5 June 2024, Tromsø, Norway
The best laid plans of photographers and tourists often go awry.
Mine certainly did.
Having arrived in Tromsø only a couple of days earlier, I had already managed to survive delayed flights, Norway's determined efforts to prevent me purchasing a bottle of wine on a Sunday, and an evening spent wandering around looking increasingly desperate for refreshments. Things seemed to be improving. The weather had been kind, the scenery spectacular, and I was looking forward to what was supposed to be one of the highlights of the trip: a fjord cruise departing from Tromsø.
Instead, I opened my email.
The message was brief. The boat had developed technical problems and the excursion had been cancelled.
Just like that, an entire day disappeared from the itinerary.
Sat on Mount Tromsdalstinden
The Great Arctic panic
One of the disadvantages of solo travel is that there is nobody nearby to reassure you when plans unravel.
The advantage is that there is also nobody to witness the ridiculous lengths you go to while attempting to fix the problem.
For approximately an hour, I entered what can best be described as a mild logistical meltdown.
Like many photographers, I travel with a drone. Unlike many sensible photographers, I had somehow forgotten that my UK drone qualifications were no longer automatically useful everywhere I wished to fly.
This discovery set me on a desperate quest to obtain a recognised European qualification before lunchtime.
I found myself sitting in a hotel room in Northern Norway, frantically studying aviation regulations and attempting to register with a Luxembourg aviation authority website because it appeared to offer a qualification recognised throughout much of Europe.
It was one of those moments where, had somebody walked into the room, they would have found a middle-aged Englishman desperately cramming for an online drone examination that he had not known existed twenty-four hours earlier.
This was not how I had imagined spending my Norwegian holiday.
Eventually, common sense prevailed. The drone could stay in the bag. Photography had existed perfectly well before drones were invented. And, most importantly, Norway was still outside my hotel window.
A completely unpronounceable destination
With my grand fjord adventure cancelled, I turned to Google Maps in search of local alternatives. Eventually I stumbled upon a location called Telegrafbukta. Or at least I think that was how it was pronounced. Even now I am not entirely convinced. Norwegian place names seemed determined to expose the limitations of both my vocabulary and my confidence.
Telegrafbukta sits within Folkeparken, a large recreational area on the western side of Tromsøya, the island upon which Tromsø itself is built. The drive took only a few minutes. I arrived expecting little more than somewhere pleasant to stretch my legs and perhaps find a photograph or two. What I found instead was one of the most beautiful urban parks I have ever visited.
The locals enjoying Summer
One aspect of travelling to Northern Norway in June is that local people react to sunshine in much the same way British people react to the announcement of a bank holiday. They immediately go outside.
Families were gathered across the park. Children played on the beach. Groups sat chatting while looking out across the water. Dogs enthusiastically dragged their owners towards anything remotely interesting. There was laughter, conversation and the general atmosphere of people making the most of a beautiful summer day.
Meanwhile, I was doing what photographers do. Namely, wandering around looking confused. Camera bag over one shoulder. Tripod over the other. Pausing every thirty seconds to stare at rocks.
I must have looked ridiculous.
From a distance, I imagine it appeared that a slightly overweight Englishman had flown halfway across Europe specifically to inspect the shoreline one stone at a time. The Norwegians, meanwhile, seemed far more sensible. They were enjoying themselves.
I was trying to determine whether moving six feet to the left would improve the foreground composition.
Mountains across the Water
The extraordinary thing about Telegrafbukta is that despite being close to the city, the views feel far removed from urban life. Across the water lies Kvaløya, Norway's fifth-largest island and home to some spectacular mountain scenery.
Peaks still carried patches of snow despite it being early June. Clouds drifted lazily around the higher summits and sunlight moved constantly across the slopes, changing the appearance of the landscape minute by minute. For a photographer, it was magnificent. Every time I thought I had found a composition worth photographing, the light changed and presented a new possibility.
The challenge was less about finding a photograph and more about deciding which photograph to take.
The search for Composition
I eventually settled slightly south of the main viewpoint and jetty. The obvious approach would have been to photograph directly across the fjord, but I wanted something more. Foreground interest. Depth. A visual pathway leading the viewer into the frame. In practice, this meant more aimless wandering over rocks, which took me closer to the local carnival, just on a knoll overlooking my position. Great!
Photography often looks wonderfully artistic from the outside. The reality usually involves a grown adult shuffling backwards and forwards while muttering things such as:
"That's better."
"No it isn't."
"Maybe over there."
"No, definitely not there."
After enough experimentation, I found a series of rocky outcrops that balanced the composition nicely against the mountains beyond. At last, the camera began earning its keep.
IMAGE 5 - Your favourite landscape photograph from the rocky shoreline
Looking behind me
As the afternoon progressed, I eventually turned away from the mountains. What I discovered was a reminder of one of photography's oldest lessons. Sometimes the best image is behind you.
Stretching into the water was the jetty, providing a strong leading line and a far simpler composition than the grand mountain vistas that had occupied my attention for much of the day. The mountains were impressive. The jetty was elegant. Sometimes simplicity wins.
Reflections
Looking back, the cancellation of the fjord cruise turned out to be little more than a temporary disappointment.
At the time, it felt like a disaster. There had been panic. There had been frantic research into European aviation legislation. There had probably been some unnecessary overreaction. But had the boat sailed as planned, I would almost certainly never have visited Telegrafbukta.
I would never have spent a summer afternoon watching local families enjoy one of Tromsø's favourite outdoor spaces. I would never have wandered those rocky shores in search of compositions. And I would never have enjoyed those remarkable views towards Kvaløya.
Most importantly, standing there beside the Arctic waters and gazing towards distant mountains, I felt something growing that would remain with me for the rest of the trip: anticipation and excitement. Because if scenery this beautiful could be found at a local community park just outside Tromsø, what on earth awaited me further north?
The following morning, I would leave the city behind and begin the journey to Skulsfjord. The real adventure was only just beginning.
Video
You can watch the accompanying video on my YouTube channel, where I share the full story of my cancelled fjord cruise, my unexpected visit to Telegrafbukta, and the landscape photography opportunities that emerged from a day that very nearly went wrong.