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I busked to Norway's midnight sun with a cello and a broken heart
Taking a trip in my old yellow van, I tapped into a superpower I didn’t know I had – and found a freedom I never knew existed
It was 10pm, time many people are thinking about bed, and I was pulling on hiking boots. On the other side of the metal walls of my yellow van was the island of Magerøya.
I shouldered my backpack (peanuts, chocolate, flask of coffee), opened the door, and stepped into an impenetrable world. It had been light for 24 hours a day since I crossed into the Arctic Circle two weeks ago. The enveloping fog reminded me of the darkness I’d left behind.
Magerøya is 300 miles from Norway’s border with Russia, connected to the mainland by a tunnel. Norway is bisected by countless fjords that reach far inland and cause major headaches for civil engineers. I’d got used to waiting in line for old-fashioned car ferries, or crossing the fjords via tunnels and bridges, feats of engineering paid for with tolls and oil money. The Nordkapptunnelen (North Cape Tunnel) to Magerøya is one of the deepest in the country. It plunges 2km below sea level.
I made a detour to the small town of Honningsvåg for fuel and drinking water. There didn’t seem to be many shops or petrol stations on Magerøya. There didn’t seem to be much of anything, apart from bog cotton dancing on the endless scrubby wilderness and the occasional reindeer meandering across the single-track road. There were no cars or campervans, just two motorbikes with German plates, speeding towards Nordkapp.
It was Knut who told me that Nordkapp, in spite of being known as the most northerly point on mainland Europe, isn’t, in fact. The real most northerly point is the headland of Knivskjellodden, a couple of kilometres west. Only there’s no road to Knivskjellodden: getting there involves an 8km hike over tundra formed of lakes, marshes and willow scrub to the windswept, barren edge of the Arctic Ocean.
The trailhead car park was a small patch of gravel, and my van was the only thing parked in it. It was a 3.5 tonne Iveco Daily, with a twin axle, a three-litre engine, and 150,000 miles on the clock. I’d spotted it on the side of the road back home in Cornwall, with a For Sale notice taped on the windscreen. I paid £1,350, with cash I saved from picking daffodils. In spite of everyone’s clicking tongues, it had already carried me 3,000 miles.
I locked it, kissed the rusting paintwork, and looked around for the start of the trail. Knut had told me it was marked by piles of rocks with red arrows painted on them. He didn’t tell me I wouldn’t be able to see the arrows because of the fog.
https://www.theguardian.com/travel/2021/jul/09/i-busked-to-norways-midnight-sun-with-a-cello-and-a-broken-heart
It was 10pm, time many people are thinking about bed, and I was pulling on hiking boots. On the other side of the metal walls of my yellow van was the island of Magerøya.
I shouldered my backpack (peanuts, chocolate, flask of coffee), opened the door, and stepped into an impenetrable world. It had been light for 24 hours a day since I crossed into the Arctic Circle two weeks ago. The enveloping fog reminded me of the darkness I’d left behind.
Magerøya is 300 miles from Norway’s border with Russia, connected to the mainland by a tunnel. Norway is bisected by countless fjords that reach far inland and cause major headaches for civil engineers. I’d got used to waiting in line for old-fashioned car ferries, or crossing the fjords via tunnels and bridges, feats of engineering paid for with tolls and oil money. The Nordkapptunnelen (North Cape Tunnel) to Magerøya is one of the deepest in the country. It plunges 2km below sea level.
I made a detour to the small town of Honningsvåg for fuel and drinking water. There didn’t seem to be many shops or petrol stations on Magerøya. There didn’t seem to be much of anything, apart from bog cotton dancing on the endless scrubby wilderness and the occasional reindeer meandering across the single-track road. There were no cars or campervans, just two motorbikes with German plates, speeding towards Nordkapp.
It was Knut who told me that Nordkapp, in spite of being known as the most northerly point on mainland Europe, isn’t, in fact. The real most northerly point is the headland of Knivskjellodden, a couple of kilometres west. Only there’s no road to Knivskjellodden: getting there involves an 8km hike over tundra formed of lakes, marshes and willow scrub to the windswept, barren edge of the Arctic Ocean.
The trailhead car park was a small patch of gravel, and my van was the only thing parked in it. It was a 3.5 tonne Iveco Daily, with a twin axle, a three-litre engine, and 150,000 miles on the clock. I’d spotted it on the side of the road back home in Cornwall, with a For Sale notice taped on the windscreen. I paid £1,350, with cash I saved from picking daffodils. In spite of everyone’s clicking tongues, it had already carried me 3,000 miles.
I locked it, kissed the rusting paintwork, and looked around for the start of the trail. Knut had told me it was marked by piles of rocks with red arrows painted on them. He didn’t tell me I wouldn’t be able to see the arrows because of the fog.
https://www.theguardian.com/travel/2021/jul/09/i-busked-to-norways-midnight-sun-with-a-cello-and-a-broken-heart
