Suffice to say that a restful sleep rather eluded me that night!

Ian and his tent in the foreground with my own tent behind him and Scott’s carbuncle at the back.

Dave and Gareths’ tent with the “Toilet” behind, at Tingholmen.

Thursday 1st May 2008

I woke at 7am to a bright, but overcast morning. The air was crisp and clear, tinged with a slight chill. The waters of the fjord were still and silent. In fact, all was silent. Overnight, a large motor launch had berthed at the nearby dock, its occupants still sound asleep judging by the lack of movement. I’d like to say I was bright eyed and bushy tailed, but after the night I had had, I couldn’t get further from the truth. Right, first things first, COFFEE!!!!!! Whilst the others slumbered, I put water on to boil and caught up with my diary for the trip. Due to my fitful night, Ian was lucky enough to wake up to freshly made coffee. It was a very quiet breakfast that we ate, the surroundings made it seem inappropriate for any boisterous conversation. The darkening skies and strengthening wind did not bode well for our days paddling as we broke camp and re-packed the boats. When we paddled away from Tingholmen all was calm, but we were to find we were in the lea of the island and, as we rounded a corner, we again found ourselves paddling into a strong headwind and choppy waters. There was nothing for it, heads bowed and shoulders screamed as we forged our way forward. By this stage, we had still not even entered Lysefjord, and I started to wonder if we had bitten off far more than we could chew. Had our expectations grossly outweighed our abilities? Although our ultimate destination had been Lysebotn at the far end of the fjord, we did have a tentative plan B. However, it was still early days, and we had plenty of time to have a re-think. As we paddled we would pick out landmarks to head towards in the distance. Invariably, these were isolated farm buildings. What did surprise us was the sheer size of the place. Having all paddled in rivers of various sizes and widths, the spans of the fjords were deceptively lengthy. We would often wonder why farm buildings identified as points of reference on the far sides of fjords looked no bigger after an hours’ worth of hard paddling.

One thing we had always been careful about when paddling as a group was that no-one would be left alone. We always strived to stay in a pack, especially in inclement weather, and if for any reason one paddler felt a need to “bail out” of a trip, at least one other would always accompany them to shore. So this led to some frustration when Scott insisted on paddling alone, more often than not on the other side of the fjord from us. This meant that if he did have some form of mishap it would take some time for us to reach him. My personal feeling was that he was a grown man and, by his own plaudits, an experienced paddler and quite capable of making his own decisions. Dave was most frustrated with this behaviour as he is always very safety conscious, and at our lunch stop, very diplomatically tried to enforce the idea of safety in paddling as a group. As soon as we had set off after lunch though, it was back to normal. Ah well, c’est la vie!

Lunch was taken on a small island called Aspøy, where we were met by a pair of curious Norwegian fjord ponies. The island itself was home to just the one sole farmstead, and we came ashore on its small sandy beach. That is another wonderful thing about Norway, the right to roam. You can beach your boats and set up your tents wherever you like, just as long as you respect people’s privacy and show a modicum of courtesy. Common sense should inform you of what is, and isn’t, acceptable. Lunch consisted of a quick pot noodle, made with water boiled earlier in the day and kept in a flask, before we set off once again. Another beguiling aspect of travelling the Norwegian wilderness is the wildlife, and very soon after resuming our paddle we were awarded the splendid sight of a huge sea eagle flying majestically from our right to left. These huge birds truly are regal in their appearance and it was one of those moments that has everybody reaching frantically for their cameras and turning them on, just in time to take a photograph of a rapidly receding black dot. This wildlife moment was only surpassed by yours truly shouting in excitement at the seal whose head I had just observed breaking the surface of the water. As we watched, the dark head did nothing other than bob up and down in the water which, after 5 minutes or so, had the others cracking up in laughter at my excitement over an errant buoy. They did stop laughing when the “buoy” swam away and suddenly submerged, HA!

Norwegian fjord ponies.

