Ahoy! Akureyri, Iceland

— David Eugene Perry

Ahoy! We dock in Akureyri, Iceland’s second largest city. It’s a gorgeous, clear and pleasantly chilly day.

Our walk begins along the waterfront in Oddeyri, Akureyri’s second-oldest district. Today it feels quiet and orderly, but the historical signs tell a livelier story: merchants challenging Danish trading monopolies, bakers helping organize workers, buildings repeatedly surviving fires, and a shoreline gradually transformed into streets, homes and piers. The old photographs make it easy to imagine the neighborhood when boats landed almost at the front doors and much of the lower ground was still vulnerable to tides and flooding.

Signage along the way says:

Oddeyri District

Oddeyri is Akureyri’s second oldest district. The site was only used for parliamentary meetings from early 14th century until 1551 when two warships arrived to quell a rising led by the Roman Catholic bishop, Jón Arason, of Hólar, who had, however, been executed the year before. No battle ensued, but his possessions were confiscated and given to the king and his heirs.

In 1874 the 1000 year anniversary of the settlement of Iceland was celebrated on Oddeyri. Nothing was built there due to lack of drinking water and flooding risks from Glerá River. However, in 1866, the Danish authorities agreed to include Oddeyri in the township of Akureyri.

The first house, Lundur, was built in 1858. A similar house of the same name stands at Eiðsvallagata 14. After 1870 building began in earnest with the establishment of Gránufélag, Akureyri’s first commercial company.

Around 1900 Akureyri had 10 streets, 5 of which were on Oddeyri: Strandgata, Glerárgata, Lundargata, Norðurgata and Grundargata.

A second sign explains the commercial struggle that helped shape the district:

Fight against Monopoly

There was little incentive to build on Oddeyri — no work and far from the centre of Akureyri. No roads were built until around 1892, so communications were difficult in inclement weather. However, in 1869, the coming of the Icelandic commercial enterprise, Gránufélag, saw Oddeyri’s inclusion into Akureyri township. The company’s boat, Grána, transported goods to and from Iceland.

Two years later the company set up a store in the building Lundur, sparking fierce competition with Danish tradesmen who had held a monopoly over Akureyri’s commercial business. But Gránufélag did not require all their land and sold off small pieces to the townspeople. Some for pasture, others for house building.

By the shore were landing places for shark fishers, and later herring boats. Piers sprang up and, on higher ground, vessels were built. From the early 20th century and up to WWII refuse was disposed of below and to the north of Gránufélag’s premises. Ash and other waste was thrown into a very large tidal pool, long gone to make way for streets and houses.

The next sign turns from merchants to bakers and labor organizers:

Bakers & Union Builders

In 1900 only 10 street names were registered for the whole town, but in 1904, when Oddeyri street names were added, the overall number increased significantly. Hríseyjargata was on the map although it only had one building and much of the proposed road was under the tidal pool. Sea water is still a problem and pumps are needed in many cellars of Lower Oddeyri properties.

The crossroads at Hríseyjargata and Strandgata became “Baker’s Corner” when Strandgata 41 was built in 1901 specially to house a bakery. The baker, Olgeir Júlíusson, was one of the first to establish a workers’ union in Akureyri and his son, Einar Olgeirsson, born 1902, became a union leader and member of Parliament.

Strandgata 39, Karlshús, is well known for surviving in spite of going on fire six times. There was also a bakery in the four-storey building next door, Strandgata 37, the only house built according to the town plan of 1927.

Another nearby sign describes Oddeyri as a center of commerce, entertainment and wartime activity:

Hub of Activity

In 1900, Grundargata was a mere track. At its corner stood Hotel Oddeyri, seen to the left. On the founder’s death in 1898 his widow took over, expanding the business by 50%. The hotel was destroyed by fire in 1908 and she moved the business to Strandgata 1.

The site stood vacant until 1924, when a furniture maker constructed a new building, with a workshop behind it. Later, the workshop was taken over by the TV company Samver, which in 2003 became part of the town television network.

