UNSPEAKABLY NORSK THING - NOT JUST FOR TOFFS

I jumped into the front seat of a taxi, having slung my skis into the back with a sporty flourish.

‘Howdy,’ I said to the driver. ‘Great weather for skiing. You been out there ripping up the piste? Showing the snow some action? Proving what you're made of ?’

‘Nah,’ he said drearily. ‘I don’t like the mountains. Don’t bother going skiing.’

I nearly choked on my liquorice chewing gum. ‘WHAAAT? Are you nuts? Are you not Norwegian or something?’

‘Sure I’m Norwegian. I just hate skiing. I don’t like being up in the mountains.’

Well knock me down with a snowflake....I was amazed. I’d never met this particular brand of Norwegian before. Where had he come from? ‘Don’t you get lonely down here at sea level, when the whole of the rest of the country has gone skiing? How do you pass the time? Fishing? Knitting? What flicks your switch?’

‘Look, Lady,’ he said, sounding a little peeved. ‘It’s not mandatory. Even if you’re Norwegian you are allowed to NOT like skiing.’

I looked at his feet under the steering column. Sure enough, no skis. ‘I guess so,’ I said, with some doubt.

You might think all this talk of skiing is rather snotty. But I suppose I’m used to assuming that everyone here skis. Back in the UK the image of skiing is relentlessly middle-class, so purely for the ‘Hurray Henry’s of this world. Jocasta, Persephone, Sophie, Sophie, Caroline and Sophie are renowned for their chalet-girl skills, training which used to be seen as useful in terms of preparing them for the marriage market. It was always hoped they might meet some suitable banking type, relaxing from his frightfully important job in the City by enjoying frolics and fun up a mountain.

It was all very specific, down to the actual list of requirements one should import to France or wherever in an effort to sook up to one’s chalet girl. If you arrived at your chalet and presented her with a pot of marmite and Hello magazine, you got much better cakes, apart from anything else. I expect these consumer goods are available in ski resorts these days....I’m rather out of touch as I haven’t bothered with an Alp for a while. And I suppose the credit crunch has meant the City boys have rather lost their sheen in the eyes of prospective mothers-in-law.

But I have always felt rather aggrieved that skiing should be labelled with this 'toff' image. As a kid, skiing in Scotland was about as far away from Hurrah Henrydom as going down the bingo. It involved sleeping on village hall floors in painfully thin sleeping bags, or staying in caravans full of condensation and dripping clothes. I remember having to hang up my wet pound notes on a piece of string by the electric fire to dry them for the next day. It was cold, soggy, and uncomfortable. And without cakes. Ah, but how we laughed. It was a proper way to understand a mountain in winter.

I suppose the new image is inevitable due to the immense cost that skiing now involves. If you go abroad to ski, there is no denying you have to fork out big time. But if you are prepared to attempt Scottish skiing, then all power to your elbow, and indeed your other limbs.....sometimes, it can be great. Indeed this year, provided the roads were open, it was grand. Not everyone in Scotland is prepared to give it a go.

I love the fact that here in Norway, skiing is universal. It is assumed that when there is snow, everyone will go skiing after school or work each day. Skis are one of the few items that appear to be cheaper in Norway than elsewhere, particularly for children. If you don’t ski, you could end up feeling like Johnny No Mates. It’s a bit like being brought up in a place like Aviemore...it is assumed everyone will ski.

The cost of going abroad to ski is certainly prohibitive, but in the UK I do rather tire of people being put off and thinking it is not for them. It’s the same with opera...apparently that has an elitist image, and yet the tickets are often far cheaper than tickets to a football match or a rock concert. I wonder how many people are put off both skiing and opera because they fear the cost is too much to ‘suck-it-and-see’.

There’s something magic about skiing....I could swear it's good for both your physical and mental well-being. But, as the taxi driver proved, it’s a matter of taste.

