After our long but scenic train ride from Oslo we pulled into Bergen, the second largest city in Norway with a population of around 500,000. Our friend Google Maps suggested we could easily tow our suitcases to the nearby harbour and our hotel. Its assessment was correct but failed to advise that a lot of Bergen is cobbled, which is not a wheelie case’s friend.

Check in at the hotel was routine enough but in the Reception we queued with American and Chinese guests. Clearly jostling with these two superpowers did make me reflect on their potential hostilities. In this case the Americans were older but bigger and may have seemed favourites in a skirmish but the smaller Chinese had bigger suitcases (containing who knows what?) and may be better prepared? After all Chinese tourists always come on group tours with a Chinese guide and they may have been drilled, like in the film Zulu, to fall quickly into a formation to see off the Americans. I need not have worried as the buffet breakfast reaffirmed American superiority. After all who could stop a 17 stone Senior (from Des Moines) armed with a plate groaning with everything cooked in one outstretched hand and in the other hand a plate loaded with fruit and pastries advancing toward you at 15 mph with no desire (or ability) to stop even if he wanted to.

On entry our room’s thermometer advised we were enjoying 26.5°C! I fiddled with the device on the wall that seemed like an air conditioning control. Nothing happened. At Reception I reported the issue for the assistant to confirm that it was in fact a heating unit only and there was no air con. “We are experiencing a heat wave. Our hotel doesn’t usually need air con.” Further discussion helpfully (not) suggested opening the windows in the room. That would let in more heat we thought! Sadly our two nights were terribly hot and uncomfortable.

However, in the meanwhile Bergen, despite high heat and sunshine, was a delight. We found sanctuary in another Irish bar for refreshment, one of four Irish bars in the harbour area!

The harbour area was very attractive with shops, bars and restaurants all in an easy walking distance from our accommodation. We investigated the surrounding streets and they were also vibrant and attractive.

After an evening of orientation the next day we eventually took in the funicular rail ride up the mountain overlooking the harbour. It gave a spectacular sight overlooking the fjords and surrounding parts of the city.

The gift shops were numerous and eventually we succumbed to a couple of purchases although we gave the trolls a miss.

Norwegian towns are laid out on a grid system and easy to navigate. We were here in peak season and many overseas nationalities were evident. I found a couple of record shops to visit and was also able to sneak back to our inferno (hotel) to get live coverage of the Tour de France.

The local Fortress Museum was interesting in covering the Nazi occupation and Bergen’s military history as a settlement. Norway was part of Sweden, but autonomous, until 1905 and was neutral in both world wars. Clearly Hitler overlooked that it 1940.

This museum had an exhibition dedicated to Ukraine. Norway’s worry is evident.

It made me reflect on the surprisingly strong commitment to Ukraine by the EU countries and their neighbours. After Europe’s decades of scant interest in anything warlike or an effective military deterrent there now seems to be a resilience and inclination to spend on their militaries. I’m sceptical that this expenditure will result in a cohesive and effective military force but it may be the only way to go. The threat of Russia must seem very real if part of your country currently borders with it or has been occupied by it (or the USSR) in the last 80 years. Of course your awakening is accelerated if the USA indicates Europe’s defence isn’t a priority and after decades of free loading you can sort it out yourselves.

Braving the cobbles again we wheeled our cases to the docks to board the Polaris, part of the Havila line. Ambling up the coast we’d go north eventually beyond the Artic Circle.

…..please behave like Norway and be cold. After all I have a suitcase full of hats, gloves, coats and pullovers.

Now if I’m being frank when I last visited Norway, over 20 years ago, I thought it was nice, but not for a whole weekend. The weather had been grey and plodding around Oslo hadn’t thrown up anything very memorable apart from the eye watering prices. We’d visited with our in-laws who had great affection for the ‘old’ country. My father-in-law’s parents were Norwegian and my father-in-law, Eric, had grown up speaking Norwegian and immersed in its traditions and cuisine during the time his parents had temporarily settled in Kingston-upon-Hull before returning home. Needless to say my first wife feels a great affinity for this part of her heritage (and no doubt our children will too.)

