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Crossing Sognefjord, the longest and deepest of Norway’s inlets from the sea, is a breathtaking experience.

Starting from the west coast city of Bergen, I traced out a nostalgic four-day circuit that took me past the Scandinavian country's deepest inlets and a famously scenic village

In a country famous for breathtaking scenery, it seems odd to single out driving as a special attraction.

But on a visit to Norway in June, I was caught up in nostalgia for road experiences that seemed quite exotic to me as a 1960s hitchhiker. Trains had isolated me from roads on later visits, but now, half a century later, I was back with my first-ever rental car in Norway.

Starting from the west coast city of Bergen, I traced out a four-day circuit that touched on Norway's two largest fjords and the notable village of Balestrand, an attraction for painters, mountain walkers and scenery hounds since the dawn of Norwegian tourism in the late 19th century.

Over about 600 kilometres, I felt surprisingly cheered by reunions with the likes of narrow roads clinging to mountainsides over fjords, snow by the roadside in June, considerate drivers and the relaxing effect of fjord-hopping ferries that combined a scenic mini-cruise with a chance to socialize with other drivers.

My route avoided fast highways (designated "E") and modern improvements such as tunnels that have widely replaced hair-raising road ascents over mountains.

After a few days seeking old memories in Bergen, I set out in my VW Polo rental for Route 7 and the north shore of Hardanger fjord. Unlike the brooding starkness of some fjords, Hardanger projects a gentle image with apple orchards on its slopes and a romantic aura based on a well-known 19th-century painting of a wedding procession in traditional dress rowing across the fjord.

But Hardanger was less peaceful that day. A rockslide had blocked the main E16 Oslo-Bergen highway, diverting heavy traffic to little Route 7. There was definitely no texting meeting oncoming trucks and buses on this minimally wide road. When it narrowed more, an escort vehicle led one-way traffic. But then traffic magically evaporated and I was alone on a winding road through lonely rocky countryside.

Seizing on 1960s memories, I took to honking the Polo's feisty horn as a warning at blind corners. But maybe people don't do this anymore; I never did meet an oncoming car honking back.

Roads seemed wider now, with better protective guard rails than the row of jagged rocks I recalled.

Turning north on Route 31, I reached Voss, a winter ski resort fallen serenely quiet on a June evening. Aside from restaurants of many nationalities except Norwegian, the main curiosity in Voss was a lichen-covered stone cross dating from 1023 in memory of King Olav, who Christianized Norway.

I chose the Voss youth hostel for my first sleep. Hostels now offer private rooms, an evolution from 1960s dormitory format, and the $100 rate included an ample breakfast buffet of herring in various sauces, salmon, cold cuts and cheeses, including the distinctive sweet Norwegian brown cheese.

The hostel's setting on a lake framed by mountains inspired picture-taking, but with a twist. Instead of focusing on real objects, I was drawn to their rippling images on the water's surface. Water-reflection photography became a habit in Norway.

Next morning, I continued north on Route 31. The road climbed imperceptibly, rivers ran faster, trees thinned out and then the mark of Zorro came into focus etched on a mountainside ahead. It was a switchback, a series of hairpin turns to take vehicles up steep slopes. A survivor of the tunnelling trend, it gave a glimpse into the old days.

I paused to absorb the scene: scattered red farm buildings, a waterfall tracing a thin line down rocky slopes, an occasional sheep bleat breaking the silence. Up ahead, a bus and truck were gingerly approaching one another for a switchback squeeze-by.

Climbing the hairpins was so absorbing that I failed to notice the coming of winter. In the blink of an eye, the world had changed into a vast, snow-covered plateau. Only a rushing stream of meltwater beside the road prevented me from running over to make a snowball in June.

Route 31 onward led back down to summer greenery and a stop at a unique Norwegian antiquity near the village of Vik. Built in the 1100s (and restored in the 1880s), the Hopperstad Stave Church exudes medieval vibes with its dark-stained wood construction, low-light interior and carved dragon heads snapping at the sky from gable edges.

The Hopperstad Stave Church, with its dark-stained wood, low-light interior and dragon heads, exudes medieval vibes.

Not far away, I shared a hilltop perch overlooking Sognefjord with a colossal, somewhat mystifying statue. This is Frithjof the Bold, a Viking hero from a popular saga that supposedly took place below. He has stood here, more than 10 metres tall, since 1913, the gift of German Emperor Wilhelm II, who idolized Norway for its nature and Viking roots.

The hilltop gave a broad view of Sognefjord at a place where several arms merge into a vast watery expanse. Under a big sky, it produces an ethereal light that apparently attracted early painters. On this day, it created a hypnotic setting for a ferry tirelessly crossing the fjord.

Fifty years ago, as an inland Canadian, I found ferries exotic. Today, I still had to catch my breath crossing majestic Sognefjord, the longest and deepest of Norway's distinctive inlets from the sea.

