NOTE: The Norwegian language contains a lot of letters that are not on my keyboard. In most cases, I have typed in English without them.

Sunday, June 15th, 2025
Kristiansund, Norway to Sylte, Norway
Distance travelled 264 kilometres

Sunday morning dawned brightly and cheerfully in Kristiansund. I awoke much refreshed and very much looking forward to the day ahead. It would not be long before we finally set eyes on the bridges that were, ostensibly, the reason why we had travelled so far. They were less than forty kilometres from where we were and now very much within our grasp. Plus, before we even set off we would experience the “Scandic breakfast”. Lucie likes Scandic’s coffee policy – I like their breakfasts – that was why we were in this hotel and not some other.

But, before even that, I could go and get enough hot water to make myself two cups of tea. I had my own supply of milk, remember. Lucie even volunteered to make her own espresso so that I only had to carry two cups of boiling liquid in my two hands – she knows me too well.

So to the coffee maker/hot water dispenser I went. I put in my first cup and pressed the appropriate button. The machine wheezed out a small cloud of steam, made a loud click and a yellow spanner appeared on the screen. No water, boiling or otherwise, manifested itself. Noting my consternation, the guy on the reception desk came over and started to press buttons. Eventually, he elicited an error message which, although it was in Norwegian, he could not understand. Perhaps subconsciously sensing a threat to her espresso, Lucie now appeared. She is well known for her ability to fix things, but even she cannot read Norwegian. We all stared at the machine for a while and then the reception guy suggested that we use the identical machine in the breakfast room. It was not yet open for breakfast, but we could go in. As I said, I like the attitude in a Scandic hotel.

We got our required liquids and retired to our room. I spent a while typing and, when we went downstairs, there were dozens of people at breakfast. The hotel had been as quiet as a mouse and I had not seen anyone at all on my perambulations, where had they all come from ?

Still, we found a table without difficulty and availed ourselves of the wide selection on offer. Almost tragically, I found I was not terribly hungry, so I contented myself with cereal, a bit of smoked salmon, some herring and some bacon and a couple of eggs. Because, deep down, I am a pleb, some of my bacon went into a sandwich – the bread was still warm !

Then it was upstairs for a shower and packing, the bridges were calling.

When we went to check-out, it transpired that quite a number of our fellow guests were also bikers. The country of Norway is a bit of a biker’s paradise and there were a lot of them in the lobby and others outside loading up their bikes. They were almost exclusively of the enduro/dual sport type and when I walked round and fetched the Harley from the car park, it attracted a lot of comment.

Fortunately, but not particularly for me, while I was standing watching Lucie pack the bike (it IS better that way), an elderly (and this is ME talking) German biker, went to mount up . As he was trying to get his 32 inch leg over the 36 inch high saddle of his heavily laden BMW dual sport, it started to tip over. Somehow, I managed to grab the bike as it teetered on the edge of toppling – and to hold it steady for long enough for him to get on and take control. It was a risky moment though. He gave me a nod and a quick “Danke !” but his eyes said a lot more. It was only after he had chugged away that I pondered what might have happened if I had not been able to stop the topple – and four hundred kilograms of bike and rider had fallen on top of me. Not something I cared to dwell on – and it did not happen anyway.

Lucie finished twanging the spiders and off we went. Our route took us along the harbour, which did look slightly better in the early morning sunshine.

Then we descended into another very impressive and very long tunnel that went right underneath the same harbour. Once again it was cold enough in the depths for me to receive audible notification of that fact through the intercom and again we emerged into bright sunshine. I guess it was about there that we joined route 64, the Atlantic Ocean Road.

With only twenty-five kilometres to go, there was no hurry. So although, as we travelled through some very green countryside the dithering local drivers nearly provoked me into overtaking, I managed to resist that urge. That was just as well as the Politi (police) were lurking in places along the route and a couple of others drivers, who had not shown such restraint, were already sitting and anxiously awaiting their punishments.

We passed through Karvag and, suddenly, we were there !

The bridges start slow, essentially as just, err, bridges and, contrary to my expectations, that is all most of them actually were. They are a bit swoopy and they are elegantly curved in places but only the central one (the Storseisundbrua) which has a fairly dramatic up and down and is the one which features in the James Bond film, is really something special. Nonetheless, the bridges attract thousands of visitors (all the parking areas were packed solid) all of them drawn, as I had been, by their perceived “fame”.

As we were there, we turned around before Vevang and rode back, so as to photograph them in both directions.

Then, as we had to cross for a third time anyway, Lucie videoed the ride.

If you want to see that, click on the link below.

At the risk of being a killjoy, the bridges, particularly the Hulvagbrua are quite impressive and the Storseisundbrua is fairly spectacular. But in terms of simple civil engineering achievement, the tunnel under Kristiansund harbour might still have them beaten.

We headed south along a road from which the sea was visible, up close or distant and on either side for a time but then we left the ocean behind and wound our way through the countryside. It is a bit sad to say so, but it was all a bit of an anti-climax. Been there, seen it, done it, springs to mind. It is probably lucky they were not selling tea shirts !

We stopped at a petrol station for coffee drinks, reset the SatNav even though most of our riding would be on the same road and motored on. Things looked a bit dark ahead and Lucie’s weather App showed rain, but much farther south and I was assured that we would not get to where it was before we had to stop for the night.

We were on route 64, also designated the E36 and we wound our way through the town of Molde and towards our interim destination of Andalsnes. The road was inclined to hug the coast and, where that was impossible, we would dive into and out of tunnels of various lengths and antiquities. The tunnel program appears to be long-term and still very much an ongoing thing.

