Bergen is a gorgeous city.Credit: iStock
I dreamt I missed my flight to Oslo. I woke with relief, then opened the curtains of my Bergen hotel room and saw rain. This city, once the most important in Norway because of the dried-cod trade, is now known as the City of Rain, it gets so much.
I'd been in Bergen for three days and had yet to make it to the top of Mount Floyen, which allegedly – on a clear day – afforded amazing views. When these mythical fine days came was beyond me.
Then the miraculous happened. The rain stopped. Bergen is a gorgeous city even when wet, with its quaint weatherboards and cobbled streets. Without rain, there is a release from stoicism.
I hotfooted it up the hill. Half of Bergen had the same idea. Though dark clouds threatened, joggers and walkers enjoyed the stunning wooded reserve and its steep, labyrinthine residential terraces.
It started to sprinkle so I made my way down. By the time I got to the bottom, it was pelting.
Grumpy, I went back to my hotel and laid out my wet things to dry before taking the airport bus.
Suddenly, time got away. I raced to the bus only to sit in it for 15 minutes before it left. Then roadworks turned a 45-minute trip into 90.
Dream come true; I missed my flight. As the man at the Scandinavian Airlines counter wrangled me on to another flight, I thought: "Don't sweat it. Everything happens for a reason."
Reason one emerged as soon as I left the check-in hall and settled into a cafe with windows overlooking adjacent woodland.
The sun came out for the first time since I'd arrived. I laughed and turned my face into it. So the sun really did shine in Bergen.
I got to Oslo with a wait for my connection to Stockholm. After a meal, I went to the bathroom.
I was just finishing with my lipstick when I heard: “This message is for David and Victoria Beckham. Would you please proceed immediately to gate 56, where your flight is awaiting departure.”
I dropped my lippy into my bag and travelled as fast as I could – without being unseemly – towards gate 56. It was like being in a walking race, there were so many of us doing the not-unseemly fast walk towards that gate.
We all got thwarted by a border-control point. Walking back oh-so-casually the way I came, trying not to make eye contact with the other retreating oh-so-casuals, I thought I had reason two for missing my flight.
It was to see that even the super-rich and famous, with a team of assistants to remind them of boarding times, could stuff up. I needn't be so hard on myself about occasional travel glitches.
And I doubted David and Victoria's reasons for tardiness would have come anywhere near my exultant walk in the rises above Bergen.
Travelling is a strange and wonderful series of lessons and insights. It really is.
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