Norwegians always remind you that there isn’t such a thing as bad weather but bad clothing. I don’t agree with them. There is really, especially if you are hiking the mountains or cycling where for hours there is nowhere to take cover. I had so far luckily avoided the quirks of a country where a summer day can turn wintery in a matters of hours. There were a few rainy days here and there but they had been accurately forecasted which allowed me to plan ahead and take cover in advance. As I moved further west, things were about to change.
Approaching Stavanger, I felt a twinge of apprehension. A past trip to nearby Bergen had let me down, with a series of natural wonders that disappeared behind a wall of mist and thick rain. A German fellow I met along the way had cautioned me. He’d lived in Stavanger for over a decade and described it as a beautiful city, though one seemingly trapped in an eternal autumn. It’s no surprise, given that the southwest coast endures the wettest weather in what is already one of the dampest countries on the planet! As if to underscore this on a sunny day, while waiting for a ferry at a village dock, a young man grumbled to me about a so-called Norwegian drought, wistfully wishing for more rain to fall.
“Fields are too dry, we must take care of our farmers!” he claimed, not getting much simpathy from a cyclist.
Clearly, this was a case of differing standards on what summer should feel like. I shouldn’t complain, really—it hadn’t been too bad so far. Yet, for what’s supposed to be the good season, when people swim and bask in the sunshine, I found it windy and chilly, and the rain too frequent and more than enough.
His prayers were answered as the weather fell apart as my ferry docked at the Lysefjord hamlet of Flørli. This area was set to be the highlight of this Norwegian leg of the journey, but the week’s forecast could have driven even the most steadfast stoic into sulking. YR, the venerable app of the Norwegian Meteorological Institute, had gone berserk, showing nothing but storms for the foreseeable future. The only glimmer of hope were a few of hours on a Wednesday morning. The following day all I could do was get on another ferry to reach the end of the fjord and the village of Lysebotn, ready to settle into the campsite indefinitely! The setting of the campsite couldn’t be more perfect, squashed between towering mountains with a grand view of a 1000 metres waterfall. This area is a paradise for hikers, with some of the most popular viewpoints in the country, such as Preikestolen and Kjerag. Those that ventured on one of those demanding trails, returned sodden from the rain, with sombre moods, muddy boots and unable to catch a glimpse of anything. I had hoped to experience some of the walks myself, only to be told that, honestly, in such conditions they were too long and treacherous to be tackled in the flimsy sandals I am wearing! Considering those sandals are also the only shoes I have, I thought it best to heed the advice. As always, life requires compromises.
Luckily, I was able to linger a little longer. The skies were overcast, and it rained every single day I was there, but there were a few breaks in the weather that revealed how extraordinary this place can be when the sun shines. The hikers had much better shoes than I did, but most didn’t have bicycles, so I decided to climb the famous 27 hairpins leading to the Lysevegen road summit twice. The first time was a test run, where I climbed it without some of the weight I usually carry. The second time was for good, on that famous Wednesday, when a few hours of sunshine indeed appeared. For the first time, I woke up to patches of blue sky, so I quickly packed my gear and decided to tackle some serious mountains and see what would happen.
The day treated me well. I summited Lyseveien, and during a break at lunchtime, I even managed to dry my tent. By afternoon, the sun had vanished, leaving me to ride along a breathtaking plateau of dark rocks, smoothed by relentless winds, a chain of serene lakes, and a silence so profound that all I could hear was my heartbeat. I remained dry until I reached the campsite at Suleskard. For a moment, I felt as if I had wandered into a fairytale—an entire village of charming black wooden houses, their roofs carpeted with moss, grass, and wildflowers. I was struck by the uniqueness of it, but the following day, I found that this was no isolated wonder. As I passed through other immaculate villages, I learned that until the late 19th century, such roofs were common on rural log houses throughout Norway and in this area they still are.
As for the rest, you can guess what happened. The next day, I wore all the Gore-Tex clothing I could find in my bags, ignored the advice of the Norwegian Meteorological Service, and paid the price for it. I packed up my tent and got ready under a drizzling rain that lasted all day, growing fiercer as I reached the top of a mountain. A day that could have been an incredible bike ride through a surreal landscape turned into a wet slog and a heroic effort witnessed by passing traffic—many of whom waved and smiled, probably wondering how mad one could be from the cozy comfort of their campers. Bless the Dutch and their love for cycling; one stopped to ask if I needed rescuing, while another passed me a hot cup of sweet tea that warmed me up and kept me going. My misery finally ended in Rysstad, where the campsite owner took pity on me and offered the use of a warm cabin for a third of the normal price. To witness the wonders of Norway, one must be prepared to toil, suffer, and sometimes lose. Still, it's all well worth it.