UNSPEAKABLY NORSK THING - ESCAPOLOGY

I was sitting on a chairlift high in the sky as it propelled me through the freezing air towards the top of the steepest piste on the hill. I sat there huddling against the cold, my feet locked onto my skis, clutching my poles at a suitable angle. I was perpetually fiddling with the various gaps between clothing that were threatening to reveal even the tiniest slither of flesh to the elements. The temperature, considering the wind-chill factor, was a straight minus 28 C, so I wasn’t putting up with any draughts.

Having adjusted as much as I could without losing a glove (always a hazard on a chairlift, a dropped glove meaning loss of fingers due to frost-bite, or a hasty retreat from the hill for the day – take your pick), I sat back to enjoy the view through my goggles. Despite the desperate temperature, it was a charming ride up an almost vertical slope and through a gap in the vast pine trees as they bent against the wind.

But lo, a decorated tree. I could just make out a huge tree ahead, some 80 feet tall at least, and strangely adorned with pieces of coloured cloth. As we drew nearer, the chairlift conveniently stopped for me to carry out a closer inspection. As I swung in the air, I realised that every adornment on this tree was of a very specific type. Each one was a bra. A woman’s bra.

It was a most engaging sight. There were many different varieties, colours and shapes so, lacking a pencil I took a few mental notes. There was a magenta lace number, several frothy white ones, a red satin trimmed with black ribbon, a Prussian blue balcony, a yellow cross-over affair, a green see-through design, a substantial sports bra with blue and white ‘go-faster’ stripes, a couple of dainty florals, a pink polka-dot, and a remarkably skimpy little design in black silk, which as far as I could see, would be no earthly use for skiing.

This was a Norwegian custom that was quite new to me, and one the guide books had failed to mention. It was also an admirable achievement. I marvelled at the skill involved in the whole effort, and thought how fortunate it was that I was not obliged to partake myself. I tried to imagine how such a carefully decorated tree could have come about. Presumably this was the work of the youthful skiers on the mountain, those of whom I spoke yesterday. I imagine there was an element of competition between the various teams, so between the bouts of bacchanalian revelry that was taking place while on the ground, mid-air clearly offered a new way of whiling away the time.

I envisaged the scene. As he sat down on the chairlift at the start of the ride, Olaf would ensure he was sitting next to Bente, the delightful and extremely game ‘Hot Tottie’ towards whom his lust had most recently been directed. After the chair had left the loading station and was piling through the air, the game was on and it was his job to remove Bente’s upper under garments and deftly hang them between the needles of the correct tree using the tip of his ski pole. Whether his success was to be regarded as a trophy of his manhood or a testament to Bente’s taste in underwear has yet to be recorded. But there is no denying the skill required for such an endeavour. Considering any sensible female will be wearing at least five layers of clothing on such occasions, to remove the innermost without loss of any of the others while on a chairlift is quite a feat....she must be both an escapologist and a contortionist, while he must be a regular solver of the most fiendish of Chinese puzzles, as well as charmingly persuasive.

I was all agog as I dismounted the chairlift at the top of the piste. I looked about feverishly to see if any of the girls were looking particularly cold. Perhaps they would let me in on their secret....you just never know when you might need that particular trick up your anorak sleeve.

To my lasting regret, everyone was looking quite normal and suitably dressed for a snowy mountain-top. And why oh why did I not have the camera wiht me on these occasions? You’ll just have to believe me.

UNSPEAKABLY NORSK THING - YOUTH ON SKIS

Around this time of year, a significant section of Scandinavian youth is in party mode. Norwegian Olaf calls Swedish Sven who gets Danish Carsten to bring a car-load of beer from Copenhagen, and they all meet up on a mountain-top. Olaf and Sven are responsible for gathering a team of gorgeous young Scandinavian females, who call themselves 'The Hot Totties' specially for the event, a few other lads are invited along, and that’s everything set. Having been born with skis on their feet, Norwegians see no need to take them off just because it’s time for a knees-up. It’s the holidays, so it’s time to party.

