Globusz^® Publishing 

The violent ringing of an alarm clock roused us on the morning of our departure. It was a day that we had long waited for, but our excitement was beneath the surface. We did not talk very much over breakfast; there was an emotional feeling to the occasion that was shared by us all. Our good-byes to our family were kept to a minimum; we had said all that there was to say before, so there was no point in prolonging any agonies.

In the quiet of the morning we drove slowly to the end of the road, waved to the small group behind us, and then turned the corner. We remember very little of the drive down to Dover. It rained hard every inch of the way, and it seemed fitting that it should. As the large droplets beat on to the road and splashed the windscreen, we were left with our thoughts - where would this road lead us? What would the coming year hold for us? We were not sure, but we slowly realised that we had our long awaited freedom and that gradually many of our imaginative ideas would become memorable experiences.

Once at Dover, we found that we had left two hours earlier than necessary. We partially used this time to ring Dunlop in London for the recommended tyre pressures for our total load of two tons four hundredweight. Having forgotten that it would be a long distance call, and asking for the wrong number, we spent a small fortune while the necessary information was being found for us. The last few moments were used up having a snack, and then in no time we were driving aboard the ‘Fabiola’. We made straight for an upper deck, and through the rain watched the slowly retreating coastline of England until it finally disappeared from view. At Ostend we cleared customs without any difficulties, and before we quite realised it, were driving through Belgium, stopping only for a short while in Ghent to send our first postcards home.

Not far from Antwerp, when we had covered nearly all our allocated distance, we pulled in to a quiet spot near some cultivated land. It was not suitable for us to erect our tent, so we slept in the Land Rover.

Holland.

After a comfortable night we entered Holland and drove straight to the modern centre of Rotterdam. To our surprise three Londoners who were also travelling in a Land Rover greeted us. They had been moving from one place to another for a year, spending some of their time working, and were able to give us an idea of the cost of living in some of the countries we were about to visit. This event, after only one day, was to set the trend for meeting numerous people over all parts of our journey.

In Amsterdam we saw something of the city in a very pleasant way for the time available. It is one of the few large cities where canals take the place of roads, and by travelling on one of the sightseeing boats along the narrow waterways; we were able to capture an atmosphere that would otherwise have been lost. As we chugged our way under low bridges, a guide pointed out the various places of interest, which included the fascinating sight of the narrowest house, just the width of its own front door, sandwiched between two larger buildings.

Holland is remarkably clean, and the steeply gabled red roofs of the neat houses gave us an almost toy-like impression of the country, which was retained when we visited Alkmaar. It was Friday, and our object was to see the famous cheese market. The little town certainly had an air of festivity about it. Colourful flags hung from most of the shop doorways, and many people wandered along the street as if they too were on holiday. Two men came along each pushing a large wooden barrow filled with round cheeses. They were just about to take them into one of the storehouses, which had shelves loaded with cheeses of all sizes. When we asked the men working there, where we would find the actual market, we were told it had been held earlier in the day.

As we wandered off the sound of music reached our ears, and we noticed the general tendency of the crowd to move towards a central square. Joining them we found ourselves part of a large gathering of people. At one side of the square there were about eight most elaborate hand-operated organs. Each one had a most ornately decorated front with painted and gilded figures holding miniature instruments. The organs were about eight or nine feet high and approximately seven feet wide. Each contestant at the festival proudly stood by the side of his organ ready to play, while the crowd waited patiently. There were old men puffing at well-loved pipes, fathers with children perched on their shoulders, women chattering, and many folk peering from the windows overlooking the square. The sun shone down on their expectant faces, and then a gentleman stepped towards a microphone and explained, in voluble tones, the qualities and technical attributes of one of the organs. After quite a speech that, by its enthusiasm alone, impressed us considerably (even though we didn’t understand a word), an organ player stepped forward and slowly began turning a handle. The square was suddenly filled with music. The tune we did not know, but we recognised the light-hearted quality reminiscent of fairgrounds in ages past. Although the melody was lively, the intent expression on the face of the owner as he turned the handle made one feel that it was also serious, and that we must not miss one note or fail to notice the little figures that moved in time with the music. Perhaps certain nostalgia prevailed as people realised that this was a dying art. Each organ played its part, every time with a glowing introduction from the gentleman with the microphone. After a while we turned, wended our way out of the crowd and along the cool, narrow streets. We may have missed the cheese market, but we certainly had been fortunate to see this colourful organ demonstration. Luckily, our friends Rosemarie and Wim Goudsblom lived in this little village so we stayed the night with them, before continuing our journey across perfectly flat, pleasant countryside; a gentle breeze was blowing through the vanes of otherwise silent windmills.

