I could play safe, turn back and loose time, or push on, risking a much longer journey if this wasn't the right road. Fairly sure that I was making a mistake I continued over the pass and then down into a perfect green valley with a lake at it's centre. A river thundered over flat rocks beside the road throwing up huge plumes of spray. At the base of the valley I found myself joining a long stationary queue of cars. Up ahead there were workmen dressed in yellow oil-skins, directing a string of lorries past the cars. I asked the driver of the taxi behind me if this was the road to Stavanger. He said that it was but that there had been a rock fall up ahead and the workmen were clearing the road. I worried that I was using up any spare time that I might have had. Eventually we were waved through in single file. I over-took the cars ahead of me and raced towards the town from which I would make the final ferry trip down to Stavanger airport

I had made a couple of animated films of rippling water but I had an idea of a landscape painting with water moving in the foreground. The last time I was in New York I had bought a framed photo of a tropical island with a moving light behind that gave the effect of the water shimmering. It also had the sound of waves lapping. It had been tough to carry home and I had never hung it on the wall due to the incompatible electric current. I didn't know if I could draw such a subtle movement as the rippling reflections but I filmed in various directions keeping the rain off the lens

Up till now I had been very lucky with the weather. Everyone had said that it was unusual to have such a hot, sunny spell this early in the year. Now, a fine but constant rain was falling. The clouds were low and did not look likely to move. I knew I should hurry to catch the ferry but there was no other traffic on the road and I stopped by a boat-house on the lake shore. I slid down the wet grass with my digital video camera and tripod

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

It was as if I'd entered another world, on a different scale. The mountains seemed to have sunk into the sea or the sea risen to flood them. The road, still empty, was cut from the rocks and often plunged into black tunnels. I was heading east now and I stopped to check the route. The concierge at the Oslo hotel had downloaded directions to the hotel but they were difficult to make much sense of and the villages mentioned did not appear on the map. There were no other roads and the general direction was correct so I drove on stopping often to look at the view