A Spot of Pillaging in Norway

Well, Oslo, anyway. My brother is a keen writer about all things Viking and wanted to go to Norway last week to have a look around, see Viking artefacts, drink Oslo dry and try a spot of pillaging. That was the initial intention. Two true modern-day English Vikings. It was payback time. And so we did. Well, at least we tried, which wasn't easy considering that a pint of substandard lager sells at between £12 and £18. That certainly sobers you up.

Strangely enough, pubs and bars were always full in the evening and drink flowed. I wondered how this was possible. Perhaps everyone is vastly overpaid in Norway or, more likely, the pound really has collapsed so badly that exchange rates are truly disastrous. We decided to try other attractions.

Steve (my brother) writes books about Vikings and wanted to see the longboat museum. So we went. Getting there was a quest. A boat ride across a foggy bay with a crowd of other mad adventurers. Then the museum bobs into view. A big church-like building containing three beautifully preserved long boats and loads of wooden artefacts dating back 1400 years. Steve was like a pig in straw. Happy as Larry. Pleased as punch... you get the picture? He started snapping shots of the boats from every conceivable angle and marvelling at the majesty of it all.

Yes, it was impressive. Really. Even if you don't know much about them (like me), it's an hour spent well spent. And no, Vikings never had horns on their helmets. Steve wanted me to point that out.

We then went to the Munch museum. The bloke who painted that famous picture of a man howling his soul out on a bridge. I very nearly joined him too as we queued to get in - I had forgotten to remove a knife from a long pocket and only discovered its presence a few yards from the metal detectors and guards at the entrance.

Let me explain. We had the bright idea at breakfast time in the hotel, a few hours previously, of nicking a few bread rolls with cheese and tomatoes etc. from the buffet table and making our own (free) lunch. Clever, eh? I went one step further, of course, and slid a knife into my pocket to make the cheese cutting a bit easier than using Steve's Screwfix loyalty card. Then I had forgotten about the knife... until right outside the museum - a place full of the most depressing, dark pictures you'll ever find. It was just the sort of place where a mad, suicidal bloke with a knife might run amok. But, for a chance inspection of that pocket, I would probably be in a Norwegian prison right now, awaiting my moment in front of an unfeeling judge, trying to prove I wasn't a dangerous, manically-depressed Englishman out for a spot of needless vandalism. Phew. Steve laughed.

We got into the museum only to find that the famous picture wasn't even there. It was in another museum on the other side of the city. In its place were room after room of the sort of pictures that would get you seriously considering heading for the nearest bridge and contemplating leaping off immediately.

We decided that instead we'd go straight to the nearest bar. Sod the prices, I thought. Freedom and alcohol are precious commodities in this day and age. Well worth paying over the odds for.