In the morning, my eyes were much better, and I was up and about to see, first the French girl, and then the Swiss couple, leave, each treated like a mini celebrity by the host, in what was the first few weeks of them running the campsite beside their cabin. Located right at the bottom of a very difficult climb for cyclists, I think it should do quite well.
It was a stunning day, with the temperature set to rise to around 27°, and as I pedalled away, I found myself in a beautiful spot, ringed by mountains, and pedalling along a lake.
It wasn’t long before I saw two cyclists up ahead, and spotting an orange triangular flag on the back of one of the bikes, I assumed it was the Swiss couple from the campsite, however on drawing closer, I discovered that this pair were younger, and were in fact a German couple from Potsdam. They had been on the road for a year already, and not keen on returning home in the winter, would be carrying on until at least the spring. They had started, in the Dominican Republic, before cycling around Cuba, and then down Central America from Mexico to Panama, before skipping the north of South America and continuing down through Argentina and Chile. Where was best I asked? To which the response was that Cuba and Nicaragua were pretty great, but that Chile was quickly climbing up the list.
The couple stopped for a break, so I pushed on myself, over some very lumpy miles to Villa Amengual, where I stopped looking for a shop, to find the group of three who I had seen at the restaurant the day before, sitting on a bench in the shade. They joked that they’d just heard about my red eyes from the Swiss couple. The group consisted of males from Australia and the Netherlands, and a female from Germany. They were on trips of various lengths, the shortest being the 6 weeks the German girl had, and they were in the middle of trying to pack large quantities of stuff, including a very large box of wine, into their panniers.
They believed the shop they’d been to was closed for lunch, so I found another, before returning to hide under the same tree, just as the German couple from earlier turned up.
Soon after, a Belgian cyclist turned up, joking about how we’d all likely met the same people over the last few days, solely knowing them as ‘the Australian guy’, or ‘the two Germans’. However true that may be, this sense of community within the cycle touring fraternity was always a highlight of a trip.
Eventually, I made to leave, and it wasn’t long before I spotted the group of three about to go for a swim, down off the road, in beautiful Lago Verde. It was a hot day and the water looked inviting, but the call of the road was too great, and I was keen to start chipping away at the distance to Mañihuales.
The backdrop to the ride was sensational, with snowcapped peaks and abundant wild flowers, lining the fields.
Just as I was about to stop at a bus stop for a break, the Belgian cyclist, turned up, his name was Julien, which disproves the myth that we never know each other’s names, and he said he had 6 weeks to do his trip. Sounded very reasonable I thought, until he told me his trip was from Santiago to Ushuaia. He was planning on continuing a few more miles to a campsite at Lago Aguirre Cerda, ‘maybe he’d see me there’, he asked. That sounded great I responded, but I’d only covered 35 miles, so I was hoping to manage a few more.
I’d covered nearly 54 miles by the time I reached Mañihuales, stopping at a bakery, for a small pizza and a doughnut, before moving on to a shop, where I discovered a large group of cyclists from New Zealand and Australia. ‘Oh you’re from Scotland’ they asked, ‘whereabouts, we’re travelling with someone from Fife, and someone from Dundee’. Right. Well I’m from Fife too, as it happens…
It has not escaped my attention that 2026 will signify a decade since I started writing this blog, and so, I thought it would be a good opportunity to mark the occasion by ticking a fairly significant cycle-touring challenge off my list: namely, the Carretera Austral, or ‘Southern Highway’.
The Carretera Austral is an 800 mile sliver of tarmac and gravel, that cuts through a sparsely populated, and geographically complex, portion of Chile’s Patagonian Lake District. Begun by General Pinochet in 1976, the route was only fully realised in 2000, and links a series of tiny – previously isolated – coastal communities between Puerto Montt in the north, and Villa O’Higgins in the south.
As Villa O’Higgins is a long way from an airport that offers regular commercially-available flights, there is the added complication that I will need to push on farther south, via a combination of ferries and hike-a-bike, to reach a remote Argentinian border post near the popular trekking hub of El Chaltén, before continuing southwards and ultimately crossing back into Chile, ending the trip in Puerto Natales, which, conveniently, offers the dual purpose of providing a means to onward flights, and also acting as the perfect launchpad for visiting one of my longest-serving bucket list destinations, Torres Del Paine National Park.
It would be something of an understatement to say that I am extremely excited about having the opportunity to undertake this adventure, one that I had been contemplating for many years, before seriously considering it for last winter. Then, when I spotted that Pierre – who I cycled with in Vietnam in 2020 – was attempting the route, I was determined to get – not only – some advice about the challenges he had encountered, but also an endorsement that I should do it too…
At around 6 o’clock, on the Friday evening, I hurried into the large XXL sports superstore, and sought out the bike department, asking the first member of staff I encountered if they happened to have any bike boxes available.