A large proportion of the country’s wealth comes from the harvests of the rich soil of reclaimed land. The Ijsselmeer Dyke, perfectly straight for thirty kilometres, carrying a good road, stands as visible evidence of the struggle of the Dutch people over the years against the might of the pounding seas. With the continual need to reclaim land, the Dutch now have a scheme, well under way, that will develop more polders in large areas of the Rhine Delta.

Our last day in this small country was spent at Groningen. It was afternoon when we arrived, and after wandering around for a while, found ourselves at the foot of the Gothic church tower of St. Martins.

Although the church was closed to visitors, it was possible to climb the tower. So we entered by small door and started to ascend the winding stairs. We passed one balcony and then came out on to another, being greeted at the same instant by an almost deafening peal of bells. Most of them were small and only a few feet behind us, but on our way up we had seen some larger ones with a few ruffled pigeons nesting in the rafters nearby. Here we had stopped to see the old gentlemen playing the bells. He sat at a wooden keyboard, his fingers covered with leather caps, a faded mackintosh about his shoulders. His enraptured expression told of his involvement with the mechanism and his affinity with the church.

Far below us the square that we had crossed earlier looked surprisingly empty, but around it we could see people cycling, strolling, and buying flowers from the colourful stalls with gaily-striped sunshades. Beyond were the green fields. When we had descended and reached the exit door we were told that we had climbed 323, or was it 363 steps? We did not feel any inclination to check, but whatever the number, it was a worthwhile experience, and as we walked away with the sound of bells still ringing clearly in our ears, we thought that this had made an appropriate end to our short stay in Holland.

We passed very quickly over the well-engineered autobahn in Germany, stopping only at Hamburg to collect some letters.

Denmark.

Once over the Danish border, we noticed the change from a flat landscape to rolling hills. This was the land of Hans Christian Anderson, so it seemed natural to visit the town of Odense where he was born in 1805. His home a quaint cottage in Hans Jensenstraede, just a few minutes walk from Munkemollestraede. Set as it is by such named streets, it gives a fairy-tale picture reminiscent of his stories for children. In the same street are many tiny shops and one in particular had a wonderful collection of woodcarvings for sale. There were two very life-like wooden figures standing about two feet high: one was of an old woman darning a sock the other was her husband. They appeared to be sharing some joke and the artist had skilfully captured a merry twinkle in their eyes.

It was now August and Denmark offered us fields of golden corn, with bright red poppies and blue cornflowers growing here and there. With country such as this around us we stopped to ask a young boy if we could camp anywhere. He went inside a farmhouse, and returned accompanied by an older man, who pointed to his apple orchard. This was ideal for our purposes. In this short time, quite a crowd of fair-headed boys, no doubt farm-helpers, had arrived from the fields and stood gazing at us. We wondered if it would be as private as we had hoped. Just as we were preparing to go to bed, the farmer and his wife came out and invited us into their home for coffee and cakes.

Inside the hundred and twenty-year old farmhouse, we were introduced to two of their daughters. The rest of the evening was spent talking, and eating some delicious, homemade Danish pastries.

Many objects in the house caught our attention as we were shown around. Among them were a huge, old stove, a chair two hundred years old, and a long, flat, wooden iron, which, according to custom, was given by a young man to his fiancée. There was a large English clock and a black and red embroidered sampler, upon which the farmer’s wife had given an idea of the German Invasion and Denmark’s subsequent freedom. She opened a drawer, took out a book and handed it to us. We looked inside and were surprised to find that it contained a number of names and addresses of foreign visitors, who had been to their farm, even though it was well off the beaten track.

Farmer Hansen was rightly proud of an invention of his called ‘Snild’, a machine by which a particular quantity of food, determined by the number of revolutions of the handle, could be rapidly dispensed to his pigs as it was trundled along between the pens. The word ‘Snild’ means simple, or easy, and this it certainly was. We were able to watch the machine in action the following morning when we went to see a newly born litter of fifteen piglets.

Saying goodbye to the Hansen family, we made our way, according to their directions and carefully drawn map, to Ladby near Kertminde, in order to see a Viking ship dating back a thousand years. The remains of it were enclosed in a glass case in the position that they were found, beneath a mound of earth facing south towards Valhalla. In Scandinavian mythology this was a paradise to which the souls of warriors were transported after they had been slain in battle.

