Soothing Saturday: The Long and Winding Road
This summer, Inger Lise and I took our “new” old campervan from Molde to Mandal. There were mountains, cows, laughter, and a top speed that made the campervan question its life choices — but oh, the freedom of the open road…
Soothing Saturday — is my little corner for slowing down and stepping away from my usual genealogy deep dives. Think of it as a gentle exhale at the end of the week — a space for reflections, small joys, and simple stories written just for the pleasure of it.
The maps (or in my case, the GPS with a questionable sense of humor) are ready, the coffee’s in a thermos, and the old campervan — our “new” pride and joy — hums with possibility.
Ours isn’t one of those sleek, modern beasts that look like they could drive to the moon and make espresso along the way.
No, ours is a veteran of the road -1999 model, proudly displaying a few scratches, a faint smell of diesel, and a dashboard that squeaks in F major every time we hit a bump.
But it’s ours.
And this summer, it carried us from Molde to Mandal, through the kind of scenery that makes even Norwegians stop and mutter, “Well, that’s not too shabby.”
Now, I should say: we’re seasoned cabin tourists.
We know the rhythm of cabin life — the familiar roads, the creaky deck, the smell of wood smoke, coffee in the morning, and the constant bad conscience for maintenance that should have been done.
But campervan life? That’s a whole different game.
In a cabin, the walls don’t move, the floor doesn’t rattle, and you never have to calculate whether your refrigerator will drain your battery before breakfast.
In a campervan, everything’s mobile — including your sense of dignity when you realize the toilet situation requires “logistics.”
We’re still learning the ropes.
And sometimes the ropes are tangled.
The thing about some Norwegian roads is that they’re not just roads — they’re opinions.
They twist, dip, and narrow down to the width of a confident goat before opening up again to views that make you forget you’re gripping the steering wheel like it owes you money.
At one point, I swear the GPS sighed and said, “Good luck.”
There’s a special kind of camaraderie among drivers on these routes. You meet another vehicle coming the opposite way, and both of you slow down, lean out your windows, and exchange that Norwegian look that says, “One of us has to reverse — and we both know it’s you.”
Now, reversing a campervan is a test of faith — faith in mirrors, in geometry, and in whoever’s standing behind you waving their arms and shouting, “Stop! No — the other way!”
I’ve discovered I have three distinct reversing modes: optimism, panic, and resignation. Usually in that order.
We took turns driving — Inger Lise handling the tighter village roads with her usual calm precision, and me taking over on the open stretches, pretending I knew what every dashboard light meant.
There’s something reassuring about sharing the wheel. When one of us (read me) gets too confident, the other (read Inger Lise) quietly reminds them (read me) that this vehicle has the turning radius of a ferry and the aerodynamics of a brick.
Somewhere in Valdres, our progress came to a leisurely halt when we found ourselves behind a herd of cows on their morning stroll.
They were in no rush — utterly unimpressed by our mechanical marvel.
We crept along at a majestic three kilometers per hour, surrounded by swishing tails and cowbells.
Inger Lise laughed and said, “Well, at least they know where they’re going.”
I nodded, mostly trying to keep from reaching over to honk — not out of frustration, but because I had a feeling the cows would win that argument too.
We took a few highways as well, just to give the old jalopy a chance to stretch its legs.
At one point, the speedometer proudly climbed to 110 kilometers per hour (legally) — which, for those who prefer imperial drama, is about 69 miles per hour.
The campervan made its opinion on that clear: a deep mechanical rumble that sounded somewhere between defiance and disbelief. Surprisingly, we passed some even older campervans.
Everything inside rattled in sympathy — the cutlery, the cupboards, and possibly my spine.
But she did it. For a brief, glorious moment, we were flying.
Well, plodding briskly.
Still, there’s a freedom to it that no highway can match.
You take a turn off the main road and suddenly you’re in another world — a quiet fjord with water so still it looks painted, a field where sheep look unimpressed by your parking skills, or a forest clearing that smells like pine and possibility.
We stopped wherever we felt like it. Made coffee. Watched the light change. We slept by a beautiful river.
No schedules, no traffic, no need to be anywhere in particular.
Just the sound of wind, gulls, and occasionally, me dropping something in the kitchenette. We stayed at some campsites too, to be able to hook up to electricity and charge an ever growing array of gadgets.
When we finally reached Mandal, we parked by the sea and spent a couple of days visiting friends at their cabin — the kind of place that reminds you what summer smells like, even in early spring.
There was laughter, grilled food, and stories that grew a little taller with each retelling.
By then we had discovered that cabin life and campervan life aren’t so different — both are about slowing down, eating simply, and not caring too much if your hair smells faintly of smoke and sea salt.
For the trip home, we took the coastal route — winding through fishing villages, tiny harbors, and stretches of open sea that seemed to stretch straight into forever.
We stopped often, not because we had to, but because we could.
Sometimes it was for coffee. Sometimes it was for photos.
And once, because I’d misjudged a turn and needed to back up. (Nothing was harmed, except my pride.)
By the time we rolled back into Molde, the campervan had acquired a few new squeaks, and I’d added a few more grey hairs.
But as I parked it — neatly, miraculously, and without incident — I realized I was already planning the next trip.
There’s a quiet joy in knowing that you can just… go.
That tomorrow, you might follow another narrow road, get lost again, and find something worth seeing simply because you weren’t in a hurry.
Soothing Saturday Lesson:
Sometimes the best journeys aren’t the fastest or smoothest — they’re the ones that remind you how good it feels to take the long way home.
Until next time — may your coffee be warm, your records be legible, and your heart find a reason to smile. Have a great weekend!
