As the morning unveiled its splendour, a stark departure from the warm evening before, rain-drenched clouds painted the sky. Yet, in the wake of a restful night, a hearty breakfast emerged as a beacon of comfort. With each sip of coffee and the indulgence in Danish pastries, bread, and jam, the spirits were revived. The innkeeper received a fond farewell, accompanied by a promise to return the following year.
Embarking on a 40-minute drive from the inn to Hirshals, raindrops danced on the windshield, obscuring the last rolling hills. Anticipation bubbled within as the ferry to Norway beckoned. At Hirshals, a bustling queue of vehicles awaited the journey north—campers, cars, motorbikes, and cruisers forming a mosaic of diverse travellers. Among them, my trusted land rover stood, a reliable companion for the adventures that lay ahead.
The ferry crossing unfolded smoothly, the air temperature dropping as we entered the Kristinsand fjord. The landscape unveiled itself, adorned with islands covered in pine woods and rolling hills. From the sundeck, rain kissed my face, and I inhaled the crisp air. It felt as if my ancestors, woven into the fabric of history, welcomed me home. Pride swelled in my chest, resonating with a profound sense of belonging.
First-time travellers clustered on the observation deck, their excitement palpable as Norway unveiled itself. A familiar view for me, yet one that never failed to warm the heart, even if the weather did not. A ping on my phone echoed, "Welcome to Norway," a modern greeting replacing the dock handlers of yesteryears.
The two-hour drive to Bjerkreim unfolded along a winding road, tracing the inlets, fjords, and lakes of southern Norway. As the new highway around Kristinsand neared completion, anticipation hung in the air. The journey felt like a pilgrimage, following an ancient trading route through a landscape steeped in natural wonders.
Bjerkreim, rooted in the old Norse word Bjarkarheimr, cradled one of the most vital salmon rivers in southwestern Norway—Bjerkreimselva. Familiar zones 3 and 4 beckoned, and the valley, adorned with rolling hills catching the morning and evening light, welcomed me. The small village of Bjerkreim, with its white-washed wooden houses and church, stood as a tranquil centre piece.
Upon reaching the campsite, news of the farm's sale and the change in ownership brought a pang of nostalgia. The friendly faces that once greeted me had moved on. However, the owner's wife, recognising my car, extended a warm welcome, a fleeting constant in the ever-shifting landscape of life.
The usual campsite spot occupied by a Dutch caravan stirred a hope for their departure, allowing me to reclaim the spot that held years of cherished memories. As I pitched my tent, a symbol of self-reliance and effort, I found contentment. Despite the looming rain, my tent became a cocoon, fortified by a fine bottle of French Saint Emilion, a good book, and Ritz crackers—a haven locked down in anticipation of the following day's weather.
Morning arrived with the departure of the Dutch caravan, prompting a swift relocation. With Land Rover loaded and determination in each step, the tent found its new abode atop a hill, overlooking the river with a massive rock as its companion. Camp reorganised, everything in its designated place, the scene was set for a week in this desired location—a sanctuary of tranquility amidst the enchanting tapestry of a Norwegian valley.
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