In order that this mythical journey should be undertaken properly, the best arms, valuable ornaments, hunting dogs, and riding horses were placed beside the dead chieftain’s body. Looking inside this seventy-two feet long, ten feet wide ship, which was discovered in 1935, we could see the charred remains of several skeletons. The timber is preserved by the maintaining of a constant temperature and by weekly applications of three to five gallons of glycerine. Later, as we sat eating our lunch, we gazed across the estuary and could almost imagine the warriors bending against their oars as their ships left for other lands in search of treasure.

Roskilde is the largest, provincial town on the island of Zeeland. In the Middle Ages it was a royal town and the seat of the bishops, who were surpassed in wealth only by the king himself. The town’s fine cathedral has been the burial church of Danish royalty for a thousand years. Inside, apart from the elaborately carved marble and alabaster sarcophagi, the paintings in the chapel of Christian IV are well worth noting. We had to go within a few feet before we realised that the columns appearing at the side of each painting were not real; such was the effect produced by the double shadows painted to coincide with the light from two windows.

We felt that the best way for us to see wonderful Copenhagen in a fairly limited time was by taking a specially conducted tram tour of the city. Our guide was a tubby, jovial fellow, with a quick wit and an ability to speak several languages. The yellow tram began its somewhat rattling way along the streets, and in turn the various buildings of note were pointed out to us. Periodically the guide digressed to mention the Napoleonic wars, and invariably this would be punctuated by a comment about the English knocking the top off their cathedral.

At about the halfway point of the tour, we stopped at a Lutheran Church erected in honour of Grundvig, educator and hymn writer. The design was plain, but the facade was unusually built in the style of an organ. An interesting feature of the interior was a model sailing ship suspended from the roof. It is said that this symbolises one’s journey through life, and that with God’s help, one will cross the ocean safely.

In the afternoon we found our way to the Langeline Promenade, mainly to see the statue of the Little Mermaid. It is easy to build up an impression of something only to have it shattered when you get there but, for us, this little statue was delightful. Set on the edge of the harbour, she gives an air of calmness and simplicity in contrast to the bulk and efficiency of the ships that continually pass nearby.

A group of stolid-faced Japanese lined up for their photograph to be taken. Not a single lip from twenty faces moved to give an indication of their feelings. A young man thought that a photograph of the mermaid would be greatly enhanced by his presence and so he climbed up alongside her, much to the consternation of his friend, who became very annoyed that he could not get the photograph he wanted. The mermaid’s expression remained unchanged.

Sweden.

We crossed the Oresund from Helsingor to Helsingborg in Sweden, and, as we drove off the ferryboat, we realised that we were gradually getting into the swing of things. We were now in our second week and unlike some other holidaymakers we did not have to return. The weather was fine, and we were much more relaxed than when we had left home.

Some friends, Eddie and Susan Hobbs had given us an address in Linkoping and asked us to call and see some people that they had met whilst on holiday. They had given us a book to pass over as a present and also to serve as an introduction. Checking to make sure we had the right address we rang the bell.A woman opened the door, and as she did so I held up the book and tried to greet her with a few words of my very limited Swedish. I had only stumbled through the first few syllables, when the door was firmly closed with what must have been the equivalent of “Not today, thank you.” We rang again, but there was an unusual silence. We half turned to go away; what could we do - they knew we were there? We rang twice more and suddenly the door opened. Surely we could stop it closing again. Hurriedly we blurted out the names of our friends, then gradually the truth dawned as they realised we were not door-to-door sales people we were from England. Their expressions, and ours for that matter, changed from consternation to amusement and uncontrollable laughter.

Of course, they made us very welcome and the following morning escorted us around their town. We remember the tombolas situated on several street corners, the lovely statue called ‘Young Folk’ by Carl Milles, and we saw for the first time a Runic stone, which had originally been found by a farmer ploughing his field. A cross on it placed it in the Christian era, while the wording told of the exploits of a sea-faring Swede. We found other stones similar to this along the roadside, as we drove into the country around the north of Lake Vanern.

Although it was not included in our route, the temptation to visit Stockholm was great. However, we felt that we had better keep to our original idea, and not attempt too much. It seems appropriate to add here that no trip to Sweden is complete without seeing its fine capital.

Norway.

The countryside was very attractive and we had high hopes of finding a good camping place for the night. Once across the Norwegian border we fairly soon found a suitable area to pitch our tent - the best so far, situated on a shaded bank just above a little beach formed at one end of a lake. Pine trees, growing at one time in soft earth around the edge of the water, had fallen and now lay bleached by the sun. There were several piles of chopped logs in the vicinity, so we decided that we should have a fire that evening. Later we sat round the blazing logs, throwing the occasional pebble into the lake and watching the ripples move out as far as we could see towards the setting sun. There was a wonderful colouring to the clouds and, behind us; the full moon was trying hard to struggle into the blue. We did not realise then how often we would be impressed by sunsets. I have recorded many times in our diary words trying to capture some idea of our impressions at this time of evening.

