“Go to Hell”.
In England: [insult] instruction. Requests the target of said insult proceed directly to endless burning torture in the afterlife.
In Norway: [advice] suggestion. Informs the target of said advice of their best chance to climb dry rock in the seemingly permanent precipitation of the Trondheim area.
After 2 and a half weeks of thrashing it out in Flatanger, our puny British biceps couldn’t take the abuse anymore. We descended the country for a few days rest and recovery in Trondheim, a fjord-side mini-city full of cafe’s and ski-shops. There we met up with our friend Jenny who introduced us to Bjørn and Cecilia, a couple of Hytta-dwelling Trondheim locals who took us in, fed us, and taught us little Norwegian culture.
Whilst sight-seeing in Trondheim made for a far better rest day than lying about in a tent (and to be honest, mainly consisted of going from street to street consuming as much ‘Pølsa’ and waffles as humanly possible) the need to climb crept back like a growing hunger, or perhaps more accurately – withdrawal symptoms.
“Go to Hell.”
Well why the hell not?
Stood under the hard overhanging conglomerate walls of Hell, our still weak arms began to shiver in fear. A cold breeze floated through the crag, chilling your fingers and biting at your ankles. The rain fell heavily at the end of the overhang, forcing the belayer to retreat underneath the rock, where they must engage in their own battle to keep the rope out of the dust and muck. We stared up at the sheet of bubbled texture on the face of the cliff, laughably referred to as the ‘holds’, small polished pebbles and blind pockets, some of which – but only the essential ones of course – had succumbed to the steady seepage of rain water through rock. In the distance we heard gunfire, from the nearby military firing range. Or was it thunder?
Tie in and slip your numb feet into your shoes. Chuck your jacket into the dirt and shove your fingers under your armpits. Pull on, and try not to let go.
Welcome to Hell.