The QR code on our phones opens the ticket gates without a hitch. We set off from Rotterdam two minutes late. We discover that the seat reservations for the train to and through Germany haven’t been sent to us. I send an email to the train travel agency with ‘urgent’ in the subject line. Their helpdesk should be available from 9 am.
Watch a summary of the trip with additional footage here:
In Hilversum, we change to the train in question, where there is plenty of space. Some seats have green lights, others red. Just as we’ve settled in, people come in who, of all things, think they’re entitled to our seats, even though the rest of the compartment is still empty.
As we approach the German border, the train travel service responds by sending our correct seat numbers. The compartment where we’re supposed to be sitting is much fuller, and on top of that, someone is sprawled out asleep across our two seats. So we’ll just stay put for the time being.
The silence in the compartment is broken only by someone who apparently thinks he has a pleasant voice. At every station, he makes a whole string of announcements in three languages, both before and after the train arrives. His voice is reminiscent of Taco Dibbits, head of the Rijksmuseum – could an AI programme have copied that voice?
In Germany, the nuisances start to mount. A young woman seems to think that every sentence she utters has to be funny. Her parents, who are quite advanced in years, more or less go along with it. Exhausting. In Osnabrück, to my horror, they shuffle off in the same direction as we do.
I recognise the station from a previous trip to Hamburg. According to the displays, our train is half an hour late. Strangely enough, the current time isn’t shown. The train arrives late, but still according to the scheduled time. The short night I’ve had is taking its toll: the smell of soup makes me feel sick. A baby is crying loudly.
In Hamburg, we head straight for Platform 1, from where the S-Bahn to Pinneberg is due to depart; we’re taking this one because of announced engineering works on the line. The platform is filling up with laden tourists hauling along handcarts, bicycles and children. The underground only runs once every half an hour, instead of the ten-minute intervals we’d been promised. It’s going to be a squeeze. We trundle agonisingly slowly towards our destination. More people join us along the way. In Pinneberg, the platform in front of the train fills up. Once we’re on board, it takes at least another twenty minutes before we finally set off. Could things still go wrong on this last short stretch? The train stops frequently, including once in the middle of the countryside. At 5.05 PM we arrive at Kiel Hauptbahnhof; the Stena Line ticket office is due to close in ten minutes. The few minutes’ walk we’d been told about turns out to be a real let-down. A couple of ladies out shopping watch us go by in surprise: are those people really trying to catch the boat? At the counter, they reassure us: you’re just in time.
A family who haven’t booked a table for dinner slink away, disappointed. Just to torment themselves, they take a quick look at all the things they won’t be able to eat. There are two buffets, hot and cold. When I see the queue for the hot food, I opt for the cold buffet. Plenty of lovely fish and a salad with prawns. My travelling companion fetches some desserts and tea.
The boat rocks back and forth; the wind is blowing strongly, but it’s still manageable. It’s lovely to be able to follow the German coastline – little beaches and cottages in light colours. My travelling companion heads out onto the deck. Through the cabin window to my left, I can see land. When I open Google Maps, it confirms this. We’re sailing past Langeland. The wind picks up further. We watch the sun setting behind Langeland. On the other side, the almost full moon is rising. On my travelling companion’s advice, I take two travel sickness tablets before going to bed. Perhaps this time I’ll manage to sleep on the boat.
Day 2
The pills do their work. It’s my first time sleeping on a boat. We have an early breakfast. By eight o’clock, the room is filling up. There’s sea on both sides. The swell is still quite strong.
As we sail into the harbour of Gothenburg, we see small rocky islets with cottages and a lighthouse. After arriving, we walk to the tram. It’s quite a long journey, so once again we’re certainly not in any time to spare. We just about manage to catch the train. The first stop in Sweden is called Trollhättan, a perfect name for a play. Diagonally in front of me, a woman spends the entire journey staring at a screen on which a few people are chatting to one another. The image keeps freezing, whereupon the woman turns her attention to her phone until the weak Wi-Fi allows the broadcast to resume for a few minutes.
