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This story is dedicated

To The people of Norway who have re-marked

the ancient pathways to Nidaros,

To the people who help pilgrims

on their journey,

To those who helped and encouraged me

with this work,

and to my wife Lily

whose tolerance and understanding is beyond my comprehension.

Mike Smith

Sydney 2006

This Santiagobis edition is dedicated

to the memory of Don Trigo De Los Carrion De Los Condes,

Perro Peregrino and

mascot of the Santiagobis group

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Olav II Haraldsson of Norway King and Saint Olav Haraldsson was born in 995AD. He was the son of Harald Grenske and Åsta Gudbrandsdatter. Harald was the great-grandson of Harald 1 Fairhair, regarded as the first king to attempt to unite Norway under one ruler. Olav’s father died when he was young. He “was brought up by his stepfather Sigurd Syr and his mother Åsta. Hrane the Far-travelled lived in the house of Åsta and fostered Olav Haraldsson. Olav came early to manhood, was handsome in countenance, middle-sized in growth, and was even when very young of good understanding and ready speech.” says the great medieval saga of the Viking kings, written by Iceland’s Snorre Sturluson at the end of the twelfth century. Olav is the spelling currently used, though ‘Olaf’ and other spellings have been variously used over time. When barely a teenager, he sailed southwards as a Viking chief and raided throughout Western Europe and the Baltic. Olav was famously involved with the burning down of London Bridge, when he allied himself with the English King Ethelred in a bid to beat off an invading force of the Danish king Svein Haraldsson. Snorri quotes extracts of a lay by the Norse poet, Ottar Svarte, including the following passage which is strikingly similar to parts of the rhyme we all learned as children: “London Bridge is broken down. -- Gold is won, and bright renown. Shields resounding, War-horns sounding, Hild is shouting in the din! Arrows singing, Mail-coats ringing -- Odin makes our Olaf win!” At some point, probably in France, he accepted Christianity. He returned to Norway in 1015, bringing Catholic bishops as missionaries. He claimed kingship over all Norwegians with the support of many chieftains who saw that he probably had the best chance of unifying an unruly country. He defeated his opponents and ruled with an iron fist for a decade, during which time he promoted Christianity, sometimes at the point of a sword. Seeing an opportunity, Canute, king of Denmark and England, forced him from power in 1029. He fled eastwards, where he plotted his return.

With a small army Olav Haraldsson returned to Norway in 1030. His intention was to regain the Norwegian crown. Opponents assembled a large army of farmers and soldiers against him at Stiklestad near Trondheim in central Norway. Snorre Sturlason relates, in the Saga of Olav Haraldsson, that Olav died from three wounds. First, a man called Thorstein Knarresmid struck the king on the thigh with an axe. The other two wounds were inflicted when Thorer Hund’s spear penetrated Olav’s stomach under his chainmail and then Kalf Arneson is said to have struck Olav in the neck with an axe. Thorgils Halmason and his son Grim hid the king’s body from his enemies, who would have burned it. They took the dead King to Nidaros where they buried the body in a sand hill beside the river Nid. Beginning almost immediately after his death, miraculous cures were credited to King Olav. Within a year there was much talk about King Olav's sanctity. There were many who believed that King Olav must be a saint, even those who had fought against him. The body was exhumed a year after his death and witnesses attested to its uncorrupted state. The King was eventually buried in a chapel. A larger church was built over the spot. The church was enlarged over the centuries to become the cathedral we see today. His cult spread all over the Nordic countries and even to England. Many churches were dedicated to Saint Olav. The Battle of Stiklestad became regarded as the keystone event in the Christianizing of Norway, though there is still debate on this point. Olav’s popularity increased dramatically when he was declared to be a Christian saint. In years to come Saint Olav became the unifying symbol of the Norwegian nation: Rex Perpetuus Norvegiae, Norway’s Eternal King. The grand cathedral of Nidaros, where the king’s coffin reposed, became the most important place of Christian pilgrimage in Norway and one of the most important half dozen in Christendom. This pilgrimage all but died out after the Reformation and became just a faint memory. It was to this I was drawn when I found that a band of modern-day Norwegians had marked the pilgrim trails that lead over six hundred kilometers from Oslo to Trondheim in the last ten years. I heard of the Saga of Olav Haraldsson, Norway’s Eternal King. Romance, religion, history! The die was cast…

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The Journey: Fri June 27 From Sydney to Vienna Sat June 28 in Vienna Sun June 29 Vienna to Oslo Mon June 30 Mariakirke to St Halvards Gate 2km Tue July 1 St Halvards Gate To Olaavsgarde 18km Wed July 2 Olavsgaard to Klofta 20km Thur July 3 Klofta to Elstad 23km Fri July 4 Elstad to Eidsvoll 21km Sat July 5 Eidsvoll to Lysjoen 22km Sun July 6 Lysjoen to Tangen 26km then to Hamar 24km by train Mon July 7, 8 In Hamar Wed July 9 Hamar to Brummendal 21km Thur July 10 Brumunddal to Moelv 21km Fri July 11 Moelv to Lillehammer 30km by bus Sat July 12, 13, 14, 15, 16 In Lillehammer Thur July 17 Lillehammer to Aasletten 20km Fri July 18 Aasletten to Glomstad 24km Sat July 19 Glomstad to Ringebu 26km Sun July 20 Ringebu to Dovre 102km by bus Mon July 21 Dovre to Furuhaugli 24km Tue July 22 Furuhaugli to Hageseter 12km Wed July 23 Hageseter to Rypusan 42km Thur July 24 Rypusan to Oppdal 25km Fri July 25 Oppdal to Langklopp Fjellgard 20km Sat July 26 Langklopp Fjellgard to Berkak 16km and then to Trondheim 90km by train Sun July 27 In Trondheim Mon July 28 Sundet to Trondheim 22km Tue July 29 St. Olav’s Day in Trondheim Wed July 30 In Trondheim Thur July 31 Trondheim to Oslo Fri August 1 Oslo to Vienna Sat August 2 Vienna to Sydney 405km 246km on foot by vehicle Total Distance: 651km

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PILEGRIMSVEIEN Friday 27th June Sydney via Kuala Lumpur to Vienna

Every seat was occupied on the Lauda flight out of Sydney. A video camera fitted under the aircraft gave us an interesting view of the take-off until the Boeing 777 lifted its nose high into the air. From then on we could see nothing much on the screen except a rapidly darkening sunset sky. My seatbelt would not lock. I had called a cabin attendant before takeoff and pointed this out when I boarded the aircraft. Promising to have it attended to immediately, she moved rapidly away and disappeared. Another stewardess looked at it as we taxied towards take-off but shrugged her shoulders and retreated to her seat as the aircraft lined up on the runway. I hung on and hoped for the best. The cabin staff didn’t put in another appearance until we were well up to altitude and heading northwards. Two hours later the crew began handing out dinners to the passengers. They were the smallest meals I’ve ever seen on an aircraft flight. The drinks were clearly rationed to one each, except for coffee and tea. The food trays were left with the passengers for forty-five minutes after the miserably small contents had been consumed. Some passengers resorted to taking their own plates to the galley, which was raided for snacks and drinks by others during the flight. I have no idea where the crew hid themselves. There was a general air of anger amongst passengers at the parsimonious service and disinterested attitude of the few staff who occasionally showed themselves in the cabin. We arrived in Kuala Lumpur hungry. Passengers were kept in the transit area of the terminal under the watchful eyes of the local security staff for half an hour whilst the aircraft was refueled. Unfortunately there was no restaurant open, so we returned hungry and disgruntled to the aircraft for the onward flight. We reached Vienna on a bright Saturday morning at 6am local time after a total flight time of twenty-two hours from Sydney. I collected my bag from the carousel and walked through the Customs area and out into the central terminal without seeing a single person who looked even vaguely interested in checking passports, stamping visas or examining suitcases. I had booked a hotel room near the centre of the city before leaving Sydney so, following the arrows I found my way downstairs to the train platform. A ticket vending machine provided a few minutes of head scratching as I tried to interpret the simple directions. I could buy a 1st Section ticket or a 2nd Section ticket. But there was no explanation as to which or why. A cheerful American businessman joined me and despite being a frequent visitor to Vienna he was similarly stumped. We took the cheaper option and bought a 1st Section ticket each for E1.50 and climbed aboard the train that arrived in a minute or so.

As the train clattered towards the city the American chatted with me about Europe and his part in it. A few minutes later a ticket collector arrived in the carriage and inspected our tickets. Horror of horrors, we had both bought the wrong ticket! The uniformed lady tartly explained that we should have bought a 2nd Section ticket for €3.00. Now, because of our error she’d have to fine us €10.00 and throw us off the train. We proffered her €1.50 each. She grinned good-naturedly and handed us a ticket each and wandered away.

The train arrived at Wien Mitte in about twenty-five minutes and I alighted, heading for the exit. As far as I could tell from my map, this was as near as the train got to my hotel. Dragging my bag outside I hailed a taxi. Achmed the taxi-driver was quite chatty. Asking if this was my first trip to Vienna he launched into a description of our surroundings and gave me a potted history of the city and the Austro-Hungarian Empire in general as we drove towards the hotel. He got somewhat lost, but eventually found the hotel in Joergerstrasse in the 18th District. Although it was still fairly early, the day was already hot and was developing into a scorcher. I fumbled at the door of the hotel and could not figure how to get it open. Achmed came to the rescue, pushing where I had been pulling. Handing me his card he told me to call him if I needed a taxi to the airport tomorrow. He’d do me a special deal, as his wife was ill and he needed the extra money. The Thuringer Hoff hotel was built at the beginning of the twentieth century in the style of old Viennese city residences. It was supposed to be a four star hotel but exuded an air of genteel decay. It was apparently family-owned. The furniture in the public rooms looked as if it had spent twenty or thirty years in the owner’s drawing room before being relegated for the use of guests. The air in the hotel was utterly still. There was no air-conditioning, nor did there seem to be any draught of fresh air. I was too tired to worry about this. The lady at the reception desk was gracious and refined, but the effect was spoiled by a small lap dog that wandered around the office head-butting the furniture with a disconcerting ‘bonk’ followed by a muffled grunt. It was as blind as a bat and obviously brain-damaged from too much head-butting.

I was handed my keys and headed for the elevator which, grunting and groaning almost as much as the dog, finally lifted me to the first floor. Try as I might I could not get the key to open the door to my room. This was a time-zone problem, I decided. A hotel maid arrived, took the key from me, opened the door and admitted me to the room. It

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was spotlessly clean and austere in the way you’d expect a well-off nun’s cell to look. It had a small fan lazily stirring the air. I opened a window and a rush of hot air from outside made me close it again. I was too tired and disoriented to worry. I disrobed and lay down on the bed and crashed. When I awoke at 10am I had a shower, dressed and stepped outside. I tried the key and it worked first time. Taking the new camera I’d been given by my wife Lily the day before I left Sydney and after getting directions from the lady with the blind dog, I walked out into the street and walked around the block to get the legs in order. Then, with a small city map in hand, I walked down the road to the tram stop and bought a twenty four-hour tram pass. I boarded a #43 tram to the city centre. Alighting, I saw a park across the way and a handsome cathedral, so I wandered across to have a

look. I then marched off through streets lined with stately government buildings, elegant apartments and impressive palaces. Vienna was clearly once in possession of an empire of great riches. I took a tram back to the hotel at about 6pm and had a short rest. After a shower I headed back to the centre of town and found a restaurant to my liking and ordered a pleasant three-course meal for €20, which was accompanied by a big glass of excellent beer. I could see a lot of commotion and lights a few hundred metres away, so I walked down the street to what turned out to be the Town Hall where a huge open-air stage and screen were set up. An opera was in progress, the voices thundering out across the crowd in the open plaza. I enjoyed the performance for a while and then took the tram back to my hotel and fell into to bed at about midnight.

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Sunday 29th June Vienna to Oslo

I woke to a stillness that didn’t bode well. This was going to be another hot day. I rose, showered, dressed and climbed the stairs to the ornate dining room on the top floor. The usual ‘fare for foreigners’ was laid out on large tables and a strange mix of hotel guests were there helping themselves to the food. A young Chinese couple was making heavy weather of it, piling all sorts of strange foods onto one plate. They seemed quite unaware of what most of it was. Still, that’s what travel is for, isn’t it? I returned to my room and tidied up and sat and read the Follet book for a while.

My feet needed a little exercise so I then went out for a walk around the neighbourhood. I was a little wary of spending too much time out in the Sun as I had noticed that I was a slightly sunburned from yesterday, so I applied the 15+ and wore my hat. The couple of blocks around the hotel consisted of large, monolithic buildings, mostly four or five stories. Most appeared to follow the same design in that they had retail businesses on the ground floor and apartments on the upper levels. Many of the businesses appeared to be in decline, the signs were common; grubby windows, faded window displays and a faint air of genteel decrepitude. Most of the buildings looked dusty. I have no idea whether Vienna was in the grip of a drought or whether the dustiness was usual, but a solid rainstorm was desperately needed; this part of Vienna could do with a good wash.

Feeling a little hungry I saw what looked like a

food shop. In the fashion of Chinese and Japanese restaurants it had large illustrations in the window of the dishes available inside. The food wasn’t Austrian; it appeared to be Hungarian. I opened the door and strolled in. A very pretty teenager lolled at the counter, watching a television set in the corner. She eyed me with complete indifference and went back to her TV quiz program. I looked at the menu and tried to ask for a meal. She turned and called the cook, probably her father. He spoke to me in German, then French and finally asked in English, “You like to eat what number?” I pointed to the mixed grill and he nodded his approval. As he returned to the kitchen the girl pointed to the soft drinks cabinet for me to select from the usual array but the father said something sharply and she subsided into her corner and resumed watching the television.

When the food was ready the father brought it out

and, with a grand flourish placed it in front of me. Arrayed on a large oval plate was an excellent fresh salad with oil and vinegar dressing, three or four sausages, two chops and some steak! Large dabs of sauces and mustards were placed around the rim of the plate! “Bier?” asked the cook. “Yes, please.” Without any further ado he poured a half litre of beer and placed it in front of me with a grin. As I tried to eat the mountain of food he engaged me in conversation, asking where I was from and what I was doing in Austria.

His English was very limited, making it difficult for me to eat and explain my journey at the same time. Eventually another customer walked in and ordered a meal, so the cook had to return to the kitchen. When I had eaten enough to feel decidedly uncomfortable I paid the young lady and left. The day was now really hot, so I walked slowly back to the hotel, lay down for a short rest, as I’d be leaving later for Oslo.

I packed my gear and dragged it downstairs to the

foyer. I asked the lady at the counter what it would cost to take a taxi to the airport for my early evening flight. She told me there was a set fare of about twenty-five Euros, so I fished out Achmed’s card and she called him. He told her he’d be there in twenty minutes to pick me up for the ride to the airport. Right on time a smiling Achmed arrived and put my bag in the boot and we drove to the airport. He hadn’t turned on the taximeter although I didn’t notice this at first. When we arrived at the departure terminal I removed my bag from the cab and Achmed announced that the fare was thirty-five Euros because it was Sunday. I offered him twenty-five and he turned instantly ugly. He insisted on the thirty-five or he’d call the Police and have me arrested. Seeing two security people twenty metres behind him I called to them and gestured for them to come over. As they began to walk towards us Achmed grabbed the twenty-five from my hand, climbed into the cab and drove away from the kerb. The security types smiled and strolled off.

I sat in the airport lounge and read until it was time

to book in. Passengers were directed to a small waiting area and then the longest, lowest, widest airport bus I’ve ever seen backed up to the entrance. We boarded the bus and it slid out from the terminal and made its way along rows of parked aircraft to a small, neat Canadair Regional jet operated by Tyrolean Airways at the very end of the airport. From the outside it looked almost like a private aircraft but once inside I saw that twenty passengers could be accommodated in comfort. I’d not seen such a neat aircraft of this type before.

The plane took off at 7.30pm and flew across Germany and into cloud. The rest of the trip was above cloud and I could see nothing until we approached the Norwegian coast. The cloud cover was even thicker and we descended steeply towards Oslo where we landed at 10pm. The light was strangely subdued. I have never been this far from the Equator before and the northern twilight had a softness that took forever to change. The passengers trooped to the baggage area where our bags came promptly off the carousel. I took my bag and walked out into the public area. No Customs officials, no baggage inspection, nothing!

I was to be met by Tron Hummelvol with whom

I’d been corresponding for some months. He had offered to help me when I arrived in Norway. Tron is one of a small

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band of enthusiasts encouraging interest in the St Olav pilgrimage. Outside the arrival gate I stood for a few minutes taking in the scene and then heard a voice behind me say, “Mike?” There was Tron, tall, broad-shouldered, with deep-set eyes and a big welcoming grin on his face. Jim Hoban, a sturdy-looking American who was also in Norway for the St Olav pilgrimage, accompanied him. Jim, his wife Sue and young son Chris had arrived earlier in the day. We walked out to the parking area and I noted that the temperature was pleasantly cool and there were a few rain spots, not bad walking weather.

We climbed into Tron’s car and drove out of the

airport, onto a freeway and in twenty minutes we arrived at the town of Klofta where the Hummelvol’s live. I noticed that the town was built in such a way that walking and bicycling were the preferred modes of transport. The streets were narrow and windy with neatly painted houses, mostly

timber, set in well-tended, colourful gardens. I was introduced to Tron’s wife Elsa and then to Jim’s wife Sue and their seven-year-old son Chris, who seemed far more interested in his ‘Gameboy’ than the prospect of a long and difficult walk through Norway.

Elsa, a dignified and charming lady, made me a

cup of tea and cheese biscuits, and the group of us sat and chatted about the upcoming adventure for half an hour. I was shown to my bedroom downstairs, a pleasantly cool room lined with bookshelves crammed with books of all sorts, though I noticed that many had history or numismatics as their themes. I got ready for bed. My watch told me it was midnight but it was still bright enough outside to see without a light; my body told me it was so confused by jet-lag that it hadn’t a clue. As a consequence I had quite some difficulty getting to sleep.

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Monday 30th Start: Mariakirke To St Halvards Gate (2km)

I drifted in and out of sleep several times. I finally woke and seeing that it was fairly bright outside I checked my watch. It said 10 past 12! I leaped out of bed and grabbing my towel and gear headed to the bathroom upstairs. Nobody was around; the house appeared to be empty. I had a rapid shower, dried off and put my clothes on. I walked out to the kitchen to see about breakfast. The clock on the kitchen wall indicated 4.30am! No wonder nobody was up! No wonder the house seemed empty! I slunk back to my room and tried to figure what had happened. I’d misread my watch, the strange light had fooled me and my circadian clock was on strike! I lay down to consider the matter, closed my eyes for a moment and opened them a few minutes later to find that it was now 10am. I could hear movement around the house so I bolted upstairs to find Elsa making breakfast. She smiled when she saw me and remarked that they’d heard me fumbling around early in the morning and rightly assumed that I was confused about the time.

Tron arrived home from the shops and over

breakfast of herrings in tomato sauce on crispbreads, orange juice and toast with raspberry jam we discussed the day’s itinerary, which was to be something of a tourist view of Oslo for the Hoban family and and me.

Tron piled us into his car and we headed towards

Oslo. We first drove up to a high point overlooking the city to gain an overall view of the area. The city lay spread out below on both sides of a wide harbour with many bays and inlets. The surrounding countryside was dense green with many forests and parks separating the suburbs.

We moved on to Holmenkollen, a ski jump arena

and museum. The stark ski jump looked terrifyingly dangerous in summer. How it would look in winter I shudder to think. The jumps look far more dangerous when seen close-up than they do when seen on television. We wandered around the museum where displays showed the evolution of skis and skiing with dioramas, movies and displays of old and new equipment. Norway has a proud history in Olympic skiing and many medals were displayed here.

We then drove down towards the city and visited

Frogner Park. Laid out in formal avenues with gardens and a bridge over a lake this delightful haven was dominated by a large number of granite statues and bronzes by Gustav Vigeland, Norway’s most famous sculptor. The theme was ‘Man’, more particularly ‘man unclothed’ and to be precise ‘man, woman and children unclothed doing all sorts of things’. The heavy formal statues showed an unblinking naked sensuality, sometimes serious, sometimes witty, sometimes strange and confronting. The park was crowned by a small rise on which was a carved stone monolith depicting a writhing, intertwined minaret of people reaching skywards.

We visited the waterfront area, much like the Darling Harbour precinct in Sydney. Fashion stores and tourist shops with apartments above. Very neat and most attractive. Tron made a point of showing me a giant propeller from the German battle cruiser Blucher, which was displayed near the waterfront. The ship was leading the German invasion of Oslo in April 1940, crammed with crack German assault troops when it was struck by shells from a shore battery manned by raw recruits of the Norwegian army. Two ancient torpedoes were then fired at point blank range. The ship caught fire, rolled over and sank almost immediately with enormous loss of life. The target of the assault, the Norwegian royal family, was spirited out of the city in the confusion. They eventually escaped the country to the safety of England.

Tron showed me the city Town Hall, which had a

magnificent astronomical clock on its façade. The clock showed the time, phases of the Moon, the positions of the planets and the Sun’s position on the ecliptic. The forecourt of the Town Hall had a series of woodcarvings that depicted ancient Norse legends, set into the walls.

We then trooped around to nearby Kirkegaten

where we were introduced to Eivind Luthen in the Pilgrim Office. The St Olav pilgrimage is Eivind’s passion. He produces a lavishly illustrated pilgrim newsletter for the benefit of Scandinavian pilgrims. He also had a number of pilgrim badges and mementos, so I bought a few to add to my collection. Eivind then presented Jim, Sue and me with a ‘pilegrimspass’ to use on our journey north. He explained that it was not as flash as the ones used in Spain for the pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela. He said that many of the churches we would pass along the way might not have a stamp to put in the book. At least they’d learn what was needed for the future. So, we’d be guinea pigs! Nonetheless it was great to have a locally issued ‘credencial’.

Tucked away in my backpack and wrapped in

plastic for protection from the elements were letters from Bishop Chris Toohey, a friend, and bishop of Willcannia-Forbes in western New South Wales. These letters were a sort of ‘safe-conduct pass’ as issued in ancient days. One was addressed to the Catholic bishop and one was for the Lutheran bishop of Trondheim. After a half-hour stay with Eivind, discussing the exciting re-emergence of pilgrimage in Scandinavian countries, we left and walked over to Akersveien to the St Olav’s Catholic cathedral for six o’clock Mass.

More like a large church than a cathedral, it was

the first Catholic Church built in Norway after the Reformation and dates from the mid nineteenth century. A feature of this relatively simple building was the profusion of highly detailed, colourful stained glass windows set into the side walls and depicting the major saints of Norway;

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St Olav, St Halvard, St. Sunniva, St. Magnus, St. Eyestein and others. To the left and right of the main altar were two large paintings. They looked surprisingly familiar and turned out to be excellent reproductions of two of Raphael’s works; The Transfiguration of Christ and the Sistine Madonna, both painted by a Swedish Countess. The Mass was celebrated by a priest on holidays from England, a delightful raconteur with whom we had a pleasant chat after Mass. Tron took a great interest in the proceedings, admitting that he’d never seen the inside of this church before.

The centre of attention in the cathedral was a large

brass and glazed cabinet. Displayed in this was a life-size, hollow silver and gold reliquary in the shape of a muscular arm. Fitted into this at the elbow position was a glass lens through which could be seen the skin and bones of a mummified human arm. This was, according to the inscription, the right arm of Saint Olav the King! I was fairly taken aback to see this in the Catholic Church in Oslo. According to historical records I had read, the whereabouts of the body of King Olav became uncertain at the time of the Reformation. The most commonly held belief is that the body was buried somewhere in or near the cathedral at Nidaros by the last Catholic bishop before he fled, never to reveal its whereabouts. Did he remove an arm as a ‘keepsake’ before he left?

We were chatting happily with the English priest

outside the cathedral until Sue discovered that young Chris had gone missing! All hell broke loose for a few minutes! Sue was distraught, rushing hither and yon on the edge of tears. We looked around the church area and in the surrounding streets. Chris turned up quite unconcerned. He’s been sitting quietly in a corner playing his ‘Gameboy’. Once calm had been restored I walked down the road to the church office where I was able to obtain a ‘sello’ for my newly acquired credencial.

It was dinnertime according to my stomach,

though the position of the Sun in the sky indicated to me that it was still only late afternoon. I wasn’t used to seeing the sky from sixty degrees north latitude. The Sun never

sets as late as 9.40pm, nor rises at 3.00am in Sydney, thirty-four degrees South of the equator. We walked to a nearby shopping centre where we found a pizza parlor. Two large pizzas were ordered and between three adults and a hungry young boy they were rapidly demolished.

We then took ourselves off through town, pausing

at the King’s palace to chat to the affable young soldier on guard duty. We arrived to the harbour’s edge where we would make a start on the pilgrimage.

Tron explained that the Mariakirke was the

traditional starting point for the pilgrimage to Nidaros. The remains of the church, not much more than brick and stone remnants outlining the original walls, are set in a large grassy, park-like area. Several groups were using the area for picnicking. A group of tough-looking men challenged Jim Hoban, who was taking a photograph of the ruins. They thought that he was photographing them. When he told them that he was American they became more aggressive, angrily suggesting that he change that to ‘North American’. It transpired that they were Chileans and Brazilians. Jim spoke to them for a few minutes and they became much friendlier. Whether they were drunk, making a point, or had been genuinely angry, I couldn’t tell.

We set off and walked over a small footbridge

where we saw the first yellow arrow indicating the pilgrim path. We continued on along Oslogata, past the ruins of St. Hallvards church and arrived at St. Hallvard Gate where we saw the first of the official pilgrim signs that were to mark, at regular intervals, the route six hundred and fifty long kilometres northwards to Trondheim.