I know this because I was there. For some reason, we managed to go skiing during Party-on-the-Piste Week, an event since renamed Party-on-the-Pissed Week. It is an event guaranteed to make anyone who is married with children feel very, very old indeed. We stayed in the downstairs part of a giant hytte, while upstairs a herd of rampaging elephants got slaughtered. I only found out they were in fact humans when they started to sing ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ at astonishing volume at 4am.

The next morning, having found our ski gear through bleary eyes, we staggered out of the hytte towards the glistening slopes. We roughed it through the flying sick shooting off various balconies, and dodged around the sinister piles of red-diced-carrot that had RUINED the lovely white snow. The huge advantage was that the only people on the slopes before noon were the very old or the very young, two categories into which we fitted perfectly.

Each day of P-on-the-P Week runs thus. Once we, the very old and very young, have looked after ourselves with a hearty hill-top lunch, there is evidence of some of the youth appearing. Olaf or Sven are sent ahead with huge shovels sticking out of their ruck-sacks. Once up the hill, they pick a sunny spot and start attacking the snow. Within minutes a fabulous ‘sittery-ooterie’ is established, with several benches carved out of snow, onto which Carsten artfully lays a few reindeer skins for comfort , warmth and decoration. Some more rifling in the ruck-sack and a barbeque appears, followed by most of the contents of a brewery. Cans and bottles are stashed into the snow to keep them cool (as if they were about to warm up) and then 'The Hot Hotties' arrive ready for the next 18 hour extravaganza. Meanwhile, Olaf and Sven are busy round the back shovelling out a vomitorium.

As I hobbled off towards the ski-lift one morning, I met a young man. He looked a little lost. He had a beer can taped onto each of his ski poles, carefully placed at just the right height so that he could lift the can to his mouth without having to remove his gloves or let go of a pole.

I stood and stared at him for a moment. Why wear your trousers round your waist when you could wear them round your crotch, I wondered. If they happened to be ski trousers with built-in wind-resistant lining, why need that be any deterrent in the pursuit of cool? I mean, it was minus 22°C, and I was concerned for his welfare. He’d lost his friends and I simply did not believe he wasn’t cold round the middle.

It is probably possible to assess the age of a skier these days by the bagginess and crotch-level of their breeks. I was interested that the carefully practised art of dressing to thrill the opposite sex by revealing a significant streak of your undies even mattered up here in the wintery mountains. But apparently it does. The rule seems to be, the more startlingly vivid the underpants, the wilder the human inside. The young man before me was quite clearly displaying his feathers.

The good thing about ski-gear is it covers you up. Completely. When it’s minus 22°C or more, I make absolutely sure of that. Not one miniscule patch of skin is allowed to be subjected to the elements. So this poor lad had absolutely no idea he was displaying his feathers to someone easily old enough to be his mother.Well, I was game.

‘You yankin’ my chain, honey?’ I asked for the hell of it, through a thick layer of fleecy balaclava. He looked at me a little more closely, and burped.

Oh, the simple pleasures of anonimity.

UNSPEAKABLY NORSK THING - SINGING

I sing in the Spring. Always have. Always will. It scares the children and alarms the neighbours, but frankly, that’s just tough. It’s a terrible affliction to have to admit, but I do not feel normal unless I have a decent sing most days. And in the Spring, I’m afraid the joy of the season increases the output. Can’t help it...it’s nature.

This Easter we will all be singing, of course. And since it’s Easter, I have a great excuse to mention the fantastic building that is Stavanger Cathedral, the Domkirke.

Several hundred years ago, the Norwegian King Sigurd the Crusader was fed up with his wife, Queen Malmfrid. Not only that, but he had fallen for a beautiful young lady in Stavanger (this kind of thing is always happening around here). But Sigurd the Crusader couldn’t marry the pretty little Cecily because, even though he was a King as well as a first-class crusader, he was also a Catholic and the Pope said ‘nope’ to divorce.