My bucket list didn’t have an entry for The Kingdom of Norway again but the fjords and the north of the country still did appeal. Anna, keen to return, curated a complete tour of what the country had to offer and we flew into a seriously sweltering Oslo to start the expedition. This is the capital of said Kingdom i.e. has a monarchy. Out of a total population of c5.5 million here contained 1 million people. If the last trip had been grey with drizzle then 28° C and sunny was our greeting as we navigated the streets in the centre in pursuit of our hotel. If this was a surprise then so were the people. Of course, as in all large European cities, the indigenous white population is in the vast majority but as is becoming increasingly the case multiculturalism and diversity was clear to see here. People of African, Indian sub continent and Middle Eastern descent were significant in number as were the high number of Muslim women in headscarves and flowing robes as we lugged our wheelie cases to Reception. I can imagine the surprise of this to my in-laws and Eric’s forebears if they’d been strolling around with us.

After a bag drop we took in the sights and found another import, an Irish bar and partook of a foreign beverage. Less foreign was the £22 it cost although in London it’d probably cost £15.

The city, bathed in warm sunshine was a joy to stroll around. We walked up to the relatively new opera house:

When we return later in the trip we may get inside. The marble roof and surround is sumptuous. As a building, whilst dominating the harbour front, it is ultimately a large chunk of rock with glass awkwardly, yet deliberately, plonked in a vista grabbing location. A further preamble toward the Parliament building and its attendant park was delightful and I rewarded my bride with some shared pizza with no expense spared (£29 + tip). Both of us couldn’t demolish all of this and so some of it accompanied us west on our train ride to Bergen. That was our destination the following day. After a day or two there we’d sail up the coast to the very top, Kirkenes, and fly back to Oslo. Here we’d have a proper look before heading back to Blighty.

The train departed at 8:12am (or as my body clock on UK time would have it, 7:12am.) As breakfast on the Saturday didn’t start at the hotel until 7:30am we were tight for time. You’ll be heartened to know that I still managed to demolish a little fruit, scrambled eggs and bacon and make two sandwiches before making it to Platform 10 of Oslo Central Station along with tourists from every nation to take the train. This is a much travelled route, and mode, for international visitors.

The ride lasts seven hours! However, that isn’t too long as the scenery can be jaw dropping. Woods, lakes, rivers, precipitous rock faces and millions of coniferous trees.

On the voluminous tree cover my wife commented “you could hide a body out there”. Clearly too many Scandi-Noir nights in front of the TV? Aside from thoughts of murder I thought it was ravishing.

Bergen awaited and I looked out of the window and listened variously to music or the BBC Sounds App. I was hoping Bergen might be cooler.

Thoughts were turning toward home for Anna as she was scheduled to fly out of Luxembourg in mid afternoon. Before that a visit to the Pompidou Centre in Metz was slated. I’ve visited a few places with modern art such as the Guggenheim in Bilbao and the our own Tate Modern and always felt I was being duped or impressed. This fell into the same pattern. There were the usual piles of bricks or bananas stuck to walls.

Yet there were interesting things such as the table football or the lady in the fridge. Weird but thought provoking. I thought I wrote some tosh in my record reviews but some of the explanations of the art were as creative as the exhibits! It’s worth a visit if you’re going this way.

Afterwards we leapt into Samantha and headed north. Anna was dropped at the airport and subsequently experienced delays. (Frankly, Ryanair offer such low fares that folk just suck it up.)

I’d hoped post-Anna to camp and chill beside the Moselle but with these high temperatures it was very uncomfortable. So as opposed to chilling I decided to head over to Stuttgart to buy some vinyl? The motorway link was easy if hot and long but I’d decided to stay just short of Stuttgart at Pforzheim. A strange sight are all the trucks parked up at Service Stations: German law requires large trucks to be off the road on the sabbath (until 22:00 hours). Frankly the Germans can roll as they please but if one objective was to help save the planet then thousands of trucks sat with diesel engines idling whilst drivers sit in their air conditioned cabs for several hours in 33°C heat isn’t a great idea. 

I’d not planned to come into Germany this far and had not obtained an emission sticker for my windscreen. All vehicles need these of various hues. Samantha’s being yellow for a Euro 4 emission level engine. Getting one at short notice wasn’t possible and so I hoped for the best and drove on. If the ‘check’ is by registration plate camera recognition then Fritz may be in touch I fear. Going back to saving the planet again then how does buying a €5 car windscreen sticker help?

I got to Stuttgart and Second Hand Records and bought 14 LP’s. The selection is nearly as good as the condition and an hour flicking through the racks is a happy place to be. I had a few things on a list and some were there and others not. I’ve listed the records I bought below with an apology to Mark Sutcliffe.

