Norwegian family holiday

 Norwegian family holiday.

Summertime holidays with friends and families used to be about landing in warm, exotic locations and discovering that, much to our horror, our hotels overlooked building sites and cement mixers. Then we found that the toilets were never working properly, the water was just foul, undrinkable and potentially poisonous and the food was just repulsively unpalatable and simply unadventurous.

Way back in the early 1970s, my late and wonderful mum and dad introduced my brother and yours truly to the wondrous, if yet be conquered Iberian peninsula of Spain, a country that remained so romantically elusive that none of us could have dreamt as within our price range given the standard of living at the time. But we did and it was off the Costa Brava plains, gallons of sangria, plentiful platefuls of paellas and an evening spent with the local bullfighter before knocking back a skinful of  the local alcoholic produce. 

But for the last week or so my wonderfully loving family and our grandson shared in the scenic and idyllic delights of Norway, a country so breathtakingly picturesque that you could hardly believe what you were watching. For as long as any of us can remember, Norway has never been mentioned in any scandalous moment of news gossip, very little in the way of political controversy and just immaculately polite and well mannered if anybody spoke to them. For seven days the Norwegians were doing it again, perfect and genial hosts to British tourists even though there were few conversations between us. 

When anybody mentioned Norway to any of us personally, you were transported back to that famous World Cup qualifying football match between Norway and England in 1981. Under the shrewd and knowledgeable guidance of manager Ron Greenwood, England were expected to win by at least a cricket score. But, when the final whistle went for the game, the Norwegians had sensationally beaten their so called footballing superiors and a particularly partisan and impassioned Norwegian commentator waxed lyrical about England's Lord Nelson, Lady Diana and Margaret Thatcher being given a substantial thrashing. England should have been deeply ashamed of itself. 

And yet to those who probably felt there was something too bland and uninspiring about Norway to warrant anything in the way of poetic prose, this proved the complete opposite. How wrong were they? Of course there is nothing could be described as culturally uplifting about the country because the lush countryside probably speaks volumes for it. We all did a fair amount of wandering and roaming among the gloaming as a family and there was a a never a dull moment so nothing mattered apart from family.

Our P and O cruise ship itself was the model of exemplary construction, craftsmanship and engineering. It was a vast floating city -cum hotel of the highest five star quality. Wherever you looked, there were those typically elegant marble and spiralling staircases on one of the many floors within the vessel itself. There were the upright pillars and columns, a Hollywood style lighting display glittering from all of those very opulent ceilings. 

We sailed to Stavanger for our first port of call and began our walking journeys among the lush hills and handsomely verdant forests tucked together neatly, huddling together for company. Then there were the meandering paths and crashing, cascading waterfalls that seemed to fall from a great height ecstatically. It was hard to imagine a more pleasant and more life affirming spectacle. Above us loomed zig zagging, undulating mountain ranges that reminded you of the Swiss Alps. This was Europe in a nutshell. Norway had excelled itself once again.

On our next leg of the cruise we paid an all too fleeting visit to charming Olden, another suburb within a suburb of shimmering rivers, placid fjords, world famous geysers  and lakes and some of the most stunning looking chalets you've ever seen. Olden consisted largely of those lovely gabled Swiss chalets with triangular shaped terracotta roofs that seemed to go on for ever. There was a Nordic neatness and order about Olden that has to be highly recommended from all quarters. Your eyes were caressed with the enduring beauty of your surroundings.

On leaving one of our ports of call we were waved away from the quayside with the most respectful farewells. It was somehow typical of a nation that had also suffered so awfully at the hands of the Nazi murderers and savage terrorists during the Second World War. The capital city of Oslo and then Trondheim were brutally attacked by the German killing machines and the country was just devastated by the impact of Hitler's heinous henchmen.

But what we all saw was a country that had been at such peace with itself and comfortable in its modern identity that you would never have fought that any country could have lifted a finger against them. Nowadays, Norway just minds its business and never interferes in any kind of military battle. Every so often the country gets all excited at  regular and good natured Viking confrontations in some remote Nordic harbour where the helmets will clash light heartedly and much laughter will just explode from all points of the compass. And then they'll drink moderate glasses of Norwegian lager before shaking hands almost honourably and slumping their heads on their pillows to sleep.

We then headed for Hellesyt, an even smaller corner of Norway that looked so gentle, humble and unobtrusive that you would never have known it was there had not somebody pointed it out. By now, the darker clouds had gathered and the weather was both overcast and dull for much of the day. But no, oh not again. Not that old chestnut of the global weather patterns of the world. We knew it would rain in Norway because George Orwell had once mentioned it in his well informed meteorological assessment of the country. But then Orwell was a bit of a know it all, both a learned essayist and scholar so who were we to argue with him? 

But as we made our way around Hellesyt, rain just seemed too predictable for words. You can remember faint shafts of sunlight peeping through the glowering clouds above us but then went back into hiding. It was a source of much frustration and this was a self fulfilling prophecy. And yet who cared because this was our golden family holiday with my lovely wife Bev, our kids, our wonderful son and daughter in law, Sam and Lucy, our King Arthur, our beautiful daughter Rachel and her brilliant boyfriend Lior.

We had breakfasted together, lunched together, drunk and ate merrily, laughed and joked in harmony, revelled in ukelele players or banjo musicians of the highest order, dancers and singers performing at the peak of their exceptional talents. We were once again reminded of the remarkable entertainment that cruise ships had always guaranteed us. This was an evening of showbusiness cabaret style that reached the loftiest dimensions.

And then sadly and forgettably there was the last visit on our whistle stop tour of Norway with a brief excursion to Haugesund. Now it was that yours truly went missing and fell sick with what must have seemed to be a bug that confined me to bed. What you didn't miss was a day of torrential downpour and the distant sight of gloomy looking shipyards and cargo freighters that just disappeared into a sweeping carpet of rain.

But this was a holiday to remember, a holiday to treasure, watching the next baby steps of our delightful grandson Arthur, smiling at his every movement and development, his every smile, that tentative standing on his two feet, the sparkle in his eyes, the animation and the exuberant eagerness to explore, before crawling at lightning pace again and lifting our hearts once again. These are the magical moments that any parent or grandparent could ever hope to experience. We arrived back in Southampton glowing with lifelong memories. Thankyou Norway.