Post-museum sustenance comes in the shape of a ‘polse’; billed in the guide books as a ‘typical Norwegian snack’, it’s a hotdog. Having tried various cafés in search of one, we’re directed to the Norwegian equivalent of WHSmith, a newsagent essentially, where we choose a version with bacon wrapped about it and pay a fiver for the privilege.
Harald Sohlberg ‘Efter Snestorm’ (1903). Oil on canvas. Nasjonalgalleriet, Oslo.
Dabbing the mustard from our mouths, we figure a bit of culture is in order and make our way a block over from the history museum to the National Gallery. This is a real treat, with thirty-odd rooms, none too big, largely covering Norwegian artists but with several old masters gracing its walls. What’s interesting is seeing the Norwegians adopt nearly every prevailing movement going, only these are artists I’d never heard of. Other than the Munch Room, which included The Scream – or one of them, at least – I’m really rather taken by the landscapes of Dahl, Gude and Sohlberg. It stands to reason when you think about it, considering Norway’s geography – it’s an artist’s dream.
The best way to discover any city is to be taken to places by people that live there and that evening our dining partners, old university friend’s of Nick’s, suggest Delicatessen, a popular tapas eatery, and then on to Bar Boca, a tiny, cosy backstreet bar for a nightcap or three where we’re graced by Richard, a black tie-bedecked Englishman, entertaining us with crooning classics. It’s an insight into the city we would otherwise have missed.
A distinct plan for the following day is immediately thwarted when our way to Aker Brugge (for a ferry to the Viking ships museum) is blocked by our not being able to get around the Akerhuis fortress. This, however, becomes quite a find when it transpires this is the home of the Resistance Museum, a real treat for the WW2-keen historians we are. The fortress compound is beautiful in the afternoon light, the low sun broken through the trees, sparkling off the snow. It affords some great views of the Aker wharf, too. The tardis-like museum is absolutely fantastic, giving a comprehensive view of Norway’s involvement in the war, littered with evidence and artefacts and even models of key attacks during the Nazi invasion. It’s a part of the war I was very unfamiliar with and this was a fascinating insight, with some real attention to detail with the exhibits.
That diversion, though, takes too long and we have to forego Ibsen’s house, alas, in order to make it to the Viking ships museum, a bus ride away on the Bygdoy peninsula. Simple as it is by way of information and, for that matter, exhibits – it literally contains three ships and part of their cargo – it is impressive seeing these boats in such proximity and it does give one’s imagination a fair ride. One wouldn’t have thought three boats would elicit much attention but we’re then pressed for a hasty ride back to the hotel for a quick turnaround before meeting Andre, Norway’s premiere food critic – the Arbuturian’s connection seems everywhere! – for a drink. It may be -19 out there but the Norwegians know a thing or two about dress and as we meet in the foyer of the Continental his dapper appearance immediately shows up our tourist attire and I question whether we’ll even be let in in jeans and ski jackets. He must think so, too, and with the excuse that there aren’t any tables at the hotel bar he’s bundling us outside and into the nearby Ovo bar/grill which, it transpires, he used to run during his cheffing days.
He’s an intriguing fellow; restaurant critic for VG, Norway’s leading tabloid, he wastes no time in telling us he’s his country’s equivalent of AA Gill. Self-effacement aside he’s great company and his experience of the UK scene substantiates his stories (front of house at the Savoy, Michel Roux and Ramsay are among his credits) and, more’s the point, his presence is enough to get Nick and I a table in an otherwise fully-booked venue. A fine meal of chilli and coriander prawns followed by Sander and chorizo – briefly interrupted by Nick giving his girlfriend plumbing advice over the phone to fix a stopcock over the phone – wraps up the day nicely.
To conclude our Oslo stint, we venture towards Oslo Mekaniske, a bar not far from the main station recommended by Nick’s friends the previous evening. From what feels like a wild goose chase into a less than salubrious part of town, we find it and rejoice in a beer at this wonderfully unkempt venue. A stark contrast to Ovo, indeed Andre described it as a ‘working men’s club’, it’s a welcome one nevertheless; a cavernous place with exposed brickwork (being, I imagine, unfinished as opposed to an aesthetic decision) and bric-a-brac furniture it’s designed for socialising and conviviality and we pass our final evening feeling very much part of the action.
Following an ‘early bird’ breakfast at 6am – tempered by an Amazonian blonde in an air force uniform who turned every male head in the room – we retraced our steps to the station, this time in daylight, passing the stunningly modern opera house and it made me think how little we did in spite of seeing so much. The (marginally) cheaper train back to the airport would this time take us on to the next stage, into the Arctic Circle and the main event of this Norwegian adventure: Tromso.