Crusaders are of course famous for having bees in their bonnets, so Sigurd was not one for giving in. He nipped along to the Bishop of Christiania, said, ‘please’ but was told it was a big no-no. So he crossed Norway and tried the Bishop of Bergen. This Bishop also said ‘no, and go away.’ The love-sick Crusader pressed on and arrived in Stavanger to visit the Bishop of Stavanger, Bishop Reinald. (He also dropped in on Cecily for a quick glass of mead).

Reinald, formerly known as Reginald, had been brought over from Winchester Cathedral in England to build a brand spanking new version of his former work-place in Stavanger. But he had a problem. It cost an absolute bomb to build a Cathedral, and, what with builders coming and going, delays and shortages, these things always went over-budget and over-time. Reinald didn’t have any lolly. But he was a canny man, so instead of saying ‘nope’ to Sigurd’s request, he said, ‘Yup if you give me the cash.’

By 1125 the tiny little collection of fishing huts that represented Stavanger at the time had a ‘new-build’ right behind them. On the hill overlooking the harbour, just so that any boat-bound visitors would be absolutely certain the place was in the hands of the Catholic Church, the most enormous stone cathedral was built, a design along the same lines as Winchester. It towered over the little wooden houses of the time, and to this day, represents the very heart of the city.

Stavanger Domkirke remains the oldest Cathedral in Norway to have been a continual place of worship. After the Reformation in 1536, it became a Lutheran church, and today it is as busy as ever. So imagine my delight on discovering I might get a chance to sing in it. I have often sung in cathedrals in Scotland, Glasgow, Paisley and St Giles in Edinburgh, so to sing in a Norwegian one was always going to be a thrill.

The Norwegians are extremely keen on choirs. As singing in a choir seems as natural to me as breathing, I can’t imagine not being in one so I pretended I could understand enough Norsk to follow the choir master and joined a couple. Yikes, they’re good. Really good. You have to keep your wits about you if you don’t want to show yourself up as a total eejit.

Every Christmas a choir is pulled together to sing for an ecumenical service in Stavanger Domkirke for the large international community of this city. It is a great occasion with a palpable sense of history. The congregation is awash with people from around the world, mostly expat employees and their families, but some of us are refugees and asylum seekers. We are brought together in a manner that only displacement, whether chosen or forced, can do. And we are not all Christians either...there are Jews, Muslims, Hindus, Sikhs, agnostics and atheists there, all under one roof that was built almost 900 years ago when the people of this land could still feel Viking blood running through their veins.

Such events are enough to fill the most despondent of hearts with hope. So while I deafen the neighbours with a quick rendition of ‘Somewhere over the Rainbow’, like Sigurd and Reinald, I’ll continue to dare to dream. Wherever you are and whatever you are doing, I hope you have a peaceful and blessed Easter.

UNSPEAKABLY NORSK THING - FIRST SKIER

So who was she?

We don’t know her name of course, and it’s true, she could have been a man, but there’s a fifty-fifty chance, I’d say, she was a woman. Still, the oldest evidence of a skier is known as ‘The Rodøy Man’, a 4000 year old rock carving of a human skiing. So, the first skier was probably a Norwegian of one sex or the other. Prior to this earth-bound person, we have to resort to Norse mythology where there was both a God of skiing, Ull, and a Goddess of skiing, Skade. Skade, being female, was obviously a multi-tasker so covered hunting as well.

The second famous human skier, a kind of pioneer of the sport , was indeed a man, Sondre Norheim. In the middle of the 19th century, Sondre was an eccentric young farmer from the remote hamlet of Morgedal in the Telemark region of Norway. Until relatively recently, some areas of Telemark were impenetrable except on skis, so naturally, anyone who lived around there needed planks attached to their feet to go about their daily business. Sondre thought he might as well liven things up by making the pedestrian irritations of Telemark farming into a fun-filled sport. He invented a ski binding firm enough to give the foot some control over the ski, and then he got out his Swiss Army knife and experimented with the shape of the ski itself.

