Beguiling Bergen

Beneath, through cotton wool clouds tipped with sun, the first sight of water. Islands floating, joined by bridges or not, dotted with dwellings or not. Was that a sailing ship, tall-masted, that I saw, or just another cloud, forming and shining like a hologram before melting away?

The boat leaves the harbour with its Hanseatic houses, wood painted in ochre and red. Warm colours that belie the cool air. People crowding the quay grow smaller until the scene could be a Bruegel painting, tiny figures playing out tiny lives.

Fjords made by glacial melt cut through ravines where sheer rocks rise whilst water springs from the top, falling in rivulets like living lace.

Atlantic salmon, char, haddock and herring swim deep beneath the black surface. Here and there small settlements appear like mirages on strips of startling green. A church, perhaps, some houses and a tiny school. Idyllic in the sun, but the hard winters come bringing isolation in the wind.

Mountains, deep forested, deep green. A funicular railway climbs to its steep peak. Tourists pause to take pictures of Bergen from on high, many placing themselves in shot, blocking the expansive view before they tumble back down the mountain. There’s a quiet path to the lake through forests, damp mosses glimmering through the tall pines, streams gently burbling as they flow. A magical place for trolls, dwarves and elves of folklore. The lake reflects the sky and its surface throngs with water fowl, their sharp cries cutting through the still air.

Descending then to the city, compact and quaint, lived-in but echoing with history. A trading port, cod liver oil and fish in exchange for grain. Ravaged by fires and rebuilt each time until old and new mingled in contented harmony.