Archive | Tales from my Travels RSS feed for this section

Putting the X into biking (and skiing…)

16 Mar

I did my first ‘social’ bike ride of the year last weekend, frolicking in sun, daffodils and the onset of picnic weather. My thoughts are thus turning to recipes and route notes, and away from fog and rain, but the misery of English winters hasn’t quite left us yet.

And winter has largely meant X-Biking. I’m a bit of a fair-weather cyclist, truth be told, so my bikes have seen little action over the last few months. X-Biking is a take on spinning, but with moveable handlebars, which means that I can rock along to Bon Jovi whilst pummelling imaginary foes with my arms. Demonstration below (and if it’s good enough for the army, it’s good enough for me…).

It’s more cross-training than cycling, to be honest, but by putting some resistance into the handlebars you not only get to vent any frustrations, but also work out your upper body. All in all, it is thoroughly knackering.

Forgetting one's sunglasses + minus 20 windchill = crimes to fashion

Now to the skiing. I have been nowhere near a bike lately, having returned to snow and minus degrees in Norway, with a copy of Jo Nesbo’s The Leopard under my arm. I was only a few chapters in when I discovered that the murder victim is from Levanger, my home town. Now, believe me, it doesn’t happen often that Levanger is given much mention in the world of fiction, so this was thrilling to say the least - until I got to the following sentence, that is: ‘You can take the girl out of Levanger, but you can’t take Levanger out of the girl’ Is that me, then?

For naturally, the first thing I do when I get back home is to head into the mountains and strap on my skis. This is when I discovered, joy of joys, that I now possess arm muscles. They are rather useful for cross-country skiing, but I have gotten along fairly well without them until now.

I credit X-biking with my new-found advantage, since regular cycling never did much to improve my cross-country abilities. So there you are – miserable English winters are good for something.

Ice and snow in Frolfjellet

Tags: , , , , , , , ,

A Copenhagen (time) trial

3 Nov

With a trip to Copenhagen coming up, I seize on an idea. Why not celebrate Hushovd’s win by trying out the route for next year’s World Championships? Copenhagen is not only one of the world’s most bike-friendly cities, after all, but also the UCI’s first bike city.

My original idea is to go for the road cycling route, but as that leaves me geographically challenged, I settle for the time trial route instead. All that is left is to convince my mum, my travel companion for the trip, that this would be a fun way to see Copenhagen. ‘The route passes Kastellet, Tivoli and Nyhavn,’ I tell her, in an attempt to sell the idea.

‘We could stop for drinks and lunch, drop by some art galleries and explore the castle, and it’ll be great for people- watching’. My mum, who has gamely accepted the rest of my hectic and somewhat random itinerary, says yes.

The night before we leave I check the weather; Copenhagen is due heavy rain all week. I begin to fear for my cycling plan. I have images of soaked clothes, ruined hair dos and a mother suffering a complete sense of humour failure whilst being splashed by cars, stressed by the traffic and mercilessly rained on.

Sure enough, my mum soon calls. ‘Have you seen the weather forecast?’ she asks, and my heart sinks, my wonderful plan with it.

‘We’ll need thermal underwear,’ she continues, ‘and rainproof trousers. Would you like me to bring you a spare pair?’
‘Thermal underwear?’
‘For our cycling trip. And helmets, obviously. Are you packing cycling gloves, or making do with normal ones? I’ve got a rainproof bag for cameras, if you like.’

This is when I realise – I am not the most cycling-mad person in my family.

Tags: , , ,

Cycling and sailing in Norway, part 2

20 Aug

Mileage: 6km, from Brekstad to Austrått
Why: Catching up with the boat and visiting Austrått castle
Food: Waffles at Austrått castle

Our guide explains 'the only gate of its kind south of Spain'

‘Greenland, the Orkneys and Iceland used to be Norwegian,’ the formidable Austrått guide informed us. ‘And I want them back!’

Our guide was showing us around Austrått castle, and was quite adamant that the shrinking of Norwegian territories had been quite unjust. She was less clear on what exactly we should be doing with a bunch of sheep and unpredictable volcanoes, should we ever get them back, but at least Austrått seemed the correct venue to start her campaign.

Austrått castle doesn’t look much like the grand castles dotted around the rest of Europe, but it has a key location by the entrance to the Trondheimsfjord, and has been the seat of various Norwegian aristocratic families since 1000AD. Many of them have been the subject of plays and operas, such as Ibsen’s Lady Inger of Oestraat’, and our guide had opinions on most of the owners.

'The fair maidens' overlook the castle courtyard

She was most incensed by Christian Frederik von Marschalck, whose disastrous tenancy she seemed to view as a personal affront. Ove Bjelke, the 17th century owner who was responsible for the castle’s current look, on the other hand, was treated with a degree of awe, and she finished the tour by throwing open the door to a small, intimate room, declaring ‘meet Ove!’. Ove was happily hidden inside a wooden casket, and therefore not able to greet us, but we still got a fright.