Being a young lad, he wanted to ‘take air’ and generally ponce about in the manner of present-day snow-boarders. He and his mates came up with new ways of turning, stopping, and landing from airborne flights off rooftops. (You can just imagine all their Mums, up to their waists in snow having rushed out from cooking an elk’s leg over the fire, going, ‘I’ve told you before, it’ll all end in tears. Can’t you do something useful around here? I don’t know...these boys....when will they ever grow up?) By 1868, Sondre and his pals had grown up and skied the 112 miles to Christiania (Oslo) just to show off.

It was a triumph. Crowds of posh folk in Christiania turned out to watch the ‘peasant’ skiers and applaud their skill. The city-dwellers had never seen anything like it, and instantly appreciated how much fun could be derived from this crazy-mad-peasant behaviour. Before long the Telemark skiers had established the world’s first ski school in Oslo, and a huge ski-jumping competition at Husaby on the edge of the city.

If Sondre Norheim had been a farmer back in the Middle Ages, he would probably have used one ski that was almost 3 metres long, while the other was a shorter one covered with animal skins to allow him to go uphill. Not that cool. By 1700 he’d be on skis that were the same length, but he’d have been way too busy avoiding starvation to bother making all this gear into anything resembling a sport. Luckily he was born at the right time, just when the population was in need of a bit of a laugh. He ended up moving to America and living very quietly on a farm where nobody knew anything about his importance in the history of skiing.

There’s been a revival of interest in Telemark skiing in recent years. Originally just one pole was used and occasionally I have seen purists skiing like this. I cannot begin to express my admiration....apart from the fact they wear great clothes, Telemark is exceptionally difficult and even harder on the old knees than normal skiing.

But it is quite the most elegant sport I ever saw.

UNSPEAKABLY NORSK THING - GOING DOWNHILL

There seems to be some discussion in the mountains of the European Continent right now as to whom it was that first introduced the fabulous sport of Alpine skiing to the Alps. The Norwegians (born with skis on their feet, remember) think they did, but the Brits might have, while the French probably think they did. A spot of digging has been required.

In the latter part of the 19th century the British middle classes were about the wealthiest in Europe. Their comfortable life-style caused them to travel, to seek adventure and thrill, and they soon discovered the clear air of the Alps was enormously invigorating. As time went on, Chamonix was a particular favourite amongst British climbers and from the endeavours of these guys, a favourite haunt became a desirable spot for other tourists.

Meanwhile, the Norwegians had discovered Chamonix too, and thoroughly enjoyed the bountiful snow it provided for their cross-country skiing and ski jumping.

But two Brits arrived in Chamonix who rather put the downhill cat amongst the cross-country pigeons. Two public school boys with a thirst for speed and adventure showed up and instead of going horizontal, they pointed their skis down the Alp instead. Considering the remarkable shape of an Alp, it seems like a ‘no-brainer’ these days, but in the 1920s this was considered flippant foolery.

Sir Arnold Lunn (as in the travel firm Lunn Poly) was the main ‘inventor’ and promoter of this downhill lark, and his accomplice in trying to make the world see this was a proper sport was Sir Arthur Ignatius Conan Doyle (yes, the writer himself). A Scot, Sir Arthur had been born in Edinburgh into an Irish-Catholic family. By the time he went skiing with Lunn, he had made his name, which was rather handy for Lunn.

At first the Norwegians were rather cross about these ignorant Brits tinkering with their sport. They used to suggest that downhill was for people too cowardly to jump, and too feeble to do cross-country. One Norwegian was said to have remarked, ‘how would you like it if an Eskimo changed the rules of cricket?’ Since he was not a huge fan of cricket, Lunn’s answer implied that it might be an improvement.