The sun was now almost on the horizon so Tron

called a halt to the day’s proceedings and we walked back to the car, piled in and drove back to Klofta and Tron’s house where we went to bed about midnight. The sky was still reasonably bright, bright enough to walk around outside without tripping over things. Over the next month I was to be constantly amazed by this simple fact of life in the North. I imagine Norwegians find tropical sunsets equally strange.

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Tuesday July 1 St Halvards Gate To Olaavsgarde (18km)

We woke up reasonably early, showered, breakfasted and prepared for the day’s walking. The intention was to return to Oslo and take up from where we’d left off yesterday evening. With that in mind we carried our lightly laden backpacks down the lane and to the main road where we boarded a suburban bus to Oslo. Arriving in town, we made our way to St Halvard’s Gate where we’d finished yesterday. The weather was cooler and looked more threatening, with heavy clouds crawling slowly across the sky. We re-commenced our walk led by Tron with his imposing two-metre walking stick. Jim and Sue carried nicely carved and polished sticks they’d brought from America, while I had a smart new three-piece aluminium stick, made for me by Uncle Tony, my ‘custom stick-maker’ in Sydney.

The ‘pilgrim way’ passed through suburbs with

many areas of immigrant housing. I was surprised to see the numbers of immigrants who appeared to be from India and Pakistan, the Middle East and North Africa. For some reason I didn’t expect to see so many people from third world countries in Norway. I was to find out later that a number of them were refugees who were using Norway as a ‘first port of call’, with long term aims of settling in the United States or some other country. One refugee I later met in Lillehammer complained that the Norwegian government wouldn’t pay for him to learn Norwegian so he was learning English instead. I believe he would use that later when applying to live elsewhere.

We passed by Galgeberg, which Tron took great

delight in translating as “Hanging Hill” though it is no longer used for that purpose. Past an area called the Match Factory the walk was edging slowly into more parkland and open country. The beautiful Ostre Aker Kirke was reached through a charming gate in a stone wall. It was so picture-perfect it looked like something from a nineteenth century lithograph. Beside the church was a meticulously well-kept cemetery. Candleholders were evident on many headstones. It was the first time I was able to look closely at a Nordic cemetery. Norwegians take great pains to ensure that the dead have a comfortable place in which to live. Watering cans and taps are always to hand, flowers adorn headstones and lawns are kept neatly cut. I couldn’t say that they are ancestor worshippers, but Norwegians certainly look after their forebears with impressive enthusiasm.

We sat in a corner of the cemetery and ate the sandwiches we’d made in the morning. On one side was the churchyard overlooking a peaceful valley, on the other side was a busy highway. We left Ostre Aker Kirke and walked down the hill parallel to the highway for a while then crossed over at a most unusual intersection. Once on the other side of the highway we were confronted by an odd

clash of cultural icons. Side by side were a garish Indian Sikh temple and the local Hells Angel headquarters! One was painted in vibrant primary colours and the other was mostly rusty iron sheeting in industrial greys and blacks. Neither seemed to be planted convincingly in the soil.

We continued along beside the Highway for a

while and then onto a narrow, uphill dirt road, which Tron informed us, was the original road northward out of Oslo. We passed by many neat, well-kept houses that had been built on fields excised from a farm. We then diverged from the road into the old farm’s driveway and met the owner, an affable man in his fifties. He was in the process of restoring the house and its grounds. Accompanying him was a wobbly old farm dog that wheezed and coughed. The farmer informed us that he had to keep an eye on the dog, as it was diabetic. It had never occurred to me that a dog could be diabetic. The idea seemed bizarre!

On the far side of the farm was a somber

graveyard. It was filled with two or three hundred simple stone crosses; each bearing the name of a German soldier, sailor or airman who died during the Occupation of Norway. The area was neat and simple, and in typical Norwegian fashion, meticulously well maintained. Tron told us that Germans occasionally visited and laid flowers on the graves of their relatives.

Continuing on through a forested area on well-

marked pathways we passed Furuset, a brand-new, formless looking church. We reached a small shopping centre where we stopped for lunch in a small coffee shop. A hamburger, chips and a small salad, plus a small slice of apple pie cost Kr85. Out of the shopping complex we climbed up into the hills to get over into the next valley. The pathway was up a rocky trail that looked like a watercourse. It probably is just that when the snows are melting in early spring, but it was dry when we laboured up through the football sized boulders. It is a popular skiing path in winter and we could see the coloured markers on the tree trunks that indicate the way for skiers. Tron had been there with his pot of paint and there were yellow arrows to be found at regular intervals. The surrounding forests of pines and firs were beautiful. Tall slim trees whispered quietly when the occasional faint breeze rustled through.

Once over the top of the hill we followed the path

as it meandered down to Lahaugsmoen, an old army base that was now home to an evangelical Christian group. We walked through the camp area and out past some well-constructed log buildings at the entrance that looked like something from a German war movie.

On to a cycle path beside the busy highway we

walked a couple of kilometres to the Olavsgaard Hotel where we were met and made welcome by the cheerful

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owner Per Fjellheim. At the entrance to the hotel is a massive stone statue of King Olav Haraldsson striking a menacing pose, with a cross in the right hand and sword in the left hand. On the back of the statue is an inscription commemorating the battle in 1017 that saw Olav gain sovereignty over all of Norway. Per Fjellheim took us into the office where he stamped our pilegrimspass. He explained that he’d be offering cheaper prices for pilgrims

who wished to stay at the hotel- about Kr300 per person per night! We missed the last bus that would take us back to Klofta. A taxi wasn’t to be had so Per kindly offered to drive us to Klofta in his own car. We climbed aboard his Mercedes and rode comfortably back in style. Once there we sat around in Tron’s loungeroom discussing religion, the churches, international affairs and whatever else entered our minds till midnight, when we drifted off to bed.

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Wednesday 2nd July Olavsgaard to Klofta (20km)

We drove from Tron’s home to begin walking where we’d finished yesterday. This day we were to reach Klofta. Before we did that however, Tron asked if we’d like to see a remnant of the last Ice Age. Jim and I speedily agreed, so we took a detour to a fascinating geological rock formation at Skedsmo. The surface of the rocks showed the incredible forces that must have formed them into the fantastic shapes we saw. A kilometre away was another remnant of the Ice Age, a huge gravel quarry. Norway has plenty of gravel.

Three of us returned to Olavsgaard without Chris

and Sue. Tron, Jim and I commenced where we’d left off the day before. We deviated from the marked trail a few times because Tron said it wasn’t accurately marked. We spent a lot of time walking through forests, along marked but unused trails and alongside and occasionally through farm fields. It was often heavy going because the day was damp. Underfoot was particularly wet. Walking through long grass was difficult and tiresome. I wished I’d brought gaiters with me. My feet and lower legs became and remained sodden most of the day. We were all happy when the path would coincide with a gravel road, as these made excellent walking surfaces. The occasional car would approach and pass carefully. Norwegians are generally careful drivers and pedestrians seem to have absolute right-of-way.

We arrived at Skedsmo Kirke, a massively built

stone church. The Iranian-born verger gave us a complete tour of the interior. He proudly called himself ‘Persian’. The interior walls were whitewashed and this set off the simple wooden fittings well. Behind the altar was a carved and painted retablo executed in 1693. Central was depicted the crucifixion with pairs of smaller scenes on the left and right. Near the altar railing were a number of chairs with coverings of richly decorated and coloured leather. I’ve never before seen such complex decorations on leather. The verger showed us the soapstone baptismal font. He said it was so old that nobody knew its real age but it was clearly ancient and its later brass fittings were in sympathy with the age of the stone. A richly carved and painted wood pulpit completed the interior.

Leaving Skedsmo we continued on towards

Frogner. The walking was at first quite comfortable as we marched along through forests and open countryside on gravel paths and country roads. The path eventually led off through farmland, straight alongside and occasionally through growing crops. This was difficult walking, as the grass was mostly wet, thick and waist-high. The ground underneath was uneven. Large clods of earth and stones made for heavy going and the thought of turning an ankle

was always uncomfortably present. I soon realised that my boots were not providing the lateral support I needed.

Reaching Frogner Kirke, we saw a tall, somewhat

boxy, white-painted timber edifice, with an imposing tower clad in copper. The tower, like most I saw in Norway, had a dignified coat of verdigris. It was surrounded by a well-kept graveyard. Our interest was excited by a gravestone surmounted by a large ornamental ‘pilgrim shell’ embellished by a pair of doves. I don’t think that there was any connection to a pilgrimage intended, the shell looked as if it was simply decorative art, and I did see the same theme elsewhere in Norway. An old stone church stood lower down the hill from Frogner Kirke, but its modern terracotta tile roof looked unsuited.

We shouldered our packs and continued on,

walking along a spongy path through a forest and beside rolling farmland. We saw a tree beside the path with fresh woodpecker damage. Just how the small woodpecker can do so much damage is amazing. I wonder what the constant head-butting of hard timber does to the bird’s already small brain.

We joined St Olav’s Gang, an interesting road

between Frogner and Ullensaker. We arrived at Frogner Sentrum where we had a meal in the shopping arcade. We had sandwiches, soft drink, apple slice and coffee. Grandly I announced that I’d pay. Tron asked me if I was sure about that and suggested that we’d split the bill. Airily I waved his offer away. When I was handed the bill for Kr350 I could see why he’d made the offer to share. Food is expensive in Norway!

Klofta was a further six kilometres of easy

walking along country lanes. I was concerned that my boots and my trousers were very wet. I noticed that Tron, and most Norwegians, used heavier boots with solid ankle protection and took great care to ensure that they were waterproofed by applying liberal coatings of grease.

I checked my pedometer when we arrived at

Klofta and found that it was wildly inaccurate. It had registered twenty-eight today, though I believe we actually walked about twenty. The pedometer may have been reacting to my walking stick thumping on the ground and also to the many short steps being taken in rocky and broken undergrowth. I ignored it for the remainder of the trip. After dinner I gave Tron a pilgrim T-shirt from Spain and some pilgrim badges from my collection. Elsa I gave an Australian stone pendant, hand-painted with a rosella parrot.

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Thursday 3rd July Klofta to Elstad (23km)

We were up reasonably early but wasted a lot of time getting ready. Tron had left early for a meeting at the Pilgrim Office in Oslo. It wasn’t until 10.30am that we were ready to get going. Chris’s backpack was difficult to rig correctly. Sue and Jim, like me were overloaded. I thought their heavy military backpacks were not suited to the task at hand. Chris was strangely listless and to save time Elsa took his backpack and put it on her bicycle.

I understood that we were to pass by the local

church. What actually happened was that we walked to the centre of the village and at the church hall met a group of retirees having morning tea and a prayer meeting. The old folk were a wonderfully cheerful lot, one sprightly lady offering to return to Sydney with me if I needed a companion!

Taking our leave at half-past midday we walked

across the road and set off towards Ullensaker Kirke. I was itching to get on the pace but thought it best to bide my time. Chris and Sue, who were both walking slowly, dictated the pace. Tron’s wife decided to accompany us as far as Ulensaker Kirke. This church is new; being built of solid materials after the old wooden church burnt down in 1958. It was probably struck by lightning, a common fate of Norwegian churches it seems. We arrived at the church, a large white edifice of imposing dimensions and spent a short time inspecting the interior, which was heavily decorated. There were modern frescoes depicting biblical scenes juxtaposed with a magnificently simple retablo. The ceiling was most unusual, being entirely decorated with intricate painted crosses and stars.

Sue had been keeping an eye on Chris, who was unusually quiet. He looked out-of-sorts. She decided that he wasn’t up to walking the day’s distance. A short conference with Elsa ensued. It was then decided that they’d walk back to Klofta. Elsa offered to drive them to the camping ground that was the day’s destination, just under fifteen kilometers northwards. I could see that Jim was disappointed at this turn of events, but as things turned out it was a wise decision by Sue. I felt so sorry for them that things weren’t going to plan so early in the piece.

The three walked off, wheeling Elsa’s bicycle

towards Klofta, while Jim and I set off northwards towards the Hersjoen Camp Grounds near Elstad. The sky began to clear and the sun shone as we walked along. The countryside was very pretty, rolling hills, bright green fields, and patches of forest. We passed small groups of farmhouses and outbuildings, but no townships. Our path eventually crossed the E6 Highway by a bridge. We saw northbound traffic banked up in a monumental traffic jam and assumed that Elsa, Sue and Chris would soon be in the middle of it.

The bridge to the other side of the highway led us

to a path but it took quite a while to orient ourselves. We found a yellow arrow on a power pole and headed off in the correct direction. The way led downhill to a plowed field beside a forest. The going was terribly slow due to the very broken nature of the ground. This led into a forest and through heavy scrub down a steep slope to a creek. There were lots of holes, tree roots and bushes to impede our progress. The pathway, and many more I met in later days, was frankly unsuitable for a person carrying a heavy backpack. We had to be constantly wary about slipping a foot into a hole and twisting an ankle. Rocks, stones and tree roots all conspired to keep our walking slow and purposeful. The risk of a broken or sprained ankle was real. The way was very clearly marked with yellow arrows; Tron had done a tremendous job in this respect. I asked Jim to take a photograph of me standing on the log bridge across the creek. He did so and then said that he’d rest for a moment before continuing. I clambered slowly up the steep side of the gully through heavy undergrowth and emerged ten minutes later, puffing and blowing into a cleared area that seemed to be a mound covered in very tall grass. It was hot and humid, reminding me of kunai grass in Papua New Guinea.

I waited for five minutes for Jim but when there

was no sign of him I walked to the edge of the forest and called his name loudly. I thought I heard a muffled response from the dense undergrowth, so I waited a further few minutes. I couldn’t see or hear Jim moving. Finally I took off my pack and began the slow job of clambering down the hill through the trees, saplings and dense undergrowth. I stopped after a couple of minutes and called to Jim. There was no response.

Now I was starting to get worried. I saw to my

right a cleared area and a sort of a path leading upward to what looked like a farm field in the distance. He may have taken that way out, though the yellow arrows were clear enough. I decided to climb back up to my backpack and quarter around and across the clear field I had seen in the hope of seeing Jim emerge there from the forest. I reached the top, called his name a couple of times and had no response. Thoroughly alarmed, I walked a hundred yards over to the clear area, which was actually a field of tall grass. There was no sign of Jim anywhere. I strode rapidly back towards where I’d left my backpack. When I reached the area I was relieved to see that Jim was there. “Are you okay?” I called as I strode towards him. His face was red and flushed. “Yes, I’m just a bit winded.” he puffed.

In few minutes he was ready and we struck out across the open field. We could see no arrows anywhere, but a quick reading of Alison Raju’s book indicated the correct way. As we trudged up the middle of the field along

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a furrow, I came to understand why farmers are so in love with tractors. It’s so much easier than walking! Eventually we got to the edge of the field and found a muddy tractor path. This led to a farmhouse “Bjork S”. We dropped our backpacks near a hedge and ate some of the lunch we’d brought. I managed to get a refill for my waterbottle from a young lady at the house. After a short rest we picked up our backpacks and tottered off down a lane to a gravel road in the distance. We got to this road and set off in the general direction of Hovin Kirke, which was on our way.

As we walked along the gravel road we passed

isolated farm houses every kilometre or so. As we approached a house beside the road I saw a young woman on the balcony with a brush in her hand busily applying a fresh coat of paint to the timber railing. She was taking advantage of the afternoon sunshine to improve her tan as she painted the timber. We were twenty metres away before she heard our footsteps and looked up. I doffed my hat and said politely “Hei!” Caught completely offguard she smiled wanly and replied, “Hei, hei!” as Jim and I walked rapidly past. We soon reached a main road and walked alongside it for some distance. Hovin Kirke could be seen across the deep green fields, as it was brilliant white and shone in the afternoon sunshine. A decision was made to walk the few hundred metres up a gravel road to visit the church. We arrived to find the church closed and locked. A quick look around what seemed like a typical country church and we headed back to the road and continued on our way. A note on a direction board showed that there was a famous burial mound called Raknehaugen nearby that was a must-see so we deviated to see this wonder. What we saw was a fair sized lake, about the size of a football field and a low, rounded hill behind it. It took a few minutes to realize that the hill had been built with soil excavated from what eventually became the lake. It must have been a gigantic task for the people who had done the work. Given that the working season would have been the short summer months I wondered what these builders did when they weren’t burying their kings in such monuments.

Back to the road and we were soon beside the railway line, which we followed for a kilometer or two. The path then led into a lightly forested area that was noticeable for the clouds of small mosquitoes, which surrounded us as we walked. Increasing the pace made little difference. I soon found that these mosquitoes were small and lacked the serious bite of their tropical cousins I’d met years before in Papua New Guinea. They did make up for it with persistence. We walked out of the forest and found ourselves beside the railway line again. Near a bridge we saw a yellow arrow on a small rock. The arrow pointed straight ahead beside the track. Close inspection showed that the rock had been moved recently. I dropped the rock into its original hole in the gravel and the arrow pointed across the bridge. As we began to cross the bridge we were startled to hear a hollow humming noise emanating from the railway below us. The noise got louder very quickly. It

sounded as if a bee was humming into a giant loud hailer. Suddenly a train appeared a couple of hundred yards away around a gentle curve. It flashed under us at lightning speed and disappeared into the distance. I’d never seen such a fast train. It was apparently the airport express, which travels at two hundred kilometres an hour.

Jim and I crossed the railway line and walked

along a gravel road and into a forest. The pathway was easy to follow and there were yellow arrows at regular intervals. I was beginning to feel tired but I saw that Jim was marching along quite purposefully. He was handling it better now than he was a couple of hours ago. It was by now about eight-thirty in the evening, although the Sun was still in the sky. It would be above the horizon for an hour more, after which there would be another hour and a half of twilight.

We came out of the forest and walked along a road

till we struck the edge of a deserted runway. This was part of German airfield from the Second World War. We walked along its length and saw a number of concrete bunkers in the undergrowth. Some had the remnants of camouflage paint on them. We could also hear regular gunfire in the forest to our left. Eventually we saw, through a gap in the trees that a group of well-dressed people, gathered near a couple of Volvo station wagons were rapidly firing shotguns, though at what we couldn’t see. My feet, by this time were starting to tell me that they were tired of the whole effort. They especially didn’t like getting soaked a few times and then being asked to walk along hot bitumen pathways. I ignored their protests. We continued on, tiring rapidly and came to a gravel farm road. In a field beside this road we saw a simple stone marker that named three Norwegian soldiers killed in battle on the seventeenth of July 1944. Its simplicity and dignity was very touching and we said a silent prayer for these Norwegian heroes.

A kilometre of this walking brought us to a main

road by which time my feet were stinging. I realised that I might have to stop shortly to check them for blisters. The map showed that our destination was just a kilometre along the main road. We hitched up our packs and wearily trudged the last stage to the campground, which we reached, utterly bushed, at nine-thirty. My feet were killing me but I was too tired to do anything.

Sue and young Chris greeted us happily enough

but said that they’d been expecting us two or three hours ago. As they walked with us to the log cabin we were to stay in for the night we recounted our day’s trek. By this time I knew that I had a serious foot problem. I could feel a lumpy pressure under both feet that I’d never experienced before and knew that it wasn’t going to be good news when I removed my boots and socks.

The cabin we were to stay in for the night had two

rooms. One was a cooking and eating area with a sink, stove and refrigerator, plus a table and three chairs. The second room was a sleeping area with bunks on either side.

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There was no running water, no toilet and no bathroom. A bucket could be filled at the tap thirty yards away. A bathrooms and laundry were available fifty yards up the hill. Sue and Chris had arrived there at two in the afternoon. Sue had washed some clothes, which she’d hung on lines strung up inside the cabin. She and Chris had then gone swimming and spent time relaxing. Sue said that her next holiday would be taken sitting poolside at a holiday hotel in Atlantic City. Jim sat quietly listening.

I walked outside and slowly took off my boots and

socks, dreading what I was going to see. What I did see shocked me. My feet were much worse than I expected. They were a mess! The ball of each foot was a single massive blister. I had no idea that such large blisters could exist. In an instant I saw that my walking plans were going down the drain. Suddenly, Sue’s idea of a poolside holiday in Atlantic City looked very sensible. I got up, hobbled back inside, took my towel and washing gear to the very neat washhouse and had a long tepid shower.

In fresh clothes I walked slowly back to the hut, borrowed a needle and thread and, sitting down at the front door, performed blister-draining surgery by running two or three threads through each blister to allow them to drain. I applied a simple bandage to each foot, hobbled inside and lay down to think things over for a few minutes. Sue had been to the campground store and came back with chicken, salad and chips, which Jim and I demolished in quick time.

We retired to sleep about midnight with the

windows closed against the mosquitoes humming in wait just outside. As a result the air inside the hut became stuffy and hot. We had a restless night. Having a stranger sleeping in the room must have been difficult for the family. I was used to sleeping with large numbers in mixed dormitory rooms in Spain and adapted easily. I thought of setting up my tent outside on the grass to make things easier for them but I was too tired to go to the effort. I drifted off to sleep apprehensive about the state of my feet and what the morning would bring. I had worrying visions of my feet in such a state that I’d have to abandon the pilgrimage.

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Friday 4th Elstad to Eidsvoll (21km)

I woke at about eight o’clock and got up, feeling stiff and uncomfortable. I had to walk on my heels as much as possible. The balls of my feet were very tender and sore. I had a shower to freshen up, very mindful of the potential for infection in the washroom. I then hobbled up to the store and office where I chatted with the manageress for a few minutes while she arranged the bill. I bought a few groceries for breakfast and a gauze bandage plus a small bottle of iodine. I paid for the cabin with my Visa card and walked gingerly back down the hill to a public telephone booth where I waited while a couple of young teenagers made numerous calls to their friends. I then made a phone call to Lily, estimating that the time in Sydney would be just after five in the afternoon and that she’d still be in the store. She answered but was in the middle of an important sale, so I hung up and waited ten minutes before calling back. Sale completed, we had a good chat about the latest developments, and my worries about my feet. Lily’s calm advice was that I should walk if I could but rest if that was the best course of action. “Don’t be a hero.” was her sensible advice.

I shuffled back to the cabin. The family was up and

sitting disconsolately in the living room discussing their next move. I kept well out of the way. I had some breakfast and then packed my gear on the porch. Finally, I put iodine on my blisters and carefully re-bandaged my feet in such a way that the pressure would be less on the ball of the soles. I then slipped on my socks and tried to put on my boots. There was no way that my feet would fit into the boots, even when I loosened off all the laces. My heart sank. I removed the boots and socks. Carefully I re-bandaged my feet using much less padding and then tried on my boots. Again I had to remove everything and make the bandages and padding even thinner. Finally I got my feet into the boots and laced them up. Very carefully I tried walking. They weren’t too painful at this point but the ‘squishy’ feel as the blisters leaked fluid was awful and most un-nerving. There was nothing for it but to hoist my backpack onto my shoulders, pick up my stick, bid my companions ‘farewell’ and limp to the gate and out onto the road. Jim intimated that they would probably walk shorter distances suited to Chris and include some rest days, then take the train to Trondheim.

I walked slowly out of the campgrounds and along

an asphalt walkway and cycle path beside the road. Most Norwegian towns appear to be criss-crossed by these cycle paths and are regularly used by a large number of the population. What a civilized and inexpensive way to commute to school and work!

A few hundred yards after reaching the main road I

saw a fox, bold as brass, make a quick flit across the road and disappear into a forest. I’m sure it was a fox. From the shape of its tail and the size of its body I can’t think of what

else it could be. When I mentioned it to some Norwegians later in the day they were somewhat sceptical. They didn’t exactly say that it couldn’t be a fox, but they wouldn’t agree that it may have been a fox and made no suggestion as to what other animal it might possibly have been. I wondered if foxes were not supposed to be mentioned in polite society, so I dropped the subject. All very confusing.

At a crossroads about a couple of kilometers further

on I stopped to consult Alison Raju’s book, as I wasn’t sure which way to proceed. A motorcyclist, seeing me looking at the map and trying to orient myself, pulled over to the side of the road in a cloud of dust and took off his helmet. Before I could ask for directions he was giving them, and in English too! He was unusually chatty and I commented on this. He laughed and introduced himself as a Nils, a truck driver. He’d driven freighters around Europe for ten years and was used to asking for and giving directions. “These people,” he indicated a couple who had just walked by, “are not rude, not really. They are just very private. They expect you to know your own business. They don’t bother you and you don’t bother them. They’re not like people in Italy and countries like that!” he laughed. “Those Italians always want to know if you’re married, if you have children, if you have a girlfriend.”

He asked why I was walking when there were plenty of buses and trains available. When I explained my purpose in Norway he nodded and said, “ You should go to Spain! Many people walk across that country like you are doing now.” “I’ve been there and I’ve done that.” I replied.

Making sure that I understood his directions, Nils mounted his motorbike, kicked it into life and drove off. He braked to a sudden stop about twenty metres up the road and with a sheepish grin put on his helmet, which was dangling from the rear-vision mirror. Then with a wave he disappeared noisily into the distance. I stopped for lunch at a strangely shaped hotel near the E6 highway. The hotel looked from the outside at least, like an enormous Quonset hut. The interior was ‘modern Scandinavian’ and somewhat austere-looking. I approached a lady at the coffee shop counter and asked if a meal could be had. “We have nothing ready.” she said apologetically. “You look hungry. Would you like me to cook something for you?” I agreed with alacrity.

“I will make you an omelette.” She smiled and set to. As she was preparing the omlette she also made a small salad to go with it. I sat and took the weight off my feet. They began to pound painfully and I could feel them swelling. I stood up and much to my surprise I felt less uncomfortable with weight on my feet. I ate the omlette,

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which was excellent, drank a bottle of lemonade and set off in the direction of Eidsvoll. My feet were painful and I had to constantly change my stride to relieve first one side, then the other, then the heels and then the toes.