Below the crossroads, in Havsteenshús, Strandgata 35, lived Jakob V. Havsteen, known as “The King of Oddeyri,” who was a harpoon gunner and merchant. Here, behind the house, sheep were brought for slaughter.

In 1922 the first state liquor store in Akureyri was opened in the cellar. During WWII the house was let to British troops and was known as “The Norwegian House,” as it was mostly used as a leisure centre for Norwegian soldiers. Since the war, the building has been used as residential housing.

One tiny memorial stops us in our tracks. It reads, “Here rests BSO — Akureyri’s cultural mouse, 1956–2026.” Icelandic humor apparently extends even to gravestones for beloved local mascots.

We continue into the center of town and Ráðhústorg, the main square. This was once Akureyri’s great gathering place: the spot for shops, cinemas, buses, celebrations, political meetings and, naturally, the latest gossip.

The signage here says:

Main Square

You are standing in Ráðhústorg Square where the heart of the town beats. Although the town hall was not built here — its intended site was taken over by the National Bank — the square was always bustling with life and activity, being surrounded by financial institutions, shops, cinemas and taxi stations.

Here you bought papers, magazines and hot dogs from street vendors and filled your car with petrol. This is where mass meetings assembled and sports events were arranged. Here the terminal for the Reykjavík bus used to be, where people came to meet friends and relatives arriving from the capital — or pick up the latest gossip.

It was in Ráðhústorg that people rejoiced in the establishment of the Republic of Iceland, 17 June 1944 — still the date on which students from the local college celebrate their graduation by marching through the square.

Akureyri has a wonderfully playful streak. Brightly colored shoes hang from wires outside an old building, while a pointed red roof rises behind them. Farther downhill, the compact blue-and-white expedition ship Ocean Victory fills the end of the street. Its unusual inverted bow gives it the look of a vessel designed for serious water rather than cocktail-hour cruising. It carries fewer than 200 passengers and is equipped for expedition travel, including polar itineraries and Zodiac landings.

Then we climb.

At the top of Akureyri’s long staircase stands Akureyrarkirkja, the city’s great Lutheran church. Its tall, symmetrical towers and severe geometric façade look almost theatrical against the gray sky. From the hill, the view opens over the town and Eyjafjörður, with cruise ships resting below and long green mountainsides stretching beyond the water.

Those mountains look soft from a distance, almost as though green fabric has been draped over dark rock. The landscape was built by volcanic activity and then carved and widened by Ice Age glaciers. Fire made the land; ice sculpted it; moss, grass and streams softened the result.

Above town, a Progress Pride flag snaps in the wind. Nearby, another sign reveals an unexpected bit of Icelandic history.

Signage along the way says:

At the scene of the first television in Iceland

Between 1934 and 1936 remarkable experiments were conducted at Sjónarhæð, the house at the bottom of the hill before us. Two communication enthusiasts received television transmissions from the Crystal Palace Studios in London with equipment they had partially created themselves. The two men were an Englishman, Fredrik Livingstone Hogg, an engineer, and his apprentice, 22-year-old Grímur Sigurðsson, who later became a radio mechanic. At the time, few Icelanders had even heard about television and most were still absorbing the magic of radio that had only recently been introduced.

The transmissions received by these two men were the first in Iceland and made Grímur Sigurðsson the first Icelander ever to watch television. Both were experimenting during TV’s absolute infancy in the world. In order to do so they borrowed a few devices from the UK but others they built themselves. The antenna they needed to receive these broadcasts from London was already present in Akureyri, because a few years earlier the missionary Arthur Cook and his Christian Sjónarhæð Congregation had pioneered radio broadcasting in Iceland by setting up a missionary radio station at Sjónarhæð. Fredrik Livingstone Hogg had been the main technical person in that endeavour.

This radio station was one of the two first in Iceland operated before the creation of the state Broadcasting Service, RÚV. RÚV had the broadcasting monopoly from 1930–1986. Both of these stations were closed down before the state radio began operation.

