70 Degrees North, Into Arctic Norway

Zagan the motorhome’s on a natural high. He’s buzzing. He’s stoked. He’s bust up through 70° north, and is sat among Arctic scenery and bell-clanging sheep at Trollholmsund, alongside the Porsangen Fjord in Finnmark, Northern Norway (N70.29925, E25.16246). We’ve ummed and arred about coming to Norway for the past four years, and now we’re finally here, we’re feeling pretty cracking. Everyone we meet who’s been here closes their eyes and shakes their head when we ask about it: words don’t do the place justice, it’s like nowhere on Earth. And now we’re here. Oooooh, yeah.

Zagan’s car park next to the Porsangen Fjord. Down a few km of alternating tarmac and gravel, it’s a beautiful spot and very popular with camper vans

Before you get any further, you might want to go get a cuppa. This is going to be a long one guys! Got one? Oh, and a biscuit I see, good work! Right, let me rewind a couple of days, rolling us back into Finland.

Charlie got more insect bites than we did in Finland, poor fella. They didn’t seem to bother him but I’m sure he’s as relieved as we are to be away from the clouds of biters

Ever since Poland we’ve been a bit nervous about crossing the border into Norway, who decided in referendums held in both 1972 and 1994 they didn’t want to join the EU, by a similar margin to the UK’s latest vote. This means the borders are very much real in terms of customs. Although Norway’s a member of the Schengen Area, so no need to show your passport, imports of alcohol, tobacco and food are all officially limited. Neither of us smoke, but we did have an unhealthy supply of wine boxes in here which we’ve bought over time. Despite our whole-hearted attempts to sup the lot in the Baltics and Finland, we failed, and might have had a teeny bit more than we should have. Various bits of information about not being able to bring in dog food, carrots and potatoes have cropped up too; every time we asked someone, something else became illegal so we stopped asking!

The Romans never made it to Finland, but you wouldn’t know it from the roads

Rolling on towards the somewhat scruffy border town at Karigasniemi, we remembered to buy diesel at Finland’s lower price, pulling in just before we flipped countries. While I topped us up at €1.23 a litre, Ju grabbed some last bits and bobs, observing Norwegians procuring enough tobacco to smoke out a shy rhino. Buoyed up by this apparent flagrant ignoring of the rules, we took one last look at our dog meat stash, gulped and headed for the border, trying not to look shifty as we headed for Nothing to Declare.

Last stop in Finland before the Norwegian border at one of three petrol stations in Karigasniemi

What’s this? An Alko shop (government-run liquor store), in a town which clearly has all of 8 people living in it? Could it be the Norwegians cross the border to stock up on wine? Surely not!

I remember the good old days at Dover when everyone on the bus coming back from France asked everyone else if they could pop a bottle of whiskey in their suitcase!

Deep breaths, just head for the middle lane, then wonder what just happened as you pass empty buildings and BOOM…

You’re in Norway. No yellow-star circles to be seen at this border crossing!

We were glad a second sign appeared, as we couldn’t quite believe we’ve made it in without Zagan being stripped down to nuts and bolts, as the rubber gloves were pulled on

Half an hour over the border we pulled in to Karasjok to hunt down a service point, finding it had been ripped up (literally, tarmac mangled) some time in the past year. We headed off from another rough-looking frontier town, driving north along the E6, waving at streams of oncoming motorhomes.

Surely a trick of the mind, but the scenery seemed to change immediately, the curtain of Finnish trees being whipped back to reveal actors warming up on the stage: hills, mountainy things, with splashes of snow on ’em. And water cascading from heights unseen since southern Poland. Yawps were even let loose in here, Yawps I tell you old chap, much un-Britishness taking place as we let loose our inner-nippers. YYYEAAAAHHHHH BABY, this is it, the BIG ONE, NORWAY!!!

Norway, you beauty! If we could have reached them thar hills, we’d have hugged ’em. This is the Norwegian Arctic, and we were in love with it already.

