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The deep cool waters sloughed off the day's heat in one clean sweep. Round to the east loomed a vast container ship in the fjord, so apart from everything else that it looked like a paperweight pinning down the separate poster of the landscape. Ahead and to the west, the outlying islands shone like promised lands in the perfect afternoon, on a blue-bronze sea. Blond kids ran and flipped, turning somersaults into the fjord.įrom the end of the diving board, the view was entirely surreal. At a latitude several degrees north of chilly Aberdeen, the granite was scented with suntan oil, laced with stretched-out nut-brown limbs: already the local Bergeners had taken up their favourite sunbathing spots. On Nordnes, you can swim from the rocks behind the United Sardine Factory, now an arts centre with cafes and bars, or, for a few kroner, dive from the boards high above the water on the western point. Good swimming spots include Helleneset and Gamle Bergen, but even in the city centre the waters are crystal clear. Picking at cartons of wild berries, we carried on along the Nordnes promontory, between rows of brilliantly sunlit clapboard houses. Traders were selling reindeer skins from the north.
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We wandered down there, past the market with its fish vendors speaking 16 languages fluently as they flicked knives through great tranches of marinated salmon, making up sandwiches in the shade of plastic awnings. Baking heat rose from the cobbled streets that wound their way around the harbour just outside our windows. This is the city's historical wharf, a warren of old storehouses, merchants' offices and fishermen's quarters. My friend Christina and I were starting our trip with a few days there, staying in a boutique hotel called the Hanseatic, carved from a medieval warehouse on the Bryggen. Bergen in July had taken on a strangely Mediterranean climate.