Cara and Bruce climb Ben Nevis

The following is a photo montage of our attempt to climb Ben Nevis, Britain's highest peak.

OK, so it wasn't quite that bad, but we still didn't make it to the top. Still, we had a fine walk the day before. Pictures of "The Ben" to follow.

Norway

Given the kind of things the Norwegians like to eat, it's wise to be cautious, particularly if the food you're about to taste is called "Rommegrot." It wouldn't be unreasonable to assume this translates into something like "rotted whale snot." This is Cara eating Rommegrot, which we bought from a cheery grandmother at a Trondheim farmer's market. It turns out that Rommegrot is a very tasty dish of soured cream, butter and sugar. They don't measure this stuff in calories, but in kilojoules of energy. They power cities on it.

Our reason for being in Trondheim was to board a charming coastal ferry called the Hurtigruten. Put on your best Swedish Chef voice and pronounce this like you're doing your best to make fun of the Norwegians. You still won't make it sound funny enough. That's Norway for you: they think they're vikings, but they're not. They're Muppets. The coastal Norwegians are fond of the Hurtigruten since it's cute and it delivers them the mail. For tourists, the Hurtigruten delivers superb views of the Norwegian coastline, though this is really just a preview of Norway's best scenery.

We spent two days hiking in Bergen. A steep well-paved mountain path leaves from the edge of the city and takes you within a couple of hours to some astonishing views.

There's always a cat to make friends with in every place we visit. This one joined us at picnic lunch in Bergen. When he saw we weren't sharing, he popped into the bushes and returned a few minutes later with his own, still kicking, lunch which he sat down to eat in front of us. Very companionable.

What a party!

The fellow in the photo looks like he's just stepped out of Faroe Island Fantasy: Buffet and Exhibition. He hasn't, though; he's just some guy standing in a doorway having a smoke. On St. Olaf's day, almost all of the Faroe Islanders put these traditional costumes on and wander around town. They don't do anything, in particular; they just hang out looking fantastic.

Actually, they mostly wander around pushing prams. The Faroe Islands are remote, cold, wet and, from a teenager's perspective, pretty dull. Nevertheless, despite being a population exporter, the Faroese seem to be breeding like rabbits. Everywhere you look is a couple barely out of their mid-twenties already towing two or three children. It's clearly a robust culture.

St. Olaf's day is a blast. It begins with rowing races in the harbour and then, like a virus, the fun spreads into town, and by late afternoon the streets are packed with drunk Faroese. They look so elegant in their tailored costumes, but they're all pissed--even the ones pushing the prams. On every street corner is a different band: brass bands, rock bands, folk bands and Salvation Army bands, all blaring away at the same time.


The Faroese don't do any of this for tourists. They are largely oblivious to our presence, and will not acknowledge our desperate, though timid, attempts to ingratiate ourselves. Even though we wander around town nodding and smiling like bobble-head dolls, no-one will flirt with us. I grow so shy that I stop trying to take proper photographs and just start shooting from the hip at anything that seems interesting.