Nordfjorden & Selja, Norway
It's a wondrous world, it is, and when we awaken many miles from where we were when we rested our weary heads, the simple act of peering out the window presents remarkable surprises.
Steep tree-covered mountains dropped precipitously into the sea seemingly encircling us, every apparent dead-end suddenly opening to reveal a new intriguing channel. Here and there a gentle slope sat on the flank of the hills, covered by golf-course green turf. Within each verdant patch sprouted a white farm house and red barn. There was no variation on the theme unless one counted the shades of white that occasionally verged on cream. High above, tickling the sky, jagged horns and irregular peaks still hosted the snows of winter.
Nordfjorden's terminus was finally found at the tiny village of Olden and as the ship could go no further buses became our mode of transport. Climbing ever higher their limit too was reached and soon we found ourselves strolling mountain paths edged in springtime colors. Waterfalls cascaded from ridges high above merging into clear murmuring streams. They in turn tumbled through polished rock slots rounding the boulders below in a slow symphony of time. Briksdalbreen (Briksdal Glacier) roared from its perch at the head of the valley casting car sized blocks of bluish ice to cover its thinning toe where it gently dabbled in a melt-water pool. Quiet contemplation allowed our thoughts to coalesce until the realization dawned that this aging river of ice had been the sculptor of all the land about.
Selja sits against the open seas north of the mouth of Nordfjord. From a distance its impressive plucked slope attracts attention but there was more there than met the eye on initial inspection. Maybe the darkening sky with its threatening clouds added to the mystery as we cruised around the island wondering about what forces had fractured the hard metamorphic rocks into massive blocks. For some reason the rain never came and as we rounded its northern coast rays of sunshine painted ancient cloister ruins with brightness and outlined a deep dark cave above. Was this the cave of St. Sunniva, the Irish woman who became Norway's patron saint? Along the shoreline, oystercatchers caught the sun with their brilliant orange beaks. Eider males flapped on past while noisy gulls barked their displeasure at intruders. As the herons headed for their perches, we pointed our bows towards our mother ship, the National Geographic Endeavour, ready to call it a day.
It's a wondrous world, it is, and when we awaken many miles from where we were when we rested our weary heads, the simple act of peering out the window presents remarkable surprises.
Steep tree-covered mountains dropped precipitously into the sea seemingly encircling us, every apparent dead-end suddenly opening to reveal a new intriguing channel. Here and there a gentle slope sat on the flank of the hills, covered by golf-course green turf. Within each verdant patch sprouted a white farm house and red barn. There was no variation on the theme unless one counted the shades of white that occasionally verged on cream. High above, tickling the sky, jagged horns and irregular peaks still hosted the snows of winter.
Nordfjorden's terminus was finally found at the tiny village of Olden and as the ship could go no further buses became our mode of transport. Climbing ever higher their limit too was reached and soon we found ourselves strolling mountain paths edged in springtime colors. Waterfalls cascaded from ridges high above merging into clear murmuring streams. They in turn tumbled through polished rock slots rounding the boulders below in a slow symphony of time. Briksdalbreen (Briksdal Glacier) roared from its perch at the head of the valley casting car sized blocks of bluish ice to cover its thinning toe where it gently dabbled in a melt-water pool. Quiet contemplation allowed our thoughts to coalesce until the realization dawned that this aging river of ice had been the sculptor of all the land about.
Selja sits against the open seas north of the mouth of Nordfjord. From a distance its impressive plucked slope attracts attention but there was more there than met the eye on initial inspection. Maybe the darkening sky with its threatening clouds added to the mystery as we cruised around the island wondering about what forces had fractured the hard metamorphic rocks into massive blocks. For some reason the rain never came and as we rounded its northern coast rays of sunshine painted ancient cloister ruins with brightness and outlined a deep dark cave above. Was this the cave of St. Sunniva, the Irish woman who became Norway's patron saint? Along the shoreline, oystercatchers caught the sun with their brilliant orange beaks. Eider males flapped on past while noisy gulls barked their displeasure at intruders. As the herons headed for their perches, we pointed our bows towards our mother ship, the National Geographic Endeavour, ready to call it a day.