At the beginning of the 1930s in London, some experiments were being done on TV transmissions over long distances. These experiments were part of an international competition to see which technology would win out in the television business. It was especially important to see which technology the BBC would choose for its broadcasts. The broadcasts that were received in Akureyri were based on “mechanical television technology,” pioneered by the Scottish inventor John L. Baird, who conducted experimental transmissions from Crystal Palace. This technology ultimately lost out in the competition and, after a major fire at Crystal Palace Studios in 1936, the broadcasts were ceased.

In a 1980 radio interview, Grímur Sigurðsson talked about the television project with Hogg. He said the technology they used had been 30-line technology, which means that the screen and the images they were viewing were small, probably similar to today’s cell phone screen. Transmissions were sent four nights a week for about an hour each, between 22:00 and 23:00. Grímur did not go into detail about what they were watching but said that sometimes the pictures were very clear. He particularly recalled watching a dancing woman who had a large ring on one of her fingers that they saw very clearly.

The canyon below is called Barðsgil. It is located above the Sjónarhæð House, and was important in the pioneering radio and television work in Iceland. The antenna towers that were built for radio were later used for television broadcasts and were about 35 metres high, located on each side on the top of the canyon. Connected to the antenna towers was an extensive web of copper wires that was buried in the ground and served as the ground connection. The copper is presumably still buried here under the trees and vegetation that has grown up in the canyon over the last eight decades.

The images were small and unreliable, but sometimes astonishingly clear—an early flicker of the future arriving in northern Iceland.

We pass the statue of “The Outlaw,” a rugged figure carrying a woman while a dog follows at his side, and then encounter one of Akureyri’s better student traditions. A path leading downhill from the junior college became known as the “Road to Destruction,” because students used it on their way to dances and nights out. Walk uphill, however, and it becomes the “Road to Education.” The town has managed to turn topography into a moral lesson.

The Akureyri Botanical Garden is a complete surprise. Just below the Arctic Circle, it is lush with trees, fountains and flowers from around the world. Himalayan blue poppies glow among pink blossoms, and the whole garden feels sheltered and extravagant, like a green secret hidden above the fjord. A memorial marks its founding in 1912.

Nearby stands the old junior-college building, constructed in 1904 in the decorative Swiss style. We also notice several beautifully maintained homes dated 1926 and 1928—substantial, almost mansion-like houses from a period when Akureyri was growing in confidence and prosperity.

Our next stop is St. Peter’s Catholic Church, a modest white wooden building trimmed in red. Compared with the monumental Lutheran church, it feels intimate and domestic. Inside are statues of Mary, the Christ Child and Saint Anthony, votive candles and an enormous wooden rosary. Nuns are preparing for Mass; they appear to be Carmelite sisters rather than Benedictines. The building began life as a house and was acquired for Catholic use in the early 1950s.

Back near the water, we read about Barðsnef, once considered as a possible new town center, and pass Sigling, Jón Gunnar Árnason’s dramatic steel sculpture. Its sweeping shapes suggest a ship, bird, sail and movement all at once. Set against the fjord, it seems less like a fixed monument than something poised to take flight.

The harbor has grown busier by the time we return. Large cruise ships sit across the water, while Ocean Victory remains alongside the quay, compact and purposeful beside them. Akureyri’s mountains surround the scene like the walls of an enormous green amphitheater.

And after all that climbing, history, churches, ships and botany, we finish exactly as sensible travelers should: with a beer at Akureyri Backpackers.

Skál!

Seyðisfjörður: Iceland’s Rainbow Gateway to Europe

— David Eugene Perry

Ahoy! This morning we sailed into the misty splendour of Seyðisfjörður beneath an arch of rainbows that seemed to travel with us as Nieuw Statendam glided into one of Iceland’s most spectacular fjords. All around us, waterfalls streaked down the steep mountainsides in shimmering silver ribbons, disappearing into the emerald valley below. The good ship anchored just offshore from this tiny community of some 600 souls, so we tendered ashore for an afternoon’s explore.