Unaware of any trouble, I discover that this morning at half past one I got a message stating: ‘From now on, you’ll be receiving the signal via satellite; different rates apply.’ I check the charges, which amount to no less than €90. The final stretch of the train journey takes us through a tunnel. At the end of it, light shines out: Oslo glows and sparkles in the sun.
Thon Hotel Opera is just round the corner from the station. We receive a warm welcome. A lady is clumsily tying her shoelace, with her foot propped up on a suitcase. The rest of her party step into the lift. When the woman decides to go up with them, she stumbles forwards and falls into the heis.
Whilst looking for places to visit, I notice that the Munch Museum and the Opera House are just across the street. The National Museum of Contemporary Art is further away, but stays open until 8 pm. First, we climb the sloping roof of the opera house. Before we realise it, we’ve reached quite a height. We look out over the harbour.
It’s a long walk to the museum. Unexpectedly, we suddenly find ourselves at the entrance to the Nobel Peace Prize building, where we have a quick look around. The National Museum of Contemporary Art turns out to be huge. We opt for the twentieth-century section. They have a fine collection featuring, amongst others, Picasso, Braque and Matisse. The museum even has an entire room filled with paintings by Munch, which raises the question of what is actually left to see at the Munch Museum itself.
On the second floor we stop for a coffee and tea. In the café shrill, horror-film-like sounds can be heard, as if a cockerel were being castrated without anaesthetic, which lends this visit a surreal atmosphere. The pain is immediately soothed by Tord Gustavsen’s piano playing. It’s special to hear him here in his home town.
From the roof terrace, we have a magnificent view over the water. In one corner of this terrace stands an artistic log cabin, inside which there are actually people engaged in serious conversation. From up here, we spot a seafood restaurant, where we’re going to have a bite to eat.
Back at the hotel, fatigue suddenly overwhelms me and I fall asleep early.
Day 3
The Thon Hotel is the largest one we’ve ever stayed in. They have a huge breakfast room, where you can get anything you could possibly imagine in that regard. The coffee pot doesn’t sit quite right in my hand and a large splash of coffee lands next to my cup. My travelling companion bumps into a former colleague who is also on a train journey through Norway.
We buy a day ticket for the tram. Tourist coaches are queuing up in droves outside the entrance to Vigeland Park. If Gustaf Vigeland made all the sculptures by hand, he must have worked his fingers to the bone. His work is realistic, like a cross between GDR art and the ideals of the white Viking youth. I find a spot in the shade of the central monolith and see a few ladies laughing as they have their photo taken with a sculpture featuring a rather large prick. The bravest of them eagerly grabs the sculpture by the balls. An accordionist provides a seasonally inappropriate, drawn-out rendition of ‘Autumn Leaves’. The man puts so little swing into his music that he almost seems to be playing whole notes.
We continue our tour of the city by taking a bus northwards. After a change, we get off the second bus at Var Frelsers Gravlund. We take a look around the well-maintained cemetery and pause for a moment at Edvard Munch’s grave. The artist is quite a prominent figure in Oslo; his name crops up constantly. The bus takes us back to the waterfront. There we find the other museum of modern art: the Astrup Fearnley Museum, named after the wealthy descendants of two Norwegian artists who used their fortune to assemble a unique art collection.
We are surprised by the quality of Beatriz Gonzalez’s work. She passed away earlier this year. She lived in the Netherlands for a while in the 1960s. Some of her works have a Dutch touch. Such as her version of Velázquez’s ‘The Surrender of Breda’. Gonzalez also reinterpreted several paintings by Vermeer. Gonzalez’s canvases are colourful, vibrant, light in tone and occasionally humorous. It is remarkable how she decorated everyday objects such as a cupboard, a mirror or a television set.
In the second building, we pause to look at a few works by Jeff Koons, including the Hoover vacuum cleaners and the sculpture of Michael Jackson with his monkey Bubbles. The spacious museum building is situated in a lovely spot at the end of the boulevard. We spend a while watching the boats sail past and admire the former shipyard clock, which has been given a new purpose here. A delicious ice cream is the perfect way to round off the afternoon.