By now, after having watched the sky becoming steadily darker and darker, we were paddling in rain. Out came the hats, up went the hoods of paddling cagoules, and on we went. After having not appeared to have made much headway during the days paddling, I was relieved to see the by now familiar peaks announcing the entry to Lysefjord. We entered the fjord, making a quick stop at the ferry terminal at Oanes to try and top up our water carriers, though there was unfortunately no ready water supply there. We had hoped that once we turned into the fjord we might have some shelter from the wind, yeah, right!! The one problem with fjords is that they act like giant wind funnels, and if the wind direction is even remotely in line with the path of the fjord then it is channelled straight up or down it. Unfortunately, on this day, it was being channelled down it straight into our faces. Immediately on entering Lysefjord itself, you are faced with the sight of the spectacular Lysefjord suspension bridge stretching high above, and across, the waters. The bridge was completed in 1997 and spans a width of 446m at a height of 50m, with the bridge pylons rising to a lofty height of 102m. It makes for a very impressive sight as you paddle beneath it.

Stavanger bridge.

We soon agreed that the time had come to find a suitable spot to make camp, and so headed for a spot we had highlighted and marked on our maps at Dørviga.

Once again we had come up trumps as we found ourselves in a lovely small sheltered bay with a wide shingle beach. The beach led onto a grassed and wooded area, with plenty of flat clear pitches for tents. Once more, we were afforded the luxury of one of the ubiquitous wooden toilet buildings, something we rather took for granted by the end of the trip. In any future trip to Lysefjord, the “pooh shovel” could be left behind. Fortune was also with us again as, although it had rained pretty much continuously throughout the afternoon, the skies had suddenly cleared, allowing us enough time to pitch our tents and sort our gear before the drizzle resumed. We even found an old tarpaulin conveniently stretched between two pine trees under which we carried a wooden picnic table and benches so we could sit and eat out of the rain. On first arriving at a campsite, my priority was to get a fire started, not because it was particularly cold or dark, I was just overcome with the male urge to burn stuff, and armed with a good excuse for doing it. There is something animalistic about the satisfaction to be had from getting a roaring fire going. I am quite sure that prehistoric man was in fact no more excited on first discovering fire than I was on a daily basis getting the campfire ignited. Dinner consisted of noodles with a carbonara sauce and the rest of the smoked sausage. Trust me, it was delicious, yet another culinary delight. This was washed down with the last of the duty free beer. Pots were washed, kit hung to dry, and the obligatory messages home sent. I should point out here that mobile phone coverage in Norway is excellent, though I suppose it has to be bearing in mind the geography of the place and the scattered population. The mind really does boggle as to how mobile network signals are received in the most unexpected of places.

I had taken a two piece fishing rod and a couple of lures with me, so decided to chance my luck. I eventually gave up with not a bite and handed the rod over to Gareth who had asked for a loan of it. It didn’t take long for the curse of the Jones brothers to descend, and Gareth came to find me explaining he had lost the lure as it had got stuck and the line snapped. Did I have another one? Certainly, and feel free to lose this one as well, I thought as I handed it over. Sure enough, he had lost that one too within half an hour. I hid my remaining lure!

By 10pm, everyone was nestled down in their tents, bar me. I took the time to sit with my head torch on and get my diary up to date. It was very hard to concentrate as I sat and enjoyed the ambience of the place. The silence was palpable in an almost eerie way, only broken by the crashing sound of an unseen fish leaping to grab some unsuspecting bug that formed its night time sustenance, and the soothing sigh of a faraway waterfall. Although a road ran past this secluded spot, not a single car passed by the whole time we were there.

This second day had seen us only accomplishing a paddle of 23.7km and hopes of reaching Lysebotn were diminishing. It was going to be Lysebotn or bust tomorrow!

Picture of me, looking toward the entrance of Lysefjord

The campsite at Dørviga.

Friday 2nd May 2008

I awoke at 6am and sleepily emerged from the tent to a beautiful, still, sunny morning. Although our side of the fjord was still in shadow, watching the sunlight slowly creeping at a snail’s pace across the vertical rock faces opposite our campsite was mesmerising. At this time of the morning the fjord was at its best with the water flat calm with no wind whatsoever, though I had a hunch this wouldn’t last. I have always loved the reflection of wilderness panoramas in mirror like waters, but when the scenery is so breath-taking it is taken to a whole other level. Once again, I was the first up, which was rather unusual for me, I am most definitely NOT a morning person. However, this fine morning saw me rod in hand skipping gaily down to the shore for a spot of fishing. Thankfully, I caught nothing. I say thankfully because I think dragging a poor innocent fish out of its natural habit to either unceremoniously bash it over the head, or watch it slowly suffocate, would rather have spoiled the moment. It sounds very clichéd, but I was overwhelmed with a sense of belonging and being, at one with nature. So much so, it was a bit of a disappointment when the others started to stir.

