Always on Tyne.

Not New Church.

Newcastle, England – I hopscotch, trying to not step onto tombstones.

Several set into the Newcastle Cathedral floor date back to the 15th and 16th centuries – 400 or so years after the church was founded. 

Their carvings have been softened by countless people literally stepping through history. 

Today, several people are tucked into sleeping bags in the corners, stained glass painting them in blinks of colour. It’s the only cathedral in England whose patron saint is St. Nicholas, who, in addition to bringing presents to children, apparently protects sailors and boats.

A list of every church organist since 1508 hangs from one of the pillars, which is astounding. The place is a virtual history book hewn from stone, marble and glass.

And yet, it’s a bit of an anachronism.

Soft light flickers from a large multimedia display that provides history lessons about the town's rogues through the ages.

And an inflatable dragon stands, grinning, in the middle of the floor.

Kept.

The new view.

Newcastle, England – The train doors open with a shiver of damp, grey chill.

Somehow, 12 degrees here is far cooler than the eight we enjoyed under the Arctic sun.

Rain caught up to us as we climbed the steep, smoothed stairs of the city’s namesake new castle, which was nearly demolished in the 1840s to make way for trains. Instead, the tracks carved through the walls, between the Black Gate and the keep. I’m glad they kept it.

Despite the monochrome day, views from the top were well worth the ascent.

But, we need to warm up.

Stepping into Grainger Market is like entering a time capsule. When it opened in 1835, it was the largest covered market in Europe.

Cut to the chase.

It’s still home to the world’s smallest Marks and Spencer's – the last remaining Penny Bazaar – whose burgundy and gold storefront has been painstakingly maintained since the store opened in 1895. Many of the newer shops share a similar aesthetic, sporting hand-painted lettering over curved glass.

A wok sizzles. We're greeted by shifting aromas of curry, flowers, shaving cream and fish. Vintage clothing shops take you back....all the way to the 1990s.

The market is a simple joy to walk through.

Its warmth is about far more than temperature.

Close Call.

Trust me, I'm not a church.

Edinburgh, Scotland – A Gothic spire rises from the heart of the Royal Mile like a singed needle.

Striking red shutters hang from it like jewels, which seems incongruous for an old church.

Except it’s neither particularly old, nor a church.

Built in the mid-19th century, the Hub is now a public arts and events space cloaked as a house of worship. It was constructed as a meeting hall for the Church of Scotland, and has hosted congregations over the years, but was never actually consecrated.

It still feels weird to sip beer in the courtyard.

Advocate's Close.

Initially unable to find tickets to Edinburgh Castle, we wandered the length of the mile to the Palace of Holyroodhouse, the official residence of the British monarch in Scotland. Naturally, it’s closed on Tuesdays and Wednesdays. 

Back uphill.

With each creaky step, centuries of history whisper to me through the many closes that branch off like fish bones. But I also feel – far too closely – the present. Crowds jostle past in the heat as they inch up the cobblestone road, which is stitched with countless tourist shops offering scotch, colourful wools and tweeds.

It’s a different version of close.

Mid-way, some good news. A bus tour provider sells us tickets to the castle, which looms above, perched on the edge of an extinct volcano – people have lived on this rock for at least 3,000 years. It’s a steep walk up to the iconic structure, which is braced by multiple layers of defences.

Top of the rock.

I can’t imagine making the trek in armour, let alone with arrows and cannon firing around me. And at me.

We’re rushed through a thick safe door and past the Scottish Crown Jewels, then to a small room where Mary Queen of Scots gave birth to her son, James, who would eventually unite the British and Scottish crowns, in 1603. 

Forlorn school groups mope in queue.

In the prison, we find graffiti scratched onto the walls and doors. Some of it dates back to the 1700s, including one of the earliest depictions of the American flag. Some things never change.

At 4 p.m., our first rain of the entire trip. 

Stone gargoyles become fountains, spitting on us from overhead. Time to pop into the Ensign Ewart for a dram and a pint.

After all, there has been a pub here since 1680.