Naturally, our first stop was Gufufoss, the largest waterfall near town and a pleasant uphill walk from the dock. Fed by glacial streams tumbling from the surrounding mountains, the broad cascade roared with the recent rains, while every turn in the path offered another breathtaking view back across the fjord toward our ship lying serenely at anchor.

On the walk back into town, we had one of those wonderfully unexpected cruise moments. Fellow passenger Mary stopped to tell me that she and her husband, Sharkey, had thoroughly enjoyed my lecture on the Titanic. That delighted me all the more when Mary explained that she had served in the British Merchant Navy while Sharkey had spent his career in the Royal Navy.

Gosh—I do love ship people.

Mary then regaled us with stories of sailing aboard MV Balmoral during the 2012 Titanic Centenary Memorial Cruise, which retraced the famous voyage across the North Atlantic to the site where the great liner rests today. With impeccable British timing, she smiled and quipped, “Of course… it wasn’t a reenactment.”

We all burst out laughing.

Alfredo and I concluded our chilly wander with steaming drinks and delicious homemade cake at the cozy Aldan Café, watching wisps of cloud drift across the mountains before catching our tender back to the ship.

This was our first Icelandic port, and naturally I wanted to learn more about this remarkable little town.

Nestled at the head of a deep fjord on Iceland’s rugged east coast, Seyðisfjörður is widely regarded as one of the country’s most beautiful villages. Its colorful nineteenth-century Norwegian timber houses recall the prosperous era when Norwegian merchants and fishermen helped shape the community, while today many of those lovingly restored buildings house galleries, artists’ studios, cafés, bookstores, and small boutiques. Despite its tiny population, the village has become one of Iceland’s most vibrant artistic communities, hosting music festivals and cultural events that draw visitors from around the world.

Towering mountains rise almost straight from the sea, their slopes laced with dozens of waterfalls fed by snowfields and glaciers above. During summer, wildflowers carpet the valley and daylight seems almost endless. In winter, heavy snows transform the landscape into something almost otherworldly. It is easy to understand why filmmakers, photographers, and painters are continually drawn here.

One of the town’s best-known landmarks is its charming blue church, built in 1922, reached by Iceland’s famous rainbow-painted street—a colorful symbol of the community’s welcoming spirit. Visitors also come for hiking, kayaking, birdwatching, horseback riding, and simply soaking in the extraordinary scenery.

Despite its diminutive size, Seyðisfjörður occupies an outsized place in Iceland’s transportation history. It is the home of the country’s only passenger ferry connection to mainland Europe. Operated by Smyril Line, the ferry MS Norröna sails weekly between Seyðisfjörður and Tórshavn in the Faroe Islands before continuing to Hirtshals, Denmark. The crossing takes roughly two days and two nights, carrying passengers, automobiles, camper vans, motorcycles, freight, and supplies. It is one of Europe’s last great ocean ferry journeys, complete with comfortable cabins, restaurants, lounges, observation decks, and the unique pleasure of watching the North Atlantic unfold slowly around you rather than flying over it in a few hours.

Long before the ferry era, Seyðisfjörður served as Iceland’s principal eastern gateway to Europe. In 1906, the nation’s first submarine telegraph cable landed here, linking Iceland directly with Scotland and, for the first time, providing rapid communication with the rest of Europe. Overnight, this tiny village became Iceland’s communications lifeline to the outside world.

Its strategic location also gave Seyðisfjörður an important role during the Second World War. Following Britain’s occupation of Iceland in 1940 to prevent the Nazis from taking it —later joined by American forces in 1941 — the fjord became a valuable Allied anchorage and supply base supporting the vital North Atlantic convoy routes. Naval vessels regularly sheltered in its deep, protected waters, while fuel depots and military facilities were established ashore to support convoy operations that helped keep Britain supplied throughout the war.