Arriving in a small hamlet I met the town drunk as

I waited to cross the road. I was impressed that he could remain upright. His eyes lit up when he saw me and he broke into a voluble greeting. He insisted on shaking my hand with so much enthusiasm that he had to hold on with his other hand to prevent himself from falling over. We must have made a funny sight … me hanging on to my walking stick to stay upright, him hanging onto me to stay upright! Eventually my protestations that I could speak no Norwegian broke through to his befuddled brain and he switched immediately to perfect English. What a country! Even the town drunk speaks good English!

I arrived at the Risa River, expecting to see a

broad expanse of water but it was more of a creek beside the highway. A freshly reconstructed stone bridge crossed the river with an old cast iron Post Office sign beside it. A yellow arrow painted on a stone bollard showed the way.

With my feet causing more concern. I reached a

sizeable shopping complex, Nygard I think, where I found a pharmacy. The young lady who spoke to me was very sympathetic and sold me some antiseptic, sticking plaster and Compeed patches. With these in my pack I negotiated my way to the Post Office where I bought stamps from a very jolly lady who, like just about every third or fourth Norwegian, had visited Australia. She proudly announced that she’d traveled from Melbourne to Perth by train and would love to do it again if I offered to take her back to Australia with me. This remark was greeted with much laughter by her colleagues who begged me to take her and jokingly offered to pay half her fare if I would. It was great for my morale to meet such friendly people. I raided the Autobank for Kroner and set off.

My feet began to hurt again so, I stopped for a rest

under a tree in Eidsvollsbygningen, a beautiful park. It was so tranquil that I was tempted to stop and have a snooze. I elevated my feet to relieve the discomfort, but after a few minutes I continued on my way.

Walking slowly I reached the river. Pretty houses,

painted white and red, surrounded by freshly painted picket fences completed the picture postcard effect. The road followed beside the river, which flowed over a number of weirs and past an old abandoned red brick factory complex, which looked like it dated from the early twentieth century. Curiously, the bricks, which made up the walls of the complex, were showing severe damage, with piles of red dust and small shards littering the ground. I looked carefully for a cause and came to the conclusion that it was probably winter rain freezing and expanding in cracks and gaps. Not much will withstand this particular force of nature. The road narrowed and became a dirt track with a marker proclaiming it to be ‘Oldtidsveien’, an ‘old-times’

road. The road turned sharp left, into a farm and then sharp right along a field of growing crops towards a power pylon. The walking became extremely difficult across the rough, cultivated land. The high humidity, caused by the moisture in the soil and in the crop, was difficult and tiring to handle. My boots and trousers were soon soaking wet.

A marker that said “Eidsvoll Kirke 4km” did not

show in which direction, so I continued on, entered a forest and was marching along minding my own business when a fearsome crashing and thrashing in the undergrowth five metres away startled me. I didn’t see what was causing the noise; all I saw was the tops of the saplings and dense undergrowth swaying and waving as something rather large fled into the distance at speed. I assume that it was an elk. I had been told that I was unlikely to ever see one of these animals, as they would hear me long before I could get within ‘cooee’ of them. They could, I was assured, slip silently through the densest forest. Well, this one must have been the exception.

Continuing on, I came to a path bordered with

daisies. Nearby was a railway track and I could hear trains belting along at high speed every few minutes. The path left the woods and I saw that it led towards a group of houses; a sort of hostel for troubled youths. I asked for water, and the young lady in charge refilled my water bottles. We chatted for a few minutes and were joined by a couple of camp supervisors and three or four teenagers, one of whom was black and spoke with a regional British accent. “Where are you from? “ I asked. “London.” He replied. “Which part of London?” “Birmingham.” was the immediate answer. ”Birmingham is nowhere near London!” I scoffed, “It’s hundreds of miles away.” “Oh, is it?” he asked. “I didn’t know that.”

The young feller looked to be genuinely puzzled by my comment. We chatted for a few minutes and I was struck by the fact that these young kids had a good grasp of world affairs. They all knew where Australia was and asked about the type of weather we had in Australia, whether food was expensive. One even enquired as to the legal age for drinking! I bade them farewell and rejoined the road at a sign post reading ‘Donnum’. I saw that pilgrim markers were in abundance and followed them towards Eidsvoll Kirke, which turned out to be a handsome stone building. The main body was from the 12th century, with a nicely aged copper roof of classic nineteenth century design. The church was surrounded by lush grass and a very well maintained cemetery. The church, as many others I found, was closed and locked, so I took a few photographs and walked down a steep cutting beside a narrow road. Cars coming uphill towards me slowed and moved as far across the tarmac as safety and oncoming traffic would allow. It was only when I arrived at the bottom of the descent that I saw a pathway led from behind the church down the hill in much greater safety.

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To the left was a railway station, which looked very inviting. My feet were very sore and tired and throbbed painfully. I continued on ahead and came to a bridge, the Sundbrua that crossed the Vorma River. I walked slowly across the bridge into the town of Eidsvoll. I was by now desperately tired, hungry and thirsty. I noted that this town seemed unusual for Norway in that the shops, office buildings and houses seemed to be packed much closer together than was the norm.

At the end of the bridge, overlooking the water

was a small open-air beer-garden with a dozen or so people taking their ease, drinking and eating in the early evening sunshine. Glory Hallelujah! Food and drink! A redheaded woman looked up from one of the tables and called a greeting. “Is the beer cold?” I asked. “Very cold! Come, have some!” she smiled winningly. I lurched down some steps, entered the beer-garden and swung my backpack down, took off my hat and leaned my walking stick against a table, watched in complete silence by all present. The redhead looked me up and down and asked, “So, you are a traveller? Where are you from? Where are you going?” “I’m walking to Trondheim. I’m a pilgrim. I’m going to see St Olav.” I replied, amused to be questioned so directly. Most Norwegians do not ask questions in such a point-blank manner; at least not immediately.

She walked over and sat down beside me, fixing me with a searching look. She whispered conspiratorially “I’m a traveller too. We’re all pilgrims in our own ways.”

With that she stood up and walked jauntily out of the bar. I lumbered painfully over to the counter and ordered a half litre of beer and a large hamburger with salad and chips. The price was about thrice what I would have to pay at home, but at this moment I have couldn’t have cared less. I wolfed down the food and beer with relish.

A second beer had the helpful effect of deadening

the pain in my feet. When I felt rested and the sky was slowly darkening I hoisted the backpack gingerly onto my tired shoulders and dragged myself out of the bar to a chorus of “Good Lucks’ and marched very slowly up Sedate until I could see a sign reading “Solli Pensjonat”. Alison Raju’s guide indicated this was a likely source of a bed for the night. Twenty kilometers on badly blistered feet wasn’t a bad day’s work.

Too tired to progress any further I walked up to the front door and pressed the buzzer. In a minute or so a very prim lady opened the door and looked at me suspiciously. When I announced that I was a pilgrim she smiled graciously and invited me in, gave me the key to a bedroom upstairs and escorted me there. My boots squeaked terribly on the highly polished floors. The whole building was spotlessly clean and shiny, though time-warped from the nineteen fifties. I couldn’t have cared less. I would have slept on rocks with a barbed wire blanket. I unpacked, took my gear to the bathroom around the corner and had a slow, pleasant shower. I limped painfully back to my room, closed the door, took a couple of painkillers and, despite desperately throbbing feet, fell asleep almost immediately.

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Saturday 5th Eidsvoll to Lysjoen (22km)

I woke at 7am feeling much better, except for my feet, which were terribly swollen, and resentful of the treatment they had received. I got dressed and wandered downstairs to have breakfast. As I slowly negotiated the staircase on my injured feet a young woman stepped out of a room on the landing below me and locked the door. She was obviously heading for the bathroom, as she wore nothing more than a very large towel draped over her shoulder and held a toiletries bag in her hand. She was clearly not expecting company at that hour. She turned around to walk up the stairs and only then saw me limping down towards her. With a look of acute embarrassment on her face she climbed the stairs and passed me, her face bright red. I smiled and said, “Nice day.” As I reached the bottom of the stairs I heard her stifle a giggle as she disappeared rapidly into the bathroom. Nice bum, too.

The breakfast room was empty. I wandered disconsolately around the well-appointed room looking for something to eat. Nothing presented itself. Suddenly the kitchen door flew open and the lady owner rushed in, looking embarrassed. “Jeez,” I thought, “two embarrassed Norwegian ladies in one morning!” “I am so sorry!” the lady stuttered. “I overslept. Everything will be ready at 8.30. Please come back at that time.” She shooed me out the door and, on the off-chance of meeting the young lady on the stairs, I climbed slowly back up to my room. No luck, so I packed my gear into the backpack in readiness for a smooth exit. Once my gear was packed I rested till the appointed time then returned to the breakfast room where I was pleased to see Corn Flakes on the menu as well as the more popular varieties of tinned, sliced meat and sausage, fish in various guises, cheese of three types, including the strange local brown variety attended by the inevitable cheese slicer. Four types of bread, three types of jam, orange juice, milk and sour milk, coffee and tea. I tucked in.

With breakfast over I walked carefully to the centre of town to find the Apotek and stock up on bandages and plasters for my feet. I bought a selection and took them back to the pensjonat, where I attended to the feet, paid the bill and picked up my backpack and headed back into town to look for the Bibliotek. I had been told that there were very few Internet cafes in Norway. Most people who want to use the Internet can do so at work or had a connection at home. However, most libraries had a connection that could be used by students and travelers. I found the Bibliotek upstairs in a shopping arcade. Two young female university students were in charge. It was still fairly early in the morning and the place was almost empty, except for the computers dedicated to Internet use. A machine became free in five minutes and because of my status as a foreigner and a pilgrim, the students allotted me twenty minutes of free time. Because my ignorance in understanding how the

Internet operated in Norway was fairly obvious to them, they made sure that either one or the other hovered at my elbow whilst I downloaded my emails and sent short messages. Both were university students and asked questions about study in Australia.

One of the messages I received was from John

Stephens, with whom I had walked across Spain in 2002. John and his wife Vicki were to be visiting Norway for the wedding of a young relative. They would arrive in Norwegian waters by cruise boat on the same day I was booked to leave for home. What a strange coincidence! The bibliotek students constantly asked questions about Australia and made suggestions about my progress north. I think I was seen as something of an amusement on a slow morning in the library. I didn’t mind one little bit.

Out on the road again I headed north up the hill. Eventually I turned off the road at a pilgrim marker onto what looked like somebody’s front lawn. I walked along a gravel path beside a house. An old man was sitting on the verandah having coffee. When he saw me he called out a warning. I apologized for not understanding and he switched to English. “Be very careful! There are some bees here. They may sting you.” He jumped up and escorted me carefully past about twenty hives, which were humming loudly with activity. When I was a safe distance past the bees he said ‘goodbye’ and returned to his coffee.

Several kilometers further along this heavily shaded pathway I saw a couple of figures ahead, carrying backpacks and trudging steadily forward. I caught up with them when eventually they stopped for a rest. They were two middle-aged ladies. I greeted them and they replied somewhat diffidently, neither seemed eager to see me. By dint of asking directly I found that they were walking two or three days along the pilgrim path. They were distinctly uncomfortable with my presence so I excused myself and continued on ahead.

The pathway was fairly heavily overgrown, showing infrequent use as a summer way. The markers along the trees indicated that it was probably popular as a cross-country skiing track when all the undergrowth had died off and was covered by a deep layer of snow. The track lead down into a deep valley and the handrails at regular intervals were very welcome. I lost the way markers here but continued on and eventually found them again after walking an extra kilometer or so in the wrong direction. I walked up the valley along a dirt road and after some time came across a couple of houses on either side of the gravel road. Parked outside one of them was a taxi. The driver emerged from a house, went to the boot of the taxi and carried some groceries into the house. He came out again as I arrived and greeted me in a deep, booming voice. He insisted that I stop for a coffee and guided me to the house where I dumped my backpack and followed him

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indoors. The thought of some decent coffee was very enticing.

His name was Einar Sandholtbraten, and as he

prepared some fresh coffee we carried on an animated conversation. He was a student of Norwegian history and a good raconteur. As I was less than conversant with the subject, he gave me a fascinating account of the recent history of Norway and its not always happy relations with its neighbours to the East and South. We drank coffee, several cups of coffee, over two hours or so, and discussed the world at large and Norway’s place in it. Like many older Norwegians he’d travelled in the merchant marine and had visited many ports around the world. He was immensely proud of the part played by Norway in the Allies defeat of the Axis powers. Norwegian tanker ships carried huge quantities of aviation gasoline from America to Britain. They were prime targets for German submarines. Einar stated, in his booming voice that the Allies regarded Norway’s efforts as equal to ‘a million men at arms’ in the battle against Germany.

I was treated to a tour of inspection of his house, which he’d built with his own hands. It was very much a ‘work in progress’ and smelled delightfully of freshly planed timber and paint.

After far too long, but not long enough, so to

speak, I bade him farewell and trudged off up the gravel road.

The river that I had been walking beside widened

out into a lake, probably Floyta, though it was hard to be certain as the area was dotted with lakes and small creeks and rivers, most of which I could not clearly identify. At first there were steep rock walls beside the lake as if the water had partly filled an old quarry. These eventually gave way to gentle slopes. The water looked invitingly clear but was deep and a sort of brown colour when I could look straight down into it. I wondered if this colour was caused by the pine needles that dropped into it from the trees, which overhung the edges of the lake.

I reached a second lake, in a while. I could hear

and then, through the trees see children laughing and playing, splashing in the water at a small jetty. In the forest near the lake I could see roofs of summer houses and near each one a white flagpole from which hung a Norwegian flag. The day was hot and steamy with not many clouds, so the lakes reflected the deep blue of the sky. The track slowly widened into what looked like a logging road. At an intersection where two roads joined I saw that the signs attached to a roadside pole had been re-arranged.

While I was checking the Cicerone instructions to

figure which was the correct way I heard crunching on the rough gravel behind me. I turned around and saw a tall, wiry hiker marching rapidly up towards me. Bareheaded, bare-chested, wearing shorts and boots Pieter was a Dutchman in his late twenties. We greeted each other and fell into conversation. He had walked from Pamplona to

Santiago de Compostela in 2002. The journey took him fifteen days. He was walking to Nordcapp, the most northerly place in Europe; well, he was walking halfway there this summer and would complete the journey in 2004. After a few pleasantries he shouldered his pack and marched off at high speed and was out of sight in a few minutes. He was all sinew and muscle, heavily tanned and as fit as a fiddle. I had no doubt that he would complete the journey.

By eight o’clock I was deep into a forested area

with soft spongy moss underfoot. There were small boulders, tree-roots and swampy patches to negotiate plus swarms of mosquitoes to swat. Having handled real mosquitoes in Papua New Guinea, these didn’t really bother me much. The going was rough and potentially dangerous. An ankle slipping into a hidden hole between tree roots could mean trouble. Speed was reduced very considerably. At times it was one foot carefully in front of the other. My walking stick was absolutely necessary in the circumstances. I was disappointed at the roughness of the going and the necessity of taking such care. The weight of my backpack exacerbated the problem. This was not a ‘pilgrim’s way’, this was plain scrub bashing. I had no idea how long it would take to get out of this forest and my intention became to find a cleared area and pitch my tent. However, forest floors are generally damp and uncomfortable and the mosquitoes and midges were in plague proportions and overly familiar.

After climbing a sharp ridge and stopping for a

rest I could see there were several small lakes in the area. Descending very carefully because of the rough nature of the rocks and the scrubby undergrowth, I came out into a lighter timbered area and the track became a more substantial gravel road. I came across a red-pained timber building, which I recognized as a trail walker lodge and saw the two ladies that I’d met in the morning. They’d passed me when I was having coffee with Einar Sandholtbraten. They were sitting on the verandah. As I approached, one of them stood up and disappeared rapidly into the hut, slamming the door. The other watched silently as I approached. “Have you any water?” I asked, as both of my one-litre bottles were virtually empty. “No.” she replied. The door opened and the other woman looked out. “No water.” she echoed. I doffed my hat and continued walking.

In ten minutes I reached a second house at the side of the road. A middle-aged man, wearing shorts and singlet was seated comfortably on a chair near the gate, reading a book. He looked up affably as I approached. “Have you any water?” I asked. “The river is down there.” he replied, pointing with his book to the forest behind his house. I could hear the water rushing along, swirling between sharp, rocky banks. “I don’t want to swim in it. I just want a litre to drink.” I protested, too tired to walk the fifty metres and back.

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He got up, went to the house and in a moment

came out with a small enamelled bucket brimming with water. I held out my water bottle and he filled it with water. “Thanks.” I said and drank just about the whole litre straight down. He refilled the bottle and I thanked him again, and then set off again down the road. I felt guilty when I realized that the poor man would have to walk to the river and fetch a bucket of water to replace that which I’d taken. I mentally apologized to him.

Had I used my eyes, I should have noticed that his house was not fitted with a water tank to catch rainwater from the roof. In fact I didn’t see a single house in Norway thus equipped. Eventually I thought to ask why water tanks weren’t used, as it seemed a fairly obvious way of catching and storing water. I was shocked by the answer I was given. It seems that acid rain makes tank water unpalatable. River water is cleaner and tastes better after it has been filtered through gravel, peat and forest.

By nine pm I arrived at a pretty lake, Lysjoen or

Granerudsjoen. I saw a perfect spot for the tent but a caravan, complete with half a dozen people, occupied it. I continued on for another kilometer or so. My feet were now feeling like mincemeat and I was really tired and worried about them. A small track branched off the road and led to a group of three or four substantial houses in a cluster. A large family group was seated chatting at an outdoor table while two men cooked at a barbeque. They fell silent as I approached, small children looking at me warily, the adults clearly irritated that I was invading their turf. “Hello,” I said, raising my hat. “Is there a bar or store in this area?” “No.” was the prompt answer. “Is there somewhere here I can sleep?” I asked They thought about this for a moment. “No.” came the reply. “I have a tent. Can I set it up over here?” I asked, pointing to a grassy area about fifty metres away, through the trees. “No.” said one of the ladies firmly. “Is there anywhere in this country I can put my tent?” I was finding it difficult to hide the irritation in my voice. I knew that I was over-tired and must have presented a strange figure to these holidaymakers.

They thought about my request for a few moments

and then one of the cooks said, “Go to the… boat place.” He pointed with a large fork through the trees in the general direction of the lake, and then turned back to his cooking.

Thus dismissed, I walked slowly along a dirt road

and after fifty metres saw two or three small timber weekenders in amongst the trees. Behind them I could see the lake. I continued on for a hundred metres and the road came out into a clear area. Before me was a sight for sore eyes.

Stretched out before me was the most charming lake. Rimmed by trees, it was, as far as I could tell, about a kilometre long by a half kilometre wide. In front of me was an area of short grass that ended in a metre-wide beach of soft sand. A sturdy timber picnic table and benches completed the picture. I dropped my pack, unfolded my one-man tent and set it up. I sat down at the table and pulled bread, cheese, tinned salmon and an apple from my pack.

As I ate my meal, a group of young children came walking along the narrow beach and stopped about twenty metres from me. They studied me intently for several minutes, watching me like so many hawks. One was then deputized to go back to report on my activities while the rest stood and scrutinized my actions as I cleared away the table, repacked my backpack and prepared for bed.

In a few minutes there was a call from an adult a

hundred metres along the lake’s edge. The children turned and trotted off. One gave me a furtive wave and was spoken to sharply by the leader, a twelve year old.

I unrolled my self-inflating mattress inside the tent, gave it an extra couple of puffs to fill it and then opened my sleeping bag and laid it on top. Boots were placed just inside the tent flap; trousers and shirt were folded neatly. I was too tired to attend to my feet. I simply removed the dressings and discarded them. I’m a firm believer in fresh air as a great aid to recovery so I intended to keep my feet outside the sleeping bag. I shook some antiseptic powder onto both weeping, puffy soles. To the accompaniment of the regular splashing of fish jumping in the lake I lay down and drifted easily off to sleep as light rain began to patter quietly on the tent fly.

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Sunday 6th Lysjoen to Tangen (26km) then train 24km to Hamar

I woke in the morning with a start, thinking I’d slept in. I checked my wristwatch and found that it was just five am. I was still not used to the fact that the sun rises at around four-thirty in this northerly latitude. I tried to go back to sleep but the brightness made it difficult. I drifted off for a while but woke to the sound of light rain on the tent. I ate some bread and finished off the yoghurt I’d bought yesterday. I waited for the drizzle to end but it looked like it was in for the long haul. I had to pack everything, including the tent, in the wet and set off, slightly damp, northwards along a gravel road. There were lots of loose stones in the gravel and each one I trod on seemed to come straight through the soles of my boots. I’d walked on worse in Spain and hadn’t noticed anything. The new boots were proving too thin as well as too narrow. I began to look carefully at the road surface and noticed that the stones on the lower side were always larger than those on the higher side. I’d pick the best side of the road and switch back and forth from left to right as I progressed. I decided that I’d write a letter to Scarpa regarding their boots when I arrived home. I spent a happy hour mentally composing the letter, but in the end decided that I was a big boy and I should have been smart enough to choose the right sort of footwear.

Arriving at a ‘Y’ shaped crossroads with signs

pointing to Spetalen and Espa, I misread the sign and headed off in the wrong direction. I had not seen any pilgrimage way markers for some time. I concluded that since there was only one way to go, way markers were not necessary. Wrong!

After twenty minutes I began to suspect that I was

heading in the wrong direction. I flagged down a car that came slowly along the road. I asked the driver if I was heading in the right direction for Espa. The driver considered this for a few moments and then said, “Yes. Veer left at the next crossroad.”

I continued walking for half an hour and arriving

at the crossroads I turned left. This road led eventually to a small lake, about a hundred meters across. The road petered out into a walking track that meandered around the lake. Three cars were parked in a clearing and the occupants, four or five couples in their thirties were having coffee and cakes at a picnic table. I approached and asked for the direction to Espa. “You’ve just come from there, haven’t you?” asked one of the men. A short discussion made me see, with a sinking heart that I’d walked two hours in the wrong direction… and that on painfully blistered feet.

Mildly surprised with my own calm acceptance of this news I turned around and began to retrace my steps. Ten minutes later I heard vehicles approaching. The three cars I’d just seen drove up slowly behind me. They passed carefully so that they’d not throw stones up from their

tyres. Each driver waved a greeting and then sped off. Somehow I’d ended up too far to the east of Romasaetra.

I continued on along the road, daydreaming about

nothing in particular, when there was an almighty crashing and thrashing in the thick undergrowth a few metres off to the left of the road. I jumped very smartly towards the middle of the road. I could see saplings swaying and small branches whip backward and forward as some large and obviously alarmed animal thundered at high speed up a slight rise. It stopped about fifty metres from me in a clearing and looked back at me. It was a large elk. It stood nervously watching as I slowly took my camera out of its ready-case. Carefully I took a couple of pictures.

At this juncture a carload of people arrived on the

scene. They pulled to a halt to see what the mad backpacker was so excited about. I pointed to the animal; they nodded politely and drove off, smiling indulgently at my obvious excitement. Ah well, wait till they see their first kangaroo!

This road was followed for a while then I joined a

larger, better maintained road. The day had by now become quite hot as the clouds had disappeared and the sun beat down. An hour of this brought me to an open timber building with ticket box. This appeared to be a control point for fishermen because they needed to fill in some sort of permit card. I asked a car driver if the E6 was ahead and he said, “Just follow the road, it joins the E6.”

Very tired and footsore I set off. The road dropped slowly in a long winding curve. It was only then that I noticed how high I was above the lake I could see ahead of me. I could hear the faint throb of the E6 traffic from some kilometers away. The map showed that beside the lake was the E6 and beside the E6 was the railway. The road seemed to veer away from the lake and for some time I could hear no traffic noise. All I wanted to do was to get down to the bottom of the hill, find a bus stop or railway station and head for Hamar.

Just when I was ready to call it quits I heard the

traffic noise pick up. The road dipped suddenly, turned left and disappeared into a short tunnel under the E6 highway. I limped under the highway and saw on the other side a minor road. Beside the road was a house with a set of stone steps leading up to the front door. I dragged myself across the bitumen road and stretched out on the cool stone steps in the welcome shade. I opened and then just about emptied a litre waterbottle. I pulled out a pear and started to eat it, relishing the cool sweetness. In the middle of this, the front door of the house behind me suddenly opened and a very plump lady in shorts and a floral top stood there clutching a huge green garbage bag. She dropped the garbage bag and yelped at the unexpected sight of an itinerant lounging on her steps.

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She was startled even more when I leapt suddenly up. I began to apologise for lounging on her steps and frightening her. When she saw my stricken face she laughed. “It’s okay, it’s okay.” she said. She was about twice my size and taller. She looked like she could handle an intruder without much of a problem. She picked up the garbage bag and carried it down the steps and crossed the footpath to a large rubbish bin. She sauntered back to the steps, where I had picked up my backpack and was preparing to leave. “Where are you going?” she enquired. “I’m walking North to Trondheim.” I replied. “You are walking to Trondheim?” she laughed in disbelief. Her laughter set off wobbles that seriously threatened the peace of the top into which her torso was precariously fitted. I watched with some trepidation, waiting for the worst. “Not today.” I replied, “I just want to get to Hamar.” She ambled across the road to a bus stop and looked at the timetable. “No bus today. You must walk to Tangen. It’s four kilometers.” She then added proudly, “ I know that because I have walked there once.”

Picking up my backpack I trudged off towards Tangen, which I reached about an hour and a quarter later. It turned out to be a railway station, petrol bowser and corner store. I walked into the store, which seemed to be half general store and half bar, something like you’d expect to find in a mid-western town in the USA.

