The Ultimate Norwegian Road Trip
by Magnus Nilsson
One car, two men, a fishing rod, and nearly 3,000 miles of Norway's coastline: Chef Magnus Nilsson—of Sweden's boundary-pushing restaurant Fäviken—shares tales from an epic road trip.
During childhood summers in Sweden, my parents would pack my sister and me, some provisions, and a tent into the family's Volvo wagon and hit the road. Sometimes we went north, sometimes we went south, and more often than not we went to Norway. As much as my parents assured me (and still do to this day) that this was good for family bonding, I didn't always love those trips—and I didn't always love Norway the way I do now. But there was, and still is, something about a good drive, where the end is just the end and the actual traveling is what's memorable.
My friend Jason and I are now on a trip like this, a trip where we will drive nearly the whole of the Norwegian coastline, from Oslo to Kirkenes, in the far northeast. A trip with no purpose other than the pleasure of the drive itself and whatever experiences it brings as we cover 2,800 miles of road and cross 13 longitudes.
Norway is a country of extremes: When the south is alive with sap-green beech forests and endless fields of new wheat, the north is still all stark winter and gloom. Along the coast, timeless fishing villages coexist with ultra-modern opera houses and futuristic tunnels that stretch for miles under the sea. Driving through the country, you see it all: mind-numbing natural beauty side by side with abject industrial ugliness. The food, too, is a study in contrasts—much of it marvelous, of course, with deep connections to both land and culture. But there are also long expanses of culinary wasteland, places where the only forms of sustenance are hot dogs, inedible burgers, and something called a "taco calzone," priced at about $15 and served and eaten with absolute indifference. As we pass through these no-food zones, we resort to our cooler and our camping stove. In Norway it's easy to catch cod, saithe, and pollock from the shore or from one of the many bridges that stretch across tidal currents.
We set out early from Ålesund, the western port town midway between Bergen and Trondheim, and we've been driving for hours. I'm worried that we're nowhere near where, according to my paper map, we should be by this point. I also can't help thinking that this terrain looks nothing like what was described by my friend, who'd sold me on the idea of stopping at a particular hotel near the remote town of Åndalsnes. Where is the eye-shatteringly gorgeous landscape, the river clear as gin, the little houses that seem to sprout from the forest floor? Out the window I see none of these things. It's all pretty enough, like most of the Norwegian countryside, but I'm decidedly underwhelmed. And then, suddenly, it appears: Up ahead we spy the sapphire-blue Valldøla River rushing through the beautiful Valldal Valley, carving its way deeper into the Gudbrandsjuvet ravine. Perched on the ravine's steep eastern bank are seven glass-fronted cabins—distinctly modern, yet still feeling like they belong—that are part of the Juvet Landscape Hotel.
A map showing the path of Nilsson's trip.
The entire site is a nature reserve; a more conventional hotel was never an option. Conservation officials demanded that all structures be low-impact and easily removable, leaving no permanent trace on the land. The design of each cabin is unique: Built around existing trees and boulders, all are shaped to follow the natural curve of the ravine, not only respecting the flow of the river but embracing it, making it part of the architecture. Interiors are somehow dark and light all at once—wooden walls painted black, earth- brown carpeting, sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows. You get the impression of sitting in the burrow of an animal, waking from a winter's hibernation, and gazing across the river to a bright-green carpet of vegetation. There are no curtains on the windows and only minimal furnishings, just a comfortable bed and two chairs—nothing to distract from the view. It turns out my friend was not exaggerating: This is truly a magnificent place.
Our stay at the Juvet buoys our spirits. The next day, as we continue north toward Kristiansund, with Norwegian folk-pop blaring on the car radio, I feel good, and Jason seems happy. We settle into comfortable silence, which for me is a luxury, and a sign of a good road trip.
It is a true privilege to be handed a perfectly boiled gull's egg. This culinary epiphany strikes me on the remote island of Lånan, in the Vega Archipelago, south of Lofoten. We're in the kitchen of an island woman named Hildegunn. The air is dense with the smell of frying fish cakes; humidity condenses on the cool windowpanes. Hildegunn laughs about something someone says in Norwegian that I can't quite make out, then takes a big knife and chops a speckled green boiled egg straight through the shell, revealing an unbelievably bright-orange yolk. The steaming eggs and fish cakes are set down in front of me, on a table laid with red-and-white cloth, turquoise salt and pepper grinders, and a small plastic bucket filled with slivers of something bright red and oily. The slivers turn out to be a local specialty called seilaks—thin slices of saithe cured in sugar and salt, then dyed fluorescent red. My mind is briefly consumed by the image of a vaguely salmon-like beast with glowing radioactive flesh.
That thought is quickly forgotten when the egg enters my mouth. Gull's eggs are bigger than hen's eggs, and even half of a half is a mouthful. Hard-boiled and seasoned with nothing but a sliver of seilaks, they are stunning in both flavor and texture, with a delicate sea aroma as a base note, enhanced by the salty-sweet fishiness of the cured saithe. It is a moment of culinary serenity, eating this fantastically delicious little dish, served in a place where it belongs, a place where it makes sense.
