ALLABOARD FORTHEFJORDS
The Nordland Railway offers a thrilling way to enjoy Norway's spectacular landscape,says Andrew Martin
MY FATHEr, a lifelong railwayman, died recently. After the funeral, one of his friends tried to cheer me up by recommending a trip on the Nordland railway in Norway. ‘You can see half the country in ten hours — we’ve nothing over here to compare. The West Highland Line, Settle to Carlisle railway, the Cornish main line — they’re London to Croydon in comparison.’
But the trip i s not j ust f or railway specialists. The Nordland offers the chance to see arguably the most scenic part of Norway, while its termini are fascinating. It covers the 450 miles from Trondheim to Bodo in the north by a night train and a day train in either direction.
The northbound day t r ai n l eaves Trondheim at 7.38am, which means spending the previous day in Norway’s most northerly city. But that’s no hardship.
In the morning I walked along the river Nid, which is lined with old warehouses painted in a harmonious palette of faded browns, rust reds and mustard yellows. Ships — blurred by the drizzle — boomed their horns on the Fjord.
At the National Military Museum in the courtyard of the cathedral, I learnt much about the Nordland railway.
DUrINg the occupation, the Nazis pushed the line northwards (it didn’t reach Bodo until 1962), using PoWs as slave labour, while resistance forces concentrated on blowing it up. The museum shows how, with displays of detonators and fuses. Next morning, I f ound the Nordland train being boarded by Norwegians equipped for wilderness emergencies, with state-ofthe-art rucksacks and indestructi ble j umpers. Some walked towards the train with two sticks, like cross-country skiers.
Everything on board was wellordered and clean, like Norway itself. I was in first, or Komfort, class, which was i f anything slightly too spacious (my table was too far away from the chair).
The railway starts by skirting a fjord. I asked the Norwegian in the next seat what it was called. ‘Trondheim Fjord’, he said. He took great pleasure in saying ‘still Trondheim Fjord’ several times over the next hundred or so miles.
Along the shores were unattended boats or half-built wooden houses, creating scenes fit for the covers of Scandi crime novels.
Under the grey sky, the lush farmland of Trondelag, hinterland of Trondheim, was such a contrastingly vivid green that I felt there must be something wrong with British grass.
When the Trondheim Fjord finally disappeared ( only for another to appear), I turned to the eastern side, where lay a vertiginous gorge. ‘Namsen river,’ explained the Norwegian chap, who was eating a fascinatingly well-organised meal from a green Perspex lunchbox with separate compartments for cold meat, cheese, berries and yogurt.
I asked if he particularly liked this train. ‘Particularly,’ he said.
In the buffet, I bought a plate of lapskaus, pork stew, that I was assured was traditional and gluten free. I bought a coffee and took it back to my carriage,
whereupon the Norwegian chap aid: ‘You bought that?’ Pointing to a vending machine I had overlooked, he added: ‘No need. Coffee is free in Komfort class.’
Our train began to climb, until we were at an angle more usually associated with Swiss railways.
The trees became thinner, then disappeared. All was grey rock and now, our train moving silently, ike some sort of lunar vehicle. There came an announcement, more urgent than the laid-back ones hitherto: ‘Your attention please! We are about to cross the Arctic Circle.’ Stone pyramids on either side of the track marked the spot.
Other highlights included a grey eagle flying lazily over raging r apids and several f urious mountain torrents that seemed to be aiming maliciously for the train, only to be swept under the tracks at the last moment.
I was never bored. In fact, I felt spoilt by the variegated drama of the landscape.
By the time we reached Bodo at 5.28pm, every possible spectacle had been revealed. Bodo is not pretty, but beautiful snow-capped islands and mountains encroach from every direction.
The town was flattened by German bombs i n 1940. The Nordland Museum tells the story completely free of self-pity: ‘Some say the new architecture is boring.’ Actually it grows on you, especially the austere cathedral.
The harbour seems to comprise half the town, and there are trips to the Lofoten islands.
I passed a pleasant day in the Norwegian Aviation Museum, where planes, even big ones, dangle from the ceiling, and the moody lighting makes the old ejector seats and oxygen masks resemble medieval armour.
I returned by the night train in a well-appointed sleeping berth, but spent much of the journey watching the landscape under the unreal, pink glow of the north Norwegian summer night, which is really no night at all.
In winter, this journey might include sight of the Northern Lights. Either way, you’re not going to sleep much, because the Nordland Railway is a waking dream, likely to be long-remembered.
ANDREW MARTIN’S latest book is Belles & Whistles: Journeys Through Time On Britain’s Trains (Profile).