Wednesday 14 September 2022--There is music softly playing in the breakfast room this morning, singer/songwriter-type stuff that is what I suppose they are calling "Americana" these days (I'm not really keeping up). A sensitive- sounding fellow is singing a song with a chorus that starts, "I want you to know, I was wrong." Duh...she knows that, you mansplaining dimwit. She was telling you that all along. I'm mildly disappointed, but not really surprised, that almost all of the music I've heard on my trip has been English-language pop: the horrible disco in Joe & the Juice, metal-pop in Styrhuset; the DJ at Macbeth in Trondheim was mixing the Jackson 5, Steve Miller, and other things that weren't too awful. The best I've heard was a bus driver's radio on the way to Kristiansund, playing American classics from Patsy Cline to Roy Orbison to Barry White. I wasn't expecting to hear hardanger fiddle tunes everywhere, but it would be nice to hear something Norwegian now and then. (I guess the aerobics tune in Ørnes was being sung in Norwegian; I couldn't really hear the lyrics.) I've lamented in the past that people everywhere seem to be embarrassed by their own native culture, and think being sophisticated means being into stuff from somewhere else. I'm only half joking when I say that the French are the only people who think their stuff is superior to everyone else's. As for music, Ireland, it seems to me, is the only place where you can go into a pub in any town, large or small, and expect to hear indigenous music. I suppose that's largely tourist- driven, but the locals seem to like it, too. For some reason, tourists--western tourists, anyway--in other places just want to hear music they're already familiar with, mostly American pop...which, of course, I'm embarrassed by.

It's a dark and drizzly day, as good a time for it as any, I guess, as it's mostly a nuts-and-bolts day, taking care of business and getting from here to there. I leave my bags at the front desk of my hotel and walk to the Hertz office, down by the ferry quay. My rental car is a tiny Suzuki, suitable for people 5'9" or so. I'll manage. Pick up my bags at the hotel, then drive over the bridge to the islands guarding Svolvær's harbor. There's a nice view across to the town. I also see some rorbuer back there. A rorbu (rorbuer is the plural) is a fisherman's cabin converted to a holiday cottage, almost always painted the traditional red. They are quite common around Lofoten, and other northern areas. I have a feeling that a lot of them were never actual fishermen's cabins, but were purpose-built to look like they once were; whatever, they're very charming and cozy-looking, and I always figured I'd stay in one when I got to this part of Norway. Most of them are, alas, a bit pricey for a solo traveler--for this solo traveler, anyway.

Make my planned assault on the grocery stores, picking up food and beer for the week ahead. Then I drive the half-hour to Henningsvær, a fishing village spread over a cluster of small islands dangling off the southern tip of Austvågøya, the large island Svolvær is on. Henningsvær's main islands are linked to each other and to Austvågøya by bridges. It's all reminiscent of Veiholmen, to an extent; but the village is much larger, with more services and restaurants (which are still open, at least part of the week). The mountainous backdrop is different, too. The internet is full of aerial photos showing the town's spectacular setting. It's not quite so dramatic on the ground, but it's a stunning place, nonetheless. Much (but not all) of the fishing infrastructure has been given over to tourism. My own lodgings are in Tobiasbrygga, a converted warehouse right on the harbor. It's not a rorbu, but my little apartment is similar to what you'd find in one of those, with a comfortable living area, a bedroom with a double and a bunkbed, and a balcony overlooking the water. The bunks are reserved for Win and Ron, in case they decide to pop over (they won't). There's a full kitchen. I'm very happy with the place. I have eight nights here.

The weather continues to be dreary, and I'm more than glad to stay in. Dinner tonight is chicken. I bought a package of chicken breasts in Svolvær, not knowing how many were in it. Eight...it'll be chicken every night. It takes me a while to figure out the induction stovetop, but once I get used to it, I quite like it. I've always sworn by gas stoves, but this is a game-changer.

It's too wet to sit on the balcony with my beer, but I don't care. There are worse places to spend a rainy evening. Or a rainy week, if it comes to that.