The relationship between man and bird has been of huge historical importance on Lånan, not only because gull's eggs are still gathered and eaten by islanders here but also because of the eider duck. This is one of the few places in the world where eiderdown is still collected from the nests of wild birds, to be processed entirely by hand and turned into pillows, duvets, and mittens. Lånan's eiders are a strange hybrid of wild and domesticated: They linger in the archipelago during the warmer months, hatching their chicks before migrating south, then often return to the same nests every year—nests that are built not by the birds themselves but by humans, who fashion them out of seaweed and adorn them with tiny roofs. It's as if Lånan's eiders don't merely tolerate people but actively seek their closeness; as if they know that the island's human inhabitants will provide them with shelter from the elements and protection from predators in exchange for the soft down lining they leave in their nests.
It is a moment of culinary serenity, eating this fantastically delicious little dish, served in a place where it belongs, a place where it makes sense.
Each fall, after the birds depart, Hildegunn and her family carefully harvest the feathers, cleaning and combing and transforming them into the greatest natural filling. Eiderdown is virtually indestructible; it doesn't lump up like the down from other birds, and it can be recycled almost indefinitely. Jason and I heard stories of families who have been buying their duvets from Lånan craftsmen for centuries, handing them down through generations and—when the duvets get a bit shabby—returning to the island for some fish cakes and to have them relined. To buy a new one is a commitment: A typical Lånan duvet can cost several thousand dollars (only about a dozen are made each year), and there's a lengthy waiting list. But to do so is also to buy into the history of Lånan, the specialness of this place and its inhabitants—to honor what the birds have voluntarily given, as their end of the deal they have with man. I reflect on all this while sitting on the vibrating plastic deck of our rented boat, Lånan receding behind us as we bounce over the waves, back to the mainland and our car.
We are nearly at the end of our journey, bound for Kirkenes, among the last towns in Norway before the Russian border. After Lånan we resumed our northward migration, via Lofoten, Narvik, and finally Nordkapp (the North Cape), near the very top of mainland Europe, and a great place to watch the midnight sun set over the sea. We've just passed through Honningsvåg—a small community that is probably the northernmost location where people live year-round—and turned onto a road that ends abruptly at the sea. According to our GPS, we should now be at a dock where a car ferry stops several times a day; a car ferry that we hoped would cross a few fjords and shorten the final leg of our journey. But we see nothing indicating any form of transportation: no people, no cars, no ferries, no timetable—no nothing except this empty road and an abandoned dock surrounded by broken nets and floats and the frigid gray sea.
In the distance, we spot an elderly man with a cane walking by a dilapidated building, and we head toward him. When I ask about the ferry, he remains silent for a second, fixing us with a funny expression, then erupts into laughter, layered intermittently with coughing fits. He goes on laughing for a little longer than I think necessary, and I am beginning to suspect that he might be mad. Finally, he stops just long enough to tell us that the ferry hasn't operated here since 1997. Then he hobbles off down the derelict pier, giggling and muttering something about Swedes and their GPS. Back at the car, we search the glove box and find a timetable for the Hurtigruten, a line of passenger and freight ships. It turns out that one of Hurtigruten's combined cargo-and-cruise vessels will leave from Honningsvåg in a few hours.
Cods drying on racks in Norway.
At the appointed time, we arrive at another dock on the opposite side of the village, but the ship waiting for us doesn't look at all like the floating monstrosity we'd imagined. What's in front of us now resembles a classic luxury liner from another era. The black-painted hull and straight bow, the polished wooden decks and brass fittings, remind me of a time when traveling the coast of Norway by boat was both the fastest and most comfortable option.
We are excited and relieved when the official-looking man beside the gangway says that, yes, there is space for two passengers all the way to Kirkenes, and that dinner will be served in the main dining room in a few hours. And we are as distraught as we were excited when we realize that the M.S. Lofoten cannot accommodate our car. She is, in fact, the last ship in the Hurtigruten fleet that doesn't carry vehicles.
There is nothing to be done. We take a quick tour of the ship's elegant wooden decks and salons, then bid the Lofoten fare- well and return to our trusted Škoda to continue driving, once again, toward Kirkenes.
The Lofoten archipelago is 800 miles from Oslo and 95 miles north of the Arctic Circle. Its remote beauty has long made it popular with artists: Norwegian painter Gunnar Berg made his name depicting Lofoten many times until his death in 1893, and many contemporary artists, like multimedia artist AK Dolven, have been so inspired by the dramatic landscape they've made this place their home. The landscape has also appeared in works of classic literature, with Moskstraumen, one of the world's strongest systems of whirlpools, located off the uninhabited island of Mosken, appearing in the work of both Jules Verne and Edgar Allan Poe. Here are some tips for having an art-focused visit to Lofoten.
