Viewed from a distance we could almost have passed for an amphibious commando unit on a dawn raid. The RIB in which we sped towards the shore was black and unmarked. The eight of us clung to the sides, hunched over, with the spray kicked up by the rubberised prow dousing our faces. Expectant eyes scanned the peaks that ringed the foreshore.
On closer inspection? Not so much. For one, we were armed with little more than trekking poles and far too many bags of Haribo. Our uniform was a gaudy Lycra. When a singalong spontaneously broke out as we arced into the silent, mountain-fringed bay, it was clear that — whatever else we were — we certainly weren’t a threat.
Truth be told, we were all suffering from a little cabin fever. The trip we were on had been badged as a “trail and sail” running adventure. Yet for the past half day it had been more of a “cruise and snooze”, as we’d made a spectacular if sedentary (and in some cases queasy) crossing from the mainland of north-west Norway to what even those unfailingly modest Norwegians will tell you, point blank, are the most beautiful islands in the world: Lofoten.
Now, with Moondance — our 56ft expedition sailing yacht — safely anchored a short distance offshore we were going to get the chance to run it off. And we were itching to hit the trails, lit by the endlessly fluctuating 24-hour daylight of an arctic summer.
As a group, we were certainly a disparate bunch. Two running-club friends from Glasgow, Hua and John. Leeds-based finance manager Hannah, on whose unflagging enthusiasm we could probably have powered the outboard. Gav, a cyber-security expert from Oxfordshire and purveyor of dad jokes and confectionery-based morale. And myself, an enthusiastic if undistinguished plodder.
The non-UK contingent comprised two Texans: Brian, an erudite 60-something environmental activist with a passing resemblance to Paul Newman. And a recovering addict named Moose.
That addiction was marathon running. The phlegmatic teacher’s increasingly impressive PBs for the distance were tattooed on to his calf, each landmark time inked out as a superior one had been achieved. But running for the sheer, damn pleasure of it was his new obsession and, in this, he had a kindred spirit in the eighth occupant of the RIB that morning, Pure Trails founder and running guide Charlie Knights.
The 39-year-old started the company in 2019 to capitalise on a boom that the pandemic — with its resulting pivot towards exercise and the great outdoors — only served to turbocharge. Today, an estimated 20mn people worldwide count themselves as trail or ultra (anything more than a marathon) runners, and there are some 25,000 trail races on offer, with a third of entrants being women.
But racing, Knights is at pains to point out, is definitely not the Pure Trails way. “We think of our trips as journeys,” he tells me. “It’s not a competition. It’s a discovery.” And his long-planned, inaugural Lofoten tour wasn’t about to compromise on that no-one-gets-left-behind ethos.
The trip had begun 48 hours earlier when we had gathered in the little marina at Bodø, northern Norway’s second-largest town, served by a pleasingly parochial airport and direct flights from Oslo.
Here, 29-year-old blond, moustached captain Luuk van den Engel welcomed us on board a boat that, it quickly transpired, was as charmingly eccentric as the young Dutchman himself. The coffin-shaped metallic box tethered to the deck proved to be exactly that — requisitioned from the US military as the perfect, vacuum-sealed receptacle for skis (ski-touring voyages are his bread and butter in the winter).
The hull of the vessel was moulded from 11mm-thick aluminium for probing the winter ice in the likes of Greenland and Svalbard. Guest bunks were tightly packed and layered in the prow of the boat in that human lasagne style with which many sailors will be familiar. “Not bad, though I worried I might tread on Brian’s face when I went to the loo,” was the sort of response that came to greet an innocent inquiry about someone’s night’s sleep.
But for all its quirks, the boat was eminently liveable-in, with a cavernous (for the vessel’s size) 3-metre-high saloon, the top third of which was entirely windowed; a little galley; warm shower; large, fold-out table for everything from communal meals and pre-run map briefings to whisky-fuelled poker games; and ample space up on deck from which to take it all in.
And, boy, was there a lot to take in. Pick out Lofoten on a map of Norway and it resembles an unbroken talon of land extending far into the Norwegian Sea. Close up, it is in fact a dizzying, 100-mile-long mosaic of islands, islets, and innumerable skerries linked by white sand beaches that glow, atoll like, through turquoise seas. Ice-dusted peaks of gneiss and granite largely bypass the whole tedious foothills thing, preferring instead to plunge directly into the clear waters.
Sea eagles spiralled overheard. Puffins flapped furiously by. Porpoises rode the waves. And blacklegged kittiwakes squawked noisily, oblivious (perhaps understandably) to the time of day or night. The thought of the pod of orcas that van den Engel had witnessed gliding imperiously past Moondance’s bow a few weeks previously added a frisson to the wonderfully refreshing dips that quickly became a warm-down fixture of our daily runs.