Having seen a collection of them on the shop floor, I was feeling optimistic, but it seemed that those boxes were already reserved for other cyclists, and the only one that appeared to be unaccounted for looked distinctly smaller. She could let me have that one, but it would cost me 250 Krone (£18.35).
Aware that there was such a high demand for bike boxes in Tromsø, that it had become a revenue stream in itself, I had thought that the shops might have made branded boxes available to sell, as I’d encountered in Vietnam, but these just appeared to be the boxes that new bikes arrived to the store in, and there wouldn’t be any more new bikes being built until after the weekend.
As I was concerned that the box I’d been offered was a bit small, the salesperson headed off to see if they had any others in storage, and I quickly took the opportunity to measure the box. It was definitely smaller than the one I’d had when I travelled to Norway in the first place, and it turned out that they didn’t have any other boxes hiding away in storage.
Perhaps all was not lost, however, as the girl suggested that there was another bike shop further around the retail park. So on finding my way over to Tromsø Ski and Sykkel, I rushed inside. The salesperson enquired as to whether I’d reserved one, before apologetically stating that they didn’t have any available.
I was regretting not taking the first box I’d been offered. It was Friday night and my flight wasn’t until Sunday afternoon, but the salesperson in XXL had already admitted that they would be unlikely to be building up bikes again until the Tuesday, so other boxes were unlikely to become available. I had read that Tromsø airport kept the boxes that cyclists brought their bikes in, so it was possible I could get one when I arrived at the airport, but was it worth the risk? I decided not, back to XXL I went.
Hoping that the salesperson hadn’t taken offence at me rejecting the box the first time, and that no one else had turned up to snaffle it, I headed back into the shop. Although it looked a little small, I said, I was sure I could make it work. But there was a potential spanner in the works, ‘could I take it with me’, I was asked, ‘as that would be best for them’.
With nothing else for it, I dragged the large empty cardboard box back outside and over to where I’d left my bike. One thing was for certain, my 1000+ mile ride down the length of Norway, from Bergen to Tromsø, had finished here, outside a shopping centre on the outskirts of the city.
I was in a quandary, if I dismantled the bike here, and put it in the box, I’d have a bike box, two panniers and my handlebar bag to get into town, so would probably need a a taxi, and an extra large one at that. Another issue with that was that I hadn’t booked a hotel yet, so I’d also need to decide where to stay before I booked the taxi.
An alternative plan, though, was to fold up the box, and manoeuvre that and my loaded bicycle over to the bus stances at the other side of the car park. I could then get a bus into the centre of town – which was only 6 km away – and then pick a hotel near to where I ended up, and based on if it had a suitable area to leave my bike chained up outside. The advantage to this plan was that most of the buses in Tromsø also serviced the airport, so if I was staying near a bus stop, I’d have a readymade budget option for getting to the airport on the Sunday.
Not far from the bus stop was the Home Hotel Aurora, and although it was right on the harbour, it had a fairly private car park located to the side and a bike rack at the front door. It looked like a perfect spot for leaving my bike for a few days. Having stood outside booking my stay online, I walked inside carrying my valuables: the handlebar bag and the folded cardboard box.
‘Michael’, the lady at reception asked before suggesting that if I wanted to leave my ‘carton’ by the desk, it was the last 15 minutes of the complimentary dinner service, so I could have dinner now, and then check in afterwards. I liked this place. I liked the meatballs, mash and vegetables they were offering for dinner, and I liked the sauna and rooftop hot tub with harbour views.
Later in the evening, I dawdled along the waterfront, eventually finding a nice looking beer terrace at the bar, Rorbua, so went inside. Eyes only watering slightly, from the £9.50 beer from Tromsø’s Mack brewery, I tried to forget the £7.30 entry charge entirely. One thing I definitely wouldn’t miss about Norway was the prices.
Absentmindedly heading back to the hotel, at after 1 am, I hadn’t realised that I had become a sitting duck to the many seabirds circling above the seafront. Their squealing and squawking had become a tedious soundtrack to my journey at all hours of the day and night, so I was paying little attention, when I felt a whoosh of air, and an impact on the top of my head. Making for the cover of a nearby awning, I started to pick my route more carefully back to the hotel.
On googling ‘divebombing birds in Tromsø’, I realised I should have known, and I’d come full circle, I’d finally been tracked down by my old arch nemesis from Iceland, the Arctic Tern. I really do dislike those birds.
Luckily, I managed to escape a repeat attack during the rest of my time in Tromsø, and indeed I had a very pleasant stay, visiting the Arctic Museum, the Arctic Cathedral, and taking the gondola up to a high viewpoint and cafe.