After another day at this delightful spot we made our way to Oslo, and down to the bustling harbour, which is backed by the imposing City Hall. A trip by ferryboat was necessary to reach the Bygdoy Peninsular, where the Polar ship ‘Fram’ was exhibited in a steeply gabled building constructed in the style of an ancient boathouse. This ship was built for Nansen’s Polar Expedition during the years 1893 - 1896, and later used by Amundsen on his expedition to the South Pole from 1910 to 1912. A short distance away was a museum containing the Kon-Tiki raft.

The events, which led Thor Heyerdahl and five other companions to drift five thousand miles across the Pacific Ocean, began in 1946, when Heyerdahl suggested a new theory that it was practically possible for the prehistoric civilised people of South America to settle in Polynesia, a theory, which scientists had said, was impossible. The expedition set out from Calleo in Peru to prove Heyerdahl’s theory, and after a hundred and one days drifting, found itself and its crew on Raroia Island in Polynesia. Their raft was made from huge balsa logs from the jungle of Ecuador and was a replica of the original rafts used by the Incas about A.D. 500.

Although the raft was very strongly constructed, one could get some idea of the inadequacy of the woven reed shelter against the battering waves of the Pacific. Some photographs displayed gave visitors a very clear picture of the hazards encountered, and there was also the original map upon which the course had been plotted, together with the daily logbook. Underneath the raft was a panel depicting in full size the many fish that were seen on the voyage.

The Norwegian Folk Museum was well worth a visit. Here we were able to see a total of one hundred and fifty original wooden buildings which had been carefully dismantled and transported from their original sites scattered all over the country, and then re-erected as this permanent museum. Inside many of the houses was the original furniture dating from the Middle Ages until today. To our pleasure, we were able to watch some folk dancing in colourful national costume before leaving Bygdoy.

Oslo also offers the famous Sculpture Park designed by Gustav Vigeland. Contained within it are the results of over thirty years of his work, mainly portraying human beings and their attitudes to life.

The idea may be summarised by mentioning some of the more important works. For example, the fountain that occupies a prominent position in the park consists of a large bowl supported by six figures. Although the practical task is obvious, on closer inspection it can be seen that their reactions to the burden, as of life, are varied; two men are lifting well, a youth does not take the work seriously and hopes that the others will do his share, whilst the oldest gives his all, lifting vigorously.

On a bridge are many statues, including one of a small girl in bronze. This plump, curly-headed child, her widespread hands clasped to her bare stomach as she laughs and a statue of two boys running, their arms out-stretched above their heads, are among countless examples of Vigeland’s expression of humour and youthfulness.

The exhibits culminate with circular stairs leading up to a fifty-six foot column, Vigeland’s greatest sculpture. Seething masses of naked human figures climb over each other in an attempt to ascend to the higher regions. Perhaps it is not surprising that some people find this phallic-like monolith repulsive. One is not often confronted by a portrayal of writhing humanity in its more base form.However, given time to look closely at the figures and their expressions, and by dividing the column into three zones, one can see a pattern that culminates in a beauty and ecstasy more moving than first impressions allow.

The first zone, at the base shows inert bodies with little will to rise, then some only half-conscious, with closed eyes, begin a movement which ends in despair. The second zone consists of fighting and falling figures, while the third zone continues with the upward movement until the adult figures are transformed into children. From their expressions, it looks as though Vigeland has suggested that a certain peace, inborn in children, is unattainable for adults.

The sculptures gave us plenty to talk about as we left Oslo, and drove through the Gudbrandsdal valley, which extends from Norway’s largest lake Mjosa up to the Dovre Mountain plateau. Through this valley runs the Oslo-Trondheim railway.

We stopped at Ringebu to visit the stave church. There are only twenty-five of these wooden-built churches remaining in the country. The constructive principle is a system of mighty pillars, or staves, which, standing on solid ground sills; carry the roof of the church. Viewed from the outside, one is reminded of the old Viking ships, for on the shingle roof can be seen richly carved dragon-shaped boards.

Writing about roofs recalls a sight seen more than once in Norway that of a small fir tree with a Norwegian flag fluttering from the top, on the roof of a house. Apparently, as soon as a new house is completed, the custom is to erect a tree in this fashion.