Photo by Karen Gardiner
The street artist pair Pøbel and Dolk organized the "Getto Spedalsk" ("Ghetto Leper") urban art project in 2008 to draw attention to the depopulation and decay occurring in rural Norway. Over several years, they painted murals on abandoned barns throughout the islands. Years of facing the elements have left these murals rather weather-beaten, but the effect now is an appropriately haunting one, as in this "Sleepwalker" by Dolk.
Here, 20 minutes from Svolvær, a wind-washed former caviar-processing factory perched on the water now houses the contemporary art gallery, Kavi Factory. Art-collecting couple Venke and Rolf Hoff founded the gallery in 2012 with the intent to offer both local residents and visitors the possibility of experiencing international art in this off-the-grid location. The gallery is currently running a retrospective of Bjarne Melgaard's work, and he also designed the dog-shaped door handles for the space.
Photo by John Stenersen © www.tringa.no
The small village of Henningsvær is home to a surprisingly healthy street-art scene. Pøbel and Dolk, who were the first artists to exhibit at Kavi Factory, left their mark with a number of pieces that comment on the sea and the fishing industry. Most prolific, however, is local Banksy-esque artist Mr. Hmm??, whose playful and colorful images adorn buildings, bus shelters and, as in this homage to the cover of Nirvana's album Nevermind, the sea.
Courtesy Galleri Espolin
Although they have so far been unsuccessful, oil companies have lobbied hard to conduct oil exploration around Lofoten, presumed to contain vast untapped crude reserves. If they are eventually granted permission, it will likely be catastrophic for the already declining fishing industry. This gives this work by Pøbel, "Fiskeren" ("The Fisherman")—a portrait of a fisherman smoking a pipe, painted onto a rusting Henningsvær oil container—added resonance.
Grainy scenes of fishing abound in Kabelvåg's Galleri Espolin, whic is dedicated to the painter and graphic artist, Kaare Espolin Johnson. Born near-sighted in northwestern Norway, Espolin, was almost blind when he developed his own distinctive (and time-consuming) technique of layering soot onto white paper then scraping it off with a blade to create light and shade. The gallery holds 250 pieces by Espolin, who died in 1994, many of which portray the lives of coastal people in northern Norway.
Artscape Nordland is an international art project intended to make up for the lack of art museums in Nordland county (which includes Lofoten). When the project launched in 1992, Nordland's residents had to travel long distances to see modern art, so one location-specific sculpture each was planned for 32 of the 45 municipalities. Lofoten is home to five of them, including Dan Graham's "Uten Titel" ("Untitled"), which captures the light and landscape in its two-way mirror, placing the viewer in the environment and reflecting back the beauty that surrounds them. Find it 20 minutes west of Svolvær.
Eighteen stretches of Norway's 6,000 miles of national roads have been selected for their scenic beauty and designated National Tourist Routes. Lofoten's stretch of the E10 road is one such route and, just off it, famed Norwegian architectural practice Snøhetta—designers of the Oslo Opera House as well as the 9/11 Memorial Museum in New York City—have created a service building within an amphitheater for the rest stop at Eggum, a popular site for seeing the midnight sun. Only in Scandinavia can you experience such high-quality architecture on a bathroom break.
Courtesy Snøhetta
Though Lofoten's tourism industry is booming, luxury design hotels are scarce. When it opens, the Snøhetta-designed Lofoten Opera Hotel will change that. Located in a spectacular setting in Moskenes municipality, close to Sørvagen, the hotel will take a serpentine shape, hugging the landscape and stretching toward the sea. There's no firm opening date, though, so stay tuned.
Fiskehjeller, pyramid-shaped racks that are traditionally used for drying cod, are a common sight around Lofoten. In 2010, LIAF's curators staged performances in a disused rack, then, last year, launched an art festival where the centerpiece sculpture was based on their design. The SALT festival, held near Bodø on the mainland, advocates for climate-change awareness and for the preservation of the traditional fishing communities of the north. After Norway, it will travel to Greenland, Iceland, the Faroe Islands, Spitsbergen, and Scotland.
Make some time in Bodø to visit the new cultural center. Designed by DRDH Architects, its two buildings—which house a three-auditorium concert hall and library—won the Norwegian Award for Building Design 2015, not a bad feat for a small Arctic town. Nearby, Galleri Bodøgaard houses a large collection of work by the landscape painter Oscar Bodøgaard, as well as other northern Scandinavian artists and a large ethnographic collection from northern Norway.
Beyond art, there's plenty more to do in Lofoten, especially on cold days when you'd rather be inside. In the village of Å, the Norwegian Fishing Village Museum tells the story of Lofoten's fishing industry over the past 200 years. In Borg, the Lofotr Viking Museum is occupies the largest Viking-era house ever found, former home to one of northern Norway's most powerful Viking chieftains. It is also the site of August's annual Lofotr Viking Festival.
Courtesy Andrea Giubelli at Visitnorway.com
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