BERGEN TO OSLO: THE FJORDS OF NORWAY
It's magic hour.
The water's gleaming, golden and soft, sleeping beneath the gliding boats.
You’d want to pet the mountains. Furry with moss and verdant thickets, like vertical bogs brushing against your soul.
Twisting and turning through the fjords, you wait. You listen. Only the sound of birds and cruise ships, engines humming low against a dull groan of metal.
With every turn, a new surprise. Another mountain looms into view. Taller and wider. Coming more often now.
In an instant, it’s there. Water falling at incredible speeds. Thundering down the rocky mountainside, frothing into the pools below. Sinking, crashing, gushing water.
Bright red wooden barns, paint saturating against the grass below. Reds and greens and yellows pop along the water.
TINY CHURCH BELLS FOR TINY FLOCKING SHEEP.
The fjord widens and you approach the dock, embarking on a brand new mystery, faint whistling in the distance.
Snow-capped mountains, the chug-chug of a train in the wind.
Pulling your sweater tight, adventure calls again.