From Dovrefjell we had some impressive views of the surrounding mountains, including the highest in the range, Mount Snohetta, seven thousand, four hundred and ninety-eight feet, and Skrimkolla, six thousand, five hundred feet. Later we arrived in the Norse city of Trondheim, which is situated on the southern shores of a fjord of the same name. This was the undisputed capital of Norway: here the king held court and the ecclesiastical dignitaries had their seat. It still is a royal city, for it was here that King Haakon VII of Norway was crowned in 1906, and here, also, the old Norse elected all Norwegian kings, including Canute, tings, the forerunners of the modern Parliament.

From the market square a statue of King Olav Trygvasson surveys the town, which he founded in 997. Nearby is the great cathedral, which was raised as a shrine in the Middle Ages to Saint Olav Heraldsson, the warrior king of Norway. Pilgrims visited it from every Christian land in the world, and a chain of inns or hostels was built all the way from Oslo, through the Gudbrandsdal Valley, over the mighty Mount Dovre, and down to this Gothic cathedral. We parked and realised that it was in the process of being restored. Several of the carved figures from above the entrance door, were missing and could be seen under the stonemasons’ chisels. Enormous blocks of stone were heaped within the confines of the working area, indicating that there was much more to be done. As it was impossible to go inside, we strolled along the streets to the Market Square, where we bought our daily provisions, before continuing northwards by way of Levanger, Mosjoen and Mo-i-Rana.

We were now eagerly looking out for a sign to say that we were at the Arctic Circle. We found it marked by an obelisk with the word ‘Polarcirkel’ inscribed on it. A trail of white stones led to other cairns, so that an approximate line could be seen. Around us the scenery looked suitably bleak; there was snow on the slopes, and snow fences in the vicinity suggesting that this was indeed a comparative calm before the intense cold to follow later in the year.

We noticed the railway was often taken through covered shelters in particularly exposed areas and some of the snow fences were laying flat on the ground, even though they were heavily constructed. We were cold enough to welcome the existence of an enormous, crackling; log fire in a small gift shop, where we sat drinking steaming hot coffee. From here it was possible to send cards bearing the Arctic Circle postmark, so we wrote a couple to England.

That night we stayed in one of the many hyttes, or small log cabins, that can be rented for about thirteen kroner (about thirteen shillings) per night. These are usually simple affairs, with bunks, table, chairs, electric light and often, enough wood chopped ready for a fire. From our hytte we watched two men fishing in the fast flowing river. They were gradually wading towards us using extremely long rods, which they frequently cast and kept jerking up and down to give the bait movement in the water. One of the men made a catch as we watched and he was soon making his way in our direction. Audrey immediately thought of a time in Scotland when on a similar occasion we had been given enough fish for our evening meal. The fisherman beamed with pleasure as he proudly offered his fish for closer inspection. We stepped forward to look, but as we did so he quickly slipped it back into his pocket and strode briskly towards his home and a tasty supper.

The following morning dawned fine, and we started a drive that was to take us through some magnificent scenery. There were many nurseries, with young firs only four or five inches tall, which reminded us of the many stages in the lives of these grand trees. Over the last few days we had seen timber floating within great ‘hoops’ on the lakes, logs stacked by the roadside and, on one occasion, we had spent some time fascinated by the work of three lumberjacks as they balanced on floating logs. Using long, spiked poles they kept the wood moving until it was eventually caught by a rush of water and sent hurtling down a waterfall to a river some hundred feet below.

We reached the Rosvik to Bonnasjoen ferry, and this gave us the opportunity of a boat trip along the length of the small Leir Fjord.

It was a thoroughly enjoyable experience seeing the great mass of land falling steeply into the deep blue waters of this sea inlet. The sun shone on scattered farmsteads perched high on the lush, green slopes that slipped past us as the boat chugged gently on, scarcely moving the calm waters that reflected the blue of the sky. We were a little reluctant to climb back into the Land Rover after this trip. However, there was still plenty of wonderful scenery to gaze upon, so much so that we almost missed a fine red fox that loped across the road ahead of us. The soft evening light caught its bushy tail as it sprang over the edge of the road and, although we stopped at the spot where it had run off, it was impossible to find again in the undergrowth.

A quiet inlet with a white sandy beach suggested itself as a likely camping place. There were the remains of an old boat just visible, and as we instinctively walked towards it several oystercatchers flew up, shrieking as they usually do when they sense danger. We wandered about for a while, but were shortly disturbed by the drone of a small, low-flying aeroplane. It circled for some time and then descended, to land on the water and disappeared round the headland. We learned later that it was one of the “flying doctor” seaplanes arriving to take some of the injured to hospital after a road accident nearby.