My hotel on the fjord's north side, the Dragsvik Fjordhotell, was a picturesque but long drive into Balestrand, where I had twin goals: hike a particular mountain trail, and enjoy the copious evening buffet at Kviknes Hotel, a local tourism landmark.

The hiking ambition was deflated on learning that my intended climb, the 972-metre Raudmelen mountain popular with early British fell walkers, was an all-day adventure. Most trails listed in the brochure "Outdoor activities in Balestrand" were too long for my hurried itinerary.

But I did find a feasible climb near my hotel, passing curious sheep and almost reaching the tree line. The rocky ground where I rested was dotted with wildflowers and lined with streams and waterfalls. It was enough to stir romantic attachment for Norway, which seems more rewarding than just watching scenery go by.

Kviknes Hotel was fully booked with tour-bus traffic, so I couldn't stay overnight, but a day visitor can tour the hotel's extensive collection of paintings by Norwegian artists with Balestrand connections. The evening buffet (not cheap at about $90) offered salmon in endless forms and much more, served in an enormous hall with a fjord view.

By the dock where fast ferries sweep in from Bergen, there are grocery stores, the tourist office and an art gallery-café of long-time Balestrand watercolour artist Bjorg Bjoberg. At lunch in her cafe, I had a few sips of beer before recalling an unforgiving aspect of driving in Norway: zero alcohol tolerance. My booze-tainted blood ran cold.

Faced with downtime to clear my bloodstream, I visited cultural and historical sights of Balestrand, including an imitation stave church built for visiting British worshippers, Viking burial mounds and the former chalets of Norwegian painters, topped with dragon heads. There is also a beach on the fjord for an ice-cold dip.

By mid-afternoon, I set out on a road not shown on the 1964 Esso "touring map" from my first Norway visit. Its late construction hinted at dramatic engineering challenges, but Route 55 was an easy drive hugging the Sognefjord shore. Then I came upon the answer: a 7.5-kilometre tunnel had to be punched through a mountain near the town of Hoyanger. This opened in 1982.

The tunnel was being refurbished, forcing alternate one-way traffic. Normally this could mean long waits, but in a surprise thoughtful gesture, departure times at both ends were widely posted so drivers could time their arrivals sensibly.

At the other end of the tunnel, Hoyanger's only hotel stood beside a festival with loud music so I kept driving, trusting to luck for a good place to sleep. Looming darkness was not a worry since daylight spans the clock in June at this latitude of Norway. I had time to stop in quiet fjord villages and chat with old men fishing for salmon.

When a sign pointed to a campground, I pulled over hoping to use a tent I brought to reduce lodging costs. But this was a loosely defined "campground" of scattered grassy patches without allocated picnic tables and fire pits. I moved along again, after the site manager secured me a room in a hotel run by his father down the road in Leirvik.

It would be convenient to my next morning's ferry crossing of Sognefjord at a place with a difficult name: Rysjedalsvik.

Along the way, I passed the city of Lavik with its major Sognefjord ferry crossing for the E39 north-south highway. It offered a quick escape back to Bergen, but I preferred the slower pace of the most westerly Sognefjord crossing at Rysjedalsvik.

My Leirvik hotel exceeded expectations for good luck with its location by a picturesque fishing harbour. I arrived in time for a cod supper on the hotel terrace before the kitchen closed and the town fell absurdly silent for a Saturday night. I looked forward to a big starry sky until I remembered that it did not get dark here.

Next morning, I missed the Rysjedalsvik ferry by minutes and faced a three-hour wait. But this imposed slower pace is what I liked about ferries in the old days. I chatted with travellers from Lille, France, watched boys fishing off the dock and marvelled as the Bergen-Balestrand fast ferry made a stop, barely kissing the dock to let off a passenger before roaring away like a rocket.

I filled most of the time driving a narrow road through forests and farm fields, amazed at the politeness of oncoming car and tractor drivers. Instead of playing chicken on essentially one-lane roads, they would scan for any tiny widening in the road to squeeze into and let me pass.

Soon, I was doing the same. It became a competition among drivers to be considerate.

After crossing Sognefjord around noon, I threaded my way back south to Bergen on small inland roads, out of sight of any coastal oil industry. In Bergen, I set the GPS to find the Montana youth hostel on the edge of town under a mountain called Ulriken. I had stayed there 50 years earlier and, looking around at breakfast, saw many in my age group mixed with the youth.

It was an emotional reunion with the 643-metre Ulriken, the first mountain I ever thought to climb. However, from the trail starting near the hostel, I couldn't find the rocky crags I once scampered over like a mountain goat. I plodded slowly up a wide and smooth trail, passed by young women jogging uphill.

Since it was evening with no hope of reaching the top by bedtime, I ducked into the trail-side forest and found my nostalgic peace amid the woodsy fragrance and song of the blackbirds.