Another ferry ride and half an hour back up the Fjord and I found the turning for the hotel. The road plunged down to the shore where thirty small wooden houses were strung along the water front. They were old and weatherbeaten but well looked after like a wooden boat. The hotel was built in the same manner, but was larger with a long ornate veranda. It appeared I was the only guest. I was shown to my room which was very plain and rather run down, like an old family holiday home. One young man took all the roles, bell boy, concierge, waiter and cook. He asked me what I would like to eat and as the hotel was famous for it's food I asked that he decide. While he was cooking I wandered around the village which centred on a large concrete jetty. There were ferry timetables and a small car park. The Fjord was not very wide at this point and mountains rose up on all sides. I had hoped that the meal would be local in style but it was over presented nouvelle Cuisine. The pressure of being the only guest somehow made me order a whole bottle of wine. I struggled to drink at least half of it while reading my book. I took my coffee and the bottle of wine onto the veranda and used the hotel cordless phone to call home