There were several more ferry crossings, lasting from half and hour to an hour. Our last trip took us almost to Narvik, a town of many coloured houses set on a fjord. Then we drove on to Tromso, known as the capital of the Arctic. The approach to the island on which it is situated is over a new road bridge that gracefully spans a strip of water called ‘The Sound’. The old way of travelling across was by ferry, the new way cost us a seven-kroner (about seven shillings) toll.

We had decided not to use the tent and soon found a pension for an overnight stop. The one we discovered was not very inviting, but it would allow us to leave promptly in the morning to explore the town. Soon after we had settled in our room, a lorry drew up outside, and the occupants, a man and two girls, took over the vacant room adjoining ours. We had to go through their room to reach the toilet that was downstairs and outside. Across the road were some wooden houses, one of them inhabited by a curious woman. She was obviously quite concerned with the ‘goings-on’ at our boarding house, constantly looking between her discreetly drawn curtains towards the lorry driver’s window. After an hour glaring in this direction, and becoming more and more irritated, we watched her leave her house, setting off briskly with a backward glance that portrayed that she meant business, It was rather like watching the first act only of a play.

Tromso in the evening seemed quite busy. Groups of people stood talking together, others leisurely walked along the main streets. Undoubtedly they would make good use of the light hours, for when winter comes the sun stays below the horizon for a full two months. There were many young people and numbers of seafaring folk from the lively fishing industry. Most of the shops were still open, and one in particular was a real eye-catcher. Outside stood a polar bear! Fortunately, it was stuffed. Some of the tall, wooden buildings were very old and suggest the size of the town as it was in the days of the great explorers Amundsen and Nansen. We found both of their statues in the town, reminders of the times when Amundsen was first to reach the South Pole, and Nansen reached the highest latitude until then attained of 86° 14’, after setting sail in the ‘Fram’, which, you will remember, we saw during our visit to Oslo.

We were at the quayside early, just as the pale morning sun illuminated the massive, silver, storage tanks of the petrol companies. Our purpose was to see the fishermen at work on their latest catch. It was a bloody affair, with groups of men in yellow oilskin aprons gathered around great piles of boxes and barrels, gutting the fish and throwing them into trays. They worked cheerfully together, and we imagined their fathers and grandfathers could also have been fishermen of Tromso.

‘Paris to North Cape’, ‘Hamburg to North Cape’, we read on notices painted or stuck on the bonnets or boots of many cars on the road. The North Cape seemed to be the destination of many travellers, but as we had decided that Tromso was to be our most northerly point, we now turned inland, southeast from latitude 70º N.

A hut at the edge of a lake parked a car, and we watched as the owner stowed two or three boxes of small fish inside. We stopped to enquire the price. The fisherman thought we required a bucketful, but with some difficulty, we made him understand that we only needed half a dozen. He looked at us amazed, but sold us the required amount, which cost about a shilling. Soon, they were sizzling and spitting in the frying pan and once eaten we realised how silly we had been, not to buy more, for they were delicious.

By now, we were well accustomed to our life on the move, and revelled in our freedom. Our eyes were becoming more receptive to things around us and with the few reference books that we had, we were able to identify several birds and wild flowers. One evening we walked to a beach backed by sand dunes, broken by gently waving grasses and scrub.

We were beside the Lyngen Fjord, just before the road turns towards Finland. We had with us a pair of 6 x 30 binoculars, and with these we were able to pick out from the various gulls on the sandbanks, curlews, curlew sandpipers, a razorbill, and a cormorant, as well as several coal-tits in the trees behind us. We were using a Field Guide to Birds in Europe’, which is one of the best bird handbooks, and certainly the most compact for our purposes.

We caught sight of some deserted Lapp tents, and reminded ourselves that Lapland is an area stretching across the northern parts of Norway, Sweden and Finland into Russia. There is no defined boundary and the nomadic Lapp wanders, according to the season, across the cold wastes of these northern territories. The Lapps are said to be of Mongol origin, short and generally thickset, with dark skin and hair and high cheekbones. Men, women and children dress very similarly in the brightest blue woollen kofti or tunics lavishly embroidered in red and yellow. By these embroideries, the Lapp can tell another member of his tribe. They wear reindeer-skin leggings and pointed skin shoes, fur coats in the winter and, on their heads, the traditional four-cornered caps that give them rather a gnomish appearance.

Their wigwam type tent is constructed from strong saplings resting together to provide a circular framework. This in turn is covered with reindeer skins, a hole being left in the top to let out the smoke from the fire. The greater part of their diet is obtained from the reindeer, of which they may own between a few hundred, to over a thousand. Many of the original Lapps have given up their nomadic life and have moved farther south, working as labourers, or farmers. Some take advantage of the tourist trade and one occasionally sees colourful families with their tents just off the road. Sometimes having sold one of their skins as a souvenir, they will, as likely as not, pack up and move on to their modern wooden house a short distance along the road.