Days 4 and 5
The longest journey is from Oslo via Kristiansand to Stavanger. From there, we join an excursion through the fjords. Along the way, we see several waterfalls. The river water plunges down from ever-greater heights. We come face to face with a few mountain goats, which I thought I’d already spotted from the train. Finally, high up in the distance and much smaller than expected, the flat-topped rock nicknamed the ‘Pulpit Rock’.
Stavanger turns out to be a lovely little town with a lively nightlife district. It’s a beautiful mix of authentic wooden houses, painted in bright colours. We come across the rainbow motif remarkably often. We eat at a pizzeria where the pizzas are divided into the categories of red versus white and American versus Italian. Strangely enough, it’s not possible to order a pizza with fish.
In the town centre, by the water, a festival is taking place. The start time is kept vague – presumably on purpose – as is the order in which the artists are due to perform. We catch a glimpse of a Norwegian duo and decide to head back to the hotel.
In previous years, it wasn’t possible to watch Dutch TV talk show ‘Zomergasten’ from abroad. This time, however, for the 31st and final series, it’s no problem. We catch the last bit of the conversation with comedian Peter Pannenkoek. He shows a funny clip featuring Waardenberg and De Jong. Wilfried de Jong is hanging from a net like a monkey. ‘Watch out, he gets angry if you laugh at him,’ warns Martin van Waardenberg. Moments later De Jong storms into the audience in a rage. He runs along the handrails between the seats, climbs up to the balcony where he tips a lady’s handbag’s contents over the edge. Finally, the fire hose, aimed at the audience, is turned on full blast. Brilliant!
Day 6
A tough female driver takes us from Stavanger to Bergen, a four-and-a-half-hour journey in a double-decker coach. The route takes us along winding roads snaking through the mountains, past tunnels and over bridges. Rain showers and sunny spells alternate. The journey is interrupted twice as we drive, bus and all, onto a ferry. There we have to get off the bus and we cross the water past some of the thousands of rocky islets covered in pine trees.
In Bergen, we check into a stylish, old hotel. Outside, we hear a jazz band play ‘The Sunny Side of the Street’. That puts us on the wrong track. This weekend there’s no live jazz, but a metal festival, which explains the dark outfits of some of the hotel guests. On the ground floor, a cosy wedding is taking place. There’s plenty of art to admire in the corridors. On our floor, there’s a Bechstein grand piano.
Day 7
Bergen has a climate conducive to plant growth, with plenty of rain. Every now and then it pours down, only to stop just as suddenly. This Sunday we visit the Kunsthall, an alternative venue featuring installations designed to provoke thought. A film showing dry, cracked earth on which women are performing a sort of rain dance is situated directly opposite a space bathed in purple light and filled with flowering plants grown by local volunteers. In another room, there is a metal installation featuring a burning candle. A documentary is being projected onto the wall next to it. It is a project by Hanni Kamaly, who explores dehumanisation by showing how people are sometimes reduced to stereotypes.
On the ground floor of the KODE art museum we see mainly landscapes and pastoral scenes. We arrive just in time for a guided tour highlighting Munch’s key works. An expert guide provides information on the Norwegian artist’s works. The young man’s commentary is engaging, and he explains that Munch sought to capture feelings rather than reality. Munch went through various phases, some of which were sombre, though he also experienced more cheerful moments. Misunderstanding played a part, as did his complicated relationships with women. The guide ends on an optimistic note with a self-portrait that radiates a zest for life. Munch created the work after he had overcome his alcoholism whilst in a clinic. However interesting it may be, it remains a matter of interpretation, after all. Take the significance of the four women, for example: is the fourth woman old, or is she dead? And the dark silhouette in the street: is it a self-portrait of the painter as a misunderstood genius, or does this figure represent something else? At half an hour, the guided tour lasts just long enough.