The first of these was little more than a 10km shake-out jog from the town of Kjerringøy, about 30km north of Bodø. Drizzle hung in the air, and the run was mainly notable for the identification — and outlawing — of the “bastard break”: the custom of those at the front of a group run pausing for a breather as others catch up, before immediately charging off again. Definitely not the Pure Trails way.
The second outing — the following day — was when we really began to appreciate just how astonishing this setting is. It was taken from Nordskot, a remote coastal settlement of just a few dozen houses backed by an almost perfect amphitheatre of rock.
We followed the solitary lane out of the village, the pace steady, then veered up into the trees to our left as the cloud burnt away. The summit of Sørskottinden (608 metres) was marked with a makeshift cairn of piled stone. From here we could take in the endless, cream-ringed crumbs of islands stretching away to the south-west; and, to the north-east, across the becalmed waters of the vast Vestfjorden (more of a sea than a fjord), the imposing Lofotveggen, the so-called Lofoten Wall of peaks.
The vessel that would be taking us there was just visible far below in the bay, its metallic hull glinting in the low morning sun.
I spent much of that long crossing that followed out on deck. Wind conditions were in our favour, with a firm north-easterly filling the sails. No tacking would be necessary. We could set a bearing for our destination — Hopen, on the southern tip of Austvågøya, the largest of Lofoten’s islands — and with Moondance heeling satisfyingly, sit it out.
Tea rounds (no mean feat with the galley stove at a 15-degree slant) helped fill the time. Biscuits were brought up by Roy Lefranc — the boat’s amiable first mate and an old university friend of the captain. And van den Engel regaled us with stories of his travels in Moondance, built in 2007 and bought by himself and a consortium of friends in 2021.
“On board, as you’ve seen, space is limited so you need to have guests with the right mindset,” he told me. “Hikers, trail-runners, skiers . . . these are my sorts of people.”
The run that followed our not-so-covert beach landing was another epic. We divided into two groups: the first taking on a forest loop around the headland culminating in a coffee at the little guesthouse surrounded by water’s edge rorbuer, traditional fisherman’s cabins. The second, which I joined, took on the higher-altitude trail to the peak of Glomtinden (419 metres), followed by an exhilarating sandy-ridge descent along which views of the slender finger of Rørvikvatnet water opened up, cradled in a pristine V-shaped valley to the west.
The final part of the 90-minute loop required us to jog for a short distance along the edge of the E10. This is Lofoten’s main, often only road. Trucks, camper vans and buses whistled past us, heading east to the islands’ de facto capital of Svolvær from the honeypot towns and villages further west. We were grateful to dive back into the placid embrace of Hopen’s cove.
Yet during the subsequent days, mooring in coves and beaches on a languid voyage west towards the caldera-like island of Værøy, we would barely see a soul.
The 24-hour daylight was particularly liberating. We determined our schedule; no one (or nothing) else did. Pulling into the tiny fishing village of Nusfjord well after 9pm one evening, and mooring up among the red fishing huts, three of us made the decision to head for the peak poking through the mist high above the harbour. One was Lefranc, eager to stretch his legs after a long stint in the galley. The other was van den Engel, who finished his bulky pasta supper, had a quick cigarette and then declared himself ready.
On the steep, hour-long ascent we passed a group of jovial 20-somethings whose backpacks were laden with supplies for a makeshift midnight dinner party at the summit. Reaching this a little before 10.30pm, I found myself uttering the incongruous words: “Do you know what, I think it’s clearing up.” The sun duly emerged, flooding the harbour below with a soft crimson light, and I set off at the charge, bouncing through the bracken, hurdling brooks and sliding down scree slopes, fell-runner style. So caught up in the descent was I, I’m ashamed to say I left the other two trailing. A “bastard break” of a different sort.
But the grief I got was good-natured and shortlived. Morale was high, and bonds tight — as they often are on such trips, Knights explained. “It’s amazing how quickly people relax and open up. It’s something about the endorphins, just being away from it all. Big life decisions are made, problems shared. It’s one of the best things about what we do.”
Here in this otherworldly, sunlit utopia, such compassion and positivity was clearly catching. In one of the weatherproof boxes that are found on the summits in these parts — often containing a little book to sign and date — we were to find a folded note.
“Dear stranger,” it read. “I don’t know you and you don’t know me but I wanted to wish you the best. Whatever you come here with, whatever you struggle with, I believe you will overcome your adversities.”
It was signed, simply: “With love, another stranger.”
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