A Cold Day In Hell
A completely pointless excursion to a village with an unusual name.
It was a cold day in Hell, as it doubtless was in the rest of Norway, when I stepped off the train there, at the junction where the railway from Trondheim diverges, north to Bodø and east to the Swedish border. Like its Scandinavian neighbour, Norway is one of those almost annoyingly near perfect societies which are as close as we’re likely to come to heaven on earth. So, just to be awkward, I decided to go to Hell for the day.
Paradoxically, the name means
prosperity or
good fortune in Norwegian, but it exploits its English connotation. Postcards of the station were on sale, depicting a dramatically different scene to the pleasantly mundane reality. They showed a soot black steam engine standing at a ghostly platform against the backdrop of a Hammer Horror film sky. I bought a few to send home, filling them with as much infernal wordplay as I could summon up. I caused my mother a moment of concern with the witty opening line “I’ve been through Hell today.”
A sign on a wooden station outbuilding read “Gods Expedition.” The absence of an apostrophe provided the clue that it wasn’t the base camp of a divine crusade into the Underworld, but merely the Goods Forwarding Office. The village’s population, of around a thousand, seemed to be mostly ensconced inside their pretty, affluent looking houses and the pristine afternoon streets were as quiet as the grave. There were no dark Satanic mills or lakes of fire to be seen.
If you have a burning desire to go to Hell, it’s an easy 15 minute train journey around the Trondheimsfjord from Trondheim. I can’t really recommend it, though, unless you also suffer from the
Timbuktu Syndrome which impels me to travel miles to visit places because their names appeal to me.
From the twilight church, Hell’s bells chimed 5 o’clock. I had time for a demon drink before my train was due, so I headed for the nearest den of iniquity, despite the diabolical price of alcohol in Norway. It was closed and the Stygian interior showed no promise of returning to life. There were no other bars or cafes around, so I spent a humdrum half hour warming up at the (electric) fire in the station waiting room. At least now, though, if anyone tells me to “go to Hell,” I can say “You go;
I’ve already been there.”
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