Reine and Vaerøy, Lofoten Islands
Lofoten - the foot of the wolf - is a spectacular chain of islands that kicks far out into the warm waters of the Gulf Stream. It is formed of some of the oldest rocks on earth; 3 billion years old, so ancient that there is not the tiniest scrap of fossil in their calloused cliffs: they were laid down even before life had evolved.
First we called on the original inhabitants of Norway: the trolls. The ship entered the cul-de-sac canyon of Trollfjord, where overhanging mountains send vertical waterfalls tumbling sheer into the water. As the bow touched the canyon walls, we plucked a lucky frond of rowan, then beat a retreat before the trolls took umbrage.
By the time we were headed west out into the open sea, the sun was sparkling off an effervescent ocean, and we set course for the sawtooth sierrra of the Lofoten peninsula. The closer we got, the more incredible the scenery: soaring grey rocks wrinkled like elephant skin, filed and fluted by extinct glaciers, now with deep purple shadows in the bright sunshine. As the ship came into the natural harbour of Reine, a swarm of black Zodiacs took to the sea like water-beetles and fanned out to explore. One group chatted to a local couple who had just caught fresh cod on their doorstep: as they cleaned their fish, they gazed across to the National Geographic Endeavour riding at anchor (picture). Others went to look at the drying racks where for a thousand years the winter spawning cod have been split and air-dried to make "stockfish". Some inspected the salmon-farming rings and the whaling ships tied up alongside. This has always been a remote community that took its livelihood from the sea. After a brief viking raid to plunder postcards and pillage the local delicacy, cod liver oil ice cream, we jogged back to our trusty longships and rowed out to the open ocean once more.
Just after 2, the ship lurched violently to starboard, which sent our Norwegian pilot and navigation officer stumbling to the controls, as lights flashed and alarms pinged. Nothing worse than a swift kick in the keel from that legendary current, the Maelstrom. And this on a summer's day and flat calm. Imagine this notorious stretch of water in winter, with a Force 10 onshore gale, whipping up whirlpools big enough to swallow a ship! Once in the shelter of Vaerøy, we dropped anchor in a mirror calm bay, within an amphitheatre of soaring black cliffs. This is one of the most remote sites in Lofoten, a claw on the wolf's foot. We went ashore on a rock-solid quay to walk through a ghost village; occupied for centuries, and then abandoned in 1974. Here between the huge cliff and the heaving ocean, the men of Måstad fished offshore, while the women and children climbed a thousand feet up to harvest puffins at the summit. As we walked the granite causeway which they built with their own hands, we could barely imagine such a life of hardship, here, beyond the Maelstrom, on an island at the edge of the world.
Lofoten - the foot of the wolf - is a spectacular chain of islands that kicks far out into the warm waters of the Gulf Stream. It is formed of some of the oldest rocks on earth; 3 billion years old, so ancient that there is not the tiniest scrap of fossil in their calloused cliffs: they were laid down even before life had evolved.
First we called on the original inhabitants of Norway: the trolls. The ship entered the cul-de-sac canyon of Trollfjord, where overhanging mountains send vertical waterfalls tumbling sheer into the water. As the bow touched the canyon walls, we plucked a lucky frond of rowan, then beat a retreat before the trolls took umbrage.
By the time we were headed west out into the open sea, the sun was sparkling off an effervescent ocean, and we set course for the sawtooth sierrra of the Lofoten peninsula. The closer we got, the more incredible the scenery: soaring grey rocks wrinkled like elephant skin, filed and fluted by extinct glaciers, now with deep purple shadows in the bright sunshine. As the ship came into the natural harbour of Reine, a swarm of black Zodiacs took to the sea like water-beetles and fanned out to explore. One group chatted to a local couple who had just caught fresh cod on their doorstep: as they cleaned their fish, they gazed across to the National Geographic Endeavour riding at anchor (picture). Others went to look at the drying racks where for a thousand years the winter spawning cod have been split and air-dried to make "stockfish". Some inspected the salmon-farming rings and the whaling ships tied up alongside. This has always been a remote community that took its livelihood from the sea. After a brief viking raid to plunder postcards and pillage the local delicacy, cod liver oil ice cream, we jogged back to our trusty longships and rowed out to the open ocean once more.
Just after 2, the ship lurched violently to starboard, which sent our Norwegian pilot and navigation officer stumbling to the controls, as lights flashed and alarms pinged. Nothing worse than a swift kick in the keel from that legendary current, the Maelstrom. And this on a summer's day and flat calm. Imagine this notorious stretch of water in winter, with a Force 10 onshore gale, whipping up whirlpools big enough to swallow a ship! Once in the shelter of Vaerøy, we dropped anchor in a mirror calm bay, within an amphitheatre of soaring black cliffs. This is one of the most remote sites in Lofoten, a claw on the wolf's foot. We went ashore on a rock-solid quay to walk through a ghost village; occupied for centuries, and then abandoned in 1974. Here between the huge cliff and the heaving ocean, the men of Måstad fished offshore, while the women and children climbed a thousand feet up to harvest puffins at the summit. As we walked the granite causeway which they built with their own hands, we could barely imagine such a life of hardship, here, beyond the Maelstrom, on an island at the edge of the world.