However, very soon the Norwegians and everyone else in Chamonix at the time, realised downhill did, after all, require a certain amount of skill and was not just a soft option. Immediately the Norwegians became mind-blowingly good. By 1936 Lunn had succeeded in introducing Alpine skiing to the Winter Olympics.

Somehow it seems a rather typically British story...invent a sport, make sure it’s accepted by the rest of the world, and then never win it. Rugby, football, golf, cricket, curling and bob-sleigh.....I could go on, but the list is too irritatingly long.

UNSPEAKABLY NORSK THING - TRAILER SPOTTING

I meant to talk about trailers yesterday, but I was diverted by a passing elk. I suppose it was the elk’s head that had started it off, so fair enough, but ever since then I have developed a curious obsession with trailers and their contents. I do hope this habit will wear off eventually, laden as it is with a train-spotterish flavour of anorakdom. But right now it’s still going strong.

Norway’s cities are currently emptying as at least half of the population heads off for an Easter holiday. A sizeable section of pleasure-seekers has gone abroad, while a far greater proportion has opted for staying within the country to ski. Inevitably, many folk are hytte-bound, and this, I suspect, is the reason for the superfluity of trailers currently whizzing around on the roads.

There are two aspects to this that have inspired my Trailer Spotting habit. Firstly, I am amazed at the sheer number of trailers. A decent trailer is not a flippant piece of kit...it requires space to store, a tow-bar on one’s vehicle (not a cheap item here) and no end of gadgets in order to make it road-worthy, safe and legal. None-the-less, a trailer seems to have reached the elevated status of a designer accessory. There are people with trailer-envy, you know.

Secondly, I am stunned at the skill of those driving these things. In Scotland, on farms, it is a sort of ‘coming-of-age’ thing to be able to reverse a tractor with a trailer (usually loaded with muck) through a narrow gate. I can’t claim to have enjoyed unlimited success in this area (I’m only admitting this for the purposes of this piece....I have no wish to prolong the boring argument about women drivers, reversing and spatial awareness, thank you). Driving a trailer is not exactly a piece of ‘kake’ as they say here. In Norway there are endless kilometres of narrow roads with a scarcity of passing places, which inevitably means the trailer-driver has to be skilled at reversing. And most of them are...I enjoyed a splendid moment in a ferry queue when a Norwegian was required to reverse his trailer down a concrete slope and then up a steep gang-plank onto a ferry, and into a miniscule space between two lorries. He did it effortlessly at astonishing speed and without flinching. I was quite cross that the queue of watching motorists didn’t burst into enthusiastic applause.

I have seen trailers with trees, logs, lavatories, generators, engines, furniture and actual kitchen sinks. I have witnessed pianos sailing along the motorway, whole collections of bicycles, windsurfers, pieces of boat, whole boats, and prawn-filled tanks. I have even spotted an entire hytte, pre-assembled and shining, sitting on top of a trailer ready for transport to a new site (it may have been a ‘Wendy-hytte’ but it was an adult-sized one). But my favourite example was a trailer with an absolute belter of a rock in it, a monster boulder clearly destined for a more worthy location than wherever the Ice Age had inconveniently dumped it. I noticed Obelix was driving.

But my favourite Trailer Spotting experience took place one wild, dark night. Despite strong wind and pelting rain, the inclement weather could not deter two Norwegian blokes from standing around in their driveway happily admiring their trailer. They were almost ecstatic. There was a large object in the trailer, a motor-bike perhaps, a mammoth tree stump or a stuffed bear...who could tell, hidden as it was beneath a flapping tarpaulin. The two guys, fully attired for a deep-sea fishing trip as usual, wandered around the trailer joyfully twanging various ropes, fondling straps and buckles and yelling ‘kjempe flott’ (absolutely marvellous) into the darkness. Pigs in their proverbial didn’t have a look in – these guys were in heaven.

Somehow, we have managed to survive without a trailer, but at least my Trailer Spotting has helped me to understand the attraction. How else are we meant to transport that folding canoe?