That done I was back on the motorway heading for Mulhouse, France. The location of another Tony Ives ‘Happy Place’. I was still fretting over the fuel levels and reflected that the problem may be the gauge itself. Now that is expensive to sort! Anyway the hood release fitting also had a failure. However there was a Plan B that meant removing the spare wheel to access the release cable. Deep joy in the heat. I’ve camped in Mulhouse before but again the heat made this impossible. A fairly sweaty Yorkshireman checked in and headed for the shower. (The Ibis hotels I stayed in were £58 + parking. Clearly tough times being a hotelier?)

I chose Mulhouse because of the fabulous French National car museum. It would be my third visit. It has amongst many gems the largest collection of Bugattis in the world.

The French government bought the original collection off the administrator of the Schlumpf Brothers failed textile business. As the textile business failed it seemed one of the brothers, Fritz, had been buying up old cars and restoring them in part of the mill. He had hundreds of cars. The textile workers were deeply unhappy at losing their jobs and discovering where a lot of the money had gone. However, the car collection was too impressive, historic and valuable to let it be neglected or broken up. Today it sits in a beautiful bespoke building. Photos to follow.

Records…

Mark, this list probably includes German pressings and mostly re-releases. Catalogue numbers can be supplied but I will require shelter under the Geneva Convention. I’m aware there’s not a lot of value here but I can’t wait to play them all. Message ends.

Bob Dylan – Self Portrait

Family – Burlesque

Nazareth – Greatest Hits

Spooky Tooth – Best of

Pendragon – Last Rites

Earth, Wind & Fire – Gratitude

Ernie Isley – High Wire

Marillion – Misplaced Childhood

Marillion – Fugazi

Latin Quarter – Modern Times

The Tubes – The Completion Backwards Principle

The Tubes – Live

The Nice – Five Bridges

Donovan – The Best of

Our Booking.com apartment was, frankly, fairly mediocre for the money with amongst other things an air conditioning machine that didn’t work and where you’d have beaten the brains out of a cat with the first swing in the bathroom. However the landlady, Ingrid seemed to do it because she was lonely. At 85 she’d lost her husband 8 years ago missed some company. It wasn’t surprising that she preferred cash to credit cards. This came as a shock to us but we rummaged around and handed her €100. She counted this and thought it came to €85! Anyway rather than argue we took it back and agreed we’d pay her in the morning after a trip to a cash point. Handing her the same money again this time it added up!

Ingrid had some English she’d learned abroad. She’d spent two stints here, one in Garstang (near Preston) in 1959 and then she returned to work in Newquay. Given the era this was quite an adventure we thought. 

The drive to Metz, on the country lanes, was delightful. The banks of the Moselle were steep but densely planted with vines all nicely ripening in the heat. Those narrow specialist tractors were trundling along the roads. As is the way then bystanders were taking photos of the car as we passed by. It never failed to delight. Anna had booked a hotel in the centre of Metz. However, the approaching street to the hotel garage was shut. The very reliable Google Maps had failed to notice this. So round and round we drove in the burning heat attempting to get to their underground garage. Tempers were frayed on arrival.

However, enough of that as there was the town to investigate.

Around we strolled to learn that later there was to be a city centre music festival. Amateur groups or DJ’s would be occupying street corners bashing out various sounds. Before adjourning to the cool of our room we investigated the magnificent Cathedral.

The internals were less awesome but I did note there were five confessionals: clearly the locals had a lot to own up to. In addition there were some helpful graphics relating the bible’s inclusion of various beasts. I suppose you all know that there are 15 separate mentions of frogs in the book.

When we later went out the streets were heaving. As was a very discreet but heavy police presence: recent car crash atrocities were on their mind and access was strictly on foot. Unlike our own police the French are heavily armed.

The music was surprising and entertaining. One of the great pleasures was the absolute joy of all the teenagers milling about. It really does help to have temperatures in the late 20s.

On returning to the hotel we sat outside with a glass of chilled rosé listening to some reggae. It was fab until some parked cars sought to join the rumbling bass lines with their car horns. Time for bed we thought.

The next morning there was more culture to come.

After a night beside the Moselle and fortified with the gasthaus breakfast we made the short drive to Trier. Now a bit like my last trip to Bastogne and Trier in 2019  I had overlooked or not sought out the important history that defined each town. First, obviously was Bastogne’s WW2 history and the second was Trier’s Roman history. 

The city had been an important Roman settlement and boasted quite an important rôle in this part of the empire for the wandering Italians. Like other countries then it wasn’t until the 19th Century that the locals took a forensic interest in their Roman history and started to dig it out. Trier has an enormous bath complex typical of Roman settlements. The waters were heated and there were several pools of differing temperatures. In Britain and here the natives didn’t maintain this interest in ablutions and hygiene after the Romans left for another near millennium, why? 

