Halleluja, Min Sjel er Fri!

It occurred to me last weekend that it might have been a good idea to run a regular Norwegian of the Month feature on the blog, profiling the winner and perhaps posting a picture of me presenting them with a handshake or something. It's a bit late to start now though and besides, Terje would win every month.

Coming in second at least once though (and there's no shame in coming second to Terje; remember Roger Black getting silver behind Michael Johnson? It felt like a gold, didn't it?) would have been Øystein. Truly one of the nicest gentlemen you could ever hope to always lose at boards games to, Øystein never seems to be beaten in any contest (except Norwegian of the Month and that doesn't count because the competition is only being discussed hypothetically) and came to the fancy dress as a carton of milk. Impressive, no? He's been at Arna Misjonsmenighet for about a year, since he married Jannicke, but before that he was a long-time member of Betlehem, a congregation in Bergen, and it was with Betlehem that I went away this Easter. It wasn't my plan to take any kind of trip. Although it's the Norwegian way to go somewhere at Easter time, I felt that I'd like to have some time out in Arna, seeing as I'd gone back to England for Christmas. I also quite fancied hearing a missionary called Bruce Olsen speak at Betel church on Easter Day.

Until he cancelled. And it rained unceasing for days. And there was pretty much nobody in Arna. I watched Martin play FIFA Street 2 for what felt like two solid days and then, in a state of extreme restlessness and fearing an impending psychotic episode, baked 64 custard-filled cinnamon buns. It was then that I knew I had to make a break. I called Miriam, who had previously invited me to Radøytunet, the camp (you know, the good kind - rooms not tents) that YA, the youth group from Betlehem were running. She pulled any strings that needed pulling and I was all set. I packed in about twelve seconds and was out the door. I left both boredom-induced pastry baking and my towel well behind me.

The absent towel scenario was taken care of almost immediately by Kjetil, who kindly supplied me with one of his pair. It turned out that he and I not only shared a towel (in the long run, that is; we didn't both use it in that one trip) but also have exactly the same trainers, e-mail account and blog account. A man of outstanding taste in every way, it would seem. The confirmation, if any were needed, came after the morning service on Easter Sunday, when I got Jørgen the PA guy to play Keith Green's Easter Song. Kjetil scampered to the back of the room, in wonder and amazement, wanting to know what this amazing music was that was reminding him a bit of Queen. I can see what he means.

While Kjetil stood out thanks to his close, superficial resembling of myself, the others on the trip were also excellent human beings and I made a lot of friends. I can't set foot in Bergen these days without bumping into some familiar face, which is very nice, obviously. Radøytunet was a good place to be - the kind of place where there always seems to be somebody getting a DIY mullet from their 'friend'; the kind of place where a random milk carton is spiked with green food colouring every morning; the kind of place where you can build a flamethrowing catapult.

Yes, on one of the mornings the boys and girls were split up. After a bit of a serious talk, we men had a catapult-building competition. The one that could fire an egg the furthest won. And then out came the firelighters, the ammo required for the next target: a pile of paper and card. With no girls around to inhibit them, the boys near-instantly became savages; running around screaming 'fire in the hole' and 'medic', picking up flaming firelighters with bare hands and then juggling them back for another shot and, at one point, viciously pelting all the eggs at two sorry chumps who got themselves stranded in No Man's Land. It was good that it was only a few hours separation from the calming influence of the fairer sex. Or whatever you call them.

There were some great meetings too, often running on into the night, well beyond the scheduled finishing time. The testimony night was particularly inspiring and ended with everyone worshipping God, so grateful to Him and thus throwing worship-hero shapes and making a noise that could probably be heard in Finland.

I was interviewed during Saturday's entertainment time, welcomed on and ushered off to my own surprise theme tune. When I tell you that it was Morten the drummer shouting 'Dan the man' repeatedly you're going to think it was somewhat shoddy. Well don't, it was the catchy feelgood hit of the camp; I heard people singing it to themselves even after we got back to Bergen. The gag was simple: my English answers would be translated into a different Norwegian meaning (for example, one below-the-belt translation made out that I was a big Spurs fan) with hilarious results. Then the group were asked if they had any questions to put to me. Ingjerd had been primed earlier and asked 'har han kjæresten?' After a good deal of hubbub had died down, the question was translated, although I already knew what was coming. 'Dan, the question is: are you single?' Off the top of my head I thought of the most winning answer I could, one that would make them all love me... 'Why do you think I'm in Norway?' And the room erupted. I expect it will be the only time in my life that a roomful of eighty people cheer the news that I'm available. If I'm honest with myself, it probably had less to do with the great revelation of singleness and more to do with paying Norway (and particularly the women thereof) a nice compliment and doing so with fine comic timing. But I don't have to be honest with myself.

The camp ended with a slightly bizarre ritual in which all eighty of us made our way around a giant circle, embracing every other person and thanking them for the trip. All hugged up, I returned to Arna and, this Tuesday, went to Brann's first home game of the season. SK Brann are my local Norwegian team and have so far picked up two points from two games. Something tells me to get out while I can. We stood on the terraces with a group of Christian Brann supporters who call themselves Apostelenes Røde Gærninger, which translates as The Apostolic Red Maniacs. Quite Terrifying.

Believe it or not, there's more that I could say but let me sum up: Easter, which I always look forward to, has been a great time for me in lots of ways. As I walked down the disused railway track to Garnes, watching the sun setting over the fjord and listening to the genius new Flaming Lips album, I felt most content. Actually, I thought I was going to cry but it was probably the music.