On arriving at the airport on the Sunday afternoon, I set about dismantling my bike, and it wasn’t long before a couple of cyclists – who I remembered seeing on a ferry – turned up and asked if I was arriving or departing, clearly looking to take my bike box off my hands.
Unfortunately for them, I was departing, and the XXL from which I’d got my box would be closed, but I did mention the fact that I’d read that they kept boxes in the airport. Not long afterwards, however, I saw them pedalling off again empty-handed, so perhaps that isn’t as surefire a method as I’d considered it would be.
Bike packed up, I was ready to go, and there were no other hurdles to stand in my way. I’d set off for Norway, with a hurriedly sketched out plan, and was pleased with what I’d achieved. I’d flown to Oslo, been to art galleries that I’d long been keen to visit, taken the beautifully scenic train journey over the mountains to Bergen, where I’d squeezed in Lovstien parkrun.
On starting my cycle tour, in Bergen, I’d had a few days of suspect weather, almost signalling the end for my beleaguered tent. I’d also struggled to get to grips with the timetables for the many ferries, and the frequency of the many hills.
In Florø, suddenly the weather started to improve, and I would never have believed that it was only set to get better. The irregular hours of the Atlantic Tunnel bus stopped me in my tracks just when I wanted to start making up some miles.
After skipping from Kristiansund to Trondheim, I missed a ferry and ended up taking a lengthy detour around the wrong side of the fjord, but kinder gradients and stunning mountain views were ahead, before I made for another ferry from Sandnessjøen.
The Lofoten Islands provided a quickfire highlights reel for the trip before the Vesterålen Islands and Senja merely added the cherry on top.
Ending the trip with a couple of days in Tromsø was a decision designed to give me an opportunity to find a bike packaging solution with a little extra time in case one wasn’t readily available. But on finding one immediately when I arrived into town, the pressure was off massively and I was able to have an enjoyable time sightseeing to end the trip.
In my three and a half week trip, I’d been amazed to have almost 3 weeks of warm sunshine, and when paired with Norway’s stunning scenery, the visual rewards had been high.
I rushed to pack before heading for the ferry to Smørhamn, arriving at a much larger port than I was used to and not quite sure where the boat would appear. Suddenly, I saw a large high-speed catamaran pulling in near the terminal, so rushed to have a look. When I saw that its destination was Frøya, I thought it must be the wrong boat, until I realised that, although the port of Smørhamn was on the island of Bremangerlandet, it was very close to a causeway to Frøya, so I joined the queue.
The ferry had me across the sound in no time, and I took a little time to soak in the surroundings on what was a beautiful day. A fellow cyclist from Austria, Peter, arrived and we tried to figure out when the next boat would be going the other way. Peter had started out from Nordkapp, 2 and a half weeks before, and was really going some, covering 150 km a day.
The road across Bremangerlandet was one of the most stunning I’d ever ridden, and for the most part it tracked the edge of the waterline of lakes and fjords while mountains loomed above. Soon, I realised that the ferry off the other side of the island was a little earlier than I was thinking, but that I might just make it if the road remained flat…
But with 2 miles to go the road turned a corner and started to rise, into a headwind, and I knew the game was up.
Emerging from the tunnel at the top of the climb. I could see the boat had already set off, and a few minutes later I was at the pier, with an hour and three quarters to kill.
Finding a kebab shop in Måløy, I took on a few calories, before heading to the supermarket to stock up for an evening in the saddle. Some granola, yoghurt, cinammon flavoured lefse (Norwegian flatbread) and a Skolebrød (sweet bread roll topped with custard and icing), being some of the items now commonly found in my panniers.
At half past 6 I set off across the sweeping bridge out of Måløy, all set for a night in the fjords. The going was good, with long flat stretches and quiet roads. There was little activity in any of the small settlements that lined the route, the harbour at Flatraket being the exception, with a small motorboat heading out to sea.
For the last hour or two of the day, I was scouring the landscape, looking for anywhere that might give the impression that it would make a suitable camping spot.
With no such luck, I was quickly approaching the hill up and over to Aheim, and it was nearing 10 o’clock. I was concerned that starting up the hill would be a non starter as it would be windier and that would be a problem for my compromised tent.
But, Komoot had a possible solution, a user had marked a point at the top of the switchbacks that was out of sight of the road, so I took the chance, and on arriving there thought it was perfect. It was a flat area on top of an old road that had now been overcome by vegetation, and there was some protection from the wind, so I quickly built up my tent, lashing the broken joint with glue and tape, and hoping it would hold the night.
Just beside the tent, there was a handily placed picnic bench, just waiting for me to set up my stove, but wait, what was that? Oh, the midges…
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