In addition it has, remaining, a spectacular gate (Porta Nigra).

The city had other delights including a bright and different Cathedral and Basilica. As you might imagine Allied bombing damaged the structures and significant rebuilding took place after the war. Amongst the graphics was a contrite piece saying the Protestant Church in this region had kept quiet when the Nazis shut the synagogues in 1938 and also never chose to articulate any anti-Nazi positions throughout Hitler’s rise.

Frankly, most Germans might have felt that an end to rampant hyper inflation, the suppression of regime changing revolutionary (God-less) communism, the creation of full employment and the restoration of some national pride after the WW1 surrender was a good thing? Also to say anything hostile might have meant a visit from some violent thugs although if my children were being brain washed in school or the Hitler Youth I might have developed some strong views? In the end the whole country paid a devastating price for the Nazis’ vile ideology with their attempted genocides and the hell they’d wrought on their neighbours.

If National Socialism was terrible then the murder wreaked on the peoples of the USSR and China in the mid 20th century by their leadership through ideologically driven starvation or pogroms was horrifying. The system they purported to implement was based on a few books called ‘Das Kapital’ written a century or so before Mao and Stalin did their worst. Which brings us to a statue of a son of the city, Karl Marx.

The commemorative statue near the Roman Gate was donated by the Chinese on his 200th birthday. Given the current British predilection for defacing Queen Victoria or Winston Churchill statues for British colonisation or the tearing down of slavers statues then I can only assume that should the Germans also be revisiting history then the Trier city fathers were courting favour with Beijing to allow this. Maybe one for Groucho, Harpo or Chico instead?

So with 13,000 steps bagged we returned to the krankenhaus (my favourite German word after schnitzel) multi storey car park to find Samantha and hit the road to Bernkastel-Kraus. I’d programmed our good friend Google Maps to avoid motorways and tolls and we skirted the Moselle as we meandered north.

Feeling brave enough to drive 259 miles without refilling the car I eventually found a petrol station and filled her up. It took a while with ever increasing ‘kick backs’. Next, in the searing heat, was to find our gasthaus. This was Ingrid’s house, a sprightly yet mature lady who turned out to be quite an Anglophile. After chilling with a beer in our attic accommodation we felt restored and drove the short distance into the town itself. What a treat!

Chocolate box pretty in the evening sun and heat we strolled around; likewise the Germans. Surprisingly, apart from ourselves, there seemed to be no foreign tourists. Sustenance was achieved with another schnitzel. Not being a predictable boy I swapped turkey for pork.

By 7.30am it was hot in the tent, which along with a moron next to the campsite with a noisy chainsaw added up to be reasons to be up and about. Drifting into the town centre I found a spot for a cafe au lait and a jambon and fromage croissant.

Looking at my fellow diners there were British and American tourist pensioners. They were here for the three war museums. This was the epicentre of The Battle of the Bulge. Two elderly Brits in front of me in the queue were ordering coffee and pastries. It included lots of franglais and pointing. Didn’t they pay any attention in school? I hope what they got resembled what they hoped for!

This grey crew were in the town to visit museums covering the 1944 battle. This was one of Hitler’s last hurrahs to defeat the Allies and he was doing well having surrounded the Americans (101st Airborne Division) until the mist/fog cleared and supplies could be dropped into the town to help the besieged Americans. After this and the successful defence against the German siege the proverbial US cavalry arrived and beat back the Germans. As always you marvel at the bravery and sacrifice of young soldiers thousands of miles from home in a country they had little affinity with giving up their lives. For too long Europe, since WW2, has not spent enough on defence. Trump may be the main complainant but it’s old news and other US Administrations have identified the shortfall, complacency and dependence on the USA. Hopefully, this will change as the new belligerent threat of Russia seeks to recreate the USSR.

I chose to visit one museum mainly to look at the kit rather than the graphics. Here I came across some Americans doing an 11 day tour of the ‘USA in Europe’ during WW2. The tour started on the Normandy beaches and ends at the Eagle’s Next in Bavaria. They all looked shattered by the schedule and distances as they trooped on and off the bus on their way to the next museum.

After this I decided to drive through the north of Luxembourg before finding my favourite restaurant, from six years ago on the my bike ride. I had my turkey schnitzel. It didn’t disappoint. From here I headed to Germany to check into my gasthaus.

