Magic Moments in Norway

I've always loved the music of Edvard Grieg. It speaks to me, deeply. As the song goes, I don't know why, it just does. It makes a connection somewhere within me, maybe from another life. Who knows? There's a sad, beautiful melancholy in the music, something to do with the scale of A minor as I understand, but it's more than that. I hear it deep in my soul.

I first became of aware of Grieg's music over half a century ago, in my teens, back in the days when there was just one TV channel, broadcast by the BBC. Continuity announcers Sylvia Peters and MacDonald Hobley, attired very formally in evening dress, provided the programme links. And we had Intervals (bvws.org.uk); time to go off and make a cup of tea, ready for the next show. Sometimes the TV studio transmitter simply broke down and programmes disappeared, whereupon Sylvia or Peter would apologise and put on a record for us to listen to while the screen showed "Normal Service Will Be Resumed As Soon As Possible" and engineers scrambled to fix the fault. I am sure, though it's hard to verify, that they often used Grieg's "Last Spring', or 'Våren', during these pauses. The sad longing refrain softly sang to my soul and has remained with me ever since. It led me to the beauty,charm and humour of the rest of Grieg's music, making him my favourite composer by far.

So, a working life later, I find myself almost alone on the observation deck of a beautiful Norwegian Coastal Hurtigruten ship, slipping smoothly and quietly along the dark glass waters of the Geirangerfjord in Norway. My iPod is, of course, loaded with Grieg's music. Headphones on, I listen. I watch. Glistening waterfall cliffs glide smoothly by on the music of 'Solveig's Song' and 'Morning'. Impossible summer farms, straight from tall tröll tales, perch precariously on narrow green ledges high above the water, on the sheer black rock face walls. Gulls wheel and waltz over sunbeams flashing and dancing on rippling green wake. An interlude of magic.

Yet from these peaceful summer fjords came Vikings. They came to Britain, fought bloody battles then settled in peace. Their blood intermingled with British blood and remains there still, over a millennia later, in friendship. 

I am sure it strums ancient chords deep inside when we visit each other's countries. It does in me, I feel it. And Grieg helps me make that connection, something confirmed to me when we visited Norway on another occasion. Traveling the length of the Sognefjord, we stopped off for a few days at the little waterside town of Balestrand. Years ago we had travelled along the other side of the fjord and gazed across the water to Balestrand, marked by a grand white waterside hotel. We wondered what it would be like to stay there, then drove on elsewhere.

Now here we were, in another life, walking past this grand establishment, which could easily have come from a gracious South Carolina scene, on our way to our rather more modest, but nonetheless lovely, hotel for a few days. To our delight it came with a perk. By agreement, guests from our hotel were allowed access to the glorious lounge and facilities of the grand white waterfront Kvikne's Hotel. As it happened, while we were there, we were able to go to a concert of Grieg's music in the Kvikne's Hotel, played on the piano for us by the internationally famous Norwegian musician Åge Kristoffersen. 

It was to be another magic occasion.

Seated in the quiet pine wood splendour of the hotel, with views through large white framed windows across the deep sparkling waters of Sognefjord, towards distant snow dusted mountains, the scene was set. Åge appeared before us to polite welcoming applause, smiled, and bowed slightly. Then, with wit, wisdom, and all the skills of a Viking storyteller addressing a rapt audience by a roundhouse fire, he took us into the world of Edvard Grieg and his music. His concert hall piano playing sent Grieg's soul music soaring through the lounge and beyond, out into the town and through the open windows across the fjord waters and home to the high mountains. We went to his wedding at Troldhaugen, wept with beautiful jilted Solveig as she sang her sad song and despaired with Peer Gynt's mother. We awoke with the young tearaway as he peered out of his tent in the African desert, watched the morning sun rise and dreamed of Norway.

And so we rode on Åge's magic musical carpet through Grieg's Norway.

Some moments, some concerts, are very special. Thanks to Åge Kristoffersen, this was. I shall never forget it.