We took the car ferry across the glossy Sognefjord to the Norwegian Glacier Museum. Inside, three huge cocooning screens showed a film that flew us over the glaciers that spread over the country. Afterwards, it was only fitting that we visited a real glacier – or at least part of it. The Boyabreen arm of the Jostedalsbreen glacier was slightly disappointing after the stunning film though. Rather than epic white peaks and glistening crystal shafts, we witnessed dull grey ice, scarred with black lines. But as we looked, we grew to appreciate it’s sheer size as it poured through the ravine, growing and shrinking with the seasons.
We travelled on to Fjærland, bereft of any other cars, though this might have been down to the rather hefty toll to use the road. Fjærland itself is a small town known for it’s second-hand bookshops. Basically my idea of heaven. A couple of wetsuit clad tourists, off to explore the Fjærlandfjord, trooped past as we stopped to buy crisps from a rare local shop.
Then we strolled on, from bookshop to bookshop, some in yellow and red painted buildings, others in old cattle sheds and makeshift huts. All were filled with the scent of new worlds and possibilities, and as a good chunk of the books were in English, I found plenty of tomes to loose myself in. The words and mountains filled my mind with stories of trolls and wizards and as the sky clouded over and the air cooled, I was reminded of the snow that consumes the place in winter. But with a few hundred good books and a roaring fire, I’m sure I could tough it out.