The afternoon heat was impossible in the open top car. It was like being grilled! I rested up at the gasthaus before the 10 mile drive to Luxembourg Airport to collect Anna. She’d got the train from York to Stansted. (This journey would equate to a Michael Portillo epic train journey in its own right.) After this slog the lovely Ryanair had managed to limit their flight delay to only 40 minutes and landed at 21:45. By the time the border officials had stamped every passport Anna appeared at around 22:25. I seldom, if ever, drive the Morgan in the dark. The headlights have the candle power/lumens of a glow worm. Anyway we got back to the gasthaus beside the Moselle and both fell into a deep sleep.

The ferry beckoned – ‘The Pride of Rotterdam’, built in Venice in 2001. Quite a comfortable vessel but once onboard there’s nothing to do other than eat and drink. Neither of which appeal. A three course evening meal or gargantuan ‘Full English’ are fair enough if you’re burning calories, on say a bike tour, but I’d spend the next day steering and changing gear whilst sat on my derrière. I retired early with a magazine and a salad and was soon looking at the inside of my eye lids. 

The plan was to drive to Luxembourg to collect Anna from the airport and then we’d trundle around locally in Germany and France before I’d deposit her back at the airport, she’d fly home and move I’d continue in France. We’d be in a hotel whilst she was here and I was alone I’d camp.

We didn’t disembark until past 9.15am. I walked down to the car deck whilst all the motorcyclists waddled, with difficulty, down to their motorcycles. Is being over weight mandatory to ride these powerful machines? From here it was the pointless queue for the customs chap to stamp my passport. Clearly the EU’s revenge for Brexit is characteristically bureaucratic although the official asked about my car but forgot to enquire as to whether the chassis was made of wood. The road system around the port of Rotterdam is modern but with a spaghetti of parallel roads beside or above you. I think I made two errors as I relied on Google Maps. Unfortunately (or fortunately) I was missing my ‘Little Helper’. This passenger bonus was always ready, I’d found, to offer such pearls of wisdom as ‘you’re in the wrong lane’ or ‘shouldn’t you be indicating now?’ and ‘are you thinking of turning your lights on as we go into the tunnel?’. Her real crowd pleaser is ‘the lights have turned green’. A way to deactivate this guidance is to utter the words ‘Would you like to f’ing drive?’ This guarantees silence for a little whilst while I show no contrition for continuing to take the wrong turnings!

Holland contains some lovely folk but it’s a dreary place and soon I crossed the border to Belgium. Frankly, this part of Belgium is painfully flat as well. I had plenty of time to drive toward the Luxembourg border and so I avoided motorways. This meant I followed a series of bin wagons, tractors and learner drivers through small but busy towns. This sedate progress allowed me to reflect on the two official Belgian languages: Flemish and French. I noted that all the road signs in the Flemish speaking part were in Flemish and then French in the French speaking. It seems both languages don’t need to be duplicated everywhere to satisfy the sensitivities of either party. Obviously if the language everyone speaks is English but you’re Canadian, Welsh, Irish and even some Scots then multiple gratuitous language signs are mandatory.

Having the hood down was lovely but it was hot. 30°C soon racked up and an investment in another hat seemed unavoidable or I’d become a ‘Guernsey Tom’. 

I’d cycled this route in 2019, on my way to Vienna. So I knew that as I headed south east that the hills would appear in the Ardennes. It took 150 miles before a gradient appeared. I know this because I was watching my tripometer. I was also watching my fuel gauge, however, this wasn’t revealing as it permanently read the following. 

After about 200 miles I thought I’d top Samantha up and pulled into a petrol station with automatic pumps with the instructions in French. ‘Quelle surprise’ I hear you say. Anyway a very attractive young girl was at the pump next to mine and I enquired ‘Do you speak English?’ Of course she did and set me off on the long laborious task of putting petrol into the car. It is laborious because it kicks back after every 5 seconds and it can take 10 minutes to put a decent quantity of fuel in.

I reflected later about my lady assistant being all smiley and helpful and wondered if I’d been 40 years younger would she have been as relaxed? Sadly, yet, usefully, at my age you look helpless and harmless and no threat! Eventually the campsite I’d also used in 2019 came into view and Reception was shut. Not a problem as you paid a machine (€18) and a ticket popped out with all the details including the wi-fi code. Less easy was using the password to raise the site barrier. In a right hand drive Morgan you’re on the wrong side for the barrier key pad and a 18 inches beneath it. So get out and do it that way Tony! I did and when I had got back into the car it’d shut again. I eventually gained access asking a passing bloke to punch the numbers it.

Dinner and a beer followed. Not least so I could get some change to buy a token for the shower. By 7pm it was nearly cool enough to take a shower and to stay dry afterwards. Hopefully it’s history and chicken schnitzel tomorrow.