Friday 15th January 2016

Thursday

I think of Denmark as part of Scandinavia, in that when I think of that northern landmass, or part of Europe, I think that Denmark, Sweden, Norway and Finland are pretty much the same, and the weather similar. This is clearly nonsense of course, and I realise this now. But looking at a map and seeing that Skien is only a hundred or so miles firther north than Denmark, and that I have already visited the southern part of the country a few years ago when I visited Horten, I thought it would be flat folling countryside with the same weather.

This, was also wrong. Whilst the area around Skien was hilly, it might not be described as mountainous, but then theose hills rise up several times higher than the highest point in Denmark. Also, when Denmark got an inch or so of snow last week, which melted in a couple of days, Skien got a full metre and that was still around.

The truth is that Norway is very much a different country, with far harsher weather, deeper snow and hardier people. I mention all of this, as for Henrik to catch the half nine flight, we would have to make an early start to the airport, some 120 miles away the other side of Oslo.

I got up at four, having been woken for the nth time by a passing snowplough scraping down the street outside. Henrik had the same problem and apprently slept less than I because of the noise. I got dressed, packed and went down to start the car, program the sat nav as there were three airports surrounding Oslo, and it would be silly to go to the wrong one. All doors and the hatch of the car were frozen shut, it felt like a freezer out in the car park. After some pulling I got the hatch open, then the driver door, started the car and went to remove an inch of snow from the car. The sat nav programmed, the receptionist then made a pot of coffee, so at least I felt kinda human once Henrik came out, loaded his stuff into the back, climbed in. Let's go!

The ploughs had done their job, the roads in town were clear, we drove through the quiet streets and up the steep hill out of town and into the countryside. Up and up, twisting as it went the road left the town behind and soon we were in evergreen forests, all threes bedecked with garlands of deep snow. It was impressive stuff, but I had to keep my eye on the road, as once out of town, the road was covered by a sheen of frozen slush, but the winter tyres did their job, and it felt fine driving. But I did slow down for the corners of course.

In still sleeping towns, people were waiting at bus stops, wrapped up like polar explorers, smoking as they shivered. Henrik pointed out tha as we left Skien and headed into the wild, the car's thermometer readings dropped from minus ten to twelve, and kept falling. By the time we were on the motorway, it was reading minus 17, and in the deep valleys around Oslo it dropped to minus 19.5. A heavy mist hung round, making it seem surreal, all vehicles were leaving trails of exhaust condensing into vapour, making them all seem like steam locomotives.

Around Oslo, the roads filled up and it was a hairy thing, as traffic got thicker and thicker. It thinned out again, as we headed north towards the airport. Phew, looks like we were going to make it in one piece.

We turned off the motorway, making our way to the terminal, then into one of the parking houses, crunching to a stop outside the office of the hire company. The car was checked over; no problems. And that was that. A short walk to the main terminal, up the escalator to the departure hall. No queue at the BA desk, I get my boarding card and go through security. All in about ten minutes. Just to find a place for breakfast.

Airport food is expensive and is generally crap. It seems to be a rule that is followed all over the world. I object to paying double what you would pay outside the airport, just because they have you captured. If they insist on charging so much, why not make it feel like it was getting value for money? I offer to go get breakfast from a canteen style place: two small rolls with cheese and chorizo and two small coffees came to 226 NK, something like £20. An absolute rip off.

Around us, what looked like a part of oil workers were getting stuck into pints of lager, and making it a mission to down as many pints as possible. I saw each one go down to the bar and come back with a tray of foaming beer. To think I used to do stuff like that, but no more.

With an hour to go before his flight, I bid farewell to Henrik and I walked to the immigration desk and onto the gate: I still had three hours before my flight, so once through I found somewhere to sit down and set about powering up my laptop and catching up on some work. Time passed really quickly, to be honest. At half ten I went for an early lunch, another expensive roll and a coffee, this time about £7 for a paninni, but it was OK.

At eleven, my flight was called, I flashed my frequent flyer card and jumped the line and made my way onto the plane, sitting in row 20 whilst the rest of the passengers were allowed on. We had to taxi to the far side of the airport to be de-iced, then onto the piano keys, rev those engines and into the sky we leapt, leaving snowy Norway behind. Needless to say it was a wonderful clear day, if bitterly cold, but I could not be bothered to get the camera out of my bag, so you will have to take my word for it.

Over the sea, cloud obscured the view below, so after another small roll and a cuppa, I closed my eyes and dozed. I woke up with us descending over London, but the city was buried below clouds. As we turned onto final, I saw the river below, and what looked like Putney, we got lower so we crossed west London, getting lower and lower. We arrived at terminal 5, waited for others to get off, then made my way ip the linkspan to find we were next to the immigration point. And no queue.

Once through, I had no bags to collect, so I went straight through customs and onto the station, only to find I had a 15 minute wait for the next train. It could be worse I suppose. On the way into LOndon I had a fine view of the work going on to complete Crossrail, and see where the new tracks plunge beneath the Westway.

At Paddington I rush up the ramp and down the steps the other side to get onto the Circle Line platforms, where a train was waiting. 5 stops later I was at Kings Cross and walking to St Pancras, I thought there was a train to Folkestone at about half past two, it was ten past. Well, 14:37, so I have half an hour, do I have a coffee? I decide not to, but then on the train a guy eats an enormous picnic munching his way through sandwiches, cake, crisps and endless bottles of pop. Smelling it I realise I am hungry, but too late to do anything about it.

Half past three and I am on the rail replacement bus, but we are going nowhere, as the driver is outside puffing on his vapouriser. The minutes roll by. At quarter to he decides to get in and switch the engine on, was he just teasing us? NO, we could now leave.

We travel through the traffic thick with Mums on the school run, to the A20 then up the cliffs into Dover. Was the taxi I ordered waiting? Hell, no. I wait fiftenn minutes before the tiny Fiat put-putted in. I have the luck to have the boss of the company driving me. But I am on the last leg home. However, the Fiat barely makes it out of Dover up Connaught hIll. He drops me outside the house at half four, thirteen and a half hours after leaving Skien. I was shattered.

I make bangers and sauteed potatoes for dinner once Jools is back home. We watch TOTP form the beginning of 1981 on BBC4 before we both give up and go to bed before nine. Phew.