Safety cars accompanied us through roadworks as new stretches of road were born as we passed. No traffic lights here either, folks are paid to stand and hold a red paddle telling you to stop and wait for the car to come. Norwegian’s vaguely understandable too: Følg Meg – follow me!

After another hour or two’s cruising, the town of Lakselv presented itself to us by means of streetlights stood sentinel-like alongside the road, currently useless in night-less summer. In a brief trip to the tourist info office, the friendly lady stroked Charlie and told us everyone here takes credit cards, before finally relinquishing the location of the cash-dispenser. Ju grabbed some local currency, pulling in about 11 NOK to the pound. Which on the one hand is a bit depressing, as before the Brexit vote we’d have got 12 NOK, but on the other hand in recent years we’d have got less than 10 NOK, so we’re happy enough!

Brexit knocked the GBP to NOK

But the NOK to GBP rates have been far worse in recent years…

With NOK in hand, we nipped into a supermarket to get the low down on costs. When we got the ferry into Finland we were a bit taken aback how cheap it was compared to our expectations, and were red-faced at how much food we’d bought in Estonia. Not this time. Norway’s the most expensive country in the world, or thereabouts, and most of the grub was astonishingly pricey. A tin of peas: 36 NOK (£3.25), tin of baked beans: 33 NOK (£2.98), potatoes: 32 NOK a kilo (£2.89), bottle of Baileys: 358 NOK (£32.30). Outside we had a guess how much the kebab shack was charging, I went for a tenner, Ju went for six quid. I was closest: between 120 NOK and 160 NOK (£10.83 and £14.40) for a dirty kebab! A slice of pizza was a mere 60 NOK (£5.41) if you were feeling tight. Team Our Bumble have been here a while though, and have sorted out some reasonable-priced stuff, so we’ll pick their brains when we see ’em in a few days.

Whoopie! Something we can afford in the supermarket: this rather nice cake was about a quid

Head down, we piled on north past various suitable kipping spots, many already sprouting fellow van-dwellers on the route to or from the end of the world. Turning off the main road and creeping past sheep lying unfazed by the track we finally pulled in here, a Charlie’s bark from the ocean, in a landscape which screams Scotland, the finest of west coast Scotland. It’s raining as I write this, grey and cool and beautiful.

There are trolls here too! Standing white and tall, turned to stone by the daylight when carrying a chest of gold, I can’t help think they must have slept for months on end, as it’s flipping daylight here non-stop in the summer! Fellow Brits Kate and Steve were here when we arrived, and we enjoyed a long chat with them this morning before they headed off. There being little difference between day and night, they’ve taken to driving in the small hours, seeing more wildlife that way, and less traffic. After an epic drive north through the country, their map a web of black lines drawn to trace their adventure, they’re topping out soon in their self-built ex UK speed camera van (really well converted) before heading south. Listening to them talk, to see the enjoyment of it on their faces, we’re trying not to get too excited, but it’s looking like the good times are about to seriously roll in!

A German van parked up next to us. I stared at the map for a minute: hang on! We may have Brexited but we ain’t disappeared!

Steve, Kate and Bailey on a year’s trundle through Europe

And just before I bow out, I ticked off a bucket list item today. Using the extending rod and spinner we bought in Finland, I’ve stood among the troll-rocks and pulled in a couple of fish from the Arctic. Dispatching them with a knife wasn’t as hard as I’d feared, as I knew I’d eat them. I learned how to gut them in Morocco, and I cleaned them in a mountain stream before frying them with a bit of salt and a squeeze of lemon. Tiny, yep, but I my man-ego feels anything but.

Brand new kit about to be tested. Surely I wouldn’t catch anything…

3rd cast, and out comes a fish!

I know, I know, they’re teeny weeny. I did of course hook a much, much bigger one, but it got away…

Cheers folks! Jay

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