Today was to be the day of the big push to Lysebotn. We had limited time due to the restricted ferry service from Lysebotn during the out of season months. If all went to plan, we would make Lysebotn and take a ferry back out of the fjord as far as Oanes, which would still leave time for a couple of days paddling before returning to Stavanger. The first fly in the ointment was that, due to a rather too relaxed breakfast, we didn’t get onto the water until after 10am. By this time the wind had started to pick up. The direction? Yep, straight into our faces again, so more bowed heads and screaming shoulders! At least the sea state was slightly more settled. It still seems strange whilst writing this to refer to the condition of the water as “sea state”, after all, we had by now spent several days paddling further and further inland, but such is the makeup of the fjords.

Although it was hard going, the small highlight of the morning was paddling beneath Preikestolen. Also know in English as either Preacher’s Pulpit, or Pulpit Rock, Preikestolen is a sheer cliff which drops 604m into the fjord. The promontory itself is separated by a wide crack from the rest of the surrounding heights, which you must leap across to get to the edge of the cliff. There will come a time when this big chunk of rock actually breaks away and falls into the fjord below but, thankfully, not in the foreseeable future, so you should be okay paddling below it for a few years yet. Although hugely impressive when stood at the top looking down, paddling beneath it was something of an anti-climax. The scale of the place as a whole was so massive that it was lost in the vastness of the rock wall overlooking the fjord.

We stopped at mid-day for lunch at Songesand, a small dock and ferry terminal. That was it, crunch time. We calculated that we had only been making 4kph in the face of the fierce wind. At that rate, the chances were we would miss the last ferry from Lysebotn as we wouldn’t be arriving there until after 8pm. If that happened, we would have had to wait a day and a half for the next ferry, leaving us on a very tight schedule to make the ferry home. Alternatively, we could have paddled out of the fjord the next morning, but if we had met such strong headwinds again, this too would have left us on slippery ground as regards time. After much discussion, it was reluctantly decided that discretion was the better part of valour, and so we would turn around and have a second night at Dørviga. The indomitable Mr Sod was clearly playing a hand in our luck as we resumed paddling after lunch as the wind suddenly changed direction. Instead of helping us on our way back it was now once again straight in our faces. Who would have believed it, apart from Mr Sod and his close friends and family of course. Add to this a timely downpour and we realised that we had made the best decision by far in turning around. This was a clear example of the teamwork needed when undertaking such a trip as, surely, the strength of a group is displayed when having to make reluctant and unpopular decisions. It is when forging forward in the face of overwhelming odds that things go amiss so, although there were regrets, we knew we had done the right thing. The offshoot of the rainfall though was some pretty impressive waterfalls to photograph and play in on the way back.

By the time we arrived back at the mornings campsite, we had completed only another 26.8km. We settled down to a damp and chilly campsite where I even struggled to get a fire going. After a bit of fishing and a bit of banter, it was time to settle down for an early night, and a good night’s sleep it was. Having by then “cracked it” in respect of which way round to sleep in my tent, it had become a comfy home from home. It’s surprising how quickly you settle into a new and unfamiliar routine.

Blue skies and snow on the distance peaks, looking up Lysefjord toward Lysebotn.

Retracing our steps and playing in the waterfalls.

Looking down on the campsite at Dørviga.

Evening descends on the fjord.

Saturday 3rd May 2008

An 8.30am start to the day. The pressure was clearly off and we relaxed a little bit. After all, all said and done, we are on holiday! What a beautiful morning it was too, with blue skies, bright sunshine and an ominous lack of wind. Surely that couldn’t continue? After a hearty breakfast we set off once more.

We were now quite low on water, having unsuccessfully tried to top up at Songesand. Alas, the public facilities there were being worked on and no water was available. Luckily, there was small stream at Dørviga, water from which we used for cooking, coffee etc. Having been quite frugal with the drinking water we were still okay, but decided to head for the village of Forsand to stock up on some supplies.

Due to the vastness of the fjord, by taking a different route out, we came across quite a sight that we had missed on our previous passage. We were surprised to come across line after line of large grey spherical buoys. The others guessed that it was a sort of sea farm for some type of mollusc and the weight of opinion favoured their theory rather than mine, that being that it was a kindergarten for baby space hoppers. The day was still glorious, and as we continued our slightly alternative route out of the fjord, we jinked to the left of a small island, Ådnøy, that we had originally passed on the other side. Here we came across a large, and ageing, trawler tied up to the island. It had clearly seen better days with its rusting hull looking rather neglected, but it still left me with a wistful dream of one day returning and converting it to a live aboard houseboat. A little further on and we passed another such vessel in a similar state of disrepair before making our second passage under the Lysefjord bridge.