I ordered a hamburger with chips and salad, plus a

beer. The teenager behind the counter explained that she couldn’t serve me with a beer but her father would do that whilst she cooked the hamburger.

As soon as I asked if they knew when the next

train for Hamar would stop at the station, the father pulled out a timetable. After a quick glance he said that a train stopped at Tangen in half an hour. I ate the food and wandered over the road to the station. The train glided into the station on cue and I dragged my pack aboard and found my way to a very comfortable seat. The conductor came along and sold me a 55Kr ticket. I sat back in great comfort and watched as the countryside rumbled past. In thirty minutes the train pulled into Hamar station, twenty-five kilometers north.

Carrying my pack to the taxi rank outside the

station I asked a couple of taxi drivers lounging beside their taxis where I might find cheap accommodation for a day or two. They discussed the matter for a few moments and then suggested the Youth Hostel as the best bet. I climbed aboard the first taxi and we drove a kilometer south to the Vikingskipet Motell og Vandrehjem where I booked in. It was situated opposite a huge indoor sports stadium that looked for all the world like a giant upturned Viking ship.

I was assigned a small room fitted with four bunk

beds and a bathroom. I jumped at the chance of a good

shower and then lay down for an hour to rest and to give my feet an airing. When I got up I spoke to the friendly and obliging manager and his wife, asking where to have my feet checked by a doctor. They made arrangements for me to visit a small hospital where I would be seen by a doctor later in the evening. Making my way back to the centre of town, I found a Chinese restaurant and was served the most uninspiring Asian food I’ve ever had, anywhere. It tasted as if every ingredient had come from a can except the rice, but even that tasted as if it had been cooked some time ago. At least the beer was okay.

After the meal I wandered outside and sat down in

a park as the shadows lengthened and the sky slowly darkened. The hospital was a kilometer away so I slowly walked there and sat in the waiting room watching the TV and glancing through magazines until my appointment. Eventually my name was called and a young doctor took me into a small consulting room. He was concerned when I showed him my feet and began to question me carefully, consulting a medical dictionary several times. He wanted to make absolutely sure that I wasn’t diabetic. I had to assure him several times that I wasn’t. When I asked why, he told me that if I were diabetic I would be hospitalized immediately to ensure that I didn’t develop gangrene! After he was assured several times that I wasn’t a diabetic he set to on my feet and cut away some of the messy flesh and cleaned and dressed the wounds.

The doctor suggested that I should spend two or three days off my feet to let them begin to heal. After that I could continue slowly. He showed me how to make pads around the affected area so that there was less pressure on the blisters. The bill came to 350Kr. The hospital was unable to accept my Mastercard, opting to give me a bill that I could pay at any handy post office…. and trusting that I would! With new dressings, a few free bandages thrown in and some sort of certificate to say what he’d done, I was just able to get my shoes on over my bandaged feet. I hobbled to the front door and hailed a taxi to drive me back to the hostel.

Monday 7th

I spent most of the day lying on the bed with no bandages on my feet, trying to ‘air-dry’ my feet. The right foot was responding better than the left. Tuesday 8th

I spent the morning figuring how to use the washing machines and dryers. Freshly laundered clothes lift the spirits enormously. In the afternoon I hobbled across the road to the bus stop outside the Viking ship sports centre and took the Summer Bus to the Domkirkeodden. This is the Hamar cathedral, situated on a point of land at the northern end of the town. It was explained to me by a guide that a Swedish army invaded Norway in 1567 during the Seven Year War between Sweden and a coalition including Denmark and Norway. An attempt was made to destroy Akershus Fortress in Oslo but the Swedes were defeated.

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They retreated northwards to Hamar and comprehensively destroyed the cathedral and part of the town.

The remains of the cathedral are now well past any

attempt at large scale restoration. A decision was made to encase what was left in a glass outer shell to preserve them from the savage winter weather that would have led to their complete destruction. Water gets into cracks in stonework and expands when it freezes. The stones can’t expand so they crack apart.

The cathedral is covered in a huge, tent-shaped

glass dome. This has opening panels for temperature and humidity adjustment, and heating. Sensors that react to outside air temperature, the time and even the number of people inside, operate the whole thing automatically. When I arrived I showed my pilgrim passport and was allowed free entry. Inside the glass dome was a young lady dressed in a simple long tunic singing hymns in Latin. The dress was apparently a re-creation of what nuns wore in the old days. The acoustics were surprisingly good and she had a clear, pleasant voice. I sat and listened for ten minutes, taking in the details of the columns and stonework around me. The Hamar cathedral wasn’t a large church but it looked as if it had been built to withstand winter gales and possibly the odd invasion or two. The stones were heavy-

set and stolid rather than tall and soaring. Originally built in the Romanesque style the cathedral was later re-styled in Gothic form. It must have taken the Swedes quite some time to knock the place down.

Nearby was the Bishop’s Palace, a large rambling

structure that looked more like the headquarters of a successful farming enterprise. It was built with an eye to defense of temporal as well as ecclesiastical power. Now, however it is a museum displaying artifacts from days gone by. Also in the cathedral grounds were farm buildings and residences several hundred years old and an herb and exotic flower garden, which would have given my brother Pete the raptures. Every plant was carefully labeled in Latin and a description of its origin and uses was attached in Norwegian. Many unusual plants were brought home from pilgrimages to Rome and Jerusalem before the Reformation. Some were supposed to have great medicinal value. Others were of religious significance.

I took the bus back to Sentrum, the centre of town

where I found a pizza establishment and, for some reason ordered a ‘gluten-free’ pizza, which turned out to be tasteless, and a beer, which tasted okay. Thus sated I took a taxi back to the Youth Hostel and went to bed.

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Wednesday 9th July Hamar to Brummendal (21km)

I rose and tidied things up and went downstairs to have breakfast. Whilst there I phoned Sydney. I spoke to Lily, who told me that Ron Murphy, my brother Rob’s father-in-law, had died. She’d be attending his funeral in a day or so. Ron Murphy was an Irish gentleman full of old-world charm.

Ole Hilsen the manager, had a great sense of

humour and we had a great chat. He and his wife were extremely helpful. He’d visited Australia but was disappointed not to have seen much of Sydney due to some foul-up in travel arrangements. He did get to see the beaches and the Great Barrier Reef in Queensland.

Packing my gear I trundled downstairs, said

“Goodbye” to the Hilsens and crossed the road to the bus stop. I rode into Sentrum found a small outdoors shop. I purchased a couple of pairs of walking socks thinner than the ones I was using and a small camping pillow that stowed away in a tiny ‘stuff sac’. I was hoping that the thinner socks would allow me to put better padding on my still weeping, swollen feet.

I set off towards the cathedral I’d visited the

previous day, stopping long enough to put on a pair of the socks I‘d just bought. At the Domkirkeodden I checked with a guide as to whether the pilgrim path went via the lakefront or by the road. I was pointed to the road but the lake looked more inviting so I headed in that direction. I soon found myself walking along beside a small wharf where a large number of small boats were tied up. Most were heavily built motorboats but amongst them was a Viking longboat complete with mast and furled sail. Although fairly new, it was built in the traditional lapstrake manner, the timbers being pinned together with wooden fasteners. There was seating for about a dozen or more rowers.

Continuing along a pleasant gravel pathway I reached the Jernebanemuseet, a railway museum with well-preserved and highly polished steam locomotives… a big a contrast to the Viking rowboat a couple of kilometers back.

Walking carefully along the path, my feet were

still feeling swollen and sore in the hot, humid weather. I found the instructions in the Cicerone book confused me and, misunderstanding completely, I headed off in the wrong direction. After a couple of kilometres and a cloudburst that cooled me down somewhat, I realized I wasn’t where I should be and re-read the instructions carefully.

Backtracking on protesting feet I arrived at the Sports Centre I’d passed half an hour before and found the correct path, along which I began to walk. It was very stony and led uphill, penance for my sins of mis-reading the instructions. This path soon developed into a pleasant forest walk with a leaf-mould floor that was heaven to walk on! I found a pilgrim way-marker hidden by long grass, which I cleared away with my walking stick.

I walked along this pleasant pathway till it came

out onto a large road with a road sign labeled “Hamar 6km”. I felt somewhat deflated, as I was sure that I’d walked a good ten kilometers. Continuing along this road I could eventually see Furnes Kirke ahead. My feet were beginning to throb unmercifully so I stopped under a tree beside the road and laboriously applied new bandages to see if this could alleviate the problem. I was very apprehensive about my feet becoming infected, as this would mean an immediate end to the whole enterprise. I got back to my feet and continued on to the church. It was closed. I walked around it, admiring its simplicity and elegance of line. It was built around 1700 of stone apparently rescued from the ruins of the Domkirke in Hamar. I refilled my waterbottles from a tap in the churchyard and returned to the road, heading slowly downhill. The clouds that had been building up now decided to unload the rain, which pelted down.

My rain jacket was made ready and along I

tramped, head down as the rain fell. Whilst doing this I missed a way marker. Consulting the directions I found that I was supposed to be in a forest well off to the side. Since the E6 highway was closer I headed in that direction, crossed it and walked along the smooth cycle path towards Brumunddal, which I reached at about 6pm. My first thoughts were for food, so I looked around for somewhere to eat. All I could find was a restaurant marked in large letters “Italian” so I entered. To my astonishment the major atmospheric furnishings, other than a couple of uninspiring “Italian villa” paintings on the walls, were three or four “fireplaces” with flames issuing upwards from plastic logs. The flames were actually yellow and red silk strips being blown by small fans. The whole effect was, at the height of summer, nothing short of weird. I ate a forgettable meal of pasta and sauce followed by ice cream, paid and left to look for somewhere to sleep. All that was open was the Hotel Hedemarken nearby, where I scored a small discount for being a pilgrim. There were a hundred rooms or more but I saw only a few cars parked in front of the hotel. I washed clothes, showered and removed the dressings from my feet and lay down to sleep, exhausted from the day’s work.

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Thursday 10th Brumunddal to Moelv (21km)

I got up and dressed, dragged my pack downstairs and headed for the dining room to pack in a decent breakfast. I saw three or four people in the room, which looked very tired and threadbare, much like the rest of the hotel. The hotel looked as if the winter crowd had given it a beating and the whole place needed a spruce-up.

Backpack firmly on the shoulders, I strode out to

walk through the town, heading northwards. A pedestrian mall had a large blue sign indicating “Pilgrimsleden” to the left, so I turned and followed it along Gammelgate. A few moments later a woman, who gestured back towards the pedestrian mall, stopped me. “Somebody changed the sign for a joke. It’s pointing in the wrong direction.” she explained. She seemed serious enough, so I followed her directions, which proved to be correct. I exited the town and crossed a bridge over the Brumundda River and headed out into the country.

I could hear noises and saw smoke and steam off in the distance. It came from a stone quarry hard at work. I passed the quarry and a yard full of scrapped car bodies and junk. The weather was bright and sunny and my mood was far happier than yesterday. I was very careful to adjust the straps on my backpack to equalize the load and also to adjust my walk to give the balls of my feet as much respite as was available.

Large fields of bright yellow flowering plants were

passed and I could catch glimpses of Lake Mjosa in the distance along the way. Veldre Kirke could just be seen through gaps in the trees and I eventually arrived after a bracing walk. This brand-new church is designed to look like the stave kirke it had replaced. The previous church, two hundred and fifty years old, itself replaced an even older wooden church. The current building is made out of less combustible materials and also has meeting rooms and child-care facilities. The car park was larger than, and just as empty as the graveyard. Nobody it seems is dying to get in, though the grand view across to the distant lake would be worth the effort.

Veldre Kirke is twelve kilometers along the

Prestvegen, the ‘priest’s road’. This ranged from a wide gravel road, a blue metal surface to a grass surface and a narrow single track and then back to a wider pathway again before crossing the E6 near a couple of service stations and a restaurant. I bought a sort of hot dog and a coke at a service station and sat in the shade to give my feet a rest. When I started out again I saw a large statue of a burly man by a farm gate, holding a guitar in his hand. A label at the base of the statue said simply ‘Alf Proysen’. He was a noted Norwegian singer and writer of children’s stories. Born on a farm nearby in 1914 his writings appealed to all ages because of their penetrating combination of humour, hope and anti-authoritarianism. His ‘Mrs. Pepperpot’ series

has been widely printed in many languages. He died in 1970.

Along the next kilometre of the Prestvegen were

large signboards with information about Alf and the characters in his books. I was impressed by the number of families walking happily and respectfully around the farm buildings and places of interest. Most children obviously knew the Proysen books, while parents and grandparents discussed their memories of the man’s work.

I continued on into a pleasant pine forest with a

bright blue sky overhead. This eventually ended in a tarmac road. Directly ahead across farmland and forest I could see the spire of Ringsaker Kirke. The road led to the left, with a sign indicating that there were large rocks, ‘trollstein’ to be seen. It seems that the bleating of goats or sheep enraged a troll, living on the other side of Lake Mjosa. He threw large stones across the lake to frighten or kill the offending animals and these stones were said to be visible on a nearby farm. Being the inquisitive kind I set off along the road to see the trollstein. What I did end up seeing was much more fun!

Near Rudshøgda I could see a sort of car repair

garage. A number of mainly old, beaten-up cars stood in the forecourt of the repair yard. Parked in the centre was a genuine F104 Starfighter jet aircraft! I was gobsmacked to see such a device in a rural setting in Norway. I walked around the aircraft and was looking into the jet intake when Trygve Grorud, the owner arrived. He invited me to inspect his ‘collection’ at the rear of the building. Not knowing what to expect, I followed him as he ambled around the building. I saw a perfectly preserved German-made 105mm artillery piece under a lean-to. Trygve demonstrated that the breech was still in perfect operating condition. He then showed me half a dozen Volvo military four-wheel-drive vehicles called “Lapplanders” quietly resting under tarpaulins. Very interesting vehicles and rugged as all get-out!

Nearby were half-dozen American cars from the -

thirties and -forties, quietly rusting away. He said that they would be restored and turned into hotrods when he had the time. “When will that be?” I asked. “Maybe… maybe when I retire.” replied Trygve with a laugh.

I bade him ‘goodbye’ and walked off down the road, looking for trollsteins. A few hundred yards away I saw a couple of rocks the size of picnic tables resting in a front yard. These were the only large rocks I could see in the area. I looked across towards Biri on the other side of the lake and estimated that an angry troll would have to throw the rocks a good two kilometers at least. Not bad, not

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bad. Ringsaker Kirke was now clearly visible down the road so I made my way there.

On the way I met a family who had just been in

the forest collecting berries. They promptly invited me to enjoy a few strawberries with them under a tree. The fruit was delicious and, as we ate a few, they questioned me closely about my journey. I left feeling guilty that I’d helped them demolish half of the choice wild berries they’d so painstakingly gathered.

The church was fairly classical Norwegian in

design, almost cruciform. The walls were very thick stone and were painted stark white indoors and out. A dark slate roof and a tall octagonal spire surmounted the building. As I entered the church a young man in the uniform of a church guide met me.

Trond Lokken was spending his summer holidays

as a church guide and clearly enjoyed his work. He asked if I’d like a complete tour and I agreed immediately. For the next hour I was taken over the entire church and even up into the bell tower and ceiling.

The altar had a magnificent folding, gilded retablo that had been made in Antwerp in the mid-fifteenth century when the church was already three hundred years old. Many features of the church were obviously Catholic; it was hard to see the church as Lutheran. Trond explained that they were proud of the history of the church and would preserve it as one of the very few remaining early churches in such condition. I asked for a stamp for my pilgrim passport. They didn’t have one at the church so Trond walked over the road to the prestegard to get one. He arrived back in a few minutes to tell me that the priest was

at Moelv and had the stamp with him there. Bidding him goodbye I set off and walked the two kilometers to town.

My feet were feeling the heat as I walked along the bitumen cycleway, so progress was fairly slow as it was all uphill. I found the town, walked to the far end where the priest was conducting a meeting with half a dozen parish ladies. I waited five minutes until the meeting ended and then introduced myself. He was surprised to meet a pilgrim from Australia and was happy to stamp my pilgrim passport, which he examined carefully, not having seen one before. He was a very formal, quite courteous but very distant sort of a person. I could imagine him playing the Max von Sydow part in an Ingmar Bergman film about religion. I’m not sure what he made of me as a pilgrim.

I walked back to the centre of town and spied a

Chinese restaurant. Not having had much all day I dived in and ordered up big. I scoffed the lot in short order along with a beer or two. Picking up my pack I walked slowly on badly swollen, squishy feet about halfway back towards Ringsaker, where I’d seen the Steinvik Camping & Hyttegrend. Turning in here I decided to forgo the pleasure of my small tent and opted instead for a small hytte. I paid the 200 Kroner and was given the key to a small wooden hut, plus a passkey for the toilet and a special coin that entitled me to have a shower… everything by the numbers, it seems.

I dragged my gear inside and crashed on a bunk,

falling asleep immediately. I woke at 10pm and wandered over to the ablutions block for my coin-op shower. Feeling clean and refreshed I strolled back to the hut and went to bed dog-tired and with feet that ached and throbbed. A couple of Panadols assisted in the sleep process.

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Friday 11th Moelv to Lillehammer (30km by bus)

I was up at 8am, dressed and wandered down to the camp office to hand in the key before leaving. I had come to the conclusion during the night that my feet were not going to be able to handle the punishment much longer in the boots I was wearing. They were fractionally too narrow and were pinching my feet. I decided to call Lily in Sydney and have my old boots, the ones I’d worn in Spain in 2002, sent to me. I phoned her and explained my idea and she agreed to have the boots sent to me by FedEx, care of the Youth Hostel in Lillehammer. After carefully considering the distance to Lillehammer, the condition of my feet and the chance of getting there without damaging them even more, the only conclusion I could reach was to travel to Lillehammer by bus or train and allow my feet to repair somewhat while I waited for the old boots to arrive. I had worn these boots seven hundred and fifty kilometers across Spain in 2002 without a single blister.

With everything fitted in place in my backpack, I

set out from the campsite to walk to Moelv. About halfway there, whilst walking along the cycleway, I saw three distinctive figures in the distance. I could hardly believe my eyes, but there, striding cheerfully towards me were Jim, Sue and their son Chris! They were walking from Moelv to the campground I’d just left. We greeted each other with double disbelief, neither suspecting to see the other at that particular time and place. They had decided, probably back at Elstad, to stop being full-time pilgrims, to enjoy their holiday and see the country more comfortably. They would walk only parts of the way. The family had taken a bus to Lillehammer and spent a couple of days there. Jim had heard of the fame of Ringsaker church and so they’d come south to see it. I was happy to see that Sue was in a much more relaxed mood and young Chris was enjoying himself. Jim gave me a bus timetable for Lillehammer and we parted, not sure if or when our paths would cross again.

I arrived in Moelv, found the bus station and

bought a ticket, for 59Kr. Finding a coffee shop I sat down with a cup of coffee and entertained a couple of pastries. An hour later the bus arrived. I climbed aboard and we set off for Lillehammer, stopping for a few minutes at Brottum before continuing up the E6 highway to Lillehammer, which was reached, less than an hour after leaving Moelv. The bus pulled up in the square outside the railway station, a massive three story building of reflective glass walls. I found the Youth Hostel, which was located in the same building above the train platforms and booked in for a few nights, explaining that I had to wait for my boots to arrive from Australia. The manager was agreeable to me staying several days. I was shown to a small room on the top floor. There were six bunks in the room, with a tiny bathroom attached. An old codger, who turned out to be a permanent resident, was the only occupant. I placed my backpack on a lower bunk and walked slowly downstairs to get some fresh air as the room was rather hot and the old guy smelt of stale sweat and liquor.

The town of Lillehammer, where the Winter Olympics were celebrated in fine style in 1994, is laid out along the gentle slope of a hill. It extends from the ridge where the impressive Olympic Stadium and stark ski jump holds sway down to the edge of Lake Mjosa. It has a surprisingly good art museum and the justly famous Maihaugen folk museum where ancient farm and town buildings have been rebuilt and furnished to give modern visitors a realistic view of life between the seventeenth and twentieth centuries. The main street, Storgata, has been turned into a pedestrian plaza. It was crowded with holidaymakers and tourist when I saw it.

Jim had told me, when I came across his family in

Moelv, that there was a Catholic church in Lillehammer with a priest from Timor. This had me puzzled. I’d travelled through both West and East Timor. I had traveled through Timor during the last days of Portuguese rule, before the Indonesians had imposed their murderous rule on the peaceable and largely defenseless Timorese. I could not imagine what a Timorese priest would be doing in Norway. They had few enough in Timor, why would they export a priest? I hobbled slowly down to the Catholic Church to find out.

I found the church on Weidemann Gate. It was a

strange A-frame building, quite simple and very plain. I opened the door and padded in to find a priest to be the only occupant. He was very dark-skinned, and in the dim interior of the church he looked a forlorn and lonely figure. It was 6pm and he was just about to begin Mass. He saw me and immediately spoke in Norwegian. When I didn’t respond he switched to German and then pleasantly-accented English to ask if I would require Communion. I replied affirmatively to his clear delight.

When Mass was over he asked me to stay for a

few minutes while he closed the church. He was fascinated to think that someone would journey all the way from Australia to complete a pilgrimage in Norway. I was equally fascinated as to why a priest from Timor would be found in Norway. He was actually from Sri Lanka, not Timor, he told me with a laugh. I spent twenty minutes or so talking with him before heading back to the centre of town. He made me promise that I’d come to Mass on Sunday, saying that they had a good crowd, and the morning tea afterwards was an enjoyable event. I couldn’t help feeling sorry for him, coming as he did from a tropical country and a completely alien culture. He did let slip that it was pretty much impossible to convert Norwegians to Catholicism. He was really there for the tourists, itinerants like myself and for the small band of Asian Catholics who were now established in the country.

Back in town I found Peppo’s, an open-air pizza

restaurant on Storgata. The pangs of hunger making

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themselves felt, I ordered a small pizza and a large beer and sat back to watch the passing parade.

When I got to the Youth Hostel at 9pm I found

that four boisterous young men were in residence in the

room. They were a cheerful bunch, on holiday from University and making their way south to Oslo from town to town via the Youth Hostel system. I collapsed into my bunk and was soon asleep despite the unexpected heat. The room’s small windows were opened as wide as possible.

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Saturday 12th In Lillehammer

I was up at 8am and walked downstairs to the breakfast room attached to the Hostel. The room was presided over by a middle-aged husband and wife team who were friendly and helpful, being able to assist travelers in what seemed like most languages except Chinese and Japanese. The serving tables were laid with several types of bread, the usual slice-it-yourself cheeses, jams, sliced meats, tinned fish, cereals, fruits juices and milk plus coffee and tea. The twenty or thirty guests were hard at work demolishing the food, the young waitress glided around clearing empty plates and cleaning tables. I took my time and watched as people rushed in, ate quickly and rushed out, clutching bags and packs to catch buses or trains to their destinations.

The Youth Hostel front door opened directly onto

the square in front of the railway station. This was a hive of activity. Buses pulled in from outlying towns to disgorge shoppers and travelers, trains slid into the station platforms and the whole was a typical Saturday morning scene for a mid-sized country town. I climbed back upstairs to my room and re-dressed my feet, checking carefully for any signs of infection. Happily, I saw none. The raw flesh had me on guard and I knew I’d have to spend as much time as possible with my feet in the air to heal as rapidly as possible.

I walked slowly up to Storgata and decided to look

for a sweater for Lily. Some Norwegian designed and knitted sweaters in a traditional crafts shop had caught my eye the day before. I found the store and walked in. There were racks and racks of different designs in pullovers, cardigans and jackets. I spent twenty minutes before I chose a cardigan styled in red with typical Norwegian winter snowflake patterns in white on the shoulders. The front had a series of elegant metal clasps rather than buttons. I bought the cardigan and took it back to the hostel, where I handed

it to the manager and asked him to look after it till I was able to post it to Sydney on Monday. At midday I walked up the street to look for something to eat. Storgata was fairly crowded with shoppers and tourists. The latter were mostly Norwegians with a sprinkling of foreigners. The foreigners appeared to be largely Germans. The day was particularly hot and humid so the strollers moved slowly and languidly. I thought it was rather like watching a slow-motion video. I saw a fruit store with boxes of fruit displayed outside on the footpath. The owners were a dark, mustachioed couple of men, clearly not northern European. Their small store had the largest display of fresh fruit I remember seeing in my travels through the country. Included were grapes, melons, oranges, kiwifruit, bananas, peaches, plums, apricots and other exotics as well as vegetables of all sorts. The display was so unusually colourful and enticing that I noticed Norwegian passersby actually taking photographs! I bought four apricots and carried them back to the hostel, where I washed them and then ate them slowly and appreciatively, after which I decided that some spine-bashing to rest the feet was in order.

In the evening I walked up to town and found a

small Italian-style restaurant Piccolo on Storgata, where I had spaghetti bolognaise accompanied by a large beer. Then, to pass the time, I dropped in to a local movie house to see a film. I bought some popcorn and lemonade from two very pretty but totally bored teenagers and sat through a strange American film about a murderer who shoots people in and around a phone booth in New York. At least the theatre was air-conditioned.

On my return to the hostel I went straight to bed. I

woke momentarily when a late arrival clumped into the room in heavy hiking boots and, after stowing a backpack as quietly as possible, climbed into the bunk opposite and snaked into a sleeping bag.

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Sunday 13th In Lillehammer

I woke up and lay in my bunk till 8am, when I decided it was time to have a shower and get dressed. The occupant of the bunk opposite was awake and reading a travel book. I said “Good morning.” And received a reply in English with a very slight, but recognizable accent. Taking a punt I said, “You’re Dutch?” “Yes. How did you know?”