Finland.

We crossed the border into Finland at Kilpisjarvi, which is at the head of ‘The Way of the Four Winds’. Following almost parallel to the Swedish border, we drove south to Muonio. For some time we had been trying to catch sight of reindeer, and at long last we were rewarded to see about thirty. They were some way off from the road, so we could not see them very well through the heavy, driving rain. Later, quite unexpectedly, we met a lone, white reindeer, leisurely making his way through a village.

The landscape generally appeared flatter, in contrast with the mountainous views that we had enjoyed further to the north, and villages were becoming few and far between. The roads that were tending to become long and straight were edged by thick fir forests. We remarked on how few of the children were waving to us, and wondered if perhaps the Finnish people had a more restrained character than their Scandinavian neighbours. Along one stretch of road we saw a Volkswagen that had broken down. We offered to give assistance, but the occupant was convinced that nothing could be done at the roadside; he only wanted a lift to the nearest garage. We did not have to drive many miles, but on arrival we could see that he had great difficulty in making himself understood by the mechanic. He was from Norway and in spite of the fact that he could speak a little English; he did not have a single word of Finnish.

Somewhere in the calculation of the total mileage for Finland, I had lost three hundred miles. Consequently, we decided to drive direct from Jyvaskyla to Helsinki, rather than by way of Tampere and Hameenlinna. It meant that we would see less of the lakes than we had hoped, because, apart from making up this time, I had to allow for an extra day in Helsinki to complete the first three thousand miles’ service on the Land-Rover.

Once again we crossed the Arctic Circle, this time driving south and were surprised to see no more than a small notice to this effect.

The plentiful supply of wood in the area was certainly used by the people for making well covers, barns, tubs, sheds for milk churns and ladders, which we saw fixed on roofs and walls of their drab, wooden houses. Little clusters of wooden boxes were fixed to trees by the roadside. We discovered that these were for the post, but there were also similar nesting boxes that were fixed to branches and tied to the chimney pots. Audrey spent some time sketching these different sights as we drove along.

Kemi, situated at the head of the Gulf of Bothnia, is the chief shipping centre of the Finnish timber trade. It was here that we first saw women working on the roads and clearing hedges. At our camp that night, midges plagued us. We had been told that we might be bothered by them, so had packed quite a stock of insect repellent. However, the midges persisted and for Audrey, who was trying to wash out some clothes, it was an almost impossible task. Our only refuge was the Land Rover.

The following day found us in Oulu, and we wandered for a time around the oldest and most representative part of the city, which is dominated by the cathedral flanking the Franzen Park. Most Finns follow the Lutheran faith and their churches suffered badly in the general destruction by the Germans in 1944.

Leaving Oulu, we had a very lucky escape when a car, which was coming fairly fast towards us, burst a tyre and went into a long skid. Just before it reached us it stopped, in a cloud of smoke, dust and flying rubber, without swerving to our side.

At the end of the day, there seemed to be no good camping possibilities on either side of the road, so we turned off onto a smaller road. This seemed no better, so we made our way along a narrow cart track, which gave us a bone shaking ride, to a group of farm- buildings. We walked up to the farmhouse and spoke to a young girl inside who, finding she could not understand us, called her husband. We asked his permission to camp and, after many signs, he finally seemed to realise what we wanted. He nodded in agreement, and we were soon having our usual cook-up and pitching the tent. While we were eating he came over with his wife and three young children and they all sat down on the grass bank to watch us. We handed them cigarettes and gave sweets to the children, and after a while they invited us to the farm where we tried to establish better contact by drawing little pictures and passing them backwards and forwards to each other. We quickly discovered that their names were Terho and Helja, and that their children, two boys and a girl, were called Pentli, Auvo and Tanja. It was a bright, lively family and we admired Helja’s youthful energy with her children – all of whom went about barefooted.

Looking around the room we compared their surroundings and life with a typical young English family. There were a few pieces of wooden furniture, a large stove in the corner of the room, and hanging on the wall a gun and a pair of elk’s antlers.

After drawing a fish and a small boat, we pointed to the lake asking if they went fishing. I suppose it was fairly obvious that they did but it was as good a subject as any to talk about. Without more ado, they took us outside and in no time at all, Helja had dug up some worms, and Terho was beckoning us to follow him to the lakeside. He went to some trouble to explain about two bottles, but we did not fully understand. One thing became suddenly very clear, they were preparing us for a fishing trip, which from our drawing they thought we had asked for. It was also evident, that they had no intentions of accompanying us.