One of the most visible reminders of those years still lies beneath the surface of the fjord. Resting on the seabed is the wreck of the British oil tanker SS El Grillo. On February 10, 1944, German aircraft attacked the tanker while she lay at anchor supplying Allied naval vessels. Badly damaged and burning, El Grillo was deliberately scuttled to prevent an explosion from threatening the town and nearby ships. Today, the remarkably well-preserved wreck has become one of Iceland’s premier dive sites, attracting experienced scuba divers from around the world.

The war also brought tragedy to the village itself. In 1944, a catastrophic explosion aboard a British ammunition ship devastated much of Seyðisfjörður’s waterfront, killing both sailors and civilians. Although the town rebuilt after the war, those dramatic years remain an important chapter in its history.

Given Iceland’s population of only about 400,000 people, it is perhaps surprising that Sweden maintains one of only two honorary Swedish consulates in the entire country here in Seyðisfjörður. The other is, naturally, in Reykjavík. The consulate reflects this little port’s longstanding importance as Iceland’s eastern gateway to Scandinavia and continental Europe, maintaining close commercial and maritime ties across the North Atlantic for well over a century.

As we near the tender landing for our return to the ship, we pass a tableaux about the disastrous landslides that hit the town in 2020. Then, we encountered signage about the wreck of the El Grillo and one of its guns, now mounted on the shore.

One panel describes “The Big Landslide That Changed Everything.” On December 18, 2020, after an unprecedented five days of rain that nearly equaled Reykjavík’s average annual precipitation, a gigantic landslide swept through Seyðisfjörður. The slide destroyed 13 houses and damaged others, many dating from around 1900 and possessing significant cultural and historical value. The town museum suffered considerable losses, with much of its buildings destroyed, although some collections were salvaged. The sign notes that the damage to Icelandic cultural heritage was among the most significant ever experienced in the country. Although the landslide itself lasted only minutes, smaller slides had preceded it for days, the town’s infrastructure was overwhelmed, and emergency responders worked almost continuously. After the disaster, the entire town was evacuated for several days. Many residents lost their homes, businesses disappeared, some people could never return because of the continuing danger, and, as the exhibit poignantly concludes, “The sense of security for most inhabitants was profoundly shaken.”

Nearby stands a four-inch Garrett quick-firing naval gun, salvaged from the British tanker SS El Grillo. The plaque reads:

“A four inches GARRETT CANNON from the tankship EL GRILLO which was sunk (torpedoed) by German planes the 10th of February 1944. The ship is still there underseas.”

Additional signage explains that these quick-firing guns, each weighing about 610 kilograms (1,345 pounds), were originally manufactured for the British Royal Navy in the late nineteenth century and later modified for wartime service. During the war, three German aircraft attacked and heavily damaged El Grillo. The wreck still rests on the bottom of the fjord, and efforts to seal the wreck and pump out leaking oil have continued over the years.

Another panel offers a sobering reminder that the war touched the people of Seyðisfjörður as well:

“The war also brought danger. German aircraft frequently flew over the fjord, and air raid sirens were a regular occurrence. In the autumn of 1942, a bombing raid injured four young boys, and one of them lost his leg.”

It is difficult to imagine such a peaceful, picturesque harbor echoing with air-raid sirens and the sound of enemy aircraft overhead. Yet those reminders—together with the rainbows, waterfalls, colorful houses, and the welcoming smiles of today’s Seyðisfjörður—are what make this extraordinary little town so memorable.

Why is it Called a Ship’s Bridge?

— David Eugene Perry

Ahoy! As we all know, a ship is steered from “the bridge.” The term has become synonymous with authority and command. However, have you ever wondered why-when-and-how that term came into use? Take a read below!

The answer takes us back to the earliest days of steam-powered ships.

Traditional sailing ships were commanded and steered from the stern, where the ship’s wheel was located close to the rudder. But during the early 19th century, a revolutionary new type of vessel appeared: the paddle steamer.