We had a discussion for a few minutes about regional variations in the pronunciation of English before Piet asked if I was going to use the bathroom first. I got up, picked up my washing gear and hopped into the small bathroom. After a quick shower I was out and got dressed, ready for breakfast. Piet headed for the bathroom as soon as I walked out, making for the stairs down to the dining room. There was something ‘different’ about Piet that I couldn’t put my finger on, so to speak.

After breakfast I bought a Time magazine at the railway station kiosk and wandered upstairs to catch up on the world’s news. I gave the magazine to Piet and left for the Catholic Church and the eleven o’clock Mass. I found about thirty or forty people gathered at the front of the church and a dozen or so more inside, sitting quietly waiting for Mass to begin.

After Mass concluded the priest invited the

congregation, in several languages, to stay for morning coffee. Most did. As I walked around the group that

gathered in a room at the side of the church the word ‘catholic’ took on a new meaning as I realized where the congregation originated. A few were Norwegian. There were six young Polish farm workers, four or five Central Americans, a number of filipinos, several from India and Ceylon and a couple of Africans, including a bewildered young lady from Sierra Leone. I think she had only arrived in the country a few days before and was suffering culture shock in the extreme. I never did find out what she was doing in Norway or how she got to be there.

Half an hour later most of us left. I walked back

towards the centre of town with the young Poles. They said that it was easy to find work on Norwegian farms as few young Norwegians wanted to get their hands dirty. “We work hard for two or three months and take home good pay.” said one. “Then we go back to our own job in Poland.” laughed another. It seemed like a good idea to me. I walked back to the hostel and took the bandages off my feet. I placed my backpack on the end of my bed, opened the window wide and lay down with my feet elevated, near the window to catch the breeze. I’m a firm believer in ‘fresh air’ recovery.

In the evening I walked back to the town centre for something to eat and then chose to watch the film “Hulken” at the cinema. With Australian Eric Bana in the lead role as The Hulk I was curious to see how he’d handle such a shocker of a role. I wasn’t surprised that he wandered aimlessly through the film with a constant expression of puzzlement on his face. The film was boring.

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Monday 14th In Lillehammer

After breakfast I collected the sweater I’d bought for Lily from the manager and took it up to the Post Office. A very affable lady helped me to wrap it up and produced a large envelope of tough brown paper in which the sweater was placed. She assured me that it would arrive safely in Australia. The airmail postage to Australia was calculated as two hundred Kroner, about forty Australian dollars! A bit steep, but she re-checked the figures and assured me it was correct, so I paid up and left the parcel in her capable hands. Just as she had assured me, it arrived safely in Australia ten days later.

As my feet were beginning to feel more

comfortable, though still very tender and raw, I walked slowly uphill towards the Olympiaparken ski centre. This complex was the centre of action for the 1996 Winter Olympics. I was told that the whole show was a grand success. Enough Norwegians have assured me on that point, so it must be true!

Many visitors were trudging up the steep staircase

beside the ski jumps. I looked at it for a few moments and decided that I could do without the no doubt impressive view. I was comfortable with the view across the valley that I had from ground level. The looks of exhaustion on the faces of people who arrived back at the base made me even more comfortable with my decision not to climb.

Leaving the ski area I ambled across the upper streets of Lillehammer towards Maihaugen, the outdoor museum I’d heard about. A dentist, Anders Sandvig started it shortly after he arrived in the area in 1887. He had, apparently, a sharp eye for traditional architecture and farming implements. On his trips around the Gudbransdalen area he would pick up discarded farm tools, furniture and artifacts and bring them back to Lillehammer. This escalated to him bringing entire farm buildings and re-assembling them to house his rapidly growing collection. He believed, correctly, that unless old buildings were preserved, the old way of life would be forgotten.

I entered the museum and spent three delightful hours transported back in time as I wandered around, peering in through windows of simple farmhouses, watching farm-workers in traditional dress mowing the hay with scythes. A little wooden church, built in the traditional stave style, caught my eye. The Garmo stavkirk, though small, is a perfect example. Originally built in the early thirteenth century, it has been relocated, added to, restored and is still authentic. I spent some time in it talking to the cheerful and informative guide who turned out to be the wife of the pastor at Ringsaker.

Afterwards I walked back to the town centre and

found a Lebanese style eatery where I had a pleasant meal. The food was fresh and tasty and relatively inexpensive.

I returned to the Youth Hostel and climbed to the room. I entered and was gobsmacked by what I saw. Piet was standing in the middle of the otherwise empty room wearing shorts and a plain white bra! Seeing my slack jaw, she grinned, slipped a light shirt over her broad, well-muscled shoulders and said, “Come for a coffee, it’s too hot in the hostel.”. Dumbstruck I followed. Up till that moment I thought I’d been sharing a room with a man!

We found a small coffee shop in a side street and spent an hour chatting about Rugby of all things. Piet seemed to know just about all there was to know about the game and was pleased to hear that I played fullback for my school’s First Fifteen many years ago. I rose in her estimation, so it seemed, because I’d played the game. I was still reeling from the revelation that Piet was female!

We returned to the hostel and our room as the sky

darkened enough to look like night. The old drunk was already in residence, fast asleep, snoring and smelling heavily of the demon spirits. In the small room that was a heavy price to pay for cheap lodgings.

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Tuesday 15th In Lillehammer

At seven thirty I washed some clothes before descending to the breakfast room where I met Piet who was enthusiastically demolishing a large plate of scrambled eggs and toast. The hostel manager was eyeing the pile of food with a jaundiced eye and making his displeasure obvious as he made his rounds greeting the guests. Piet was wearing a “Hong Kong Seven-A-Side” T-shirt, which explained her great knowledge of the game. She finally admitted that she was a member of the Dutch Women’s’ Rugby team and played in the second row! A few things slowly fell into place with the acquisition of that knowledge.

I walked over to the Bibliotek after breakfast. I’d

found that the Bibliotek had a number of computers connected to the Internet. They could be used for free. I booked for 10am and then sat down and read some newspapers until my name was called. I had the tracking number for the parcel of boots Lily had sent from Sydney. It was just a matter of connecting to the FedEx website to find when they’d be delivered.

It was easy to find that the boots had arrived in

Oslo on Monday…. but were marked for delivery to Lillehammer on next Friday! The parcel would take just as long to get from Oslo to Lillehammer as Sydney to Oslo! I scribbled down the FedEx phone number in Oslo and hurried outside to a public phone booth and phoned Oslo. “Yes,” said the young lady in Customer Relations who answered, “the parcel will be sent by mail from Oslo to Lillehammer and will arrive on Friday.” “Why send it by mail?” I asked. “It is a FedEx parcel!” “There is no FedEx agent in Lillehammer.” was the calm reply. I quoted the name of the FedEx agent in Lillehammer from the FedEx document that Lily had faxed to the Youth Hostel for me. “Ah… but that company is now closed. It is bankrupt.” replied Stine, the Customer Relations agent. A discussion ensued. It became at times somewhat heated and at times rather loud. I told her that I could catch a train from Lillehammer to Oslo, collect the parcel and return to Lillehammer in a few hours, but was damned if I would, when I’d paid FedEx to do the work for me. The upshot was that, for the sake of international relations and to save her soul from eternal damnation by St. Olav she agreed to locate the parcel and put it on an afternoon train to Lillehammer that day. The FedEx office was conveniently next to the rail station at Gardemoen airport and all the northbound trains stop there. The parcel should arrive at around five in the evening.

When Stine had placed the parcel personally on the train she’d call the Youth Hostel and leave a message for me. You couldn’t ask for more, so I thanked her and walked back to the Youth Hostel to tell the manager of the plan. He was out but a young lady in the office wrote down the details and agreed to help.

At 4.30pm I walked downstairs to the railway

platform and did some reading while I waited. At 4.50pm the Youth Hostel lady arrived in the station holding a note and looking for me. She said that there’d been a call from FedEx in Oslo. “Fedex put the box on the train. It is with the guard man.” she explained. “The train is arriving in Lillehammer very soon.” she said, handing me the note and excusing herself. She walked up the stairs as train slid rapidly into the station. It pulled to a halt and I walked quickly along the platform looking for a guard. There were two, a man and a woman. When I asked about the parcel they replied adamantly that there were no parcels handed to them to deliver to Lillehammer. They suggested that I try the Railway Parcels office at the end of the platform. The train pulled out to continue on its way to Trondheim.

The Parcels Office had received some tractor parts

and some newspapers, but no boots. A second train sitting at the further platform was leaving for Oslo and needed the attention of the parcels officer so I was unable to ask him anything more. Disconsolately I walked back upstairs to the Youth Hostel and tried to phone FedEx in Oslo. They’d gone home for the day.

I walked back to the Parcels Office to see if he

could suggest anything. The office was now closed. They’d gone home for the day. The whole mess would have to wait till the morning.

I found Piet in the TV room at the hostel watching

a quiz program that looked like the standard early evening fare seen in Sydney. In fact, when the show ended the name Grundy appeared in the credits! No wonder Reg Grundy owns a huge motor yacht, his TV shows are copied just about everywhere in the world, it seems!

We walked up to Sentrum and found the Lebanese eatery. I was welcomed like an old friend. Piet and I had a leisurely meal and conversation. She worked for Medecins Sans Frontiers in Holland and had visited Australia a year ago with her sister and backpacked around the country. Back at the hostel we discovered the old drunk in residence, snoring loudly and smelling abominably. I opened all the windows as much as possible and went to bed.

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Wednesday 16th In Lillehammer

I was up early and after breakfast waited till 9am and phoned FedEx in Oslo. Stine was adamant that she’d personally handed the parcel to the train-guard. There was no more she could do as the parcel was now with the train guard. I walked downstairs to the station and explained my predicament to the Parcels Office staff. The manager was impressed that a foreigner was walking to Trondheim to visit Norway’s patron saint. “We won’t lose your boots. Have no worry. I will find them.” he said with great calm. He thought for a moment and then said, “Sit down and wait a few minutes.” Much relieved by his assurances I sat down as he made two phone calls. With the second call he located the parcel in Oslo and made arrangements for it to be sent on the next train to Lillehammer. It would arrive in a few hours. “Come back at four-thirty and I’ll give you your boots!” he said.

Feeling as happy as a lark, I walked up to have a look at the Lutheran church. Just near the church I saw a pilgrim waymarker. Carved from a large block of grey granite it was surmounted by a stylized cross within a Celtic square knot logo. Below were incised the words “417kms til Nidaros” and an arrow pointing northwards.

The church was a handsome brick building,

surmounted by a tall thin slate-tiled tower boasting a clock on each of the four faces. The standard, well-tended graveyard extended beside the church. When I entered the church it was being cleaned by a lady complete with mops, buckets and cloths. She bustled about the already pristine interior, arranging things and flicking away imaginary dust. The ceiling behind the altar contained an unusual representation of the Milky Way galaxy, complete with golden stars. Large enough to hold five or six hundred worshippers, the church exuded an air of a comfortable relationship with a God who was pleased with His people in Lillehammer. An impressive organ dominated the choir loft at the rear. A deep blue-painted timber ceiling and red timber beams picked out with gold accents added to the air of calm.

The cleaning lady told me to go across the road to

the presbytery if I wanted a stamp in my pilgrim passport. Knocking on the door at the presbytery produced a cheerful young woman who ushered me in to the office, found the appropriate stamp and wished me a safe journey northwards.

I walked back to the Youth Hostel in time to see

Piet standing at the bus station. She was on her way back to Holland and football training. She gave me a hug, wished me the best and climbed aboard the bus. In a moment, with a ‘whooshing’ of brakes, it backed out and glided off south towards the capital.

I ambled over to the Bibliotek. Since the Internet machines were busy I sat and read a couple of magazines and read more about Thor Heyardal’s Kon Tiki voyage. As a small boy I had queued to see his film in Sydney in nineteen fifty-two. I recalled that the film had been so popular that people stood patiently in a line that stretched a hundred metres or more down the street outside the small city theatre. By the time we got to the ticket booth there was standing room only. My brothers Peter, Robert and I stood at the rear of the packed theatre and watched enthralled as the adventurers crossed the Pacific Ocean on a slowly sinking balsa-wood raft. The book in Lillehammer brought back long dormant Sydney childhood memories!

I walked to Gagata and found an outdoor store where I bought two pairs of thin walking socks in readiness for the arrival of my boots. My feet, though recovering nicely, were still swollen and very tender.

After waiting impatiently till the appointed time I

walked down to the railway station Parcels Office to be met by an apologetic manager. The bad news was that the boots hadn’t arrived! Damn!

The good news was that they would definitely

arrive at 1.30am and would be available at 8.30am tomorrow morning. I walked back to the Hostel hoping that, at last I’d be on my way again. The manager met me at the office. He told me, very apologetically, that the hostel was fully booked for the night. A large group of tourists had booked every room some time ago. “If you don’t want to look for a hotel room you can sleep in the TV room on the third floor.” he suggested. “There is a small bathroom there, and a few spare mattresses. You might have to share the room.” he shrugged. I accepted his kind offer and he gave me a key to the TV room. I walked up to my room, shoved everything into my backpack and carried it along to the TV room.

When I entered the room there was already a backpack leaning against the wall with what looked like a long walking stick wrapped in cloth beside it. Another pilgrim? I sat down to read a magazine and after ten minutes the door opened and a tall, blonde woman in her late twenties entered. She looked uncertainly in my direction. “Is that your backpack?” I asked. “Ja, …. Yes.” “All the rooms are full, so I’ll be here tonight.” I volunteered. She took this in, glanced around the room and, with a giggle, replied, “So… I’m sleeping with you tonight?” She must have seen the look of consternation on my face because she laughed and explained that the manager told her there might be an “old foreigner” in the room.

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She sat down and introduced herself as Ragnhild.

She had come down from Trondheim to study at a school nearby for a day or so, after which she would go fishing. The “walking stick” I’d seen was actually a fishing rod. “You like fishing?” I asked. “I’m Norwegian!” she responded. As neither of us had anything else to do, we sat and chatted.

It was with some surprise that, an hour and a half later, we both realized that it was getting late and that the pangs of hunger were being felt. We agreed to eat at the Lebanese restaurant because the food was fresh, it was inexpensive and because Ragnhild said that she’d not eaten Lebanese food before. So we walked up into town and found the Lebanese restaurant.

The owners beamed when they saw us arriving

and nodded approvingly of my dining partner, giving me a conspiratorial wink.

After the meal the host came over and chatted to

us as we had coffee. He was, as he proudly said, “Persian, not Lebanese.” He wouldn’t admit to being Iraqi or Iranian, just Persian, because as he proudly said, “The Persians came before all, and my people have been there forever.”

After dinner we walked down the road to a bar

where we sat on the verandah and had a beer. Ragnhild was amused when I paid for her beer. “In Norway we usually pay for our own drinks.” she explained. After another beer and a long and enjoyable conversation about all manner of subjects, I was surprised to see that it was almost midnight. The Youth Hostel would be closed, but I had a key to the front door and the TV room so we strolled back chatting about this and that. The Moon was coming slowly up in the South-East with Mars beside it as we arrived quietly at the Hostel.

Once we were upstairs I unlocked the door and we

entered the TV room. I gathered up my gear and took it to the end of the room near a bank of windows, which I opened. I laid my sleeping bag on a thin mattress on the floor. It was a hot night and the room, which had been closed up, was stifling.

After setting up a mattress on a camp cot in a

corner Ragnhild disappeared into the bathroom. She emerged ten minutes later in a short cotton nightie, combing her long blonde hair…. a sight etched permanently in my memory.

Averting my eyes I made my way to the bathroom

where I had a cooling shower. When I came out I saw that she was lying on her bed. A pair of thin, black-framed reading glasses was perched on her nose. She was intently studying a book by the light of a small table lamp. “What’s the book?” I asked. “Statistics.” she replied with a smile. I took a very deep breath. At that moment there was a scratching at the door. Somebody else had a key. The door opened and the old drunk stumbled in! He was stinking to high heavens and carried a sheet and pillow.

His bleary eyes surveyed the scene. He lurched to a sofa a couple of metres away and fell onto it. With great difficulty he dragged off his shoes and, tangled up in the sheet, fell noisily asleep almost instantly. The stale smell of sweat, cigarettes and gin wafted slowly into the air.

Ragnhild smiled wryly, shrugged her shoulders,

put down her book on statistics and the school-ma’am glasses. She switched off the lamp and pulled up a cotton sheet. I returned to my end of the room, lay down and stared out the window at the Moon. Sleep was a long time coming.

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Thursday 17th Lillehammer to Aasletten 20k

I woke at seven o’clock and got dressed with mounting excitement. The Railway Goods Manager downstairs had promised me that the boots would definitely be there for me to pick up at eight-thirty.

Being so far behind schedule on my walk to

Trondheim I couldn’t afford to waste any more time. I was raring to go despite my still-raw feet. Ragnhild was organizing to go to a school or college, where she was to gain access to some statistical figures related to tourism, so we said goodbye and I tripped downstairs to have breakfast on the first floor. The room was jammed full of Asian tourists making heavy weather of the breakfast arrangements. None seemed familiar with the contents of many of the dishes that were laid out before them. I recalled my first trip to Japan was similarly confusing, so felt some sympathy for their predicament.

I breakfasted rapidly and then wandered down to the railway station on the ground floor and then onto the platform. The Goods Office was at the far end. When I arrived the manager saw me coming and immediately held up a box with a look of satisfaction on his face. I saw and immediately recognized the handwriting on the label. My boots were finally here! “That will cost you ninety-five Kroner for freight.” said the manager.

Paying over the money as quickly as possible, I thanked him profusely and rushed back to the Youth Hostel and upstairs. Ripping open the box I extracted the boots and slipped them on. My feet thanked me immediately.

Realizing that the Goods manager had gone well

out of his way to assist me I walked a couple of blocks up to the town and found an open supermarket. Popping in I bought a couple of bread rolls, some cheese and a six-pack of beer. On the way back I dropped off my original boots at the local equivalent of the St Vincent de Paul Shop. The boots were in virtually new condition and would no doubt find a buyer.

I returned to the Goods Office and gave the six-

pack of beer to the manager and asked him to drink to my health and my pilgrimage. He agreed to do so. To my surprise, when I got back to the square in front of the Station/Hostel complex, I saw Ragnhild waiting to board a bus. Apparently the school she was to spend the day studying at was some ten kilometers away. She gave me a hug, wished me well and wrote her Trondheim phone number in my notebook with the suggestion that I could contact her if I needed any help when I got there.

Up in the Youth Hostel’s TV room I packed my

backpack, filled my water bottles, and picked up my walking stick. With a light heart I clumped downstairs,

stopping in the office long enough to pay the bill and thank the staff for their friendliness and help.

Outside the sun was belting down and it was

already a hot and steamy day. I marched off, happy as a lark to be heading northwards once again. My feet were still tender and swollen. The blisters were healing nicely, and as long as I didn’t abuse them I’d be able to continue. Picking up a pilgrim marker on the side of a building on Gamlevegen I walked along this road for the next hour or so before it gave way to a gravel cycle path that was thankfully shaded from the intense sunshine. Off to the right was a high, tree-covered ridge and lower down to the left was the upper reach of Lake Mjosa.

At Storhove the ridge seemed much closer, rearing

up behind the red- and black painted buildings of a small resort. After two and a half hours in hot and steamy conditions I could see Hogskole in the distance. It was a very large handsome, classical timber building of three stories, surrounded by lawns. Standing at a bus stop near the entrance was Ragnhild! “What are you doing here?” she asked in some surprise as I clumped towards her. “Walking north.” I replied. “But it’s only a few kilometers to Lillehammer. Why did it take you so long?” A fair enough question, I suppose, if you rode the distance in twenty minutes by bus. “I stopped for a beer with a pretty girl.” was my instant answer. She regarded this answer for a moment and then giggled. “You’ll never get to Trondheim if you stop for every pretty girl!” A bus approached, we said our goodbyes again and I walked off northwards as she boarded for the short trip back to Lillehammer.

I continued on as the temperature rose. The day was rapidly becoming much hotter and very much more humid than I expected. There was a heat haze in the air that reminded me of tropical Papua New Guinea.

I soon messed up the directions and got lost by crossing over a railway line, not through a small tunnel under it. I then ended up having to walk through a plowed field, which didn’t help my composure. I reached Faberg Centrum and bought some food at a supermarket, then retired to a pleasantly shaded park to have some lunch. A young couple arrived on bicycles with the same intention, pulling food out of panniers on the sides of their rather flash racing-style cycles. They were both about twenty years of age and were tanned, very fit and made a very attractive couple in their multi-coloured, close-fitting lycra racing outfits. They said it was it was their first trip outside their own country, East Germany and everything was tremendously exciting. They were eager to hear about life in Australia. They had heard reports that young tourists

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could easily find work, picking fruit on farms to pay for a holiday. The Germans left and cycled off into the heat of the day.

I waited a half-hour in the vain hope that the

temperature would drop, and then set off. I was sweating copiously in the combination of heat and humidity and managed to miss the turn-off for Tjodveigen. It took a kilometer of downhill walking for me to realize that I wasn’t where I should be. With as much self-recrimination as was seemly I made my way back uphill till I spotted a wooden sign at the side of the path labeled “Her gjekk Tjodveigen” with an incised image of a pilgrim. There followed a delightful forest pathway complete with small gated wooden bridge at Gjallarbru. The path exited the forest and below and ahead I could see the valley curving gently northwards. The Lagen River was wide and the town of Oyer was visible with the E6 highway snaking past into the distance. I continued along the high path until I arrived at Hafjell, a ski centre. It looked very naked and odd in mid-summer, the ski lifts and associated equipment having a forlorn look about them.

Below was, I knew, a pensjonat where I had

decided to stay for the night, so seeing no better way down,

I made my way painfully down the steep, grassed and stony ski slopes. By the time I reached the bottom my feet were screaming for relief.

I found the Aasletten Pensjonat og Hytter and

approached the door. It was open but I could hear no noise or movement within. I knocked loudly and called but nobody answered. Suddenly, a woman appeared from behind and asked if I wanted a room. The owners lived in a house a few metres away and she’d seen me limping up the path. I paid for a night and was assigned a pleasant but Spartan room on the first floor and carried my gear up the stairs. The only other occupants, as far as I could see, were a young couple who had eyes only for each other.

Dinner later in the evening was a quiet affair as there was no meal provided. The young couple and I raided the kitchen and found enough ‘makings’ to create a few sandwiches, which we shared in the lounge room. We were the only residents. Summer is the low season in Norway.

I retired reasonably early to rest my feet. They

were swollen, painful and still weeping a little but careful inspection showed that they were recovering well and there was no infection present.

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Friday 18th Aasletten to Glomstad 24km

Waking late I showered, dressed and wandered down to the dining room. There was no life there or in the kitchen. The young couple I’d met the night before turned up and immediately began rummaging around for food, so I followed suit. After having a breakfast of sorts I put my gear in order and set off in what I hoped was the right direction. It was uphill, and that’s always a good bet when you’re a pilgrim.

I soon picked up the pilgrim markers and followed

happily as they led off the road into a forest, along a pleasant pathway that was shady and quite smooth. This didn’t last too long. The path soon changed into a much rougher track that led into a forest glen and then over a wooden bridge that crossed a small river. The path led suddenly upwards into a narrow valley. There was a fence beside the path to keep the unwary from tumbling to the bottom. A fence with a stile led to another pathway owned by a small gang of cows. They showed not the slightest interest in moving out of my way. It was their territory and I had to thread my way between them on the narrow path as they each in turn tried to get a taste of my clothes or backpack with their long raspy tongues.

At this point I lost the path so I walked downhill,

found a pleasant road and walked along it till I came to Oyer Kirke, a typically pretty, small wooden church with tall steeple. I found the verger and asked if I could have my pilgrim passport stamped. He said that the only stamp would be in the minister’s office down in the town. Looking down along the valley I could see a small collection of houses and buildings beside the river, but I wasn’t that keen to traipse all the way down there on the off-chance, so, refilling my water bottles, I set off again, zigzagging uphill as I made my northwards along the ridge. The effort was made worthwhile by the glorious views along the valley. Steep hillsides were covered by dense forest or fields that were grassed. The whole valley gave a satisfying look of prosperity and comfort.

Arriving at Skaden Gard, which is a farm-stay bed

and breakfast and listed in Alison Raju’s book, I found two hikers standing in the doorway of the neat red-painted timber house. They were talking to an attractive woman in a small office. I waited for some minutes while they discussed a map and directions. Eventually she asked if she could help me. Proffering my pilgrim passport I asked if she had a stamp that could be entered. She examined the passport for some moments and then said that she did not possess a stamp. The two walkers watched, without saying a word. Just as I was about to back out and continue on my way, the lady took the passport, asked me to wait and disappeared into another room. As I stood, the walkers, both men in their forties, examined me carefully but still said nothing. She returned in a few moments with the passport, which now bore a rubber stamp. With a smile she handed it to me. One of the walkers suddenly asked if I

needed any water. I declined and headed out, back onto the gravel road and continued northwards.

Walking downhill into a heavy forest, I crossed a

wooden bridge and then climbed a steep hill along a shady road. This continued through the forest then ended at a fence and stile leading across a farm. I walked across a couple of fields, between some farm buildings and then out onto a nice graveled road. It was blazing hot out in the sunshine; walking in the forest had been cool and comfortable. The road carried on ahead. The directions had indicated that I was to turn off the road onto a track, but daydreaming as usual, I missed the marker and continued on for half an hour, slowly realizing that I wasn’t where I should be.