By the time we’d arrived at Forsand it had turned into a balmy summers day, and with it being such a pleasant village we decided to make it a lunch stop. A visit to the well-stocked mini market saw me splashing out on goat’s cheese, a tube of Norwegian Mills mayonnaise and some oatmeal biscuits. I have always loved the strong, brown coloured goat’s cheese and wanted to introduce my peers to it. As we basked in the sunshine on the jetty, I sliced the cheese, placing a slice on an oatmeal biscuit with a dollop of mayonnaise on top, yummy. You really have to try it. There was a bit of a mixed reaction to it, though I think only Ian genuinely enjoyed it, with the others making polite noises.

Whilst enjoying our lunch, we watched a rather lovely wooden sailing boat painted in bright colours leaving the small dock. It was painted in white, green and a bright turquoise, with the rubbing strip along the side in canary yellow. The wheelhouse was varnished wood and the vessel had the appearance of a small schooner, maybe about 40feet in length and flying the flag of Luxembourg. It was a fine looking boat, but looked like it would have been more at home sailing the Mediterranean or Adriatic coastlines.

As we paddled away from Forsand feeling quite content with the sunshine and full bellies, we exited Lysefjord and turned right and straight into yet another headwind! At one point, paddling away and in a world of my own, I was startled back to reality when I was suddenly struck in the face by something. The something turned out to be a hat belonging to Ian who was paddling directly in front of me, it had literally been blown off his head. Not to worry though, we had plenty of time, lots of campsites to choose from and fantastic weather. After a leisurely 18.3km paddle, we arrived at the island of Idsal where we were to make camp for the night.

The campsite was in a quite exquisite bay at the southern end of the island. Unfortunately, the location seemed to be a victim of prevailing winds and tides as the shore was littered with every piece of flotsam and jetsam imaginable. It was such a shame as it really was a beautiful location if not for the piles of discarded plastic, the scourge of modern society and blight on nature. We made the best of it though, clearing several pitches for the tents and starting the obligatory campfire. Ian was cooking that night and it was to be rice with corned beef followed by banana and custard, scrumptious! About this time, I heard from our new found friend Erling. He sent a message to say that he was planning on paddling the following day with a group from the Stavanger kayaking club and would like to meet up. He followed that with the following days forecast which was to be 17C and no wind with a warning for fog. Although we didn’t commit to meeting him, we decided to do our best.

As sunset approached, so too did a thick bank of sea fog which rapidly descended upon us. It made for some rather spectacular sunset photographs and we felt quite cosy hunkered about the camp fire as we were shrouded by the blanket of fog. It eventually turned into a real pea souper, and we were slightly worried what the following day would bring as we were to have to cross some quite busy waterways. Note to self; bring a fog horn next time! It was with a little trepidation we retired to bed, wondering what the following day would bring. The last thing we wanted was to have to waste a day fogbound on an uninhabited island.

A beautiful start to the day.

The neglected and rusting hulk we paddled past

The fog rolls in at Idsal.

Sunday 4th May 2008

The penultimate days paddling! A 7.30am wake up and I crawled out of the tent anxious to see what the day had in store for us. Would I be able to see my hand in front of my face? Woohoo, a bright cloudless and windless day. Dead calm in fact. Looking toward the mainland there was still a thick, dense band of fog with the odd ship or two bursting out of it and into the sunlight like drowning men finally able to surface. As the sun started to burn off the remaining fog, the vista took on a slightly surreal appearance, as though the land WAS there but WASN’T solid. Erling had been in touch again to confirm his party were heading out onto the water, and a tentative plan was made to meet him in the area of an island called Lindøy with the intention of paddling with him for a while.

I should mention that we were to later award Idsal with a commendation, that being for the toilet with the best view. Due to our campsites being deserted, apart from our small group, I had taken to sitting on the toilet with the door wide open. The main reason for this was to avoid any unpleasant odour coming from the mound of excrement you were sitting a couple of metres above, (that’s the excuse anyway), and the other was for the incredible sense of freedom to be felt from sitting there, soaking up what was invariably a splendid view, whilst you went about your business, literally. So it came as no real surprise when the topic was raised and admitted to by all present, together with the added confession that various photographs had been taken from the different “thrones”. We were later all in agreement that Idsal had the toilet with the best view. And for any Norwegians enjoying the early morning view across the fjord with high powered binoculars, I apologise unreservedly!