Kilty Pleasures.

Scotch on the rocks.

Kirkwall, Scotland – Fog rolls in fast, like an early cinema reel.

For an hour, history fades into nature, only to be re-illuminated by yet another day of sun. This isn’t the Scotland I’ve heard so much about.

Having similarly faded into history, the Bishop’s and Earl’s Palaces stand as hollow sheaves of their former grandeur. The former was built in the 1100s – no wonder its ruins are dark, cold and empty. Long open to the elements, only whispers of ornate stonework remain around the fireplaces in the grand hall.

Stone ribs are all that remain of the two buildings.

Across the street, a massive, red sandstone structure looms over the city. It's far more intact.

A little dead out this morning.

Dating back to the same time, St Magnus Cathedral is both the oldest cathedral in Scotland and the northernmost in the United Kingdom. Now a parish church of the Presbyterian Church of Scotland, it’s technically no longer a cathedral. 

Semantics.

Following tiny Medieval roads that spread out like spider webs, we're greeted by the golden aroma of fry grease. A chippie is a must.

Leaning against a stone wall in the alley, we tuck into into a tray of glistening fish and chips from the Happy Haddock. A fried ball of haggis comes in a paper bag. 

It's my first, and gummier and more seasoned than I had imagined.

A Dark Island Reserve from Orkney Brewery washes it down.

Haggis and a scotch barrel-aged beer – Scottish enough for you?

Where's my kilt?

No Words.

Rolling, rolling Shetland.

 

Huffin' and Puffin.

Pony, Pony.

Shetland, Scotland – Stepping to the fence, we’re greeted by a small snort.

More of a sniffle, really.

While much shorter, Shetland ponies are a little like Fabio: extremely strong, with long, flowing manes. No, they're not what Shetland sweaters are made of.

Single-lane roads carry us through stretches of peat, rock and the brightest greens I've ever seen. The landscape is a Tic-Tac-Toe board of crumbling foundations and lines of stone pressed into endless fences.

They could have been built at any point in history.

Neolithic. Bronze Age. Iron Age. Picts. Vikings. Romans. Or pretty much any other age you casually flip past in a history book – it's all here. At Jalshof, you can walk through 4,000 years of human settlement. An archaeologist's dream.

The island is history, wrapped in endless, rolling pastures.

Much of it has been scattered to the sheep.

Much ado about Puffin.

The hills are salt-and-peppered with thousands of them. Wool is strewn across the grass like dandelion fluff, providing pillows for countless dozing lambs, legs akimbo.

Heading south, the morning's shifting, moody greys give way to blue. A dozen Grey and Harbour seals take full advantage, sunning on the beach, seemingly pumped full of air.

We narrowly miss the gate closing for an incoming plane as we cross the Sumburgh Airport runway, which stretches across the road.

Arriving at the 200-year-old Sumburgh Head Lighthouse, we're greeted by a distinctive stench. It makes being out of breath from the hike up that much more unpleasant. 

Built atop 300-foot cliffs, the lighthouse is home to a nature reserve, where thousands of seabirds nest in the craggy rock. Guillemots whistle. Kittiwakes and Fulmars flip about, trying to get our attention.

But everyone's focused on the Puffins.

Ensnared.

Drumming up business.

Bodø, Norway – Church bells chime, their tinkles and dings giving rise to a five-minute song.

With a rumble, rows of women in bowler hats and black wool overcoats drum along. A clash of cymbals welcomes the Arctic sun.

We’ve followed 35 members of the Bodø Paradekorps from the city centre with unexpected excitement. Who had "parade" on their bingo cards?

I hadn't had high hopes for Bodø, which is nestled right above the Arctic circle and is far more modern than most Norwegian towns we've visited. It's not particularly beautiful, but large pieces of street art add splashes of colour.

A stark clock tower stands beside the concrete cathedral, as does the detached tower of town hall, which is linked only by a small bridge. It's like the crane never showed up. 

A spray of colour amidst the concrete.