I saw an isolated house beside the road several

hundred metres ahead. I could just make out a woman near the house hanging washing on a clothes-line. She disappeared before I got near the house, so I walked around the side of the house and called out several times. I could sense that she was inside, watching me carefully through closed curtains. I felt embarrassed that I must be making the poor woman frightened by my presence, so I walked back on to the road, took out my directions and re-read them to figure what would be the best way to continue. The front door of the house opened and the young woman called softly to me. I walked through the gate and stopped a few metres from the front door where she stood nervously. She was holding a small, chubby baby awkwardly in front of herself in both arms. She was wearing a loose white blouse and a bright patterned wrap skirt. I noticed that she was barefoot. “I’m lost. Can you tell me where I am?” I asked. She looked at me for a moment with puzzlement on her face while the baby stirred in her arms. Then she smiled broadly and said, “Are you a pilgrim? Are you walking to Trondheim?” “Yes, and I’m lost.” She moved the baby onto her hip and held it absent-mindedly to the breast while she considered my question. Then she pointed down the road. “Keep walking that way and you will find Tretten.” I could see Tretten on my small map. “Are you really walking to Trondheim?” she asked. “I’m trying to.” I replied. She considered this quietly for some moments. Then with a shy smile said, “It must be very exciting to walk in a strange land.” With that she padded quietly into the house with the baby, waved and closed the door. I headed off in the direction she’d indicated.

The gravel road got narrower and narrower as I walked downhill and after two or three kilometres came out on the E6 highway near Tretten. A handy service station was relieved of a bottle of Coke before I walked to a small

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group of shops where I bought some sandwiches and then had a look at a large tourist map to figure where I was and where I wanted to be, which was Glomstad. I had about five kilometers to go. I set off uphill in the general direction along a road and eventually came to an intersection with interesting signposting; the left side had an arrow to Ostfjellvegen and Glomstad. The right side pointed in a completely different direction to Ostfjellvegen. I chose left towards Glomstad. As I laboured slowly uphill in the steamy weather I considered the various options regarding how many Ostfjellvegens there were in this universe. There seemed to be several, each more bizarre than the last. Finally, putting these strange ideas down to too much caffeine in the Coca Cola, I arrived, sweating copiously, at a large hill farm. I crunched across the gravel parking area towards the traditional, black-painted farmhouse and saw that I’d arrived at what was essentially a small, and very busy hotel.

Dumping my backpack at the door I walked into a very busy reception area. A capable-looking woman in a brightly coloured blouse was seated at a busy-looking desk and was answering questions from several well-dressed guests. She pointed them towards the large dining room, answered phone calls and directed staff. She looked up when she saw me, grinned and said in very good English. “What have we here? A pilgrim!” “”Yes.” I replied. “Well, you’ll want a meal and a room. Here is a key, put your things in the room and come straight down and I will see that you get fed.” She handed me a key and bustled off

to supervise a large party of guests who were apparently celebrating an important family birthday.

Doing as I was told I found myself with a small but comfortable room. I ambled off to a bathroom where I had a quick and welcome shower before returning to my room and changing into fresh clothes. I returned to the ground floor where Janna greeted me again. “Feel better?” she asked. She took me into the dining room and put me at a small table in the corner near a huge buffet-style table groaning with food. The birthday party, about thirty strong, were already eating and listening to speeches. “Have as much as you want.” said Janna. “I’ll get you a beer.” She then asked somewhat mockingly, “You are Australian? You drink beer?” Without waiting for an affirmative answer she strode off and was back a moment later with a bottle and a glass. “There’s more.” she said. “But look after yourself, I’ll be busy with these people.” After I’d had all I could eat and drink I took a coffee and strolled outside into a large courtyard high above the river, where I sat in the evening light watching a summer storm roll in from across the valley.

Back in my room I gathered the day’s clothes and took them to the bathroom for a round with the soap and water. I strung them around my room and decided to have an early night. I believe I’d earned it.

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Saturday 19th Glomstad to Ringebu 26km

I woke up late and scuttled down to the dining room for breakfast. Janna greeted me and between asking questions about my travels and dealing with departing guests she told me that she was the twelfth generation of the Glomstad family living on this farm. Working the land was something of a sideline these days. There was a better living in playing host to people who wished to spend a few days relaxing and breathing in the country air.

Finally, I left just as a light rain began to fall. I

walked off down the road and through the next farm. It was a very smooth gravel road and I gave it a good half hour before I checked the Cicerone guide. It calmly informed me that I should have noticed the sign at the side of the road just after I’d left Glomstad! I’d just spent thirty minutes walking in the wrong direction. Damn and double damn! I turned around and set off back towards Glomstad. When I was almost there, a small sign pointed me onto another farm where I skirted a large animal pen and set off downhill on a tractor path which slowly deteriorated into a particularly muddy, slippery track used as toilet by large cows, whose hoof marks were everywhere in the odiferous, slippery mess. I was extremely glad of my walking staff and silently thanked Uncle Tony Austin in Sydney who had made it for me. My feet began to object to the steep downhill descent, which forced them into the toes of my boots and sharply woke my slumbering blisters.

Making my way down into a forest, I found a new

path presented itself. This also was a treacherously slippery cow pad. It was also inhabited by animals with loose bowels. The rain slowly increased just enough to be irritating. I finally reached a small, mossy stone bridge across a rocky, almost vertical river, the Rolla. The bridge was apparently built in 1829. The guide book suggested that at this point I should continue ahead, “climbing steadily”. I read on, only to find that I’d just done a rather pointless slog downhill to see a small stone bridge after which I was to climb back up the hill and continue northwards along a path that “becomes increasingly narrow” along which there were “very few way marks”.

Taking a deep breath, I cursed Cicerone, Alison

Raju, the cows, the rain and all mad Norwegian day-walkers. The Rolla bridge could fall down and I would not care. I was no longer interested in slogging through wet and slippery paths along the old Kongvei. Nor was I interested in doing what seemed to be tourist day-walks strung together for the sake of clocking up hours in the great outdoors. I spat the dummy, well and truly, after which I felt much better and mentally apologized to all the aforementioned-except for the shitty cows. Then, taking a deep breath I headed downhill through a steep, grassy field towards the E6 highway and the Mageli Camping og Hytter that I could see on a bend in the Losna River. I reached the

well-appointed campsite and had a coffee on the general-store verandah while I morosely considered my situation.

I decided that, if this section of the walk contained

much more ridge-bashing or pointless to-ing and fro-ing I would waste much of the time that was left to me. I’d better get myself a bit further north by bus or train so that I could get a bit closer to the goal.

The guidebook showed me that Ringebu was about twenty-five kilometers north. It had one of the best stavkirkes in the country, so I decided to head there. Asking the woman in the camp office elicited the response that there was a bus stop about one kilometer back along the E6. The bus for Ringebu would stop there at 3.15pm. I had two hours to wait so I bought a ham roll and hot coffee. I pulled out the diary and filled in a couple of pages.

I walked slowly back along the highway and noted the large numbers of heavily laden caravans being towed by foreign-registered vehicles. A surprising number of large motor homes also drove past. While I waited at the bus stop I watched, with some amusement as ten or fifteen Harley Davidson motorcycles roared northwards. Every single bike was piloted by a middle-aged man whose paunch rivaled the fat leather panniers on the highly polished machines. All were well-dressed in a casual, leathery sort of way. “Hells Angels” these riders were certainly not!

The bus arrived to the minute and I stowed my

backpack under the passenger compartment then climbed aboard and paid the 65Kr fare to Ringebu. I sat, looking out the window as the scenery flashed by. I was daydreaming when the bus pulled in to Ringebu, slowed down then began to accelerate. I jumped up and yelled. The driver stopped the bus, explaining patiently that the bright yellow button was for me to press if I wished to get off.

I retrieved my backpack, slung it over my

shoulders and adjusted the straps. An area map beside the road showed that the famous stave church was about two kilometers back along the highway and a couple of kilometers up a side road. I trudged along the side of the road and met a couple of cyclists who had stopped at a small roadside café. They suggested that I join them for a soft drink. Needing little encouragement, I did so and we whiled away twenty minutes or so comparing travel notes. When there was no further excuse available I bought a couple of sandwiches, stowed them in the backpack and set off again. I found the turn-off and then walked uphill towards the church. I stopped a hundred yards away to drink it all in. It looked majestic in the afternoon sunshine with its dramatic vertical wooden stave walls, weathered by the sunshine and a bright red-painted bell tower. The steeply raked roof was made up of small, grey slate tiles.

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Walking up, I put my backpack in the entrance area, and then returned to the outside and walked slowly around the church to see it and photograph it from all angles. The timber on the northern walls was much darker than that on the south and east. The staves were almost black from the protective coating that was painted on every few years.

I returned to the entrance and found two young

ladies dressed in the traditional “bunad”. They were acting as guides and interpreters in the church. I asked if they had a “sello” for my pilgrim passport but they were most apologetic and said “no.” They politely answered questions from several French tourists and, at the same time from a German visitor as they spoke to me. One took me in and showed me around the church, explaining the significance of everything I could see. “Is it okay to take photographs?” I asked. “I’m sorry. No photographs are allowed.” was the reply. She then left immediately, closed the door to the main part of the church, giving me a wink as she did so. I took the hint and for a few minutes had the place to my camera and myself.

When ready to leave I asked the teenager in charge if there was anywhere nearby I might find accommodation for the night. At first she was not sure, but then suggested a nearby house or a school where I could probably find a bed for the night. Thanking them I walked slowly off, found a bench about fifty metres from the church and sat for a while enjoying the view.

Satisfied with this wonderful icon of Norwegian history I walked down the road and found the place that the girls had mentioned. A stone gatepost had the words “Vekkom 1935” chiseled into it. It led to a neat grassy area around several buildings. A woman called me over to a neatly painted timber house. I explained that I was a

pilgrim looking for accommodation for the night. She smiled and offered me the use of another house in the grounds. She explained that it was used by pilgrims, though they saw very few.

The house was well set up. A large dining room

and lounge area had a small kitchen and bathroom off to one side. The bedroom had a ladder leaning against the wall leading up to a loft area where more mattresses were laid out. I thanked her and she left to gather berries in the nearby forest while her husband attended to their bees some distance off. After a short exercise session with the soap and clothes I hung the washing on a clothesline and sat down to eat one of the sandwiches I’d bought earlier. I was interrupted by the woman, who shyly handed me a small basin brimming with fresh berries from the forest. She then offered to show me over the nearby building where she and her husband held craft lessons. They made copies of old furniture with authentic, traditional hand-tools. The chairs, beds and other items they made were almost indistinguishable from the old originals, being made with the same type of timber and using the same tools. They were very proud of the authenticity of their reproductions. She told me, much to my incredulity that Norwegians of old did not use sophisticated tools. The plane, used for smoothing timber was unavailable until recently. I found this hard to believe as Vikings were great travelers and shipbuilders and thought that surely they would have seen planes used in other parts of the world and would have recognized their usefulness. I also received the standard lecture that, until the discovery of oil in the North Sea, Norway was dirt-poor. Her father and his brothers had one pair of shoes between the three of them.

I returned to the house, wrote a few notes and

recharged the camera batteries while making a very tasty desert from the berries. And so to bed.

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Sunday 20th Ringebu to Dovre

After a restful night I got up, breakfasted on the last of the berries and half a sandwich, packed my gear and set off back down to the town. I had covered, by various means, a total of about two hundred and ninety kilometers. I still had to walk three hundred and seventy to get to Trondheim. If I averaged twenty-five kilometers per day it would take me fifteen days to get there. I needed to be there in eight days. Clearly I needed to get a map of the Opplands area and some information to help me decide what I was to do. The woman in the craft centre had suggested that I should get out of the valleys and into the Opplands without delay. “When you have seen one valley you have seen them all. Walk in the Opplands, it’s much nicer.” was her advice. I was very much inclined to take it. I arrived at the railway station after three quarter’s of an hour walking in bright sunshine. The station was closed, so I walked over to a service station, looking for a road map. As I found elsewhere, service stations always have all the maps… except the one you want. However, the helpful young man found one for me and I sat down to figure things out. After a few calculations and some map checking I decided that I would move immediately on to Dovre and walk in the Opplands area for as far as I could. Then, with a day or so to go I’d find some sort of transport to get me to Trondheim. I wasn’t very happy, but this was the best I could do under the circumstances. I walked back over to the railway station, which was also the bus depot. A bus would leave for Dombas at 14.10 and make a stop at Dovre on the way. This seemed like the best option, so I bought a ticket and sat down to wait.

A small restaurant of sorts at the railway station eventually opened, so at 1pm I ordered a large hamburger with everything, plus chips. Two young, very harried women were working in the kitchen and serving area. One took my order and I sat down to read and look at the maps. A group of twenty or thirty young men from a school or college, were milling around outside. They had placed a bulk order for food and the girls were up to their eyeballs trying to complete this order. One of the girls was making desperate calls on the phone. After half an hour, a couple I took to be the owners, arrived. They seemed unconcerned and pottered around, getting in the way and creating more chaos in the kitchen.

By ten to two I was getting quite hungry and rather

nervous. At two pm my hamburger arrived, delivered by one of the flustered young ladies. The hamburger was miserably small and there were no chips. I walked over to the counter and queried this. The owner’s wife told me to wait a minute and she’d bring the chips. I sat down again, finished the hamburger and waited. In five minutes she appeared, placed a small bag of chips before me and scuttled off. The chips were stone cold. In high dudgeon I

marched over to the counter, placed the offending chips on the counter and demanded a refund. I’d paid way over the odds and they were inedible. With great ill-will, the owner opened the cash register and extracted twenty five kroner. I got the refund for the chips.

At this moment the loudspeaker announced the bus

would depart shortly, so I gathered my gear, walked outside and boarded a very comfortable bus. In a few minutes it whooshed gently out onto the E6 highway and glided northwards up the valley. The trip was pleasant, the scenery delightful. The valley by turns widened, then narrowed and widened again. We passed Hundorp and then Sor-Fron, where I could see the unusual octagonal stone church from the bus windows Arriving at Otta, about eighty kilometres north of Ringebu we had a half hour wait for connections. I took the opportunity to have a snack in a much more congenial restaurant.

The bus trip resumed and after another twenty-five

kilometers the bus arrived in Dovre at about four pm. I walked to the church, a fairly standard cruciform

design with a central bell tower. The exterior of the church is covered in huge sheets of grey/brown marbled slate. The first such building I have ever seen. Many of the sheets were two and a half metres wide. Each sheet was held in place by simple iron staples, worked into the timber frame at regular intervals. The roof was covered in large brown, slate shingles. All timber surfaces, including the window frames and the porch, were painted red. The church had a peculiar ‘dolls house’ look to it, though it was quite large. The lawns around the church were neatly kept, as was the obligatory graveyard with some gravestones dating back a couple of hundred years. The church was closed.

I was feeling very low, my original plans were in

tatters and I was having difficulty making up my mind as to the best course of action. Should I chuck it all in and go home? Should I soldier on? Should I stop being a pilgrim and simply become a tourist? I was not used to having physical problems that could impede my intentions. I sat down on a bench at the back of the church and opened a map of the area to see if I could figure out, yet again, the best plan of attack for the next week. I had a strange feeling, several times, that somebody was looking over my shoulder. I turned around, but I was alone. The large map showed that, if I continued, I’d be in open country, often above the tree line. Somehow, this appealed to me… striding across rolling hills and plains. A feathery nudging at the edges of my consciousness made me quite certain that I was coming towards the conclusion that a certain Olav Haraldsson was intending. Quite suddenly I folded up the map, put it away and saw that I should walk as far as

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possible, as doggedly as possible and then take a train or bus for the last day to Trondheim.

It was now late in the afternoon and the sun, which had been beating down in a hazy sky all day was really showing its strength. I walked towards the main road and, seeing a restaurant open thought I might be able to get a cool drink. I was met with such a welcome, and the menu seemed unusually comprehensive, that I decided to have an early dinner before finding somewhere to sleep for the night. The waitress suggested that the Toftemo camping ground would be suitable. I headed off in the wrong

direction at first but after asking questions from a man out walking his dogs I was able to find it a couple of kilometers away on the E6 highway. It was a huge place and had accommodation that varied from regal in the main building (I believe a king and queen had stayed there a hundred years ago) to simple cabins and caravan sites at the back. I opted for a plain room. It stank of cigarette smoke so I changed to one slightly better. After watching an hour of the usual television game show nonsense I had a shower and went to bed.

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Monday 21st Dovre to Furuhaugli

I was up reasonably early and went to the large dining hall where I attacked the corn flakes, fruit and yoghurt. A cup of coffee and some toast followed and I walked back to my room, packed, paid the bill and set off. The idea was to head uphill, pass the famous spring ‘Olavskilde’ and head for Budsjord. I managed to get somewhat lost and, figuring that I’d walk cross-country to get to where I should be, I struck off through a forest criss-crossed by walking paths and tracks.

To my complete surprise I managed to get pretty

much where I should have been. I saw a train track that I knew I should have to cross, so I slipped along a path beside a house and scrambled over a wire fence onto the railway line where it curved gently around the hill into a cutting. I walked across this and was just beginning to climb the fence on the far side when a quiet thrumming sound translated itself into a train that whipped around the curve at high speed and flashed into the distance at something like 120kph! I was gobsmacked. A minute earlier and I would have been caught on the rails with nowhere to go.

I fell over the fence and lay there for a minute,

considering my stupidity and what the result could have been. I walked shakily up onto the nearby road and there, twenty yards away, was the Olavkilde I’d been hoping to find! St Olav looks after his own. I silently thanked him for it.

Filling my waterbottles from the small well I saw a

pilgrim signpost pointing a few metres towards the site of an old church that had served Dovre until the present slate church was built in the seventeen thirties. Apparently much of the old timber and accoutrements were also taken to the new church.

I set off upwards along winding roads and passed a

farm signposted “Tofte”. It’s apparently one of the oldest farms in the area. I continued along a very pleasant graveled road, climbing slowly all the time. Next came the Gamle Kongevein, the ‘Kings road’, which was once the only way across the highlands to Trondheim. I came to the historic farm ‘Budsjord Gard’ which has pilgrim accommodation. The road passes alongside many of the farm buildings. Despite calling out at an open door I couldn’t see any signs of life, so I continued on upwards on a stony pathway till I was virtually walking on the tops of the hills. Despite the cloudy weather the view back down the valley was dramatic and beautiful.

The track climbed through shrubby, stunted trees,

which eventually petered out as I got to the open, wind-exposed hills. Now that I was above the tree line the weather was cool and windy. The pathway was easy to follow and was well-marked by small slabs of slate marked

with a blue crown to denote the King’s road. Across the valley and on the distant hills I could easily see snow and ice remnants. The wind whipped up the occasional thin showers of light rain, which cooled me down. I reveled in the open walking conditions.

A large cairn of stones denoted the position of

Allmannroysa. There was a visitors’ notebook in a wooden box nearby. I added my name to the long list and then continued to the other side of the incline. Nearby was Hardbakken, at almost fourteen hundred metres, the highest point in the district. As I walked downhill from Allmannroysa I was surprised to see a small group of people walking towards me. As they got closer I could see that a large black dog accompanied two women and a small girl. They stopped as I approached and greeted me cheerfully. They had parked a car some five or six kilometers away, down by the A6 highway and were out for a bit of fresh air. They were certainly getting that, as the wind was up and occasional gusts made me hang onto my hat for fear of losing it.

When I told them that I was a pilgrim on my way

to Trondheim they indicated that about fifty or sixty pilgrims had passed that way a few days ago. I was rather amazed at the number. I found out later that a large number of people had left Dovre kirke and walked over the hills to Allmannroysa. Most had then returned by road, whilst a small number continued on towards Nidaros, accompanied by a car, which carried much of their gear.

I kept walking downhill and finally met the

scrubby trees and then swampy flatlands. I came out onto a dirt road and followed this till it came to a small concrete dam where I saw a parked car, probably belonging to the intrepid trio and dog. I continued onwards, the land slowly rising again. On the way up a hill I saw a bright red umbrella, which eventually resolved itself into a small group of walkers ‘from Dovre, out for a walk in the hills’. At the top of the hill I saw that the path had meandered more for the view than for any other reason. There were informative signs, placed at regular intervals, explaining the interesting features in the countryside.

The wind had slowly increased during the day and

now it was really blowing hard. I had to secure my hat against it disappearing across the countryside. I was glad that I didn’t have a rain cape. My notes indicated that there were a couple of rivers I’d have wade across and warned that, though shallow they would be fairly swift. When I came across the first of them, Veslehondryu, it was no more than a few inches deep and I was able to walk across the large stones easily. The water itself was icy cold.

The second river, the Hondryu came as a complete

surprise when I saw it. The river was hidden from view in

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the folds of a cutting. I was stunned to see a large remnant of icy snow clinging to the river bank above the shallow water. The surface of the snow was covered by small depressions, each ringed by a dark outline that on examination proved to be small stones and gravel. The whole river bank was made up of crushed stones, coarse soil and shattered rock. I was transported back to my schooldays and my Geography master. Oh, how ‘Toddy’ would have loved to actually see the stuff he spoke about so lovingly in the classroom! I scrambled down the river bank, made my way across the rocks and examined the icy remnant. It was likely to break loose from the bank at any moment, so rather cautiously I had my photograph taken with the camera’s self timer.

The path meandered across the countryside, which

was now soft and boggy in patches. Somebody had thoughtfully laid large log planks end-to-end as a pathway across the wettest sections. The rains fell intermittently and the clouds continued to scud across the sky at alarming speeds. At intervals of a kilometer or two, stone pilgrim markers could be seen, propped in position with large rocks. Each stone was stencilled on a flat surface with the red cross within the eternity sign that had become so familiar over the last weeks.

The path I was following across the hills allowed me to catch glimpses of the E6 highway as it snaked across the

flats on the valley bottom some kilometers off to the west. Rain squalls made the going somewhat uncomfortable across the high ground. I saw a handful of sheep wandering around on the downs, the bells they wore on their necks making a mournful ‘tonk, tonk’. Though they were a good two or three hundred metres away, they would trot off if they thought I was getting closer to them.

I started to feel the chill of the cold wind. Clouds overhead looked quite menacing. I was nervous about being an easy target for a lightning strike up on the hills, but I had no idea whether or not it was common in this country. As I came over a rise I saw that I’d arrived above Furuhaugli where I knew there was a camp ground. I dropped down off the hills and the wind abated. The weather was noticeably warmer. I booked in at the office and was given a small hut to myself. Shower facilities and a dining room completed the picture. I was reasonably pleased with the day’s walking, about twenty-three or four kilometers.

After a shower I changed clothes and sat in the

lounge area of the main building, talking with the centre’s operators. They were a young couple and have visited Australia twice… like just about almost everybody else in Norway!

After dinner I read a magazine left by some

English visitors and then retired to the small hut and to bed.

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Tuesday 22nd Furuhaugli to Hageseter 12km

I’d been warned, and I was now well aware that in mid-summer few Norwegians like to get up early. So I didn’t bother fronting the dining room till eight thirty. There were few guests, so I spent time chatting with the young managers about walking distances and the countryside. I’d pretty much come to the conclusion that it would be a bit of bog, a bit of scrubby bush and part upland grass walking for the day, so I set out at nine thirty. The idea was to take it easy and walk about sixteen kilometers to Hageseter or slog on a bit and get to Kongsvold about double the distance. The advantage of Kongsvold being a greater distance and therefore getting me closer to the target was somewhat offset by the reputation the place had as being expensive, even by Norwegian standards. I decided on Kongsvold and set off.

Climbing back up the hill behind Furuhaugli, I rejoined the pilgrim pathway, heading slowly upwards onto the low hills. The path meandered down the other side into swampy country where I saw one of the stranger sights of the trip. In lonely splendour and under a cloudy sky, with occasional light rain squalls, I saw a man crouched over on hands and knees, his back to me. At first I couldn’t make out what he was doing and became alarmed. It all became clear in a minute. He was bending over with a hand drill, making holes in large timber planks. These were part of the walkway constructed over the boggier patches of the pathway. He was the local repairman!

I walked along the foot-wide boards towards him.

He looked up, smiled very shyly and went back to his work. I said ‘Good day.” as I marched past, but he didn’t answer, just nodded and continued slowly drilling a one-inch hole in a board. I could see no vehicle parked anywhere. I concluded that he probably walked to work from somewhere along the E6 highway. The rain started to become a nuisance. The countryside was very wet and boggy. I thought I could do without more precipitation. I put on the waterproof pants I carried. I found, soon enough, that they made me uncomfortably hot and sweaty. The cure was worse than the disease.

A lake could be seen downhill in the distance,

Avsjoern, I believe. The highway snaked along beside it for some distance. The pathway veered off to the right and made its way, with the use of several rickety timber paths, around several small lakes and bogs. I came upon a pilgrim marker post with the inscription ‘Bagastelle 30m’ . I followed the arrow and came to a depression in the ground. Nearby was a very neat signboard that explained that I’d

walked halfway round some swamps to see an old reindeer pit! I wasn’t happy! It seems that hunters used to dig pits along the migration paths used by reindeer. The animals are apparently fairly stupid. They’d fall into the pits. Hunters would leave them there until needed. Fresh beef on the hoof, so to speak.

After far too much wandering around in the

swamps, with rain squalls making me cold and wet, and with black clouds tumbling around overhead, I came out of all this nonsense near Hageseter. The weather began to look even worse. The wind began to blow strongly. Rain squalls peppered the horizon all around. Conditions looked decidedly nasty. I checked the map and decided that I’d stop for the day, even though it was only early afternoon. I didn’t feel like spending several more hours out on the hills and swamps if the weather turned really nasty but I was very unhappy when I checked the cost of accommodation at the office and realized that this place was going to be just about as expensive as Kongsvold but far less prepossessing. There was nothing for it but to book a room for the night.

With a heavy heart and feeling frustrated with the

turn of events, I walked down to the main building, a two-storey timber edifice surrounded by smaller timber buildings and a number of mobile homes and caravans, none of which seemed to be occupied.