As we prepared to leave, Scott piped up that he had left his sunglasses at Tingholmen on the first night and asked if we could stop there to have a quick search for them, so it was with a strange feeling of familiarity that we returned to our first camp site. Needless to say, we didn’t find his sunglasses, but we did meet a Norwegian by the name of Frode Jansen who was just breaking camp. He and his partner had just completed their first overnighter in their own kayaks, and we got chatting to them about shared experiences. Frode was interested in a Rockpool kayak himself, so spoke at length to Dave and Gareth about their boats. It was rather strange that, although we had been in the same boat as them several days ago (pun not intended, much) we now felt like seasoned veterans imparting our wealth of knowledge. How pompous were we?

We eventually bade them farewell and continued towards Lindøy and Erling. Dave and Gareth tried hailing him by VHF radio on a prearranged channel, but repeatedly failed to make contact until finally getting a response at lunchtime. A rendezvous was agreed and a short time later we rounded a small headland to be confronted by about 15 kayaks bearing down on us. This was the Stavanger kayak club on their Sunday outing. We stopped to pass pleasantries and, as all kayakers do, size up each other’s boats. Ian was chuffed to bits to find one of them even possessed the same boat as him, though the make of the boat still eludes me. It made him very happy though. The Norwegian kayakers directed us to Lindøy where they informed us Erling was awaiting our arrival. We beached at Lindøy to find Erling amidst some very pleasant white wooden buildings, looking just slightly institutional, surrounding a well-kept grass square. Interestingly, the island had once been home to a school for wayward boys, and the threat of exasperated parents in the Stavanger area to misbehaving off spring had commonly been, “Behave, or I will send you to Lindøy”. Looking at the area, I could think of far worse threats/punishments.

We shared lunch and a brew with Erling, topped up our water supplies, and launched the boats. The minute the hulls were in the water, Erling was off like a shot! “What the hell” I thought. I braced myself and paddled like a banshee to catch up with him so that I could remind him we had been living rough for the last few days, paddling long hours daily and had boats that were packed to bursting. With that in mind, could he please slow down! We all saw the funny side and paddled on. We had already discussed a couple of possible campsites for that night, but when Erling started taking us in a direction totally opposite to the one planned, we decided that after all he had done for us, it would have been rude not to follow his lead. He really is a gentleman, and it was a shame when he announced it was time for him to head back to Stavanger, pointing us in the direction of an island called Line which he recommended as a place to set up camp for the last night. We made arrangements for meeting him in Stavanger the next day and waved goodbye. No sooner had he left, leaving us setting a course for Line, just to remind us that it hadn’t all been plain sailing, the wind suddenly slapped us in the face again. We eventually landed on Line after 23.9km of paddling for the day.

For a last night on Norwegian soil, we couldn’t have hoped for a better campsite. After initially being a little hesitant as to the suitability of the picturesque bay, we paddled around the island, but found no better location so decided to go with it. As it happened, there was ample room to pitch our tents. There was also a very convenient tree for hanging all our kit to dry. By the time we had all finished placing various items on every available branch and sharp point, it resembled a kayakers Christmas tree. The by now mandatory campfire was lit and we went about our preparations for dinner. A complete stillness had fallen across the fjord before the sun finally set, and there wasn’t a ripple to be seen on the waters, which made for some incredible photographs. It is so easy in this land of splendour to sit and lose a colossal chunk of time just soaking up the ambience. To add to this sense of tranquillity, a couple of young deer appeared on the neighbouring shoreline where they ran around playfully without a care in the world, bliss.

It was with a heavy heart we bedded down for the night, knowing this was our last night in the open air on Norwegian soil.

The memorable view from the toilet at Idsal.

A promising start to the day at Idsal.

The drying tree at Line.