We’d cycled out from Hovde Gård in Brekstad earlier that morning, and had found two further hotels along the tiny high street. Three hotels is no mean feat for a town of 1,900 inhabitants, but then the Fosen peninsula has always been of vital importance to the Trondheimsfjord; originally because it controlled access to the fjord and therefore also Trondheim, but more latterly because it houses one of the Norwegian Air Force’s two main airports.

The Germans also understood this, building a fortress close to Austrått castle, in order to defend their interests in the fjord during WW2. It never saw action, as it happens, but it’s still an interesting sight.

The canon is now trained on Brekstad...

Apart from the castle and the fortress, the peninsula attracts visitors for the fishing, boating and cycling, all of which are stellar. We therefore headed back to the boat, packed up the bikes and set sail for Leksvik for a spot of fishing.

A fisherman's job is never done

Coalfish is the name of the game in Leksvik, and a combination of flow and ebb and local knowledge was all we needed to rake in 24 sizeable fish in a pretty short period of time. This promoted my mum to captain, whilst my dad was locked out on deck with the seagulls in order to gut fish. Simon, meanwhile, hit the aquavit bottle, having been brought low by a combination of sunburn and seasickness.

It was midnight by the time we returned to Levanger. A few hours later we had feasted on flatbread, pan-fried coalfish and copious anchor drams.

Not quite midnight sun in Levanger, but almost

The next adventure was camping, but as bikes never featured I shall spare you the tale of my 104 mosquito bites…

Tags: , , , , , , , ,

Cycling and sailing in Norway, part 1

19 Aug

Mileage: 16 km
Why: Take in the stunning views of the Fosen peninsula
Food: None en-route, but amply fuelled by burgers pre-cycling and aquavit post-cycling

Luggage batch no 2...

As Contador and Schleck were getting ready to battle for the yellow jersey on the Tour’s final time trial, I had an even bigger task ahead of me – how to pack for a one night boat trip including sunbathing, deep-sea fishing, cycling, sightseeing, trekking,  a celebration dinner and a stay in a very nice hotel.

This itinerary might sound daunting, but we actually started out with five hours solid sun-bathing, borne out of sheer relief that it was at all possible. The day before we had arrived to a Trondheim airport so rain-soaked that the lady in the seat in front had put on a rain cape whilst still on the plane. Not the weather for either cycling or sailing.

On the day of our little fjordcruise, however, the sun filled the open expanse of the fjord with light and glittering sea. Our transport was Hilda II, my parents’ little fishing boat, stroke floating hotel, and the venue of a an ongoing tug of war, whose battle lines  are drawn across the cabin entrance. The inside, a meticulously clean and tidy dictatorship ruled by my mum’s iron fist vs the outside, a relaxed fishing and sunbathing space ostensibly belonging to my dad, but where even the seagulls are made feel my mum’s influence.

Setting out from Levanger

As the sun was out and the sea ‘oily’, the rather picturesque term for calm, black water, we chugged along the shore in leisurely fashion in no hurry at all. We started in Levanger, towards the inner end, heading for Brekstad, on the inside tip of the peninsula enclosing the wide, open basins of the fjord.

The Trondheimsfjord lacks the drama of the Western fjords, but it is both prettier and gentler, or at least when the weather gods are in a good mood. That might not be so much of an issue further in, but Brekstad looked like the recipient of an unexpected and sizeable lottery win when we arrived. The landscape is flat and treeless, thus facing all the mood swings of the Atlantic weather, so the inhabitants had wasted no time in getting out shorts and bikinis when faced with a sunny, windless day.

But on to the cycling. Hilda II is equipped for everything from fishgutting to champagne toasts, so we shouldn’t have been surprised at the appearance of two fold-up bikes in the hold. Putting them together was a different issue, but someone has to take the photos, after all, so I left it to the boys.

Complicated stuff...

Having eventually solved that puzzle, Simon and I jumped on the funky, little 24-gear bikes and headed off along the coast. As the peninsula narrowed we had views to the sea on both sides, the evening sun bathing the fields in the characteristic golden light of the fjord

The tip of the Fosen peninsula

The flat landscape also makes the area perfect for cyclists of all abilities, with long , traffic-free coastal roads stretching all the 130-odd km to the end of the fjord. Our trip was shorter, as we were only 8km from the tip, but we were met by a great deal of lycra along the way, some with bulging panniers, others whizzing past our little contraptions – all but one, who had all the gear, but still lost out to our rather modest speed. Just goes to prove that equipment and ability are in no way related.