These ships were propelled by enormous paddle wheels mounted on either side of the hull. The wheels were enclosed inside projecting structures known as “paddle boxes.” Shipbuilders soon constructed a raised walkway extending across the vessel from one paddle box to the other.

Because it physically connected—or “bridged”—the two sides of the ship, the walkway became known quite literally as the “bridge.”

The elevated position offered the captain a much better view forward, as well as a clear view over both sides of the vessel. This was particularly useful when navigating narrow channels, approaching docks or maneuvering inside crowded harbors. Standing forward of the funnel also helped the captain escape some of the smoke, sails and rigging that could obstruct visibility from the stern.

At first, however, the captain did not necessarily steer the ship from the bridge. The wheel often remained at the stern, close to the rudder and its complicated system of ropes, chains and pulleys. From his position on the bridge, the captain issued commands to the helmsman—sometimes by shouting, using a speaking trumpet or communicating through a voice pipe.

One particularly clear surviving example is a contemporary model of the Thames paddle steamer William, built in 1860 and now held by the National Maritime Museum in Greenwich. It shows the vessel’s two paddle boxes connected by a narrow raised walkway. The museum describes this as an early form of the bridge, from which the master gave orders to the helmsman stationed at the wheel in the stern.

Beginning in the 1840s, the more efficient screw propeller began replacing paddle wheels, especially aboard warships and large ocean-going vessels. Nevertheless, the raised command platform proved so useful that shipbuilders retained it—even after there were no longer paddle boxes for it to connect.

As steering technology improved, mechanical, steam-assisted and eventually hydraulic systems allowed the wheel itself to be moved forward. The captain, navigating officers and helmsman could finally be stationed together. The open platform gradually acquired a protected wheelhouse and was eventually incorporated into the ship’s superstructure.

There was no single moment when the original paddle-box bridge disappeared. The transition took place throughout the second half of the 19th century. By approximately 1900, the traditional walkway spanning two paddle boxes had largely vanished from newly built ocean-going ships, although similar open bridges continued aboard paddle ferries, riverboats and pleasure steamers.

The term, however, remained.

Today, the bridge is the sophisticated command-and-control center of a vessel. From there, the captain and officers oversee navigation, communications, propulsion, weather conditions and the ship’s safe operation. Modern bridges bear little physical resemblance to those exposed walkways perched above the paddle wheels—but their familiar name preserves that remarkable piece of maritime history.

One famous vessel associated with this transitional period was Isambard Kingdom Brunel’s extraordinary Great Eastern, launched in 1858. At approximately 692 feet long, she was the largest ship the world had yet seen. She possessed two enormous 56-foot paddle wheels—but she also had a screw propeller and auxiliary sails, employing all three principal forms of maritime propulsion then available.

The Great Eastern therefore represented both the culmination of the great paddle-steamer era and the technological future that would soon make ocean-going paddle wheels obsolete.

Today, paddle wheels survive primarily aboard historic vessels, excursion boats and faithful replicas. But every time a captain steps onto the bridge of a modern ship—including the bridge aboard our own Holland America Line vessel—we are using a term born aboard those pioneering paddle steamers nearly two centuries ago.

Ahoy—and now you know! Below is an especially good article from the U.S Naval Institute Magazine about the evolution of steering a ship at sea

https://www.usni.org/magazines/naval-history-magazine/2020/october/steering-wheel?utm_source=chatgpt.com

Stavanger: Where Norway’s Maritime Past Meets Hollywood

— David Eugene Perry

Ahoy! Today, Holland America Line’s Nieuw Statendam docked at Sandnes, from whence we decamped to the historic and hugely important port of Stavanger. Once dominated by the oil industry, Stavanger is now a bustling tourism hub while remaining firmly rooted in its extraordinary maritime heritage.

Naturally, our first stop was the Norwegian Maritime Museum, celebrating its 100th anniversary this year. Beautifully curated, it tells the story of a city whose fortunes have always been tied to the sea—from herring fishing and shipbuilding to merchant shipping, tankers, offshore oil, and today’s thriving cruise industry.