I was shown up a very creaky staircase, along a

narrow hallway lined with curiously mismatched timbers to a small room. The whole building gave the impression of having been designed and built by the owner. There looked to be no reference to architectural plans, just what you’d scribble in a school exercise book. It did have a strange charm all of its own, but it creaked and groaned as I walked about. The room was fitted with a double bunk, a small wooden table and a chair facing the window that looked out over the valley. A hundred metres away cars and trucks rolled steadily past on the E6 highway. Speed limits in Norway are fairly low, fifty kph in towns and eighty or ninety on highways. Most drivers seemed to comply with the limits, even in remote areas.

To make things even worse, once I’d booked in,

had a shower and washed some clothes the weather changed dramatically. The sun came out, the clouds disappeared and the wind died down. It would have been a lovely afternoon for walking much further. I was not a happy camper but could find nobody else to blame!

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Wednesday 23th Hageseter to Rypusan 42km

The sky was clear and there was just a slight breeze when I woke up at 6am at Hageseter Turisthytte. I put my sleeping bag and gear away and walked to the bathroom, had a shower and got ready for the day. Nobody was awake and breakfast wouldn't be served till about 8am. I made a couple of sandwiches with bread and butter, cheese and jam that I found in the dining room. I ate one and wrapped the second in plastic and put it in my backpack for later.

I set out just before 7am and walked back up the

hill behind the camp, found the 'way-marker' and set off. I wasn't sure just how far I'd get, but because I'd stopped early the day before, I wanted to put a few miles on the clock today.

The path degenerated into a narrow pad through

the crunchy, ankle high vegetation. A long walk, which arched around a lake and through very boggy patches, reindeer pits and eventually through the site of a Viking age house brought me to within spitting distance of the E6 highway again. After an hour’s walking I could see the point at which I'd started! It was less than a kilometre away in a straight line! I had wasted an hour walking in a semi-circle! Not happy, I stepped up the pace and marched thankfully up a long approach to some low hills towards Hjerkinn, where I could see a hotel and away off to its left, a stark modern church surrounded by trees. This church was designed by Magnus Poulsson and built as recently as 1969. It was therefore not old enough to have been burnt down and rebuilt several times.

The pathway eventually became heavily littered with horse droppings, which puzzled me, as I'd seen and heard no horses. This mystery cleared itself up when I arrived at a horse-riding establishment attached to the hotel. Feeling hungry I decided to stop for breakfast. I marched in the front door of the hotel, Hjerkinn Fjellstue and was surprised at how up-market it was, and how well dressed were the people in the dining room. Most looked as if they were at a private health farm. Some were wearing expensive-looking riding clothes. I paid the lady at the counter Kr75 for breakfast and dumped my hat, pack and stick in a side room and then descended on the dining room like a whirlwind. I vacuumed up as much food as I could, watched by amused patrons who recognized a hungry pilgrim when they saw one. They were also watching somebody who was making damn sure to get his seventy-five kroner's worth!

Outside again I headed up the sharply rising hill

behind the hotel and set off northwards towards Kongsvold, fourteen kilometres away. This was a lovely section of the path, gently rising as it slowly approached a long, dramatically narrow valley in the far distance.

The sky was now partly covered with clouds tumbling their way rapidly from horizon to horizon. I felt that I could walk forever in this sort of country and wished that the early days had been so good. Near Joroskloppa, where the path intersected the E6 highway again, I met a couple wandering along the track. This was a sight I was to see a number of times along the way; Norwegians out for a day's brisk walking in the countryside. It is a national pastime and may be part of the reason that they look to be generally a fit and healthy race of people. I continued ahead but found myself bamboozled by the number trail markers and small pathways that branched off in all directions.

Inevitably I made a mistake and marched off in the wrong direction, not wrong enough to ring alarm bells immediately. It was a half hour or so before I convinced myself that I was in the wrong place and began to retrace my steps. I estimated that I walked two kilometres off course and had to backtrack and cross about one and a half kilometres of rough bracken and gorse before I was back on the right track. I made a mental note to keep my mind more firmly focussed on the task at hand and leave the world to solve its own problems. Pilgrims begrudge a hundred wrong metres, let alone two or three kilometres ... especially if there's nobody else to blame!

A little after midday I came down off the high ground as the valley closed in. Kongsvold appeared below me in the valley as a cluster of wooden buildings. I had been warned that it was a ferociously expensive place to stay, so I'd made sure to arrive early enough that I had to keep walking, no matter what. I made a beeline for the restaurant, which was housed in a many-hundred year old log cabin. The ready-prepared food looked expensive, as I'd been warned. However, a sign indicated that they also had a 'pilgrim lunch'. I asked the young lady at the counter if it was available and she explained that it wasn't cheap, it was just more substantial than the usual light fare. It turned out to be leg of sheep and potatoes plus a half-litre of Dahl beer for Kr125. That sounded okay so I tucked in. Leg of mutton would be more accurate but the beer and potatoes were excellent.

Lunch was enlivened by a pair of middle-aged

German birdwatchers, husband and wife, who pranced into the room to have a meal. They were dressed magnificently in the very latest matching his-and-her, hi-tech, spotlessly clean outdoor clothing and boots. They wore Zeiss binoculars and carried birding books. The husband was terribly short-sighted, holding his birding book at the end of his nose as he flipped the pages whilst eating lunch. He looked several times in my direction; nodding and smiling with an inane look on his face, gesturing at his book. I found this unnerving. Finally, he reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a pair of 'coke bottle' glasses, put

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them on, glanced around the room and saw me. His face dropped immediately and he looked startled. I guess I looked pretty rough and I was sweaty and untidy. He must have thought I was someone he knew, until he put on the glasses! Whoever he thought I was would have been dressed a bit more elegantly than me, that's for sure!

A couple of sandwiches were bought at the

counter and packed them away for later. With a full stomach I staggered out into the daylight, found the office, had my 'Pilegrimspass' stamped and was on my way. Alison Raju's book says of the next section that the path "continues through scrubby woods and then up and downhill for 3.5km to avoid the E6 – well way marked but exhausting with its constant climbs and descents, as well as the terrain being slow-going to walk on." On this occasion Alison got it absolutely spot-on, correct, right and accurate! I do believe she actually walked this section!

I set off, but after a half kilometre decided that an

eighteen-wheeler on the E6 was less of a challenge. The path dipped down and I scrambled through the bush, popped out onto the shoulder of the highway and marched resolutely forward along the side of the road. Cars, if there was no on-coming traffic, veered out onto the other side of the road to give me plenty of space. If the traffic was heavy I floundered along in the soft gravel of the shoulder. I'd had enough of Norwegian zigzagging up and down steep hills for no apparent reason! The highway, difficult as it was, would do.

At mid-afternoon, halfway along this section, with

the cold, clear waters of the river Driva rushing low to my left and the traffic passing to my right I saw a couple of bicyclists pedalling steadily uphill. As they approached I good-naturedly suggested they throw the bikes away and walk, as it would be faster. They stopped to have a break and we got talking... as you do.

Eirin was quiet, petite and blonde. Nadi was tall

and dark, very outgoing. They were cycling from Trondheim to Bergen to get married! We chatted on about all sorts of things for twenty minutes or so. As we were about to part they asked where I would be staying when I arrived in Trondheim. "No idea, but I'll find somewhere, it won’t be difficult." I replied. "No need. We are off to Italy for three months after the wedding. You can stay in our apartment.” they said.

I was floored by such an offer and after several refusals they insisted long enough to overcome my reluctance. Imagine that! Offering your apartment to a complete stranger, a looney carrying a backpack in the middle of nowhere! After giving me their address and details they pedalled off into the distance, leaving me to think long and seriously on the goodness of people you meet.

From here on the instructions painted a bleak

picture of the countryside with regard to accommodation. I

decide to go for broke and head for Ryphusan where there was supposed to be a pilgrim hut, though the instructions did say " a pilgrim shelter, unattended, in the building on the right.” Ah well, as long as it had a roof! The pathway eventually parted company with the E6 and headed uphill towards high country. I was soon well above the tree line and into open the country with rolling hills disappearing into the far distant mountains. The path narrowed to a single footpad in places, mostly used by the occasional sheep, if the droppings were anything to go by. I was well away from any sounds of civilization, the only noises I could hear was the far distant 'tonk, tonk' of a sheep's bell and the mournful whistle of the local birds warning each other of my approach. The way marking through this upland boggy moor became more occasional, so I made a mental note to keep alert and not daydream as I marched along in the late afternoon.

The book said that I'd pass a small green house.

Frankly I didn't believe this. Nobody in Norway paints houses green. Black, red or maybe even yellow, but not green. On cue, a small green timber hut appeared on the horizon! As I approached (the path veered close towards the green house) I was stunned to see three people emerge with chairs in their hands. Silently they set the chairs down in a row and sat in the warm sunshine. They didn't say a word as I got to within fifty metres, just watched like spectators at a parade. At twenty metres I couldn't help myself; I took off my Akubra hat with a sweeping flourish, and bowed as I walked past! "Good evening." I said. "Hello." they each replied. I kept walking. They watched. Not another word was said.

I wonder if they said anything after I disappeared over the horizon. Actually, I wonder if they ever said much at all. Strong silent types, these Norwegian sheep farmers! I continued on, skirted a couple of small lakes and reached a low ridge. On the other side I could see a gravel road of sorts. This was the path, according to Alison, and she'd been accurate so far today. As the Sun began sinking lower and lower, playing with the ragged clouds in the West I began to get a bit nervous. Would I make Ryphusan before I flagged out from exhaustion or before the long twilight faltered. I tried to keep up the pace, eating a couple of energy bars and drinking half a litre of water. I put on my rain jacket as it works well to conserve heat. The evening was getting cold, but it was now 9.30pm and the Sun was going down!

Slowly it dawned on me that it was possible, just

possible I'd gone the wrong way on the road. I read and re-read page 174. The map was not much help, as it had no detail other than the road and a few names on it. I seemed to be walking West, yet the map showed the road going North. I was heading more or less towards the sunset, or what was left of it. Mentally I re-calculated the distances and times. I should arrive at Ryphusan before 10pm if I'd calculated rightly on my walking speed. If I was in the wrong place I was well and truly lost!

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Then mist started to well up in the valley ahead. The book instructions were to continue uphill most of the time then level out and begin to slowly descend. It noted there was a barrier across the road. The road I was on seemed to follow around the curved side of a hill that went forever. I could not see any barrier, or anything that looked like a barrier. Hell! "Okay God ... and St Olav, stop mucking around. Show me a sign! Where am I?" I actually said it aloud. Within ten paces I saw a red barrier across the road around the curve of the hill. "Oh, very funny!" I yelled, and then added more humbly, "Thanks God, thanks St Ollie!" They must have been sitting back splitting their side with laughter. I passed around the barrier (I have no idea what it was there for) as the mists rolled in and the sky began to darken rapidly. I followed the road sharply downhill, zigzagging a couple of times. There ahead in a narrow valley were several huts on the left and one on the right! I marched along towards the pilgrim hut on the right side of the road. A small brook with crystal-clear water gurgled rapidly along its bed of stones beside the road.

Suddenly, it occurred to me that the hut might be locked. I was too tired to worry about that. I'd already used up my day's bonus points with God and I was just going to have to accept whatever happened. Anyway, I had a small tent on my back. I approached the rough, dull red-painted building, opened the gate in the wire fence and walked up the short path to the door. The door was not locked. I opened it. Inside was another door.

It was not locked. I opened the inner door and peered in. The interior of the hut was completely lined in beautiful pale timber. On the polished timber floor were several scatter rugs. Along the left side was a low sleeping shelf with nine mattresses lined up side-by-side. To the right were a kitchen sink, gas cooker and pots and pans. At the back was a table and chairs with candles and matches.

I stood just inside the door, staring slack-jawed at this haven of beauty and peace in utter silence. I could not believe what I was seeing. I’m sure I heard soft mocking laughter in the distance. "Thanks God! Thanks St Ollie! “ I closed the door behind me, sat down at the table and ate half of the sandwich I’d made at Haugseter earlier in the day. Absolutely bushed, I pulled my sleeping bag out of its cover, threw it on one of the mattresses, took off my boots and socks, shirt and trousers and lay down. "Thanks everybody!" It was 10pm; I'd covered about forty kilometres since 7.15am, met some wonderful people, scored an apartment in Trondheim and landed in a luxury pilgrim hut. St. Olav looks after his people. I had the pleasant sensation, as I prepared for sleep that great and good spirits were watching from the hills around the house; that I was being cared for.

I drifted off to sleep with the sound of the water babbling in the nearby brook. I was out cold within seconds and slept the sleep of the just, secure and happy in the knowledge that I was under the protection of a powerful saint.

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Thursday 24th Rypusan to Oppdal 25km

Sheep bleating on the nearby hillside woke me in the morning. Sunlight was streaming in the window. I got up and padded around the room admiring my surroundings. On the table was a visitors’ book. I noticed that the last entry showed that a group of about a dozen pilgrims had passed through a couple of days ahead of me. I pinned a small kangaroo badge into the book and added my name and address to the small list of names. I was visitor number 417. I opened my pack and took out the half-sandwich I had been too tired to eat last night. I lit the gas cooker and heated some water to make coffee. Some kind soul had left a small tin of coffee and one of sugar. The coffee and sandwich were most welcome. I placed my backpack outside in readiness to leave and took a large stainless steel bucket down to the creek and filled it with fresh, cold water. Carrying it back to the hut I placed it near the kitchen sink, covered it, tidied up and swept the floor. After making sure that the place was shipshape I closed the door and left. Outside I laid a great and solemn blessing on those who had caused the pilgrim hut to be built and maintained.

The road was pleasantly level, the sky a brilliant

blue, the sun was warming the hills and there was a gentle breeze. From near the Refugium I could see a steep-sided valley continuing off into the distance with faint glimpses of hills or mountains far away. My idea was to walk to Oppdal, a distance of about twenty-five kilometres. The look of the countryside indicated that the road should be reasonable for walking so I set off in high spirits, whistling tunelessly and occasionally singing snatches of half-remembered songs. I soon tired of this and instead listened to the sounds of the countryside as I walked along. Small birds would whistle a warning to some hidden nestlings, a sheep’s bell would clank as its owner wandered listlessly on the side of a sharp hill looking for an edible plant or perhaps some grass, the river below would gurgle and babble, my boots crunched endlessly in the gravel on the road, my walking stick tapped, my backpack creaked………... all the sweet music of the pilgrim.

At Vannkilde in the middle of nowhere, beside the

road was a barbeque and picnic seating area near a spring. Stone seats and table looked inviting but cold. There was even a rubbish tin. Ten minutes later I heard the sound of engines and in a few minutes two carloads of people hove into view as they came round a bend in the hills. They drove slowly towards me and then passed, giving me most of the road to avoid throwing up any stones. Nobody in either vehicle acknowledged my presence as they drove slowly past, they all looked solemnly straight ahead. With all day to think about it, I recall concluding that they must have been going to a funeral… but where?

I marched along happily enough as the road slowly

gained height along the side of a valley that dropped gently towards Oppdal. I was impressed at how well maintained was this gravel road. There appeared little economic reason

for its existence, the countryside was rough and rocky and the few sheep I’d encountered were fairly lean-looking sorts. The only buildings I’d seen in the area appeared to be saeters- summer farmhouses. The road eventually reached Brustolen, where I crossed a simple bridge to the left onto a rough track, leaving the gravel road on the right. This track narrowed and rose along the left side of the valley as I continued northwards. The track finally narrowed and entered some very scrubby bush. I became concerned that I wasn’t where I should be, but the sight of a pilgrim way marker set my mind at ease. The path dropped again and rejoined a wider road that looked as if vehicles and tractors made use of it. On the right were glimpses of a very deep valley with scrubby trees right to the abrupt edges where rocky walls dropped to the river I could hear some hundreds of feet below.

The road led slowly downwards to the valley floor.

In the distance, on the far hills on other side of the valley I could make out the signature manicured grass slopes and forested sections of a skiing area. I was coming at last towards Oppdal. The Oppdal Kirke was just visible below the skiing area.

The temperature was higher and the humidity was

noticeably greater on the valley floor. I passed Waymarker XI beside a farm gate. There is apparently an iron-age burial mound nearby but I was unable to spot it, so I continued on, coming back to a smooth gravel road that skirted some nice farmland. This road dropped slowly down until I was almost on the valley floor. At Risgrende I could see the rich farmland of the valley spread out before me; red painted barns and farm houses dotted about, fields of green crops and, on the other side of the valley, the ski resorts.

I came to a railway that I crossed and then saw a motel, Driva Kro og Hytter, near the highway. I walked in and found that it had two features that interested me, a room full of strange stones and mineral samples plus a dining room that was open. I opted for the dining room and was served lunch by a woman who eyed my attire and hungry look. “You need the meatballs.” she said firmly, scribbled on her pad and walked into the kitchen. She returned some minutes later with a plate laden with small brown meatballs in thick gravy with potato and vegetables. The meatballs were very spicy and I demolished the whole plate of food in no time at all. Feeling much better I wandered into the ‘steinsenter’ where I met the owner. He showed me around, pointing out the major types of minerals found in the Oppdal region. When he understood that I was from Australia he spoke with some knowledge of the minerals of my country, even showing me a local opal that he said was nothing like as good as the Australian variety.

Leaving the motel I turned onto a farm road that lead between fields of drying grass and stands of trees at

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Risan and then crossed the Driva river and continued along the valley. I passed a strange pile of dead cars and heaps of household and industrial junk before passing Vang, an ancient burial mound area. Finally I caught sight of the white painted Oppdal church about halfway up the gradual slope of the hill on which was the ski centre. I walked along a smooth gravel road through a forest before breaking out into the open farmland of the Prestegard, the priest’s farm. I walked up the road, passed the farm and arrived at the handsome cruciform church. Built as a timber stave church in the seventeenth century it was surrounded by the usual, very neat graveyard. The interior was really wonderful, the altar and baptismal font catching my attention. Virtually everything was timber, carved and painted beautifully. While I was in the church, a very courteous elderly couple came in and asked if I’d like a cup of tea. While the kettle was boiling they showed me the vapenhuis, so called because Vikings would leave their weapons in this room while in church. The walls of the room were covered in ancient paintings of the saints. The images appeared to have been painted over but were being slowly restored.

Once I had finished the cup of tea I was taken to

the pastor’s house to have my pilgrim passport stamped and then I set off for the town itself to find accommodation for the night. This wasn’t too difficult. I chose a motel on the main street. Walking in to the reception area I saw that the only occupant was a young girl watching television in an armchair. I approached the counter but saw no staff. “Pick up the phone. A lady will answer.” said the youngster. I did so and in a moment a woman answered. “I’d like a room for the night.” I said. The receptionist arrived in a minute and the necessary paperwork was completed. It then struck me that the young girl, all of ten or eleven had spoken in English to me. I was curious, so asked her why she had chosen to speak in English. The kid looked at me for a moment, then replied slowly, “You have a hat.” as if stating the bleeding obvious.

The receptionist laughed and added, “You see, Norwegians don’t wear such a hat. Only Americans and Australians. She knew you speak English” I doffed my Akubra with great ceremony to the youngster, gathered my gear together and climbed the stairs to my room, where I immediately stripped off, showered and, feeling much refreshed, lay down on the bed with my feet elevated on pillows as they were feeling fragile and the blood was pounding uncomfortably in the soles. Not surprisingly I drifted off to sleep.

When I awoke an hour later I decided that my clothes needed washing, so set to and hand washed two sets of shirts, socks, underwear and my walking trousers, hanging them on a clothesline on the balcony to catch the warming rays of the evening sun. Hunger got the better of me so I set out to find somewhere to get a meal. A hotel looked a likely choice and as I approached I could hear a lot of noise. Looking inside I was assailed by the din of a large number of shouting, laughing men, singing songs and drinking. I backed out, the noise and cacophony was not what I was looking for.

Further up the street was a large mobile hamburger

van. It looked promising, as there were a few young people hanging around waiting for their orders. I approached the window and saw that a young woman was running the whole operation very efficiently on her own. I ordered a hamburger with everything, chips and salad then sat down to wait. Some of the youngsters were watching their friends driving up and down the street in their cars. Every so often somebody would park, watch and wait for a few minutes, rev up and rumble down the street or around the block. No different to just about any country town anywhere in the world, I thought. When my meal was ready I took it back to the motel, stopping to buy a beer and then sat down, turned on the TV and watched some game show nonsense while I ate. The clothes on the balcony were almost dry, so I brought them in, spread them around the room and retired to bed, reasonably pleased with the day’s progress.

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Friday 25th Oppdal to Langklopp Fjellgard 20km

I woke in the morning, had breakfast and looked at my maps. I had some thinking to do again as I was way behind my schedule. If I kept walking I would never arrive in Trondheim till well after St Olav’s Day.

There was time to walk for another three days or

so and then find some way of getting to Trondheim by train or bus. I was downcast at this, but I had to deal with the current situation, not what I’d originally intended.

I packed my gear. The Cicerone Guide “The

Pilgrim Road To Nidaros” by Alison Raju stated that “… The walking is much easier in this part, in a wide flat valley where the surface is better and there are less changes of direction.” I didn’t think that the last three days or so were all that difficult, just long. It was the earlier section closer to Oslo that was more difficult. This section should be fairly easy, I thought to myself.

The young couple I’d met in the Driva, and who’d

generously given me the keys of their flat in Trondheim, told me to look for Helene Wessel Gulbrandsun at the riding school near Langklopp. She was, they said, very sympathetic to travellers and would provide a bed for the night. That meant a day’s walk of about twenty-five kilometres. The alternative appeared to be to forge on as far as the small town of Berkak, around forty kilometres. Keeping an open mind, I set off down the main street, stopping at a service station to buy a few sandwiches and some sweets for the day’s walk.

About five kilometres along the Gamel

Kongeveien I saw a Youth Hostel. It consisted of a couple of striking octagonal timber buildings with small windows set into bays. The roof was covered in grass. A few minutes later I passed a group of about ten Chinese tourists having their ‘daily constitutional’. Their leader approached me and in very good English asked what I was doing. As I explained, he translated to the rest of the group, who gathered round me as if I was some strange exhibit in a museum. They applauded politely when I waved goodbye and continued walking. I saw something later on the television news that they were the first group of Mainland Chinese tourists to visit Norway.

Shortly after I passed a road sign to the Stolen ski

centre the pilgrim road parted company with the tarred surface and branched off onto a well-used track. This eventually joined up with a well-made gravel road, which wound its way northwards through scrubby trees and farmland. Far in the distance I could see the E6 highway snaking along the other side of the valley. The road along which I strode had several sections where farmland had been divided into five and ten acre lots. New houses were dotted amongst the trees. Old farms were still seen occasionally, characterised by the three or four buildings,

often two stories, gathered together where two or three generations of the same family lived. It looked to me as if many of these farms were going the same way as similar establishments in Spain, which were mostly used by owners on weekends when they came home from town and city jobs.

After several hours of steady walking under

cloudy skies I reached Gisna and crossed the Rennebu River on a stout bridge to which was fixed a pilgrim sign. I was now leaving the Oppdal kommune and entering that of Rennebu. After just under an hour I reached Langklopp Fjellgard, obvious because of the brightly painted sign at the farm entrance. It made use of a dead tree and a swinging board to advertise itself. I stopped for a breather and was just weighing up the pros and cons of continuing on to Berkak. This would have added a further fifteen or so kilometres. It was only three o’clock and I could be in Berkak by seven pm or thereabouts, if I stepped on it.

Although I was fairly tired, I had pretty much

made up my mind to continue onwards when a utility came bouncing along the farm road and pulled up beside me. A pleasant woman in her early forties, wearing overalls and riding boots jumped out of the cab, looked me over and said, ”I suppose you want to stay for the night?” “Have you a spare bed?” I asked. “Yes, no trouble. Go down to the main house and ask the girls. I’ll call them and tell them you are coming.” She pulled a mobile phone from her pocket and spoke rapidly for a few moments, then replaced it. “Now I’m off to bring the riding girls home. They have been in the hills around Vattafjellet with their horses and they’re on their way back.” She jumped back into the vehicle, drove out of the farm and disappeared up the road towards the hills.

I marched down towards the main farmhouse, a timber building, and saw a couple of teenagers dressed in jodhpurs and riding boots. I spoke to Birgit, the elder of the two, who asked me to follow her. We walked over to a two-storey bunkhouse and she took me upstairs. It seemed as if the untidiest teenagers in the world lived here. There were clothes, suitcases and shoes scattered all over the hallway. She motioned to a door and said, “Here’s your room.” and pointed to a simple pine-lined room fitted with four bunks, chairs and clothes-cupboards. “Would you like a cup of tea? Come up to the main house and I’ll make it.” she offered, and then clattered off, down the staircase and out into the yard.

I made myself at home, had a shower in a small bathroom next door and changed into clean clothes. I then wandered back to the main house where I found the young lady on the phone busily writing down a recipe. Helene had phoned from the hills and appointed her cook for the night.

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The menu was to be pizzas for twenty hungry teenage horse-riders! “I ‘m here for the horses. I’m not a cook!” Birgit was clearly a bit flustered, but as she explained later, it was her day ‘in the house’ and she had to be cook, cleaner and tidy-up for just one day.

She ratted around in the kitchen cupboards and pulled out bowls, mixing spoons and various paraphernalia and began the preparation of the pizza dough. I made a cup of tea and retired to the lounge room, skimmed a couple of newspapers, magazines and horse books. In ten minutes, the noise of fifteen chattering horse-riders and their steeds announced the return of the gang. The girls, who appeared to range from nine or ten to about sixteen years, rode their horses to the stables area where the horses were relieved of their saddles and bridles, brushed and combed, fed and watered. The girls then went of to their bunkhouse to clean up. In a few minutes four irate youngsters arrived at the main house and a terse argument started with Birgit. Apparently somebody had moved into their room. All their clothes and possessions had been dumped in the hallway! Helene arrived and calmed things down. I was then

introduced to the girls as the cause of their woes. Luckily they forgave me and found beds elsewhere.

