Norwegian Fjords

From Oslo in the east to Bergen in the west, the daily trans-Norwegian train service skims through the country along one of the most spectacular railways in the world.

During our trip across the south of the country we took trams, ferries and a swish coastal catamaran as well as the train: the public transport is shockingly good. But I am no trainspotter; what makes Norway so compelling is its landscape and people: a fine combination of grandeur and grit.

Oslo – the start of our train journey – is a modest capital with a colourful past. Founded by Vikings, ruled by Danes, throttled by Nazis and liberated after years of resistance, the city’s substance may be greater than its style. But the streets of Ibsen and Munch are enjoying a cultural revival. Sliding into the Oslofjord, we find the latest sign of change: the new Norwegian state opera house stands against the waves like a designer iceberg.

In the old town, families picnic beside lilac bushes in the gardens of the royal palace. After three centuries of Danish and Swedish rule, Norwegians won back their independence only in 1905 when, in a forgiving mood, they promptly invited a Danish prince to become their king.

Catching a ferry across the harbour, we see a party of schoolchildren skipping into the Museum of the Resistance. Wartime heroes may be gone or going now but their memory survives. Later I meet Ronald, an elderly visitor from the west coast. He describes how his father’s hands were broken, punished for sheltering a Jewish man; how neighbours escaped to Scotland in small boats; and how his teachers were sent to Arctic labour camps for refusing to teach Nazi propaganda.

Early next morning we catch the west-bound train. If you go direct to Bergen, it is a six-hour trip but we decide to branch off and explore more remote and beautiful terrain.

Leaving Oslo, we slice through fields of naked, silvery old farmhouses and quaint smokehouses. Everywhere the fresh colours of spruce, larch and birch feather into the sky and float on lakes: a painterly vision of Scandinavian spring.

Norwegians seem obsessed with heights, and at every halt there are signs marking how many metres we are above sea level. At Hønefoss, we have climbed just 96m. But finally we are in the mountains, approaching the vast Hardanger plateau. A lone crane contemplates a chilly marsh; lost, or resting, during some epic migration. The highest point on the line is at Finse, 1,222m above sea level.

As we change trains, waterfalls spatter the windows and we plunge down the mountains. The Flåm branch line, dating from 1923, is one of the steepest railways in the world; a testament to Norwegian bravado, engineering and shovelfuls of endurance.

Crossing a valley creamy with apple blossom, we arrive at the head of the Aurlandsfjord, just two metres above sea level. Most passengers continue from here to Bergen but, after six hours on the train, I am glad to be staying overnight – and to be changing my mode of transport to a ferry.

Next morning, as we sail away, the tiny village of Flåm vanishes against the massive backdrop of its setting. It seems impossible – absurd – that a train could burrow through those peaks.

Now we are sailing in the majestic Sognefjord, the longest fjord in Norway, and one that reaches deep into the mountains. Everyone is thoughtful in the face of such serenity, and our boat runs like an ant along the narrow, snow-capped branch of the Nærøyfjord.

After this, Bergen bursts upon us like a firework. Its people are known as the chatterboxes of Norway, and on this mild, spring evening the streets are certainly livelier than they had been in Oslo.

Unwittingly, we arrive on the eve of a great festival: Norway’s national day. Every May 17, almost the entire population rises early to lace and button itself into colourful national costume. Pointing out the lakeside home of the composer Edvard Grieg, Kristina, a guide at the residence, wails: “Tonight all the mothers will be ironing those maddening, intricate shirts!”

Indeed, the next morning the hotel lobby is packed with what looks like folk dancers – regular citizens transformed by swinging skirts and belts clinking with silver; little boys in knee breeches and young women in embroidered bodices. In parks and squares, families wait eagerly for the parades, and Bergen is a-flutter with flags. There are fireworks, boat races and dances too, but the town is dominated by children marching and banging drums.

We end the day eating fish soup in a cosy, lop-sided restaurant. Bryggen, Bergen’s medieval harbour district, is a miraculous survivor of the days when fortunes were made in timber, tar and cod. Here, sailors from the far north would trade their stockfish for treasures such as wooden coffins filled with bread, for the tree-less, wheat-less folk back home.

Watching the prosperous families in holiday mode reminded me that Norway itself is a great survivor. As the second world war advanced, Hitler turned the entire coastline into a fortress: his policy of “Festung Norwegen” convinced the allies that Germany would fight its last, apocalyptic stand on Norwegian soil. But the Nazis finally capitulated in May 1945, a date that still lends poignancy to the national day.

In some countries patriotism can be alarming or embarrassing but in Bergen I feel like waving a flag myself. In Norway, celebrating freedom is infectious.

http://www.ft.com/cms/s/2/be3ba65e-24ac-11de-9a01-00144feabdc0.html