Few cities have adapted as successfully as Stavanger. Beginning in the 1600s as a modest fishing port, it grew rapidly during the great herring boom of the 19th century. Local shipowners expanded from coastal sailing vessels to steamships and eventually to fleets trading around the globe. During the 20th century, Stavanger became one of Norway’s premier shipping centers, and when North Sea oil was discovered in the late 1960s, it transformed itself yet again into Norway’s energy capital. Today, tourism has become another major pillar of the local economy, but the city’s maritime DNA remains unmistakable.

The museum also traces the remarkable evolution of Stavanger’s shipping companies. They embraced every technological revolution—from sail to steam, from steam to diesel, and later from carrying passengers and cargo to transporting oil and gas. One exhibit recounts the story of Monsen Shipping, founded in 1812, one of the city’s oldest shipping firms, whose history mirrors Stavanger’s own transformation from regional trading port to international maritime powerhouse.

Waiting just outside in the harbor are two living reminders of that heritage.

The Rogaland, built here in Stavanger in 1929, spent decades carrying passengers and cargo along Norway’s coast between Stavanger, Bergen, and Oslo. Her history is extraordinary. During World War II she survived mines, groundings, and one of Norway’s worst wartime disasters. On April 20, 1944—Hitler’s 55th birthday—she was moored in Bergen harbor when the Dutch ammunition ship Voorbode, requisitioned by the Germans and carrying 120 tons of explosives, exploded nearby. The blast killed more than 100 civilians, devastated much of the harbor, and badly damaged the Rogaland, which eventually settled to the bottom. After the war she was salvaged, repaired, converted from steam to diesel in 1950, and returned to service. Retired in the 1960s, she was rescued by volunteers in 1989 and painstakingly restored. Today she once again sails as Stavanger’s official heritage ship.

Film buffs may recognize her as well. The Rogaland portrayed a white-painted hospital ship in Christopher Nolan’s Dunkirk, filmed in France in 2016.

Moored just ahead lies the Sandnes, launched in 1950. Unlike the Rogaland, she remains an authentic oil-fired propeller steamship, one of the last of her kind. For decades she worked the overnight coastal route linking Sandnes, Stavanger, Haugesund, and Bergen before being retired and preserved as a floating museum. Walking aboard is like stepping back into the twilight years of Norway’s steam age.

Stavanger’s influence on maritime history extends far beyond its own harbor. The city—and Norway’s west coast generally—helped shape the modern cruise industry itself. Norwegian shipowners, including Knut Kloster, pioneered today’s vacation cruising through Norwegian Caribbean Line, while his early business partner Ted Arison later founded Carnival Cruise Line. Meanwhile, Norwegian shipping companies also created Royal Caribbean, helping transform Miami into the cruise capital of the world.

And there is one more cinematic connection nearby. Less than an hour north, in Kopervik on the island of Karmøy, lies the modern Viking longship Draken Harald Hårfagre. Fully seaworthy and built using traditional Viking techniques, she portrayed Odysseus’ ship in Christopher Nolan’s new epic The Odyssey, proving that Norway’s maritime traditions are not merely preserved—they are still sailing into history. A personal note: Alfredo and I saw The Odyssey in Rotterdam before embarking this cruise and loved it. The at-sea scenes with that Viking ship are enough to make you reach for the Dramamine.

Stavanger may be known today for oil, but after a day exploring its museum, walking its waterfront, and stepping aboard these beautifully preserved ships, it is clear that the sea has always been—and remains—the heart of this remarkable city.

Ahoy! A Royal Encounter in Kristiansand: HNoMY Norge

David Eugene Perry

2y July 2026: Ahoy! Our first port of call today aboard Holland America’s Nieuw Statendam was charming Kristiansand, Norway. As we sailed into the harbor, my “ship spotter” eagle eye spied a gorgeous, and clearly classically designed, white yacht. To my delight, it turned out to be the Royal Yacht of the Norwegian Royal Family. Better yet—they were onboard, the Royal Standardflying proudly from the mainmast.

