Motherland

The week has sped through my fingers at a rate of knots similar to with which I was hurled into Russia, pounding along a piece of cratered tarmac barely justifying the label 'road'.

But I drift ahead of myself.

My story picks up where it left off; aboard a wonderful boat with aforementioned wealthy tourists on an entirely different travel planet to my own.

Making a point of getting off at the numerous stops on the Hurtigruten's slow journey round the coast (short quest for the Linux cafe in Hammerfest in now part of 'Snakk' chain - sorry Chruz), we were permitted a 4 hour break to while away on the east coast of Nordkapp. Honningsvag, home to the northernmost brewery ("a micro-brewery, so it doesn't count" Jon reminded me prior to my departure - Jon being a proud product of Tromso, who previously held the title with their Mack's brewery) was to be the end of my quest north.

It had become a little obsession, the journey north, and continued to be so as I ignored the tat and trod through to the outskirts of the town, and on and on. With lump in throat I pulled myself together, took a deep breath and plonked myself down for a photo of my most northern point of the trip, at 70° 58' N, with the sea at my back and wind in my lungs.

Now, lets see how south I can get.

Back aboard with possibly one of the finest ales I've tasted settling in my stomach I struck up idle chat with the 2 Germans I had tail-gated into the ship's sauna, (the attitude of some aboard had driven me to take my own little private non-paying revenge), from which we could gaze upon the slowly disappearing Honingsvag, oozing sweat in the perfect heat. They left me alone contemplative, only for one to pop his head back through the door to shout "and good luck viz getting to China". Cheers Hanz.

I awoke the Wednesday morning with a heavy day ahead. My rucksack seemed to be losing space despite certainty that I hadn't gained items. A bade sad and fond farewell to the luxury liner and its Hawaiian-shirted cargo respectively.

and they stared right to the very end, bless 'em.

I had just about made it without comment when the gazing American standing a foot away from my attempts to don my gear got at departure received the brunt of English fury: "Alright mate?" I yelled rhetorically. I at last felt true kinship with goldfish, and indeed held more in common with such a species than with any soul aboard the 10:00am Midnatsol arrival at Kirkenes on Wednesday 16th April 2008. Nevertheless, a truly magical leg of my trip.

In Kirkenes I found myself in the library, being confronted with the first "Nei" to the question "snakker du engelsk?". Oh well, surely this won't be the trend the more intimate I become to Russia...

Searching the Wikipedia page on Kirkenes, I found that indeed it was the second most-bombed place during world war 2. My overriding emotion was hope that an unexploded device would perhaps soon detonate and flatten the drab little town once more (without casualty). Perhaps Norway will consider moving their border west a little to swiftly donate this ugly blot of land to another owner. Or maybe I was just tired.

Head down, I grabbed my coach ticket for Murmansk ("you do have a visa don't you dear?") and heaved my poorly rested bones into the nearest coffee den to enjoy the traveller's most uneconomical moment, when, on departing a country one finds his pockets full of coins that must be spent within the hour. On a much needed caffeine hit, or two.

And so to my chariot...