Sunday 20th to Sunday 27th December over Christmas in Norway with Richard and Stine was pure Magic. Their timber-framed house, set amongst pine tree and unyielding rocky outcrops, overlooking the Fjord with Oslo in the far distance across the water, was warm and snug with views to Oslo from the huge picture windows in the new room in the roof that took my breath away. We ate Norwegian-style with huge ribs of crackling pork, sausages and fish. I learned that there is more to breakfast than buttered toast and that Brunch is a pleasing way to while away the mornings. Stine seemed to be for ever baking, whilst Richard was in charge of the potatoes that improved (so he claimed) when left out overnight at minus four in a bucket to be baked next day or two days later.
On an early night we had the rare – and almost unheard of – privilege of seeing the famous Northern Lights over Oslo. Yellow and green streaking across a starlit sky was a marvel that occurs over Oslo so infrequently that we stood in stunned silence at first – and then rushed for the Nikon to take once-in-a-lifetime shots. The colours were not as vivid as in the North, but very fine just the same.
And as I looked out of my bedroom window early on my last day, there was the snow - drifting in all it glorious whiteness across the air, taking Oslo with it and leaving a Christmas Card scene of magnificent beauty. I walked outside in slippers and dressing gown at minus four – showered in the new sparkling wet room and read several pages of my book before Richard and Stine rose to prepare Brunch (but I could not face the oily fish). Late morning Richard agreed that I might don my snow boots (bought online from Cotton Traders, bless their cotton socks and carried all the way from England in my extensive baggage) together with thermal socks (bought by Stine’s mother and sister as I could not find them at any shops at home), and my Balaclava Helmet (which causes such stirrings in the minds of onlookers that I rarely pull it right over my face to reveal my eyes only for fear that I might be taken for a terrorist, which sometimes happens but not often). Plodding – for you can only plod in Cotton Traders’ snow boots – I took shots across the valley, whilst Richard took photographs of me which would scare anyone under the age of 80! Back in the warm, I contented myself with photographs from the windows bedecked in Christmas elves and the like. I bought a Christmas Elf home and am told I must feed him or he will cause havoc in the house, but when I asked what he would eat, the Norwegian stared at me in disbelief, as Norwegians do.
The car journey from Richard and Stine’s home on Sunday 27th to Rygge Airport took an hour over roads that had been cleared of snow by farmers, who are given snow ploughs by the Government and are paid by the hour to clear their neck of the woods. Snow on the motorway is handled by contractors. Richard assured me that if the snowploughs were not operational on the runways, he would volunteer his services for he would be unable to cope with yet more days of his father telling him what it was like in the war with stories of misspent youth. I believe he was joking, but I may be mistaken.
The car journey from Richard and Stine’s home on Sunday 27th to Rygge Airport took an hour over roads that had been cleared of snow by farmers, who are given snow ploughs by the Government and are paid by the hour to clear their neck of the woods. Snow on the motorway is handled by contractors. Richard assured me that if the snowploughs were not operational on the runways, he would volunteer his services for he would be unable to cope with yet more days of his father telling him what it was like in the war with stories of misspent youth. I believe he was joking, but I may be mistaken.
The flight was one hour forty minutes and arrived on time or a minute or so early. The waiting time to clear Stansted was one hour twenty five minute from the moment the aircraft came to a halt on the runway to the welcoming hugs from Heather and Marlon, who had spent all that time driving round and round the car park, unable to find a parking spot and fearing they might end up in bay Z until one became available minutes before I came through customs. I must publish our text messages over the hour or so – they would make fun reading.
We waited for the landing steps to be trundled out – finally only one set arrived so we all exited from the front in spite of that fact that our Boarding Cards told us we could be shot (well, almost) for not using the rear steps. The sheep pens in Customs looked forbidding with a series of warning signs about abusing the staff, of whom there was only one grim faced fellow - the very thought of abusing him was far from my mind, I can tell you. If there was one person in the pens there must have been a million. One child played a game of running beneath the barriers and getting lost, so we all joined in – sending his distraught mother in wrong directions until we tired of the game and made faces at the anyone who looked foreign (no we did not!).