The anchor dram was waiting for us when we returned to the boat. This tradition is observed in boats of all descriptions, and dictates that a small toast must be made at the safe return of any journey. Not sure how much danger we had ever been in on the placid fjord, but any excuse for a glass of Aquavit seemed good enough at this point.

As Hilda II is not the most spacious, Simon and I took our bags on the short walk to Hovde Gård for the night, which was also to be the venue for my dad’s birthday dinner.

Miss Brekstad's room in Hovde Gaard

Norwegian hotels are generally practically inclined, eschewing style for functionality, but Hovde Gård proved the exception. Once a housekeeping school, the old building has been lovingly restored and is now an elegant hotel with a real sense of history and atmosphere. The main building has kept the lay-out of the school, with rooms named after the original inhabitants and shared showers and bathrooms, and though a more modern set-up is available in the annex, we never regretted opting for the main house.

'The barn' restaurant

The restaurant proved to be a match for the hotel, serving delicious seafood dishes in what used to be the barn. Thus we could celebrate my dad’s birthday in true style, feasting on monkfish in seafood sauce and home-made caramel pudding. Nothing left to do but to let the sea air and the duck feather duvet lull us to sleep. Bliss.

Evening at Hovde Gaard

Tags: , , , , , , , , , ,

Why bike locks can be good for a marriage

14 Jul

Mileage: 15 miles + 3 miles walking
Why: Well, it was supposed to be a relaxing day out…
Food: Quiche beyond Lorraine 

I once heard a story of a couple who decided to carry a tree trunk for 100 miles through the forests of northern Norway, whilst also sharing a single sleeping bag at night. The thinking was that by the end of this mammoth undertaking they would either have saved their ailing marriage, having learnt how to cooperate the hard way, or else be heading for the divorce lawyers. I never got to hear the end of this story, and so can’t say whether the days of marriage guidance counsellors are numbered, but I have now tried my own mini version of this. 

But back to the beginning. We had a day of cycling planned, and headed for Eversholt, where we stopped for a picnic by the cricket ground. It was a beautiful day, sun, 30◦C and a light breeze. The fields stretched out before us, ripening wheat fields yellow and swaying in the wind. 

After 15 miles or so, thirst overtook us, so we rolled into the Prince of Wales in Ampthill, locked the bikes up and settled into the beer garden with a pair of lemonades. We were feeling good at this point. We were only 3 miles from home and we were discussing route options for prolonging the trip. Another 10? 20? It was a glorious day, and we were feeling the call of the road. 

Back to the bikes then. I put my helmet back on, got my gloves out. Simon got the keys and went to work on the lock. With no success. ‘It doesn’t fit,’ he said. I looked at the post box key he was holding, and dismay set in. Oh, no. 

Just to straighten this out, it was me who locked the bikes. It was me who, pleased as punch, produced the lock, fitted it and locked it, without first checking that we had the keys. ‘I did think so at the time,’ was Simon’s comment afterwards. Most helpful. 

Thankfully, I had only locked the frames together, rather than the wheels, and since it was a flexible lock, we were able to create a bit of space between the bikes. Just enough to roll them along without getting the pedals stuck between the spokes more than about – hmm, let’s see – every 50 metres or so. 

And so we set off, stumbling along with plenty of lamentations and not too many recriminations, interspersed by much clanging and clamour. We settled into a rhythm of sorts eventually, and started making some progress, disrupted only by the odd complaint: 

‘You’re leaning into me!’
‘Drift right a little.’
‘You’re pushing me off the curb!’
‘OOWW!!!!’ 

That sort of thing. When a car stopped to ask for directions we were rooted to the spot like a pair of Muppets. ‘Do you [muffle, muffle] where [muffle, muffle] is?’  We stared at him blankly, forcing him eventually to turn the car around and roll up next to us, whilst we shuffled towards him gingerly like a pair of Siamese twins. All that, only to find that we didn’t know the answer. 

A police car rolled past shortly afterwards, causing us to reshuffle again in order to hide the offending lock from view. I kept thinking of ways to prove that it was, in fact, my own bike I was apparently stealing, but the police never spotted us, or else they had better things to do. 

3 miles later, we were thoroughly exhausted, with bruised legs (pedals), swollen thumbs (trapped between handle bars) and sore backs (you try walking bent sideways). Nettles did the works on our feet and the sun ensured we were both burned and parched by the time we were eventually able to retrieve the keys from our back door keys and give ourselves some well-deserved separation. 

Oh, and did I mention it was our wedding anniversary? Chained together indeed… 

From the beer garden of the Prince of Wales - locked bikes bottom right

 

(I do apologise for the lack of photos. A successful marriage relies on good communication skills, and a good communicator knows how to pick the right moment. The point when a pedal has grazed an already bruised leg for the umpteenth time is not the right time to say ‘honey, I need to take a photo of this for my blog’.)

Tags: , , , ,

← Older Entries

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.