Nordfjorden, Lovund & Træna, Norway
Who else does what Lindblad dares? This morning we essayed a fjord the bigger ships shun, guarded by giant troll portals, this sheer rock cul-de-sac brought us to one of the wildest corners of Norway. Harbour seals cut silver wakes across black water as we nosed in. Landing by Zodiac on a bare gravel beach, we breathed in the smell of wild honey from sunlit carpets of flowering sea sandwort. We fanned out to explore the wilderness. Some bushwhacked their way up the side of a braided glacial river. Others delved into the wild birch and willow groves on the foreshore, among glades of wood cranesbill and spotted orchids. Some kayaked by the icy cataracts round the bay. The alpinists splashed their way up a rushing stream, climbing nimbly over moss-covered boulders until rewarded by an eagles-eye view of fjord and mountains, with the National Geographic Endeavour gleaming below. High above, we could see the icy petticoat of the Svartisen Icecap between soaring rock pinnacles, and 7 slender waterfalls fell at our feet.
Revittled by a pool deck lunch as the ship threaded her way back out to open water, we crossed the Arctic Circle twice, zig-zagging between spectacular ice-sculpted islands. Our next landing was at Lovund, a lone sharksfin island with the biggest puffin colony in the area. We walked through a prosperous fishing village and up onto slopes strewn with giant boulders and effervescent green ferns. Once up the rock and rope assault course, we were perched on a hillside with a grandstand view of miles of skerries, islands, mountains and the distant icecap itself. We were distracted from the puffin traffic by a cry of "Eagle!" and barely a hundred feet above us, two young sea-eagles swept over, silhouetted like flying barn doors against the clear blue sky. For several minutes the clonking sheep bells, croaking ravens and whirring puffins were silenced as the shadow of the great eagles passed across the slopes.
As if we were short of wonderment, our final call of the day was to the remote outpost of Træna, a fishing island with four huge standing volcanic monoliths which preside over the island like frozen trolls. We trekked out to the monument which marks the Arctic Circle, then looked back at a sun which never set, sending golden searchlight beams over the shoulders of the silent troll sentinels.
Who else does what Lindblad dares? This morning we essayed a fjord the bigger ships shun, guarded by giant troll portals, this sheer rock cul-de-sac brought us to one of the wildest corners of Norway. Harbour seals cut silver wakes across black water as we nosed in. Landing by Zodiac on a bare gravel beach, we breathed in the smell of wild honey from sunlit carpets of flowering sea sandwort. We fanned out to explore the wilderness. Some bushwhacked their way up the side of a braided glacial river. Others delved into the wild birch and willow groves on the foreshore, among glades of wood cranesbill and spotted orchids. Some kayaked by the icy cataracts round the bay. The alpinists splashed their way up a rushing stream, climbing nimbly over moss-covered boulders until rewarded by an eagles-eye view of fjord and mountains, with the National Geographic Endeavour gleaming below. High above, we could see the icy petticoat of the Svartisen Icecap between soaring rock pinnacles, and 7 slender waterfalls fell at our feet.
Revittled by a pool deck lunch as the ship threaded her way back out to open water, we crossed the Arctic Circle twice, zig-zagging between spectacular ice-sculpted islands. Our next landing was at Lovund, a lone sharksfin island with the biggest puffin colony in the area. We walked through a prosperous fishing village and up onto slopes strewn with giant boulders and effervescent green ferns. Once up the rock and rope assault course, we were perched on a hillside with a grandstand view of miles of skerries, islands, mountains and the distant icecap itself. We were distracted from the puffin traffic by a cry of "Eagle!" and barely a hundred feet above us, two young sea-eagles swept over, silhouetted like flying barn doors against the clear blue sky. For several minutes the clonking sheep bells, croaking ravens and whirring puffins were silenced as the shadow of the great eagles passed across the slopes.
As if we were short of wonderment, our final call of the day was to the remote outpost of Træna, a fishing island with four huge standing volcanic monoliths which preside over the island like frozen trolls. We trekked out to the monument which marks the Arctic Circle, then looked back at a sun which never set, sending golden searchlight beams over the shoulders of the silent troll sentinels.