Monday 5th May 2008

We awoke to another fantastic morning, in fact the best so far, with clear blue skies and not even a hint of wind. As we were not far from Stavanger we decided to just take it easy and not rush as we had plenty of time to spare before our ferry back to the UK that evening. The lovely day, warm air and chilled attitude led to Dave putting off getting dressed. This meant that we had to put up with the sight of him strolling round in nothing but his underpants for quite a while! At the end of the day, we were grown men and we had all seen worse, though admittedly not much, so were equipped to cope with the trauma. Even so, we asked him to cover up several times, pleas which went ignored. As we began to slowly break camp, a small dinghy suddenly appeared out of nowhere containing a young woman and five small children. Dave was oblivious to our unexpected visitors as he went about sorting his kit out while the rest of us watched the dinghy dock at the nearby jetty. The woman and children climbed out of the boat, walked up the jetty and straight through our campsite! The first Dave knew of their presence was when they approached from behind him as he was bent over in his week old “grungies” sorting his kit! The small group continued to a small rock outcrop where they settled down, leaving Dave slightly flustered, but trying to pacify himself by telling everyone they would have thought he was wearing speedos. HAHA!! Who did he think he was kidding? Not us! As if to convince himself of the validity of his statement, he continued with what he was doing. That was until two more dinghies appeared at the dock containing a couple more adults and a whole herd of 5 or 6 year olds. Not wanting to test his theory, Dave frantically scampered for cover, and a pair of trousers.

On speaking to the adults, we found out that they were from a local kindergarten and were taking the kids for a day out. How envious did that make me of kids growing up in Norway? As we finished packing, the group had set up some type of tripod from which hung a large cooking pot over a fire they had got going, though I hasten to add that their fire was nowhere near as impressive as the many campfires I had by then been responsible for!

As we started to paddle away from Line, we were hailed by one of the adults who informed us that the kids wanted to sing for us, so we paddled past their small gathering as the happy group broke into song for us, all waving cheerfully. It really was quite special, and most unexpected.

The days’ paddling was, in the words of Robin Williams in Good morning Vietnam, “Hot. Damn hot! Real hot! Hottest things is my shorts. I could cook things in it. A little crotch pot cooking! Were you born on the sun? It’s damn hot!” Get the idea? It was very, very hot. We were later to discover that it had actually been the start of a short heat wave. As we had run short of water, we quickly drained what little remained in our Camelbaks and dehydration became a bit of a concern.

As we paddled ever closer to Stavanger, the sparsely populated islands gave way to more densely populated coastal areas with obvious signs of the areas busy oil industry. We did have one extremely funny moment when paddling across one small stretch of open water where we saw an older guy hand fishing from his small cabin cruiser. Scott, without a word, paddled up to the guy and shouted to him in his very strong accent, “Could you take a photo of us all together?” The guy looked at him quizzically before replying, with a rather bemused look on his face, and in broken English, something along the lines of “Yes, that would be nice, but I don’t have a camera!” The poor guy thought Scott was offering for us to pose as a group so that he himself could have a photo of us. Scott quickly uttered an unintelligible babble, produced his camera, gave it to the guy, and a photo was taken, albeit with some strange looks on our faces as we tried to suppress the laughter. As soon as we paddled a polite distance away, we all collapsed in our cockpits in fits of laughter over the bizarre interaction! Talk about “lost in translation!”

After a short 8.8km paddle, we beached our boats, with a crunch, on the Stavanger kayak clubs launch slip. At that time, it was a concrete slipway, but I believe it has now had wooden decking laid over its surface, making for a much more fibreglass hull friendly environment. For the final time on the trip, we stepped ashore and lifted the boats from the water, with not a single one of them being dropped by Dave! We met up with Erling and sorted car, boats and kit before dropping everything off at the car park of the ferry terminal. Unfortunately, as Scott’s kayak was insecure on a kayak trolley with all his kit still in it, he had to remain with his boat while Erling took us for a mini guided tour of Stavanger, which started at a bar! Mmmh, long cold beers. It was only when I was half way through my second beer that I realised just how dehydrated I had obviously become during the days paddle in the stifling heat as my head started floating off to another dimension, much to the amusement of the rest of them. Thankfully, there wasn’t a third drink, partly due to the state I was already in, but mostly I think because of the cost of beer in Norway.

A leisurely, and sobering, stroll around Stavanger followed, with Erling imparting his knowledge of the city to us. One of the more memorable things for me was the steps going down to the water’s edge in the city centre. In the middle of the square at the top of these steps, is a large pond that plays host to a number of resident ducks. When they have young, as soon as the ducklings are able to walk, the mother would lead them down to the sea. When the area was remodelled, this fact wasn’t lost on the designers. Because the steps would have been too big for the ducklings to negotiate, right up the centre of the large steps they incorporated a ramp with lots of little duckling sized steps, just so they could make their way safely backwards and forwards. After a bit of souvenir hunting for kids back home, and the purchase of a small supply of goat’s cheese, we bade the fondest farewell to Erling and boarded the ferry.