At the harbour, young men teeter into a floating sauna. Another sells fresh shrimp from his boat.

Two large mesh fish greet us, mouths agape, as we stumble upon a pop-up art exhibition. A DJ blips and bloops. We clap politely during introductions, not understanding a word. We blend in like watercolours.

I’ve tucked my expectations of the town back into my pocket.

Bodø is, apparently, a European capital of culture for 2024 — the northernmost one ever. It seems there has been a “northernmost” of everything on this trip.

Add in a landscape hemmed in by towering mountains, and a sky that melts into a darker blue sea, and it has been a fantastic day.

Travel is so often about these unexpected moments and unforeseen experiences.

It's a reminder to keep an open mind, and to be willing to explore.

Thank you, Bodø.

Hearsestad.

Harstad, Norway – The blue line on our map blinks, guiding us on a five-kilometre hike through the town's neighbourhoods.

It's all uphill.

There's a peppermint chill to the air, but the sun is alight, dancing in and out of thin cloud.

A bell tolls.

This morning, a beige hearse is parked in front of Trondenes Church. Built of stone in 1435, it's the world's northernmost surviving Medieval building, let alone church. 

It stands simply in white, having no doubt grieved its share of funerals.

Inexplicably, people are vocally upset about being unable to go inside.

Leaving the grumble behind, we continue uphill in an attempt to see the massive Adolf Gun, which formed part of Hitler's Atlantic Wall – a 5,000-kilometre network of coastal defences stretching from France to the top of Norway.

With a range of 56 kilometres, the guns were the largest ever based on land.

It turns out trying to visit something on an active military base takes a bit more planning than we've done: there are no tickets available today.

Birds chirp, sounding like camera shutters. Ptarmigan? Perhaps they're photographing our dismay.

Closing the map, we find a far shorter route back, tracing the water and past overturned wooden fishing boats. Sunlight sparkles over snow-capped mountains.

It's not only infinitely more beautiful, it's flat.

It's The End Of The World As We Know It.

A long and winding road.

Nordkapp, Norway – The asphalt ribbon twists like my stomach as we weave around tight curves sewn into the mountains.

The road is worn from long winters.

It's a landscape I'd imagine being on the moon, but with a little more activity. It's surreal.

In desolation, beauty.

Searching for fresh growth, herds of white reindeer shed their camouflage in the dirty snow. Steep hills rise in mottled greens, browns and blacks. Somehow, cyclists and hikers push through the enormity.

We haven't seen civilization for 20 minutes.

Even then: a red house set onto a small, hilly island; a fishing boat standing steady amidst broken sheets of black ice. Sea birds, floating above small fjords.

At the end of the 30-kilometre drive from Honningsvåg stands the signature globe marking the northernmost point in continental Europe.

Not allowed to play reindeer games.

Except, it's actually not.

Never mind that Nordkapp is on an island, reaching Knivskjellodden requires additional steps north.

What’s an extra 4,760 feet between friends?

It's still the farthest north you can go by vehicle.

For 150 years, tourists have admired the midnight sun here and toasted the end of the world. To reach it, they had to climb the thousand-foot cliffs that fall into the union of the Norwegian and Barents seas below.

They earned their champagne.

Nordkapp's crown as farthest north may be ill-gotten, but its rugged beauty is undeniable. This has been an incredible day.

All that's left above us is Svalbard. Next stop: the North Pole.

Only 2,000 kilometres away.

In a Sound.

Not a sea day.

Honningsvåg, Norway – My reverie is shattered by the deep baritone of the ferry’s horn.

A motorcycle responds with a rev.

Echoes crash off zebra-striped mountains enveloping the sound, which provides sanctuary for the countless colourful boats anchored here this morning. Tall metal rods stand from their decks like matchsticks. 

The fish must be similarly silent today.

Despite having only 2,200 residents, Honningsvåg is considered the northernmost "city" in mainland Norway. Its painted homes are nestled into the rock, with backyards that cascade into the ones below. Snow fences are stitched onto the hills to protect them from heavy Arctic winters.

