Day 14: Last day in Oslo

As we traced the familiar route from Bob W to Oslo Central, the streets were buzzing with more energy than usual. We were headed to the ferry to visit the harbour fjords, along with what felt like the rest of Oslo. But first, a detour: a cultural parade had taken over the square, with each country competing to see who could play their music the loudest.

A dishevelled marching band – complete with rogue tambourinist and a conductor hell-bent on whipping them into shape – warmed up alongside Brazilian salsa dancers in bejewelled feather headpieces. They gathered around Lark’s favourite tiger statue “roooar!” which she promptly licked. As toddlers do.

We travelled between countries without leaving the square: ladies in bejewelled cowgirl hats dancing for Bolivia (our friends from Vigeland Park earlier in the week), Thailand draped in gold, pink and purple traditional outfits waving their flag beside Romania — each nation side-stepping its actual geographic neighbours with joyful abandon.

Since Starbucks was within striking distance of Oslo Central, it was time for an emotional support beverage. But Norway, it turns out, is behind the curve – the tiramisu latte hadn’t dropped yet. The barista assured me the crème brûlée version was basically the same. I substituted it in. A hug from a stranger is better than no hug at all, I suppose.

Armed with caffeinated comfort and pastries, we pushed Lark in her pram down to the ferry terminal and boarded. For some reason, it was right then – on a ferry, technically homeless, juggling house-hunting and IVF plans – that I felt inspired to plan our wedding. Sensible. Maybe it was the view. Maybe it was the emotion of the trip winding down. Or maybe I was just feeling especially gooey about RaRa after two wonderful adventurous weeks together.

Side note: RaRa once carried an engagement ring across Japan in his toiletry bag, disguised as sunscreen.

Now, RaRa – like Lark – has red hair, and he’s always been extremely concerned about what he calls “burny hour.” But on that trip, his obsession with sunscreen reached frankly annoying levels. He kept asking, “Do we have the sunscreen?” like it was the holy grail in a tube.

At the time, I was usually the one stashing possibly needed things in the nappy bag. But RaRa needed somewhere to hide his toiletry bag while we were out and about – and he didn’t want me getting suspicious if I saw it. I hadn’t seen the bag, so I just assumed he’d quietly appointed me the unofficial ambassador of SPF – solely responsible for protecting our fair-skinned survival, which annoyed me further.

I remember thinking, If you care so much about the sunscreen, why don’t you just carry your own sunscreen?

After the twentieth reminder, I snapped: “I don’t care about the sunscreen. It’s probably lost.”

The look he gave me? Like a man shot in battle.

Because, unbeknownst to me, I’d just declared his carefully chosen diamond ring gone forever – and with it, the entire proposal plan, our future together temporarily shattered under the weight of UV protection.

We disembarked at the first island Hovedøya, along with everyone else, all hurrying to claim the best spot on a thin, gravelly beach that reminded me of a small car park. People laid out their towels like it was Bondi. Norway, you’re adorable.

We wandered the island discussing the Roman Empire — as you do — and how it’s really just ancient colonisation wrapped in a toga. I suppose if you apologise with lasagne and spaghetti bolognese, the world forgives you. Bratwurst doesn’t quite carry the same diplomatic flair.

The harbour fjords? Honestly, a bit underwhelming. Nothing like what we’d imagined. So we jumped back on the ferry and set our sights on the Oslo Medieval Festival.

The Oslo Medieval Festival: chainmail, cinnamon & tiny bite marks

The Oslo Medieval Festival at Akershus Fortress felt like stepping through a portal to a Game of Thrones set, a historical time long forgotten by most, lovingly resurrected by passionate enthusiasts who thankfully refuse to let history go quietly.

Side note: At some point, we must discuss that ending to Game of Thrones.

Canvas tents lined the grounds, brimming with wares: handcrafted leather shoes, linen dresses, and bone-tipped arrows. There were blacksmiths hammering tools the old-fashioned way, and men in full handmade suits of armour clinking around like tin cans with pride. Some practised jousting. Others clashed swords in earnest battle. Clink, clink! History, alive and sweaty.

So sweaty, in fact, that some knights wandered around shirtless up top and all tin cans on the legs – their physiques suggesting that the physically demanding noble services of knighthood are, indeed, redundant in the 21st century.

Cinnamon-dusted toffee apples covered in flaked almonds seemed to be the medieval snack of choice – we passed at least ten before caving in. Lark’s version barely survived the encounter. Her apple was lovingly gnawed, tiny circular bite marks scattered across it like medieval leprosy. She dropped it more than once, and each time she’d carefully avoid the gravelly bits before continuing to nibble, stoic and determined, as if the fate of the kingdom depended on her finishing it.

The final swing (and a spritz)

As we left the fortress, Lark spotted a set of swings which, of course, became a mandatory detour. RaRa played with her on the big swing while I claimed a quieter one nearby, gently rocking in the sunshine like someone who had finally earned their moment of peace. Our hearts full and cheeks sun-warmed, we stopped for a beer and an Aperol spritz – a fizzy little farewell toast to Norway, much like a nightcap on our holiday. Tomorrow we’re London bound.

Epilogue: the magic & mayhem are what life is about

Fourteen days. Two countries. One campervan, multiple airport mishaps, several scenic detours, and one very opinionated toddler.

We began this grand adventure in the Scottish Highlands, where every winding, narrow road came with a whisky distillery, a loch with questionable monsters, or a haunted castle. We braved the campervan life, fell in love with langoustines, and learned that Highland hospitality includes both warm smiles and suspiciously strong drams.

Norway brought fjords, modern architecture, and a firm reality check on restaurant prices. Oslo farewelled us with a marching band and Brazilian salsa dancers (as all great cities should), while the Medieval Festival reminded us that chainmail is timeless and apples can still taste great when covered in toffee and gravel.

Travelling with a toddler felt risky at the start — but in the end, there were more highs (Dunrobin falcons, sticky chai victories, random castle finds, racing the Jacobite steam train) than there were lows (poonamis, sleepless nights, and the relentless quest for an affordable sandwich).

But more than anything, there was joy. The deep, slightly chaotic kind you get from stepping out of the day-to-day and into the world with a backpack full of nappies, passports, and big feelings.

We set out hoping for adventure, and instead found something better: a living, breathing reminder that this life, in all its sticky, scenic, surprising glory, is worth showing up for. That even when everything’s a bit unhinged and nothing goes to plan, there’s still magic to be found in cobblestone streets, convenience store pastries, and the sound of your child roaring at a bronze tiger statue.

So here’s to the road – the one behind us and the one ahead. May we keep saving up, packing light-ish, and hitting the tarmac in search of memories that stick (preferably toffee-apple-style).

Buckle up, Boo. We’ll do this again next year.