Marilyn Monroe’s father came from just outside Haugesund – and that is this
small former herring village’s principal claim to fame. These days the big
local industry is gas – almost a fifth of the UK’s supply of gas is piped
from stations around Haugesund. There is also an annual national film
festival that has attracted the likes of Pierce Brosnan and Roger Moore. But
what do you do for fun? Well you can visit the beautiful nearby fjords or
try your hand at a bit of North Sea fishing. My old university pal Danny and
I set off in a tiny boat from the island of Rovaer for a spot of deep sea
angling.
We get kitted out in heavy blue North Sea fishing outfits, with red
lifejackets, and are introduced to Oyvind, who runs the fishing trips. "OK
ready for take-off!" he says, and we jump in a tiny red-rimmed chugger
of boat – about 12 feet long. It seems Oyvind can’t speak much English
beyond "OK ready for take-off!", and as we can’t exactly speak
much Norwegian, we putter out to sea in silence.
This is the type of trip that German tourists apparently take in the summer,
to drink beers and fill their buckets with fish. We’re beer-less, but the
green water in the bay is calm, the air is startlingly fresh, and the sun is
beaming, turning the bracken a glorious gold on the small islands. "I’m
not sure we’re in the right place," says Oyvind, switching off
the engine and producing our slightly disappointing fishing equipment, which
consists of a spindle of nylon cable with a red handle and a series of hooks
with brightly coloured lures at the end. I’d been hoping for something a
little more Old Man and the Sea - a rod at least.
But this is soon forgotten. Within minutes Danny and I are hauling in vast
numbers of slippery silver-grey coalfish and getting terribly excited
indeed. I can’t remember the last time I actually caught a fish. And here
they are coming up one after the other. Each time we expertly drop our
weighted cables and bob the lines up and down like Oyvind shows, at least
two or three coalfish take the bait. Before we know it, we’ve nearly filled
the bucket with 17 writhing specimens, each about a foot long.
"I can’t remember the last time I was this downright, stupidly happy,"
says Danny. "It’s bloody brilliant. Brilliant! Ah, I feel like a new
man!" I do too. This easy-fishing thing is an out-and-out winner: no
skill, plenty of thrills, no hanging about. Fantastic.
Oyvind can’t help smiling at our over-enthusiasm. He gets more talkative on
the way back – his English is good after all. Fisherman to fisherman, I ask
him about the North Sea. "Ah well it is not so good. The fishing now
not so good," he says, somewhat unbelievably after our experience. They
were virtually jumping into the boat, I say. "Ha, ha, yes maybe. But a
friend of mine is a captain. He says that last year was the worst for cod in
40 years. There are just no cod out there." Oyvind won’t say who’s to
blame. His main gripe is about who is granted licences to fish in which
areas. "It is crazy. Corrupt. How can I make money if I cannot fish
where I want to? Crazy! Corrupt!"
Back at the hotel, Helga takes the fish that Oyvind gutted on the boat. She
grills them there and then. We eat them with pepper, some mash and a side
salad. It is by far the freshest fish I’ve ever eaten. It’s great sitting in
the warmth of Helga’s hotel after the chilly North Sea. We have seconds of
coalfish and mash. We drink mugs of coffee. Why don’t more people want to
live on this island, spend the day out on the water, catch their own fish?
I ask Helga about a small house that looked like a museum close to the ferry
jetty, thinking this might explain the exodus from Rovaer. She pauses for a
moment, and I wonder if I’ve asked a wrong question. Then she tells us a
harrowing local story, to which the little museum is dedicated. On October
13 1899, she says, a boat with 30 men and children from Rovaer went down in
a terrible storm on the way to Haugesund. They were going to the mainland to
attend a funeral. All lives were lost. The bad weather continued, yet while
the whole of Norway mourned, the islanders had still not been told of the
tragedy, as conditions were too poor to reach Rovaer.
The disaster struck on Friday 13th. Helga says: "When a boat finally made
it back to the island, four days later, the first words to the waiting wives
and children were: ‘Everyone is gone’. A book has been written with that
title. Almost all the men of working age on the island were gone. My great
grandfather died in the accident."
Later Helga takes us to the museum, where there are displays showing sepia
pictures of the deceased and the ill-fated vessel. Cash for the widows, she
says, was raised across the country. On a sunny day, Rovaer is a magical
island, but when the weather turns, as it often does in these parts, there
is a very different side to island life.
How Low Can You Go? Round Europe for 1p Each Way (Plus Tax) by Tom
Chesshyre (£10.99, Hodder & Stoughton. Buy it from BooksFirst
for £9.89 including delivery).