Capain Kirk.

It snowed only three days ago, and various pockets of water are still frozen over.

But, signs of spring: a mossy green canvas of lichen stretches out like fingers into the crevasses. At eight degrees, it's somehow still warm enough for short sleeves.

There's not much here, but sloped roads carry us to a white church that – apart from its green steeple – would seem to disappear in winter. 

Sort of like many organized religions in this day and age.

When occupying German forces retreated in 1944, they burnt Honningsvåg to the ground.

The Neo-Gothic church was the only building to survive.

Never Settle.

12:16 a.m.: still glowing.

Arctic Ocean – Midnight has ticked past without fanfare.

It's still bright enough to be mid-day.

A ball of bright orange bounces on the horizon, lighting up breaths of wispy cloud. The sun will dip no farther as we settle into the first of our 24-hour days.

It's seemingly more time to be alive, watching the cursive of the waves script the day's stories.

We're well above the Arctic Circle and the sun is warm, even if the wind is not. It's gorgeous in its barrenness.

Snow-capped mountains sketch a horizon crimped in black and white, set above a vast pile of blue crepe paper.

It's surreal enough to be a diorama. 

Coronation Street.

An Olav branch.

Trondheim, Norway – Nidaros Cathedral looms over the centre of Trondheim.

And over the country’s history.

Built atop the grave of St. Olav, between 1070-1300, Nidaros was an important pilgrimage for Northern Europeans during the Middle Ages. For centuries more, kings were crowned within its walls.

This morning, the cathedral's massive rose window sparkles in the sun, a kaleidoscope shimmering from its petals.

Between light and darkness.

As I look up, I'm awed by the the rebuilt west front, which is faced by brownish-grey stonework as intricate as lace. Fifty-seven statues stand like chess pieces, severe countenances etched upon their faces.

In a twist, the one topping the north-west tower is modeled after Bob Dylan. 

By the nineteenth century, Nidaros was a crumbling shell of itself, having been destroyed by fire, decay and neglect. Restoration continues today.

By all accounts, Trondheim itself is a phoenix. 

The former national capital has been rebuilt multiple times following massive fires, including one in 1651 that reduced 90 per cent of it to cinders. Today, the wooden wharf of Bakklandet is tinted by the yellows and reds of the bird’s feathers.

Dwarfed.

Throughout Trondheim, bridges seem to serve as braces, holding together a town straddling past and future.

An old crane looms like a steel robot, its hook arm hanging languidly, out of work.

Amidst the buzzing of drills, old shipbuilding yards are fading into condos, hotels and restaurants. Monuments to the town’s nautical history rust alongside dry docks that haven’t been embraced in years. Brick walls have been scrubbed of their pasts.

Trondheim: being born yet again.

Waving Goodbye.

Can't believe what I sea.

Ålesund, Norway – Green dragon scales rise from the Norwegian Sea as we slip past the mouth of Geirangerfjord.

Grizzled molars capped with snow snarl in the backdrop. But a ball of blue surrounds it all.

Behind us, smooth ribs ripple through the water as we head out into the open sea. The warm air breathes lightness into my shoulders.

I couldn't write this beauty.

It's a fairy tale.

Breathless.

An exercise in beauty.

Ålesund, Norway – With each step, my lungs embrace the clear, northern air – passionately and frequently, like young lovers.

My legs scream in a way my voice no longer can.

Climbing the 418 steps to the top of Mount Aksla isn’t particularly hard, but it’s steep enough after several days of inactivity. Perhaps I shouldn’t have taken them two-by-two. 

I’m told it’s easier now that many of the steps have been paved for The Amazing Race, which replaced many of the uneven stones.

As I reach the top, the panoramic views across the archipelago offer a salve for even the most ardent joint pain. It’s warmer than the advertised 10 degrees, and the views are unparalleled.

Petals, blown onto buildings.

The sky has stretched out in endless blue, draping itself over jagged mountains lined with snow like the stringy white hair of so many of those wandering around us. Colourful Art Nouveau buildings are set onto the canals like pointed candies.