Naturally, I grabbed my camera and Alfredo and I made our way over to where she was berthed alongside Kristiansand’s striking Kunstsilo Museum, home to the world’s largest collection of Nordic Modernist art. So, below: a little history of this splendid vessel—HNoMY Norge. *

At first glance, Norge looks every inch the purpose-built royal yacht. In reality, however, she has had a remarkable second life. She was originally launched in 1937 by the celebrated British shipbuilders Camper & Nicholsons as the luxury yacht Philante, commissioned by aviation pioneer and yachtsman Sir Thomas Sopwith. During the Second World War, she was requisitioned by the Royal Navy and served as an auxiliary patrol vessel in the North Atlantic.

Following the war, an extraordinary chapter began. Rather than purchasing a yacht through government funds, the people of Norway decided to give one to their king. In anticipation of King Haakon VII’s 75th birthday, Norwegian newspapers organized a nationwide fundraising campaign. Schoolchildren contributed coins, families donated what they could, businesses added their support, and together hundreds of thousands of Norwegians raised approximately 1.5 million Norwegian kroner—enough to purchase and refit Philante.

In 1947, she was presented to the King and renamed HNoMY Norge (“His Norwegian Majesty’s Yacht Norway“). It was far more than an elegant birthday gift. It was a heartfelt national thank-you. To understand why, one must understand King Haakon VII. Although born a Danish prince, Haakon became Norway’s king in 1905 after the peaceful dissolution of the union between Norway and Sweden. Over the following decades he earned the deep respect and affection of the Norwegian people through his modesty, accessibility, and unwavering devotion to constitutional government. His greatest test came on April 9, 1940, when Nazi Germany invaded Norway.

As dramatized so effectively in the superb film The King’s Choice, German authorities demanded that Haakon appoint the collaborationist politician Vidkun Quisling as prime minister and effectively legitimize the occupation. Haakon refused. He told his government that if they chose to accept Germany’s demands, he would rather abdicate than place his signature on such a decision.

Forced to flee northward before eventually escaping to Britain, Haakon spent the remainder of the war in exile in London alongside the Norwegian government. Throughout the occupation he became the living symbol of Norwegian resistance, speaking regularly by radio to his countrymen and reminding them that their legitimate government—and their freedom—still endured. When peace finally returned in 1945, King Haakon’s homecoming was one of the defining moments of modern Norwegian history. Crowds packed the streets of Oslo to welcome the man who had become, in many ways, the embodiment of Norway itself.

The gift of Norge two years later was therefore much more than the presentation of a beautiful yacht. It was the gratitude of an entire nation made tangible.

King Haakon VII died on September 21, 1957, at the age of 85. He is buried beside his beloved wife, Queen Maud, in the Royal Mausoleum at Akershus Fortress in Oslo. He was succeeded by his son, King Olav V, himself one of Norway’s most beloved monarchs, remembered affectionately as “The People’s King.” Upon Olav’s death in 1991, the throne passed to his son, King Harald V, who continues to reign today alongside Queen Sonja. Which made today’s encounter all the more special.

The very yacht that grateful Norwegians presented to King Haakon nearly eighty years ago was sitting quietly in Kristiansand Harbor with the present-day royal family aboard. The same polished white hull. The same graceful lines. The same Royal Standard fluttering above the deck. In an age when so much seems temporary, Norge remains a floating symbol of continuity—a working royal residence maintained not as an extravagant display of wealth, but as a living link between Norway’s constitutional monarchy, its naval traditions, and the remarkable king who helped guide the nation through its darkest hour.

For a maritime historian, spotting Norge was an unexpected highlight of the day. And for anyone who has seen The King’s Choice, seeing the yacht in person makes that remarkable story feel just a little more real. Ahoy!

*  HNoMY is the Norwegian abbreviation for “His / Her Norwegian Majesty’s Yacht”. Norge is “Norway” in Norwegian