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.