Væröy and Reine, Lofoten Islands, Norway
The Lindblad luck is still with us: another day of bright sunshine, from a sun that never went to bed last night, but instead turned night into day. We are in Lofoten, which sounds like a planet on the far side of Beta Centauri, but is actually a parallel universe lying 35 miles off the northwest coast of Norway. It is a rock epaulette torn from the burly shoulder of Scandinavia, just where Norway leans over to nibble Russia's ear.
Our first anchorage was off Væröy, a pendant dangling 8 miles below the main archipelago. Most folk set off in kayaks to explore the sheltered bay, paddling comically towards rafts of the local puffins, which in turn paddled comically away from them. One intrepid group went ashore on the massive stone jetty, site of an abandoned fishing village where for centuries brave men took to the sea in January and February to harvest the spawning cod. We followed the ancient stone road up along a precipitous cliff track high above the kayaks. Clumps of yellow birds-foot trefoil, red campion and blue harebells spangled the disused trackside; behind the overgrown fields, the sheer cliff reared 1000' up to the sky. We came down to boulder beach at the eye of the bay, where a wreck of driftwood made for some happy beachcombing. The last treat was a Zodiac cruise under the watchful eye of the original fishermen: shags, puffins, razorbills, cliff-nesting kittiwakes with fluffy chicks, and an inquisitive young grey seal bull.
Over lunch we crossed the legendary Maelstrom. In this notorious channel, seamounts, powerful tidal currents and violent storms combine to make the kind of seas which swallow boats whole: hundreds of local fishermen have lost their lives here over the centuries. Edgar Allan Poe's gripping account of this site in the 1800s, guaranteed that this Norwegian word would enter the English language.
In the afternoon we anchored just inside the breakwater of Reine, one of the most spectacular harbors in Lofoten. We explored by Zodiac, motoring past several small family-owned whaling vessels with harpoons perched on the bow. Norway still reserves the right to harvest whales; to our amazement just a mile offshore we had spotted one reckless Minke Whale cruising past the lion's den. It had been attracted in by the shoals of leaping saithe, which were feeding actively just offshore, to the delight of many happy puffins and guillemots. Going ashore in Reine's sheltered harbor (picture) we rewarded ourselves with giant ice creams, wrote postcards home and gazed in awe at the salted "stockfish" which made these islands famous: truly a community held together by cod.
To squeeze every last drop out of the day, after dinner Captain Lampe piloted the National Geographic Endeavour into a blind alley called Trollfjord, placed the bow inches from the sheer rock walls so that we could pluck a frond of rowan tree from the cliff, then spun her on a dime and steamed out. We searched the dark recesses in vain for signs of trolls, until a demonic howl on the heathery hillside froze all on deck… But it turned out to be our intrepid Expedition Leader Bud, who had climbed to a lofty ledge to photograph the ship, only to find himself suddenly the main course for every midge, blackfly and mosquito in Trollfjord.
The Lindblad luck is still with us: another day of bright sunshine, from a sun that never went to bed last night, but instead turned night into day. We are in Lofoten, which sounds like a planet on the far side of Beta Centauri, but is actually a parallel universe lying 35 miles off the northwest coast of Norway. It is a rock epaulette torn from the burly shoulder of Scandinavia, just where Norway leans over to nibble Russia's ear.
Our first anchorage was off Væröy, a pendant dangling 8 miles below the main archipelago. Most folk set off in kayaks to explore the sheltered bay, paddling comically towards rafts of the local puffins, which in turn paddled comically away from them. One intrepid group went ashore on the massive stone jetty, site of an abandoned fishing village where for centuries brave men took to the sea in January and February to harvest the spawning cod. We followed the ancient stone road up along a precipitous cliff track high above the kayaks. Clumps of yellow birds-foot trefoil, red campion and blue harebells spangled the disused trackside; behind the overgrown fields, the sheer cliff reared 1000' up to the sky. We came down to boulder beach at the eye of the bay, where a wreck of driftwood made for some happy beachcombing. The last treat was a Zodiac cruise under the watchful eye of the original fishermen: shags, puffins, razorbills, cliff-nesting kittiwakes with fluffy chicks, and an inquisitive young grey seal bull.
Over lunch we crossed the legendary Maelstrom. In this notorious channel, seamounts, powerful tidal currents and violent storms combine to make the kind of seas which swallow boats whole: hundreds of local fishermen have lost their lives here over the centuries. Edgar Allan Poe's gripping account of this site in the 1800s, guaranteed that this Norwegian word would enter the English language.
In the afternoon we anchored just inside the breakwater of Reine, one of the most spectacular harbors in Lofoten. We explored by Zodiac, motoring past several small family-owned whaling vessels with harpoons perched on the bow. Norway still reserves the right to harvest whales; to our amazement just a mile offshore we had spotted one reckless Minke Whale cruising past the lion's den. It had been attracted in by the shoals of leaping saithe, which were feeding actively just offshore, to the delight of many happy puffins and guillemots. Going ashore in Reine's sheltered harbor (picture) we rewarded ourselves with giant ice creams, wrote postcards home and gazed in awe at the salted "stockfish" which made these islands famous: truly a community held together by cod.
To squeeze every last drop out of the day, after dinner Captain Lampe piloted the National Geographic Endeavour into a blind alley called Trollfjord, placed the bow inches from the sheer rock walls so that we could pluck a frond of rowan tree from the cliff, then spun her on a dime and steamed out. We searched the dark recesses in vain for signs of trolls, until a demonic howl on the heathery hillside froze all on deck… But it turned out to be our intrepid Expedition Leader Bud, who had climbed to a lofty ledge to photograph the ship, only to find himself suddenly the main course for every midge, blackfly and mosquito in Trollfjord.
