Two dads', one grand, day

Highway 17 is different. On the E39 we had become used to being able to arrive and get a ferry with only a short delay. We never bothered to check timetables. That is not possible on Highway 17. Highway 17 is a smaller road that bounces and skips from one stretch of land to another, usually preferring ferries to bridges to get across the water. But the ferries are less frequent so a bit of care is needed. Notice the road sign though. These appear after every junction to make sure you are on the right road. Brilliant!

We decided (well actually we were up and ready early so headed out) to get the early ferry from Foroy to Ågskaret even though this mean we had a few hours to cross the short stretch from there to the next ferry from Jektvic to Kilbognhamn. We had a little wait at the ferry on this Sunday morning but the secenery was , again, wonderful .

It was surreal this because we were first off the ferry and there was a queue of cars behind us so after a while we pulled in and let them past: then we had all the rest of the route entirely to ourselves. We took time out to stop and take a few pictures. When we arrived at the ferry (early!) all the cars were there in a neat queue and we went and had coffee, sticky buns (Whatever cakes came to hand A!) and local home made ice cream.

That was something we commented on in our journey. There seems to be fewer regulations. No wonder the Norwegians don’t want to join the EU. They would not be able to operate lifts without double doors, as they do now in some of the best hotels. And they could not sell local ice cream without detailed labels. (By the way you do know you can click on the smaller pictures to enlarge them, right?)


The Jektvic to Kilbognhamn ferry was one of the bigger versions we had been on. Dining facilities and all on board. Long enough of a journey too: an hour at least. But it took us south of the Arctic Circle. No blast on the foghorn but a PA announcement to look out for the markers. B tells me the Latitude was marked (classic globe shape) on land off to the port side of the ferry: anyway it was on the left if you were facing the front of the boat! It made you realise why the Arctic Circle Centre is where it is. There was much less sense of being in somewhere unique when we crossed now at sealevel: no excitement. It needed the barren landscape and snow of a days earlier. I await with interest I&R's account of swimming across the circle, even if one took time out to watch television instead. I hope by the time you read this there are no more than 13 critical results left as the Sox go for the Divisional Championship! Magic Number was 14 as I write this but Sox could win and NYY lose tonight: if you're puzzled you don't know your baseball!!

Meanwhile, back on 17, the snowploughs at the side of the road, while photogenic from our perspective, were also a reminder that the climate can get nasty here too. Even as it was, with the sun shining, it was cold in the breeze in the shade or while on deck of the ferry.

At Grønsvik we were attracted by two field guns at the side of the road and only when we stopped did we realise it was actually the remains of a German army coastal artillery battery built between 1942 and 1945 as part of the Atlantic Wall which stretched all the way from the Spanish border. This was built in Norway as part of the German defences against an Allied invasion from Britain. Initially 280 batteries were constructed, of which only 70 were naval batteries, while most, including this one, were army installations equipped with army guns. This was a base for up to 200 troops and was equipped with four 155mm guns which could fire a 43k shot over a distance of 17,000 meters. There was also a 75mm gun used for firing shots across the bows of ships that tried to slip past without giving notice. Prisoners of war were used to build most of the atlantic wall and at this one a couple of hundred prisoners, both Russian and Polish, were used. After the war the weapons were decommissioned and the rubble from the destroyed emplacements used to build the road. Once again the sun was beating down and we took advantage of the small Tourist information shop to get a couple of ice creams and relax in the sunshine. Once again the hapless girl who served us was exhorted to take the rest of the day off! I wonder is that a fall back to when dignatories visited his school: was not that their treat? - that we could take the rest of the day off!

We continued on our way in spendid sunshine in wonderful scenery. I caught glimpses of what I though were fish drying in sheds. We had seen them in postcards. As soon as I stopped to check an elderly fisherman came out to see what I was at. I asked if I could take pictures. He was only too happy to oblige. I should have taken his photo too. He was keen to tell me about the product. How the postcards show cod but that they are luxury fish now that go to Italian restaurants whereas he was drying (ah NO: senior moment: can’t remember: were they klipper fish? Please check the photo and send you answers on the usual postcard…[these Blogs are powered by comments!]) Anyway his product goes to Africa and fetches a lot less. It fascinated me that here I was in a quiet part of Norway, talking in perfect english to a 70 year old fisherman – how many 70 olds in Ireland could recriprocate? I could barely manage Tussen Takk, but I did.


We continued on to Mo then. We had 217 kilometres done when we arrived at about 17:00 hrs. Those of you that have been paying very close attention will have realised that it was a long time since I got petrol. No St. Christopher in disguise helped me out! Opportunities had been non existent today. By the time we got into Mo I had been travelling for some time in the red and was well over the 250 k that the bike would normally do between fills. A lot of bikes don’t have fuel gauges but rely on a small reserve tank to warn you that you are running low. A combination of knowing how far you have gone since your last refill and the main tank spluttering to a halt lets you know you need a refill. The reserve will get you to the next station. At least with the gauge I was a little more confident of being ok.



Talking of the bike, I must say thanks to R. He supplied the paint and brushes from his Warhammer kit to enable me paint white lines on the locks to indicate when the panniers (NOT Pizza boxes as SM unkindly christened them!) are correctly locked. Made a real difference to be sure at a glance that they were secure and not in danger of popping off. ‘The books’ suggested that with these sort of panniers it’s a good idea to tie a strap around them as well. Apparently it’s only a matter of time before you hit a bump and they go flying. Yea right. Maybe on dirt trails. Me? I knew, for a certain fact, that this would have been a belt and braces job: over the top: not necessary (yep…you guessed...watch this space).

Anyway, back in Mo. We went to the Tourist office and the two assistants booked ahead for us (one of them had a boyfriend in Donegal and she learned her English in a school in St. Stephen’s Green). This system of getting the ‘locals’ to book ahead works really well. The language is just too difficult for us to negotiate (maybe we will be better in 20 years).

Back at the KRO Chinese restaurant we had another excellent meal. A young waitress took endless trouble to translate each item for us. She was practicing her English so that she could get out of Mo. We met a lot of that. Locals we spoke to wanting to be somewhere else. Anywhere else. It seemed a shame to us on these bright sunny days. But they pointed out it was not always light and dry never mind warm and sunny. Guess even this wonderful scenery is not edible! During the meal S kept us posted on the scores from Croke Park. According to Tom Humphries of the Irish Times a precipice beckoned that day but nobody walked over it. His report suggested that ‘the game was something less than the classic spectacle which the sides delivered while cancelling each other out a fortnight ago, but then these sides are something less than their predecessors who created the fabled rivalry.’ While we enjoyed uninterrupted sunshine the teams battled it out in drizzle until they were separated by four points (0-16 to 0-12) and a Dublin win. Toms view? I quote ‘For Dublin, their hopes of an All-Ireland title are still alive, although their detractors consider it more likely that gold will be spun from straw before that happens.’ That story, of course, ended in two dejected Dublin jerseys dragging themselves along 5th Avenue in the baking heat of a New York August day (for details see Andy in America of Wednesday, August 29, 2007). Next September, Sam will be ours: we 2 believe! This September our hopes rest with the Sox, for whom the magic number is 14: but I told you that already. A Lir chocolate (or two) awaits the first one to post a comment with the correct number on Wednesday.

Back to the hotel S&C had not overlooked that today was Father's day. He appreciated it. Well done girls. That made your Dad’s Bloomsday.

Don't ask ...I'm not sure what he's at!


From here we knew the E6 route south. That could take us to Oslo.