My Customs Officer examined my passport as though it must surely be counterfeit for this old Fellow cannot have been born in 1933 and is stull walking about without a stick or a hearing aid (what was that you said?). We walked miles and miles across Essex on hard paving with one short travellator, but we did enjoy going up and down at least four escalators whilst making grim faces at the folk passing on the other side of the glass panels and about to leave the country. The baggage hall was heaving with stand room only as all the seats – and there were not many – were taken by young, fit mountaineers and long-legged ski instructors (the latter reminding me of the gorgeous apparition who packed by parcels in Oslo for free. Aaah! Were I but 65 years younger! Her photograph is here – all in red. You cannot miss her.) Hours and possibly days might have passed as I sent a text to Heather suggesting they return next Tuesday. A notice told me that many pieces of baggage look alike and I should check if I have mine when leaving the airport. No chance of that, mate, I thought! If the bag I take is loaded with Indian Gold, it is mine!
And so I collapsed into the welcoming arms of Heather and Marlon, the latter looking slightly different but I am sworn to secrecy not to reveal why and how on pain of being sent back to Norway to sweep the snow on the runway for ever and ever, Amen.
Norway had shone in the snow with lights on trees and extending from the many flag poles. No twinkling lights that I could see at Stansted. Smiling Norwegians invited me to remove my trouser belt for inspection, but the British did not such thing – perhaps they had seen too many pairs of trousers falling to the ground. Just notices telling me what I might not do but none explaining what I could do, if I was so minded (which I was not). Welcome to Austerity Britain nearly one and a half hours after landing – just ten minutes short of the time it took to fly effortlessly through the evening sky from Scandinavia!
Happy New Year to my readers! “Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow!” And “God Jule” as they say in Norway.
We waited for the landing steps to be trundled out – finally only one set arrived so we all exited from the front in spite of that fact that our Boarding Cards told us we could be shot (well, almost) for not using the rear steps. The sheep pens in Customs looked forbidding with a series of warning signs about abusing the staff, of whom there was only one grim faced fellow - the very thought of abusing him was far from my mind, I can tell you. If there was one person in the pens there must have been a million. One child played a game of running beneath the barriers and getting lost, so we all joined in – sending his distraught mother in wrong directions until we tired of the game and made faces at the anyone who looked foreign (no we did not!).
My Customs Officer examined my passport as though it must surely be counterfeit for this old Fellow cannot have been born in 1933 and is stull walking about without a stick or a hearing aid (what was that you said?). We walked miles and miles across Essex on hard paving with one short travellator, but we did enjoy going up and down at least four escalators whilst making grim faces at the folk passing on the other side of the glass panels and about to leave the country. The baggage hall was heaving with stand room only as all the seats – and there were not many – were taken by young, fit mountaineers and long-legged ski instructors (the latter reminding me of the gorgeous apparition who packed by parcels in Oslo for free. Aaah! Were I but 65 years younger! Her photograph is here – all in red. You cannot miss her.) Hours and possibly days might have passed as I sent a text to Heather suggesting they return next Tuesday. A notice told me that many pieces of baggage look alike and I should check if I have mine when leaving the airport. No chance of that, mate, I thought! If the bag I take is loaded with Indian Gold, it is mine!
And so I collapsed into the welcoming arms of Heather and Marlon, the latter looking slightly different but I am sworn to secrecy not to reveal why and how on pain of being sent back to Norway to sweep the snow on the runway for ever and ever, Amen.
Norway had shone in the snow with lights on trees and extending from the many flag poles. No twinkling lights that I could see at Stansted. Smiling Norwegians invited me to remove my trouser belt for inspection, but the British did not such thing – perhaps they had seen too many pairs of trousers falling to the ground. Just notices telling me what I might not do but none explaining what I could do, if I was so minded (which I was not). Welcome to Austerity Britain nearly one and a half hours after landing – just ten minutes short of the time it took to fly effortlessly through the evening sky from Scandinavia!
Happy New Year to my readers! “Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow!” And “God Jule” as they say in Norway.