We exchange thoughts on a phenomenon that has been striking us for some time now. Men who spend the whole time fiddling with their wives’ clothes or hair whilst on a trip or at a lecture. Is this love? Is it possessiveness? According to my travelling companion, it’s the latter. I have the feeling that these men are afraid their wives won’t cope and that they try to make them feel comfortable, come what may. Another question is whether that works. You’d have to ask these women. A variation on the phenomenon described lends support to my travelling companion’s interpretation: in the queue for the fjord cruise boat, a man gives his wife – I’ll assume she is, for the sake of convenience – a light tap on the bottom as a sign that she should keep moving. Once on board, I see another man grab his wife by her rucksack and pull her back to stop her from walking on.
During our afternoon stroll, our attention is drawn to a notice advertising an organ concert at the Dom Church. After an early meal, we make our way to the church. According to the ‘Bergen Organ Summer’ programme booklet, it is to be a modern programme featuring some lesser-known composers. The only point of reference whilst listening are the silences between the pieces. Although the audience is kindly asked to switch off their mobile phones, one rings immediately. Between the first and second pieces, another ringtone sounds.
After a few jarring, tentative passages, part of the audience breathes a sigh of relief at a march-like interlude: ‘The Parade of the Tin Soldiers’ by Leon Jeffel, arranged by Jonathan Scott. Someone, in the audience is filming the organ with a bright lamp shining straight into the eyes of the people sitting behind her. Once the cheerful march has finished, there is some confusion: a hesitant round of applause rises. Organist Ourania Gassiou, however, reacts professionally and bows politely. She then returns to the instrument for the real finale: the subdued ‘Schertzo Symphonic’.
The wedding, which had seemed so cosy at first, carries on noisily until the small hours. Apparently, a party isn’t a proper party unless the music is loud and conversation is impossible. I manage to fall asleep anyway.
Day 8
The journey to Vatnahalsen begins on a cramped train from Bergen. In Voss, we take the bus to Gudvanger. The mountains take on an even more impressive scale. Gentle streams accelerate into white-water rapids. We travel by boat from Gudvanger to Flåmm. On both sides, mountains soar high into the sky. The weather clears up, and the sun shines on the mountain peaks, which are snow-capped here and there. We pass a few settlements and a couple of isolated wooden houses. In Flåmm, unfortunately, we have very little time to visit the railway museum, which shows how the railway line that is to take us up the mountain was once built by hand. It’s cramped on the train itself. A man sitting next to me enthusiastically holds his mobile phone right in front of my face; he’s filming the entire journey, including the sections we spend in tunnels. Fortunately, we’re allowed to step outside briefly to view a spectacular waterfall. Apparently, this isn’t enough for some tourists. The power of nature is emphasised by Disney-style music. I only realise afterwards that there’s also a singer lip-syncing. Two stops further on, we get off the train. We’ve booked two nights at the Hoyfjekkshotel. The room takes me back to my childhood. I sit down in the very same chair my father used to sit in.
Outside, I can hear classical-style music that fades away after five minutes. A little later, it happens again. It turns out that the kitsch waterfall music is echoing throughout the valley. Dinner consists of a varied buffet. We are seated at a table with a Dutch family. They plan to go down on a zipline the next day and then carry on their journey.
Day 9
We walk down 800 meters to the valley along the zigzagging footpath. It takes us three quarters of an hour, taking careful steps. Above our heads, people whizz past at a speed of a hundred kilometres per hour. They’re down within a minute. Others take mountain bikes, sometimes whole families with children. It seems just a bit too steep to be comfortable. I notice I’m losing control of my legs. I’m using muscles that have been unused for too long. Meanwhile, I wonder if I’ll be able to make it back up under my own steam. Once down, we polish off our packed lunch. The return journey is manageable, though it is tiring. I arrive at the hotel room soaking wet. The bath turns out not to have a plug. I use a round jar that fits perfectly.
During dinner / buffet, we’re seated once again with some Dutch people: Anouk & Theet, a couple who, like us, are travelling through Norway. It’s nice to swap stories.