Small boats exhale curves of white plume that waft over this important fishing port as we slouch into a picnic table for a pint at Molo Brew.

A jackdaw cries from the branch overhead. 

With nearly everything closed for Whit Monday, it’s one of the few sounds we hear.

Apart from a series of clinks, followed by“skål.”

The adventure is officially underway.

Burnt Out.

For whom the bell trolls.

Copenhagen, Denmark – Stepping into Freetown Christiania feels much like peeling away the multiple layers of faded posters affixed to the walls.

The sharp edge of history is still there, but it's mostly buried beneath changing times. 

And and it's vanishing quickly.

Founded by squatters in 1971 as an autonomous hippie commune, Christiania has endured its fair share of troubles, as one might expect from a community predicated on anarchy.

Just last month, the infamous Pusher Street – home to the so-called 'Green Light District,' where illegal drugs were openly sold – was torn up, its cobblestones tucked into the corner of a construction site. A sign tells visitors that violent gangs forced the community to take action.

Skating by.

Soon, a new apartment complex will take its place.

And yet, a definite vibe still twists through the marijuana smoke. 

Mostly, it's a visceral feeling that something is different. Rough buildings and a skate park are made up in bright graffiti. Faded hippies twirl in the grass. Paintings of cameras in red circles still warn you of where you’re actually allowed to take photographs. 

It's hard to imagine anywhere being off-limits now.

Amidst the presumed chaos, there's a hipster coffee shop and several food trucks. An outdoor market sells flowing elephant pants you'd find at any North American music festival. Late-stage capitalism has entered the chat.

It seems anarchy becomes impractical with maturity.

The vibe itself has become an anachronism. Seemingly existing between two states – figuratively and literally – Christinia's time as it was once imagined seems now to have passed. And I'm not sure that's necessarily a bad thing.

But I'm certainly glad I got to see it – and feel it – before the final poster was peeled away and replaced by a shiny glass building.

A Great Dane.

Become a star flyer at Tivoli.

Copenhagen, Denmark – Obscured behind the tall walls of Tivoli Gardens, rides whirl like the flip of a poodle skirt caught in the breeze.

The Star Flyer climbs steadily, twisting as would a spider ascending to the heavens.

At one end stands a mountain of fibreglass, its tip dipped in white. The stiff flag at its peak points to the north. Opened in 1843, Tivoli is the third-oldest amusement park in the world.

The oldest is only 10 minutes away.

Rather than go inside, we sit on a green box edging the sidewalk and eat a pølser wrapped in bacon, painted with remoulade and topped with a sprinkle of crispy onions. It’s the extent of our carnival today.

But it’s a (very) good one. Even the late Anthony Bourdain raved. Yes, about a hotdog.

Anyone have a corkscrew?

So I sit with shoulders shrugged, hopeful the sunshine will erase the grogginess that comes with having been plied into an airplane seat that doubles as a straitjacket. It has been a long day of travel and we’re hanging on by an eyelash for our limited time in Copenhagen.

The only clouds are in my head, but exhaustion still feels like wool, tucked above my temples.

It’s a national holiday in Denmark and others obviously feel better than we do. For Constitution Day, they walk along the various canals, well-dressed in white with Danish flag ribbons stuck to their chests. 

Many swing open bottles of wine.

Although we typically walk everywhere, we maximize the value of our 24-hour transit passes by taking water taxis around the city, including to the Little Mermaid and the lesser-known Genetically Modified Little Mermaid. Flags rattle against silent masts, pinned to the harbour. 

Nyhavn: a box of crayons.

We pass long lines of people tanning casually along the shore and among Nyhavn's wood and plaster structures, which groove in shifts of bright colours. Most are more than 350 years old. 

Sunlight offers a bright, white exclamation mark that cascades on indifferent ripples in the water.

Turning the corner, a small boat pops out from under a shallow bridge, a table set at its centre. A bottle of wine stands sentry.

I could get used to this.