We rowed out to the middle of the lake and noticed two glass bottles bobbing gently on the surface.What Terho had been saying began to make sense. He had been trying to tell us that we must not row beyond this point. We baited the three lines with wriggling worms and cast them out. Although we had discovered a rock attached to a piece of rope, in the bottom of the boat to serve as an anchor, we preferred to drift slowly.

It was a beautiful calm evening and, as we sat patiently waiting, the fish nibbling at the bait, the sun sank lower in the sky. Gradually a red and orange hue spread from the western sky until, with the whole effect reflected in the gently lapping water, we ourselves seemed to be a part of the lake and the sky.

Some time later the fish were still nibbling, but none had taken a good bite, even though the mosquitoes had tried their luck with us. They were continually buzzing around our heads, and it became progressively more and more uncomfortable. With our anoraks well zipped up and the hoods covering as much of our faces as possible, we made our way back to the shore where we were met by Terho and Helja, who laughed when we told them we had not caught any fish. I expect they caught several on each occasion that they went out and were probably immune to mosquito bites as well.

That evening we continued our talking with drawings and signs. Helja showed us how she made the colourful floor mats, by knitting together narrow strips of material. We drank innumerable cups of strong, hot coffee, and were shown all the old family photographs, before we wandered sleepily back to our tent pitched under a brilliant starry sky.

We had promised to see the family again before leaving in the morning, and after more coffee, they took us to their sauna bath. Over the past few days we had often seen clouds of smoke and steam rising from small wooden shacks, but this was our first opportunity of seeing inside. It was a simple affair, with a number of large stones and pebbles contained in a metal drum over a fire. Along one wall was a bench, and that was all there was to it. They explained that when the fire was burning well, they threw water onto the stones, which gave off clouds of intensely hot steam. After sitting in this humid atmosphere, the bathers beat themselves vigorously with young birch twigs gathered from the trees nearby, whilst throwing on more water and increasing the temperature. We were told that the hardy would then go for a swim in the lake, or, in the winter, even roll in the snow. It seemed as though Terho and Helja wanted us to join them in their bathing that morning. Foolishly, perhaps, we did not grasp at this opportunity to engage in such a typical event, so different from our conventional English bath surrounded by tiles and porcelain.

Helja insisted that she should collect some drinking water for us from their well. It was one of the types that we had seen many times in Finnish villages, with a long counter-poised arm to raise the bucket. Energetically, she lowered and raised the metal pails until our large water carriers were filled, and we were then ready to leave.

Our impression of Helsinki is not retained with the same enthusiasm that we have for Copenhagen or Oslo. Perhaps the limited time spent there was a factor, but, on looking back, cannot be the real reason. No, somehow Helsinki lacked sparkle. We remember a long, dusty walk from our camp-site to the centre of the city where we saw the President’s Palace, the Parliament Building, the Cathedral, and the National Museum, but it was almost a case of‘doing the rounds’. Later, we met people who enjoyed Helsinki immensely, and we feel we would not be justified in being too critical, as one’s impressions are often influenced by a state of mind.

A service for the Land Rover was due and as we were somewhat fatigued, I inquired at the appropriate agents but found that the cost would be about twenty pounds. I was therefore glad that I could do the job myself and got down to it straight away.

I also took the opportunity of having a haircut, and was quite surprised to have this done by a woman. Although more expensive than in England (about eight shillings), the standard was good and I was well satisfied.

The prices of foodstuffs often shocked us; coffee being four times the price we pay in England and bread more than double.

Our next camping site at Hamina we found difficult to locate. When we finally discovered it, it seemed deserted. Probably the camping season had ended, and a newly constructed road from Hamina to the Russian border may have added to our difficulties. However, it suited our needs quite well, and we put the tent down on the beach. We spent two nights there, and during the day did all our outstanding washing chores. There was time to bathe in the sea as well, although it was very cold. It was shallow for a long way out and we had great fun trying to catch small silver fish that swam very close to us.

From the water we looked back to our tent on the beach, and compared its position with our recent one at Helsinki, also on the beach. At Helsinki we had experienced difficulty in finding enough space in putting the tent down – the place was so crowded. Here, the tent was pleasantly isolated with lofty pine trees sheltering it from behind, the evening sun toasting the sand to golden brown. But nature, being what it is, transformed this scene completely, for when we awoke the following morning, the air was heavy with moisture, and the first rays of the new sun were playing on the multitude of fine cobwebs festooned between the spiky pine needles.