Day 10
From Vatnahalsen, we travel one stop on the tourist train to Myrdal. The train emerges from a thick cloud. Apart from the music, the passengers won’t have seen much of the waterfall. In Myrdal, we wait for the train to Oslo, which runs right through the high mountains. The highest point we reach is 1200 metres. In the distance, we can see three glaciers. The first part of the journey goes by quickly. Just when I think we’re almost there, we start stopping more often and the pace slows down. We pass the fjord in which the island of Utøya is situated, the place where Anders Breivik murdered 77 people fifteen years ago.
In Oslo, we end up in a food court. There’s plenty of choice and the food is good. We sit at long tables. It’s a casual, student-friendly atmosphere and the music is blaring.
Day 11
We still have the Munch Museum to visit. I’m hoping to finally find out what there is to see, given that so much of the Norwegian artist’s work is already on display elsewhere. The museum is popular and operates on a time-slot system. We pop into the gift shop, where I buy a book by Karl Ove Knausgård about Edvard Munch. At eleven o’clock, we’re allowed in. There’s a strict security check: small bags are allowed, but bottles must be empty. After viewing the first two paintings on the theme of ‘infinity’, a siren goes off. The sound is followed by an urgent announcement: ‘This is a fire alarm. Everyone must go down the stairs.’ A man in a wheelchair looks around desperately and is helped by a member of staff. Within five minutes we’re outside. Half an hour later, there’s still no sign of us being allowed back in.
We decide to take a spontaneous ride on the Ferris wheel. We actually go round three times. Afterwards, we admire the opera house’s remarkable wooden interior. A brass band is playing in the square. That might explain the many military uniforms we’ve been seeing here over the last few days.
Mid-afternoon, we make a second attempt to visit the large Munch Museum. It is much quieter than it was in the morning. Munch’s life must have been entirely devoted to art, given how much he produced. And he lived to the age of eighty. After a brief, realistic period, Munch introduced elements into his work that made it more mysterious and, above all, more powerful. Not only are his paintings, drawings and lithographs on display here, we can also see the materials he worked with: chisels, wood, a printing press and pencils. In one of the galleries, visitors are allowed to try their hand at using tablets. One of these tablets projects the result directly onto the wall.
In the room displaying woodcuts, visitors can transfer an image from wood onto paper by tracing over it with chalk. A temporary exhibition entitled ‘The Chocolate Factory’ showcases paintings that once hung in the Freia factory, where many women earned their living. In the cocoa industry, Munch witnessed abuses that inspired him to create socially conscious work.
In the topmost gallery, it is possible to compare Munch’s work with that of contemporaries such as Asger Jorn, Nikolai Astrup and Erik Harry Johannessen. Above Oslo, there is a sharp dividing line between a clear blue sky and dark, stormy clouds. We take shelter in the hotel from a thunderstorm and head back to Oslo Street Food.
Day 12
On the train from Oslo to Gothenburg, we end up in a ‘silence’ compartment. Given the Norwegians’ exemplary behaviour, I expect that, unlike in the Netherlands, the passengers here will also abide by the rules. A man, a woman and a wailing child bring me back down to earth. Three lads a little further down the carriage also strike up a lively conversation. Fortunately, I’ve got my headphones. A man across the aisle starts a video call, followed by another one shortly afterwards. On the third occasion, he’s told off by another passenger. Although every seat is labelled to indicate what sort of compartment it is, the man seems genuinely surprised when he says he hadn’t realised. As we’ve opted for an earlier train, we’re well in time for the ferry. The second lesson we put into practice is switching our phones to aeroplane mode. There’s quite a bit of swell – more up and down than side to side. Thanks to the travel tablets, I sleep like a log again.
Bonus day
In yet another attempt to put our trust in Deutsche Bahn, our neighbours’ public transport system once again proves a serious disappointment. As if it were the most normal thing in the world, the departure time is pushed back by half an hour. Even then, the train still doesn’t start moving. There are no announcements regarding this. The delay quickly mounts to over seventy minutes. We are already certain that we will miss our connection in Duisburg, so we opt for an alternative route. We get off at Osnabrück to cross the border as quickly as possible via Bad Bentheim. After Hengelo, everything goes like clockwork till we arrive in our hometown Rotterdam.