More celebratory toasts on completion of a successful trip ensued, and the behaviour descended rapidly from happiness, to silliness to drunken stupidity as the Jones brothers cracked open a box of red wine. Not long after, Gareth thought it hilarious to stick my camera down the front of his trousers and photograph “himself” in the best tradition of old schoolboy pranks! He thought this hilarious. Everyone else found it even more hilarious when I thanked him very much for the photo that he had taken on my DIGITAL camera, and pointed out how easy it would be to post it across several websites, after, of course, enlarging it so that at least some detail could be seen! The subsequent sheepish look on his face was in itself a picture, and a priceless one at that. Once everyone, apart from Gareth, had dried the tears of laughter from their faces, we settled down and prepared ourselves for the evening event, another buffet dinner!

The days paddling in the glaring sun, lack of water, dehydration, beer, wine and good food, saw us all hitting the sack and collapsing for a very early night.

The kindergarten kids who gave us a musical farewell.

A warm days paddling.

Finally arriving at the kayak clubs slipway in Stavanger.

The “duckling steps” in the centre of Stavanger.

Tuesday 6th May 2008

The next morning started with a bump, literally, as Ian’s ageing brick of an iPod fell from his bunk above and landed square on my head. This was the day that would see us back in the UK, and it was all of a sudden strange not to be waking up in my cosy sleeping bag and going about the morning’s rituals of boiling water etc.

We made our way to the restaurant for breakfast to be met by the sight of an incredibly fat woman roughly shoving a pram between seated diners and dragging in her wake three more screaming brats, screaming at the top of her voice in a thick Southern Irish accent, “I’M SORRY, I’M F**KING SORRY.” As she reached the main entrance to the restaurant, she then started screaming at the staff like a mad woman, “F*CK YOU, F*CK YOU!!” We thought we were going to have to jump in at any moment and restrain her, but thankfully she proceeded on her way. It’s moments like these that make a trip as the memories are so long lasting. We later discovered from our waiter that a group of Irish “travellers” had boarded the ferry the day before and had got a bit boisterous that evening. The end result was four of them deciding they wanted to fight everyone in the bar with the incident only being brought to a conclusion when several members of the ships company were armed with batons and detained the four men, locking them away in the ships brig. Being party poopers the night before, we had missed all the entertainment!

We finally berthed at Newcastle and set foot on British soil again. Cars, kit and kayaks were sorted before setting off for home, leaving us all with our own separate thoughts and feelings about our time in Norway.

Final thoughts

Did it go well? Splendidly! Did we have a good time? Outstanding! Did it go to plan? No, but so what? Ultimately, it stood as one of the best holidays I had ever had, even to this day. It couldn’t really have gone any better. We had planned well and, as a result, found we never needed anything we didn’t have and didn’t really have much we didn’t need. Ooh, I tell a lie! The one thing we didn’t have was a fog horn, but Scott had one, so he did have one redeeming factor. This preparedness wasn’t through luck, but common sense and research.

My most emphatic message to anyone considering undertaking such a trip is, DO IT, otherwise you will spend your whole life dreaming of taking on a relatively small challenge. Either that or you will wish your life away reading of other peoples epic journeys. For us, at the time, it WAS an epic, and one we learned a great deal from. During the course of the trip, and the preparation, we had strengthened existing friendships and we had also made new friends. We confirmed the knowledge that with the right team, working together, you can most definitely overcome most obstacles! Our only regret was that we hadn’t reached Lysebotn, but who knows, we may return to resolve our unfinished business! The cost of the trip at the time was under £200 each for the travel arrangements, which is pretty good for a week’s holiday. All the food we used on the trip we purchased in the UK and took with us, apart from the odd little luxury. Having recently looked at the pricings (Oct 2012), four adults travelling in one car could travel from the UK to Norway for £160.00. With everyone chipping in on fuel for the necessary drives in between ferries, it is still manageable for £200.00 each. It does have to be said that four to a car is a bit of a squash though, so I would suggest a maximum of three with boats and kit, unless of course you have access to a trailer.

A beautiful view from the campsite at Line on our final morning in Norway.

Thoughts of Norway

Tuesday, 29 April 2008

Four men and their boats