Return To The Jernbanemysterium

A phrase lingers in the mind. In passing, Mr. DH — my colleague, a fellow Puffin to us all, and master of that mysterious gift known as the turn of phrase — once summed up Oslo as “pleased with itself.” That’s all you need to know.

If you’re in a hurry, feel free to turn the page to another unread article. If not, read on—there’s a tale to tell and a Cold War mystery, one that may have addled the minds of traveling Puffins for decades, to unravel.

Our story begins more than four decades ago on a summer Saturday evening when the Norwegian capital was at its most haughty. As the sun lingered over the remains of a beautiful day, the girls flaunted their party dresses, the boys their suits. Cafés brimmed. Restaurants chattered.

At the periphery, this traveling gentleman—then still blessed with hair, teeth, and twenty-twenty vision—stepped off the day train from Stockholm onto the wooden platform before the arched wrought-iron trainshed of Oslo Østbanestasjonen, the Oslo East Railway Station.

In those days, there was none of this modern nonsense of a giant central station with a tunnel linking southern Norway’s western and eastern rail networks. This curious visitor ambled through a city center basking in its own sense of importance, expecting to make his connection at Vestbanestasjon — a charming little terminus, even smaller than the diminutive Østbanestasjonen — nestled near the quayside beside the Oslofjord.

What do I remember? Not much. A fast-food outlet. Oh, the prices—don’t mention the prices. Perhaps the locals (Oslo-ites? Oslo Volk?) slapped each other on the back continually simply because they could afford to eat.

And the Royal Palace. I recall glancing up from a Michelin-Star-priced takeaway to spot something else to be pleased about, a neoclassical façade, perched on a hill at the end of a grand avenue glowing in the crisp light of a setting Nordic sun.

I must have been walking along Karl Johans Gate, Oslo’s main street—part tree-lined, part lined with street cafés. At some point, I must have hurried left—perhaps at the Christian Frederik statue, perhaps at the grand colonnaded National Theatre—to make my connection at Oslo V.

However, I wish I’d allowed myself a detour. As you know, youth is wasted on the young, much like old age is wasted on the elderly. Deep in if I’d known then what I know now territory, I should have taken a taxi (yes, the prices again) along Bygdøy Road for some industrial heritage porn.

Elsewhere in the city—perhaps a few years earlier, or later?—England famously lost 2-1 to Norway in a Wendyball World Cup qualifier, met with that unforgettable commentary: “Maggie Thatcher, Lord Nelson, Princess Diana, Winston Churchill—your guys took a hell of a beating!”

Back in the day when every provincial English city had its own locomotive works, so did the capitals of small nations, smug or otherwise. “Beyer Peacock, George & Robert Stevenson, Hunslet Barclay—your boys have some competition in an Oslo suburb!”

Off Bygdøy Road lies an area still known locally as ‘Thune,’ named after the 1901 workshops of a company founded by Anders Paulsen Thune in 1815. There, they built steam locomotives for the Norwegian railways. By the 1970s and 80s, they were still supplying major components for new series of locomotives powering Norway’s trains.

One of which was waiting for me at Vestbanestasjon where four trains a day left for Norway’s second city. Timed for early morning, mid-morning, just before tea time and a sleeper at bedtime, roughly the same pattern of services ran in each direction. Referencing my old timetable:

Out (depart -arrive)

0730 – 1405

1020 – 1815

1545 – 2230

2250 – 0720 (sleeper)

Back (depart-arrive)

0730 – 1405

1000 -1730

1510 – 2200

2230 – 0700 (sleeper)

Therefore, on a weekend escape from over-fussy Stockholm, one might arrive in Oslo on a Saturday evening in good time for the sleeper, explore the destination for a couple of hours early on Sunday morning, then take the day train back to Oslo to enjoy the scenery. Deal? Deal!

En route, you might spot an intriguing Cold War railway mystery — a Jernbanemysterium — that I’d come across in both Sweden and Norway in those days, and which I now feel free, nay, obliged, to explain to the Puffins.

Being a well-traveled bird, you’ve already guessed the destination to be Bergen, at 308 miles from self-satisfied Oslo, about the same distance as humble Carlisle and Newcastle are from London. The line connecting the two cities heads north-east from the Oslofjord along a route called the Bergensbanen, known as one of the world’s most spectacular railway lines.

The route crosses some of Norway’s most challenging and breathtaking landscapes, traversing mountains, plateaus, deep valleys, and fjords. As one of Europe’s highest mainline railways, the Bergensbanen offers a fascinating blend of engineering ingenuity, historical significance, and stunning natural beauty.

What can I remember of the trip out? Not much, other than it was cold, dark, and I didn’t get much sleep. As we shall see, there was a reason for the cold and it was in the coldest part of the night that I passed, unknowingly on the sleeper train, the scene of our Jernbanemysterium.

As for Bergen, I must have arrived at 7:20 on Sunday morning, wandered around a deserted town centre peering into closed shop windows, and then made my way to the 10:00 am departure back to Oslo.

I remember the Lille Lungegårdsvannet, a five-acre octagonal lake in the town centre, close to the railway station. Marooned as the city expanded with land reclaimed from the sea, it was originally part of the Hardangerfjord, which runs from Bergen to the open ocean. If you think Bergen is beside the seaside, you’re wrong. It’s a full 25 miles along the fjords before you reach the Norwegian Sea.

From Lille Lungegårdsvannet, I must have walked down to the Bryggen quayside. For once, I have proof— my photo of the Statsraad Lehmkuhl, a three-masted barque rigged vessel built in 1913, then and now used as a training ship.

For the railway station, my attempt at pithy turn of phrase would be ‘peak Scandi’. The textbooks are more verbose:

‘A mix of National Romantic and Neo-Renaissance architecture, featuring a grand stone façade, large arched windows, intricate detailing, and a spacious, vaulted interior reflecting early 20th-century Nordic design influences.’

No matter. After a quick dash around the town, I found myself settled into a seat on the day train, beside a big window, ready to enjoy one of the world’s most spectacular railway lines.

En route, I spotted an odd anomaly at the trackside — a Jernbanemysterium — which I’d seen a few times when traveling through Cold War Norway and Sweden. One which I now feel at liberty to explain to curious readers.

To be continued…
 

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