At Solsnes, which sits on the shore of Langfjord (and you do not have to speak Norwegian to guess what that means) we came to a ferry. The town of Afarnes, which was on our route and still showing as a long way ahead by road, was clearly visible across the inlet and the ferry was coming. Why the SatNav did not suggest this, I do not know, but we joined the short queue.

Within a few moments we were boarding. A Norwegian dual sport passed me as I moved onto the ramp and bagged the front spot, curses ! The ferry moved off within minutes and was almost totally full. Where did all those vehicles materialise from ? It was so smooth, that it was almost impossible to feel it moving.

We went to view the quickly approaching Afarnes over the front ramp (which doubled as the railing) and the dual sport rider asked me where we were headed for as “rain was coming”.

When we said Trollstigen, he shook his head. The reason we were going to be taking that road (route 63) was to climb what is said to be the most beautiful serpentine road in Norway. The route 63, he told us was totally closed because of a landslide – plus, of course, it was already raining there….

Naturally, the next minute, the ferry docked and he headed off north, away from the rain. We pulled off to the side and Lucie calculated a new route (she is very good at that) which avoided the blockage. It was quite a bit further, but nowhere near as far as getting to the point of closure and needing to come all the way back would have been. That chance conversation was actually a big stroke of luck.

No sooner had we set off again than it began to spot with rain and, almost before we could pull over, it began to rain steadily. I actually put my rain jacket over my HOG vest and so, with both of us a scarily luminous yellow, we set off into the downpour.

Oddly, in such heavy rain, the local speed limits actually represented the top end of the speed at which I felt able to ride safely. Some of the sharper corners, handily indicated by bright yellow arrows, which I had almost zoomed around in the dry, suddenly seemed very forbidding, particularly the left-handers. There was also a lot of armco, which is better, I suppose, than a plunge over the precipice to the sea below, but that always makes me nervous, even in sunshine. In such conditions, I could really feel the weight and length of the Softail – a boon on long straight roads, not really that on these twisty wet ones.

An small bonus was the tolerance of Norwegian drivers. In difficult conditions they do not crowd you if you take it steady, nor do they go berserk if you make a mistake. That is just as well because I did make one on a roundabout when I saw a shiny patch which I thought was oil and almost slithered to a complete halt halfway around.

We plugged on. Because of the topography, there were a lot of tunnels. That same terrain meant that we would sometimes enter a tunnel in a downpour and emerge into dryness – and vice-versa. Variety, as they say, is the spice of life. Progress was slow. Such was the previously mentioned winding character of the roadway that knowing in which direction you are going at any moment is impossible. The only constant was that it was forward and, at least theoretically, nearer to where we were going – at least as regards to the road. It is a shame that the weather was so bad. My trusty photographer mainly kept the camera out of the deluge, but she did manage to capture a long, but eclipsed by those on the Atlantic Highway, bridge at Vikebukt which swept majestically right over an inlet of the sea and put us softly down on the other side.

Finally, we did turn to the east which took us to Sylte. Had Plan A (our scheme, NOT the restaurant in Kristiansund) worked, we would have come to it from the north.

I have been raving a bit about our accommodations, but this one was a complete corker. The Valldal Fjordhotell, in Sylte, was as modern and stylish as it is possible to imagine. Sitting on a small promontory, the single storey building, with a two storey high central reception/restaurant area, was surrounded on three sides by water. Two of those are the Norddalsfjorden fjord and the third was a rapidly flowing and wild looking river, the Valldola, that comes straight from the mountains above the small town. Even in dull weather, it looked idyllic.

The receptionist seemed totally unfazed by the appearance of two bedraggled people on a muddy Harley-Davidson motorcycle – and our room was stylish and spacious. A strange touch was that the key cards for the room were made of laminated wood !

The urge for me to simply collapse onto the big bed, which had the largest selection of pillows that I think I have ever seen in my life, was almost overwhelming, but Lucie persuaded me to take off my motorcycling gear first.

We chilled out for a bit, helped by the in-room coffee facilities and readily available real milk for my tea (Twinings again).

The extensive lawns were being kept short by a little robot mower. It began to rain and, detecting this, the machine automatically returned to its docking point, which was right outside of our window. There it plugged itself in and went to sleep.

Sylte is a pretty small town and so we decided to eat in. The restaurant was very nice with a limited, yet varied, selection of dishes. Sadly, the steamed fish had all been eaten, so Lucie had a salmon/trout and I had a nice steak. We had room for dessert too. Lucie chose “Bailey’s” panna cotta and I went for the “de-constructed” lemon curd tart, chiefly because I could not imagine how one would de-construct a tart. The answer, assuming that you care, is that you never actually bother to construct it. You just put the crust ingredients onto a plate, add a few spoonfuls of the filling on top – and give it a scoop of ice-cream. It was delicious, but pretentious, moi ??

Great food, well cooked, well presented and, even with a beer, scarcely more than it would have been in Prague.

It was still only nine o’clock so, as it had stopped drizzling, we took a short walk. Sylte is a beautiful, quiet little town, in fact it was the silence that I really noticed the most.

The only real sound to be heard was the river rushing by us and into the fjord. A small flock of startled Oystercatchers suddenly flew by, piping loudly. Even this most natural of sounds seemed unnaturally loud in the overall silence.

Then it was back to our room and you probably know the rest.