When tackling a new task, it always pays to think twice. Check. Then double check. A wise adage. Like the Green Cross Code, it’s better to be safe than sorry.
Today’s route holds an unwelcome surprise. We leave Furøy with the same cloudy hangover hovering above. Kestrel-like. Searching out any unsuspecting prey. We ignore it. Refuse to let it get its talons into us. Don’t let it dampen our spirits. These are the days we put to good use. Eat up some of the black stuff. Although it’s mainly grey stuff over here.
What do the Norwegians do when a road meets an immovable object? Tunnel. Through mountain and fjord. Each route is littered with them. Hardly surprising. Norway has over 1,200. [tunnels] Some just a few hundred metres. Others go on for kilometres. Most poorly lit and narrow. Headlights make little impact. Sometimes, when an extra-wide load is on the move, an advance vehicle blocks off oncoming traffic before it can enter the tunnel. Radios back the all clear.
Mrs S dreads meeting the many juggernauts that steam through, all lights blazing. She feels far too close to the firing line.
From here-on-in, the day brightens. Becomes one of the warmest of this trip. It’s touching 15C. Feels like 20C. No wind. Time to take time out. Relax. Take in the magnificent 360 view along this Helgeland coastline. Islands, mountains, fjords. A perfect combination. Soul refreshing.
Reluctantly, we say goodbye to this idyllic spot. Bardal Camping is still a minute spec on the out of sight horizon. A little further though, curiosity gets the better. Around the corner, Grønsvik Coastal Fort looms. Lying dead, but not buried. Its multiple gun emplacements perfectly positioned to cover the sea lanes and archipelago during WWII.
We try to fathom how the Germans were able to conduct a war on so many fronts, yet could also organise the building of a series of fortifications along the Atlantic Coastline. Stretching from the Pyrenees right up to the Arctic Circle. We discover that more than 350 forts were built along this rugged Norwegian coast. Soviet and Polish POWs put to task here.
When planning today’s route, Mr S forgot the golden rule. Leaves this afternoon’s navigation duties with blind and dumb Hoo-Ha-Henry. All ferry crossings are technically part of the numbered road system. Henry is not sophisticated enough to differentiate. He’s not Ai. Not even A-minus. Gets a D-minus. Along with Mr S, who didn’t double check. Physical road 17 suddenly runs out. No warning. A surprising dead-end at Nesna quay. Beastie hasn’t packed his water-wings. A queue of cars patiently wait for the next ferry. We join them. Not quite as patiently. It’s our third of the day. One frustrating extra hour added to an already long day.
Mrs S sympathetically remarks “Ah well, it’s a good lesson to have learned”. Doesn’t realise Mr S hasn’t packed his measuring tape . . .
POWs yes but mainly slave labour worked to death I believe.
Of course without doubt