To get back in the good books I helped the kitchen hands prepare the pizzas and despite the rough handling and lack of expertise the food was surprisingly edible when it was finally consumed. I strongly suspect that this horse-obsessed gang of teenagers would have eaten anything put on a plate, after a day in the saddle out in the open air.

As it turned out, this had been their last day. After

dinner, presentations were made for the most improved rider, the best horse-carer and various other categories. Much cheering and singing accompanied this. I was asked to produce a prize, so removed the kangaroo pin from my hat and presented it to the Youngest Rider, with much applause.

The stereo was turned on, loudly, and the girls

started dancing and generally having a rowdy time. I judged this to be an excellent time to retire, so at about nine-thirty I wandered over to my room and went to bed.

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Saturday 26th Langklopp Fjellgard to Berkak (16km) and on to Trondheim by train (90km)

I woke late, got dressed and wandered over to the

main house. Helene and her husband Kjell were having breakfast and I was invited to join them.

Kjell was a truck driver and was only at home half

the time. He admitted that he wasn’t fussed by horses but would wax eloquent about the features of the Ford Thunderbird. He owned a beautiful red soft-top Thunderbird and produced a framed colour photograph of it for me to admire. They had a teenage son who was away for the holidays. Kjell was very proud of his son’s accomplishments in the very Scandinavian sport of biathlon, which includes skiing cross-country and shooting. Kjell brought out his son’s new, ultra-hi-tec Anschutz .22 rifle. It was specially developed for the biathlon sport. He showed me its special features, including a straight-pull bolt, something I’d never seen before. I believe he said it was worth three thousand American dollars! Kjell was a little disappointed and muttered that his son was developing other interests…. probably girls, I surmised.

Helene was bustling about, getting the girls ready

for the arrival of their parents. When she had a few spare moments she told me that she had always wanted a horse farm. Though people said she’d never do it, she scrimped and saved, worked hard and now she was doing precisely what she’d always wanted. Many of the girls bought horses from her on a one or two-year ownership basis. The horse lived at Langkloppin, the girl could visit on weekends and holidays. If, after the appointed time, a girl lost interest in horse riding, the horse reverted to Helene. This sounded like a sensible idea.

Realizing that I was running very late I returned to

the room, tidied up, put everything into my backpack and set off for Berkak at 10.30am, waving goodbye as I walked past the house, which was a hive of activity. Parents were arriving; girls were rushing about and Helene standing in the middle of it all, living her dream.

I’d had a careful look at the maps and distances

before I went to bed. I could see that I was not going to be able to walk the remaining one hundred and thirty kilometres to Trondheim and arrive in time for St Olav’s Day, just two days away. A forced march across country that I didn’t know, especially the availability of food, made me consider the alternatives.

The decision was made to head to Berkak instead

of Rennebu. It would be easier to get from Berkak to Trondheim tomorrow.

The road was pleasant. There was virtually no

traffic and the day was pleasantly warm. Farmland alternated with forests. I followed the road along the left

hand side of the valley. Far over on the right I could see the E6 highway snaking through the trees as if to keep an eye on me. Since we were both heading towards Trondheim, I thought of it as a way-pointer.

At Kastet I found a pilgrim way-marker. The story

is that down in the valley can be seen a number of large rocks. These were thrown down from Vattafjellet mountain by the ever-present angry mountain trolls. Noisy goats were the targets. I think I heard that story a few times, but my money is on the ice age as the culprit.

There was another pilgrim marker at Brattset, less

easily seen. The path veered to the left onto a gravel road that meandered through forest varying from fairly open to very dense. It was in an area like this that I saw what I took to be a nest. Under the cover of a tree was a conical pile of forest litter a metre and a half tall. There were a few hundred ants in evidence, so I assumed that it was their making. Idly I calculated that it would equate to a human building three or four times the size of the Empire State building. Not bad for ants.

At Gammelgraeva I walked off the gravel road and

followed Alison Raju’s instructions to follow the Old Royal Road. It plunged steeply downhill through densely green forest. It was a mixed blessing. Whilst cutting out a kilometre or so of winding gravel road it was stiff going in places. However, it was rather pretty scenery. Eventually it came out onto the gravel road again and I followed this along the side of the valley until I found a crossroad that indicated I’d have to turn right across the Orkla River to get to Berkak or continue ahead to Rennebu. With very mixed feelings I turned right to Berkak and made my way north eastwards towards that town.

As I approached slowly uphill I saw that it was

more than just a small hamlet. The imposing Rennebu Kommune buildings, a school and a supermarket hove into view. An immediate foray into the supermarket for sustenance was the first order of the day.

I could see nothing that looked like a hotel, so I

found the tourist information centre and waited till the lady in charge temporarily fended off a couple of young German backpackers more interested in taking her to a pub for drinks than asking for tourist information. After making a couple of phone calls she announced that there wasn’t a room to be had anywhere. She suggested that I continue further towards Trondheim and then went back to fending off the persistent backpackers.

Disappointed with the result I wandered over to a

nearby bar, ordered a meal and a beer and considered the options. The barkeeper, when I explained my predicament,

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told me that all hotels within coo-ee were fully booked. He suggested I take the train directly to Trondheim. I considered this advice and came to the conclusion that there was no point in staying in Berkak and travelling to Trondheim tomorrow. I finished the meal and carried my backpack to the railway station where I found that a train would leave at about eight o’clock, arriving in Trondheim at nine fifteen pm.

Having almost two hours to wait I lay down on a

seat in the waiting room and snoozed fitfully. The train arrived on time; I climbed aboard and was shown to a very comfortable seat by a guard who issued me with a ticket, costing about Kr 120, for the one hundred-kilometre trip.

I sat glumly watching the countryside sliding past

as we travelled rapidly northwards. The train slid into Trondheim station at the edge of the harbour on time. I took my backpack into the concourse, looking for a map of the town. First job was to pay my respects to St Olav, so I had to find the whereabouts of the cathedral. I left the station, crossed the Nidelven River and proceeded down Sondregata, four or five blocks to Kongensgata. I entered the main square, which was bustling with the evening crowd. Consulting the map, I saw that if I turned right in Prinsens gata I should arrive at the cathedral in a few minutes. My thoughts were racing. One moment I was feeling elated that my journey was coming to an end. The next I was sad that it was actually ending. I was disappointed that it wasn’t ending as I’d planned and dreamed; in a triumphant entry into the city after walking the entire way from Oslo.

I soon spotted the spires standing up above the

trees and the buildings, so it wasn’t difficult to find my way. Most of the city centre buildings were no more than four or five stories tall, giving it a very comfortable appearance.

I arrived at the cathedral just before ten pm. It is a

much modified, enlarged and altered edifice in solid grey stone, topped by a tall, copper-clad spire that was aged a delightful pale green colour. Originally constructed around

1240, the cathedral incorporated ideas from Rheims in France and the façade is reminiscent of Lincoln Cathedral in Britain. Burnt down in the fourteenth, fifteenth and probably the sixteenth centuries, it has been modified, enlarged and adapted over the centuries. Restoration of the building in front of which I was standing began in the nineteenth century and was largely completed only twenty years ago. The forecourt in front of the cathedral was large, but contained few people. It was late in the evening after all, though not dark.

I walked around the cathedral, admiring it from all

angles. On the façade I was astonished to see that a statue, wearing a wreath of leaves and flowers, was of none other than Sant’ Iago, complete with pilgrim hat and stout walking stick. It had been the Feast Day of St James on the twenty fifth of July, so I was pleased to see the respect shown by Norwegians to the patron Saint of Spain. The statue of St. Olav was easy to recognize. He was depicted holding a large battle-axe. His statue was not yet adorned and wouldn’t be till the eve of his feast day tomorrow. I greeted him, and said aloud, but softly, “Well, I’m here St. Olly. Great to see you! I’ll find a pub and have a beer with you.”

I sat down on a low stone wall in front of the

cathedral, lost in my thoughts for a half hour, musing of the journey, the wonderful sights I’d seen, the kind and thoughtful people I’d met and the adventures, both good and bad, that I’d had. My reverie was interrupted when couple approached and asked politely if I was a pilgrim. When I answered affirmatively they asked very formally if they could take my photograph standing in front of the cathedral. I agreed. They then shook my hand, welcoming me to their city and walked away.

Eventually the pangs of hunger, and the need to

find somewhere to sleep, insisted on attention. I walked slowly back a couple of blocks, booked a room, found a simple pizza restaurant and ordered a pizza and a beer. Before downing it I raised the beer in the direction of the Cathedral. “Here’s to us, St Olav!”

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Sunday 27th in Trondheim

I got up rather late and, after a decent breakfast dressed, paid my bill, left the hotel and walked over to the cathedral. When I arrived I was prevented from entering by a churchwarden who said that the service was just about to end and it would be better to wait outside.

In a few minutes the doors were swung open and a

procession of clergy walked solemnly out, led by a woman verger carrying a tall cross. Following her was well over a dozen Lutheran bishops in colourful robes and several Roman Catholics in black and purple. Following them were many Lutheran priests and then hundreds of parishioners and faithful. It was most impressive.

I had with me a couple of letters of introduction from Bishop Chris Toohey of Wilcannia-Forbes dioceses, one addressed to the Lutheran bishop, one to the Catholic bishop. I extracted them from my backpack and went looking for the redcaps. The bishops all looked very smart in their robes and mitres. The Catholics looked very sleek in black with their little violet caps and sashes. I asked a church verger where was the Lutheran bishop, Finn Wagle. She pointed out the bishop. He was talking to some people in the crowd. I walked up and stood at the edge of the crowd. In a moment the bishop saw me and that I still had my backpack and walking stick. “Ah, a pilgrim!” he said in English. I handed him the letter of introduction from Bishop Chris Toohey. He opened it, smiled and read it aloud to the surrounding throng. Twice. He called the pilgrim priest to his side and said, “This is a letter from a bishop in Australia. When a pilgrim has a letter from a bishop is it the ancient law that we must do whatever is asked?” “That is correct.'”said the priest. “Then look after this man and make sure he has somewhere to sleep and some food to eat.” ordered the Bishop, with a broad smile. He shook my hand, welcomed me to Nidaros and moved on through the crowd. I told the pilgrim priest I was well provided for and we had a pleasant conversation for some minutes. Then I excused myself and went to find the Catholic bishop I’d seen nearby. He was talking with a group of ladies and a couple of priests, so waited at the edge of the group. When he became aware of my presence he turned away, so I walked around the other side of the group. For a good two or three minutes he carefully avoided looking in my direction. When he was about to leave the group I walked up, introduced myself and handed him an identical letter, explaining that it was from a bishop in Australia. Georg Muller, the Catholic bishop held it in the tip of his fingers, almost at arm’s length as if it was a court summons. With a strained, tight-lipped smile he said,

“Tell your bishop I will read his letter.” He then handed the unopened letter to a small priest who accompanied him. The priest placed it in a briefcase. The bishop turned his back and, accompanied by the briefcase priest, walked away. I felt very sad. I was told later by a number of Norwegians who were aware that I was Catholic, that Georg Muller was disliked by many in that country for a perceived arrogant and an unfriendly nature. Sadly I had to agree with them. As the crowds milled around in the cathedral grounds I made my way inside. I was impressed by the stately grandeur that met my eyes. Not the exuberant colour and gold of Spanish cathedrals, this cathedral had the formal and stately appearance of a quieter people. I wandered around, pleased to be there, examining the details with pleasure. A small altar to the side of the ambulatory caught my eye. It was the famous St Olav altar with a painting depicting his final day, death and burial. I walked outside and, seeing crowds walking in the direction of the Bishop’s Palace followed. The very large courtyard had been turned into a medieval festival with rustic booths selling all manner of books, trinkets, souvenirs and food. Strolling minstrels played and sang. In a nearby area a jousting arena had been set up. Knights in armour on horses charged down the lists, collecting team points by impaling quoits on their lances. They looked awfully hot in their heavy clothing and armour in the afternoon sun. By mid-afternoon I decided that I’d better find somewhere to stay. The hotel was too expensive and, remembering Nadi and Eirin’s offer, I decided to go to the house and see if the offer was still open. I walked back to the hotel, packed my backpack and called a cab. Nadi had written the address in my notebook. I showed this to the driver and he said that it was just a few of kilometers away, in a hillside suburb. We drove there through tidily arranged streets where trees, gardens and neat lawns surrounded every house. When the taxi stopped outside the house I paid the fare but asked the driver to wait while I rang the doorbell. The door was opened in a few moments by Jan-Egil Wanvik. A welcoming grin on his face made it clear that I was at the correct address. “You must be the Australian pilgrim.” he said immediately. “Please come in. You are most welcome. We have been waiting for you.” I was introduced to his wife Randi, who bustled around in the kitchen and in a few moments produced coffee and cakes. The apartment was on a lower level at the back of the house and had its own entrance. I was shown around

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and then left to settle in. During the conversation I mentioned that I had been following, several days behind, in the footsteps of a group of about a dozen Norwegian pilgrims. I would have liked to meet them. Jan-Egil phoned his second cousin, who owned the farm at Sundet on the banks of the Gausa, a day’s march south of Trondheim. This was the traditional point where a boatman would ferry pilgrims across the river. His cousin John answered the phone and told him that the group of pilgrims had just arrived and would be staying the night. Arrangements were then made and Jan-Egil very kindly offered to drive me the twenty-five kilometers out to the farm to meet the pilgrims.

We arrived as the pilgrims, as disparate a group as you’d expect to meet, were having a prayer and discussion meeting led by their pilgrim pastor, Hans-Jacob Dahl, in the nicely restored timber building in which they were staying. Hans-Jacob was a tall, athletic-looking man who enjoyed his job as pilgrim-priest at Dovre. I had the feeling that he found a day on the hills more enjoyable than in a rectory somewhere. The pilgrims greeted me very kindly and were amused to hear that I had followed their footprints in the boggy uplands for several days. I was overjoyed when they suggested that I come out the following morning to accompany them on the last day’s walk into Trondheim. We bade them “Goodnight.” and Jan-Egil drove me back to Trondheim.

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Monday 28th Sundet to Trondheim 22km

The next morning I was up bright and early. I had breakfast with the Wanviks and then Jan-Egil most obligingly drove me back to Sundet, where I met up with the pilgrims. They had just set out on the road and were filing through fields of grass and flowers chatting and singing as they went along. The youngest was a ten-year old girl who accompanied her mother, an Englishwoman who lived in Norway. The spread of ages was reasonably wide, several of the older pilgrims around my age. The most amusing was a woman in her fifties, blonde and good-looking. I immediately labeled her ‘Zsa-Zsa’ as she sounded like that famous personality when she spoke. “I’m better looking than her, dahlink, and much younger.” was her quick response, when I mentioned it.

I was astonished by the fact that Zsa-Zsa wore a pair of socks, but no shoes or boots. She claimed that boots were ugly and she preferred bare feet.

We marched through grassland alternating with

shady forest, passing over the hills at Smistad, where we had a short break before continuing onwards. The pathway became a pleasant gravel road and the going became pleasantly easy. Our final break came at Sverreborg where the Trondelag Folk Museum was visited, mainly so we could have lunch and visit the conveniences.

On the side of the hill at Feginsbrekka we stopped

when we caught sight of the cathedral in the distance. This point has the same import as Monte del Gozo on the Camino de Santiago in Spain. It marks the first point from which the pilgrim catches sight of the cathedral spires. The assembled pilgrims, with the pilgrim priest from Dovre leading, sang two or three hymns of thanksgiving. They sang harmoniously and quite unselfconsciously, standing in the quiet suburban street.

The final march was an easy walk downhill into

the city of Trondheim. The pilgrims were all staying in a hotel together, near Ilen Kirke. The evening’s ceremonies would begin at this church so I left them and arranged to return later. I was looking forward to attending the Olavwaka in the Cathedral. This was an all-night vigil in the cathedral ending with the main ceremonies on St Olav’s Day, which would begin with a Catholic High Mass.

I strolled over to the Cathedral and immediately

met the Hoban family in the forecourt. They were also joining in the evening’s ceremonies, so together we chatted as we wandered about the cathedral area in the pleasantly warm afternoon sunshine.

The ceremonies would consist of a progress-in-

company from town church to town church. In each church a short ceremony would take place. Eventually the crowd would arrive at the cathedral where the evening’s vigil, the ‘Olavwaka’ would commence.

Together with the Hoban family I walked towards Ilen Kirke where we met up with the Dovre pilgrims and a hundred or so local parishioners. After a short sermon and several hymns we filed out of the church and everybody walked together down Kongens Gate to the second church, Hospital Kirke, where a similar ceremony was held. This continued at Var Frue Kirke on Nodre Gate, by which time the crowd numbered four or five hundred. Then, with an increasingly large number of people, and joined by a large number of clerics, we walked by the park alongside the Nidelva River and arrived at the cathedral, where an even larger crowd was waiting. After a welcoming speech and hymn, the crowd began to file into the cathedral. By the time the Hobans and I got inside the cathedral it was pretty near full. We were looking for somewhere to sit near the back when a church warden approached and took us to the front of the congregation, where other pilgrims were seated in a special place of honour. We had reserved seating and hadn’t realized it.

Ceremonies began with beautiful singing by an excellent choir, accompanied by a small orchestra with organ, string and woodwind instruments. A reading followed this from the life of St Olav and then a sermon. The first part of the evening’s ceremonies finished at about ten thirty pm. The majority of the crowd then left for home. Those who intended to spend the entire night in the cathedral remained, about fifty or so.

The whole night was spent in prayer, and

contemplation. On the hour, a small choir would assemble and sing a selection of hymns followed by a short reading on the life of King Olav. Some of the all-nighters took short naps, though most, like me, found it better to walk around the outside of the cathedral every so often.

One woman found it all too much and, complete

with sleeping bag, arranged a small corner bed in the Lady Chapel on the left side of the cathedral. Her snores could be heard every so often and caused some giggling among the choir ladies.

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Tuesday 29th In Trondheim St OLAV’S DAY

By three am the dawn was making itself felt and the beautiful stained-glass windows responded by showing their colours, softly at first, but more strongly as the sun’s rays struck the upper windows. I found the night to be a very moving, peaceful and wonderful experience.

Suddenly at seven-thirty am there was a great

bustling and the tip-tapping of many feet as nuns and helpers entered the cathedral and began preparations for the Catholic High Mass. Flowers were arranged, candlesticks were set up, and the high altar was dressed. People began to arrive, many were Catholics, but it was obvious to see, from their fascination with the proceedings, that a large number were Lutherans. A significant proportion of the people in the building were there as spectators.

The High Mass was carried off with great

ceremony, with as much incense, as many candles, bells and flourishes as could be mustered. It was the one day of the year that Catholics could ‘strut their stuff’. Everybody, from the Bishop down to the smallest nun, was there. A large and appreciative non-catholic audience watched the whole effort.

At the conclusion of the Catholic ceremonies the

clergy and most of the congregation, moved down Princens Gate to the Catholic Church hall where breakfast was arranged.

Before leaving the cathedral area I met Ivar and

Gro Husdal, a wonderful husband and wife pilgrim team. They had also walked from the south to arrive for St Olav’s day. They were a bright and cheerful couple and we discussed the pilgrimage in some detail before I left with the Hobans to have breakfast.

It reminded me so much of the many morning teas

that I had attended at St Brendan’s in Sydney. Jim, Sue and Chris had attended the Mass and were also there. Jim and I had both obtained pilgrim certificates at the cathedral and had them stamped at the pilgrim office. We had agreed to ask the Bishop for his signature to complete the very handsome document.

Speeches were made and then nuns scurried about with plates of food and pots of tea. Catholics of many colours and cultures, from all corners of the world were there. This point was not lost on Norwegians who attended the cathedral. Many kinds of food, from corn flakes to fish and cheese were on offer, a reflection of the number of cultures present. About all that wasn’t there were Vegemite sandwiches and Lamingtons. Jim asked me, “Do you kiss a bishop’s ring in Norway when you meet him?” I had to admit I wasn’t sure what the local custom dictated, but I hadn’t seen anybody else do it. We approached the Bishop with our certificates. Jim held out his hand in greeting, then suddenly dropped to a knee and kissed the Bishop’s ring instead of shaking hands. The bishop seemed nonplussed by this and eyed the pair of us warily.

We explained who we were and why we were in Norway. He seemed uninterested. We then asked him to sign our certificates, holding them out and proffering a pen. He took my certificate and eyed it very carefully before taking the pen. With a long, searching look and without saying a word, he signed the certificate. He did likewise for Jim and then, just as he had done so at our previous meeting, turned his back and moved away.

We stayed around till about ten o’clock. By then

I’d been awake for about thirty hours and was starting to feel somewhat disoriented. Much as I’d like to stay for the later ceremonies I was too tired. I dragged myself back up the road past the cathedral, which was a hive of activity. The great Lutheran ceremony “Olskhoymesse” would soon start, but I doubted my ability to stay awake, so I continued on to Kongens Gate and turned left. At St Olav’s Gate I climbed aboard a tram and took the scenic but jumpy ride uphill to Breidablikk. I got off and walked a couple of blocks to the Wanvik’s home at Elgvegen, where I let myself in to the apartment. I threw myself down on the bed and drifted off into a deep sleep, not waking till late in the evening, when I took a taxi into town and wandered around looking for a meal and a beer with which to celebrate St. Olav’s day one final time.

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Wednesday 30th in Trondheim.

I had arranged to meet Jim, Sue and Chris for lunch so I traveled in to town on the tram. We wandered down to a simple restaurant near Trondheim Torg in Kongens Gate. Eiler Prytz accompanied us. He was an enthusiastic Norwegian pilgrimage exponent who was keen to exchange experiences and ideas. I had a large beer with lunch. It came in a Dahl Brewery glass. The glass was rather handsome and I coveted it so I asked the young waitress if I could buy it. She was amused that anybody would actually pay money for a beer glass in a restaurant. “Just steal it!” she laughed. So I did, wrapping it in a sheet of newspaper and putting it in a stout cotton ‘dilly bag’ I’d bought at the cathedral gift shop.

After lunch I wandered around the shopping area looking for a few gifts to take home with me. I also booked a Kr.730 Economy class ticket on the Thursday train to Oslo. I ended up back at the cathedral late in the afternoon where I took a few final photographs and said ‘goodbye’ to

the folk in the pilgrim office. I decided to have an evening meal in the wharf area, so I sauntered the few blocks down to Sandgata, where a small bridge and pontoon connected with the several restaurants in the wharf area.

I took potluck and sat down at one of a number of

seafood restaurants. The waiter who took my order had just arrived back from two years studying at university in Melbourne! I had a generic prawn salad followed by salmon. A carafe of plain white wine was decanted from a typically Australian wine cask, though I was assured that it was French wine. It may well have been, as it was indeed very ordinary. The food was passable and an hour was spent watching the shadows lengthening on the nearby colourful apartment blocks while I dined. When the food and wine had been put away I rose and walked happily back towards Prinsens Gate, where I took a taxi back to the apartment.

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Thursday 31st Trondheim to Oslo

I breakfasted with the Wanviks and popped back into town to do some last minute shopping as I was leaving for Oslo on the 2.25pm train. By midday I had everything packed and after a light lunch with the Wanviks, I said ‘goodbye’ to Randi and was driven to the Sentralstasjon by

Jan-Egil. After thanking him for his family’s kindness I boarded the train for a very comfortable ride to Oslo, arriving there at nine-thirty on a pleasant evening. I booked into the Karl Johan hotel near a small park in the centre of town.

Friday 1st Oslo to Vienna and thence to Sydney

I woke early and took a high-speed train ride from central Oslo out to Gardermoen International airport in the Airport Express. It reached about two hundred kilometers per hour and took just less than twenty minutes for the smooth trip.

I left Oslo at 7am and flew to Vienna, arriving at about ten o’clock. After spending a day in Vienna I took a flight from Vienna to Bangkok and thence to Sydney, arriving a long and tiring twenty hours after leaving the Austrian capital.

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Epilogue

Despite making a mistake with my choice of footwear and creating a serious problem for myself, I found the pilgrimage to St Olav a deeply satisfying experience. I quite enjoyed the long stretches of peace and quiet in the countryside, especially in the Opplands. The scenery was glorious, the weather in summer was quite warm and mild, even hot at times.

The Norwegians have done a magnificent job in

retracing and marking the path from Oslo to Trondheim. With the exception of a few short sections that appear to meander needlessly, it is a great walk. Opening of pilgrim refuges and ‘pilgrim sympathetic’ b&b’s will make the pilgrimage more accessible to a wider range of folk. Dedicated work continues to expand the old pilgrim pathways in northern Europe. There are also pilgrim paths that extend from Sweden. It’s an interesting fact of history that the only saint to have completed pilgrimages to Nidaros, Santiago de Compostela, Rome and Jerusalem is St. Birgitta of Sweden. Her pilgrimage to Nidaros in 1339 might be well worth retracing seven hundred years after the

death of one of the most influential religious women of her time.

The fact that most Norwegians speak very good

English made it fairly easy to obtain advice and assistance. At first somewhat formal, they offer friendship and assistance with grace and humour. Norway has a long, turbulent and fascinating history; one of which its people are proud.

In 2005 Jim Hoban completed the famous

pilgrimage from the French border seven hundred and fifty kilometers to Santiago de Compostela in Spain. In an unlikely twist of fate Jim arrived in Santiago the day after I left it, having walked the Via De La Plata from Seville to Santiago with my brothers Pete and Tony.

I was so taken with the pilgrimage to Nidaros that

I am planning to return to Norway and walk from Dovre across the hills and down into the valley of the Tronders to Stiklestad, the scene of the death in battle of the legendary King Olav Haraldsson, Saint and King Forever of Norway.