Moss, Norway: The start of my low-cost adventure

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I suspect nobody outside Norway has heard of the town of Moss. And why would they? Moss is a small coastal settlement sixty kilometres south of the capital, Oslo, with nothing of note except a few factories, a small harbour and a museum.

Locally, I suppose, Moss’s paper mills make it somewhat famous among the people who live in the region. And perhaps some of its factories ought to be more well-known, especially the one that manufactures key cards for international hotel chains. The town’s biggest draw is the Moss Industrial Museum. Inside this illustrious establishment, exhibitions of milling and papermaking equipment abound. The museum’s website claims it also runs workshops enabling local children to make their own paper. When I read that the museum was full of Norwegian glass, I vowed to visit it myself, in order to prove it wasn’t as boring as it sounded.

Oddly enough, Moss had once hit the world’s headlines. In 2006, a fireball from space exploded above the town, sending fragments downwards like heavenly fireworks. Unfortunately, the townsfolk of Moss didn’t notice. They were all asleep. The next morning, a few eagle-eyed locals noted that one meteorite had hit a tree, singeing a few branches. Another had landed in field. A third had hit someone’s fence, knocking it over. The people of Moss looked skywards and scratched their heads.

A few days later, another fireball exploded over Moss. This time, a meteorite crashed through someone’s roof. This was more like it and, even though it didn’t injure anyone, it was of sufficient interest to make the news. Over in America – a nation full of space rock enthusiasts – the story broke a day later. Almost immediately, there was a mad rush to book flights to Scandinavia. And so, for a brief few days in the summer of 2006, Moss became the meteorite capital of the world. One collector, an American called Michael Farmer, later said: ‘The name Moss is no joke. Every inch of the ground is covered with a thick carpet of moss plants. It made the search for meteorites difficult’.

But there had to be more to Moss than an industrial museum, a few space rocks and a healthy growth of moss. If there was, then I would do my best to find it.

Manchester Airport

My low-cost adventure began at Manchester Airport on a rainy, overcast July morning. My wife, Angela, dropped me off outside Terminal 3 and wished me luck. “You’re mad, you know,” she said again as I hefted my packed-to-capacity hand luggage from the back of the car. “Two weeks of going to all those different countries and airports. You are sure you want to go ahead with this? It’s not too late to change your mind.”

I smiled, putting on a brave face, but inwardly grimacing. I hated airports, I hated air travel, and to endure sixteen separate flights in just over two weeks sounded like the antics of an unhinged mind. I said my goodbyes, grabbed a quick kiss and was off. At the entrance, I turned to see my wife staring. She looked worried. I waved, she waved back, and then I entered the airport, the first of many over the next couple of weeks.

I’d travelled through Manchester Airport plenty of times before. Because of my familiarity, I knew exactly where the Ryanair baggage-drop desks were. I didn’t need to go to them, of course, because I only had hand luggage, but I still wanted to have a look at my fellow low-cost passengers.

Mobs of people with suitcases were lining up at the counters. Boarding cards were at the ready, diligently printed out because no one wanted to fall foul of Ryanair’s draconian seventy-euro fee for getting the check-in agent to print it out for them. I strained my neck to look at some boarding cards belonging to a group of scraped-back-haired young women wearing short skirts and tiny tops. They were flying to Malaga. The family behind them were jetting off to Barcelona. I sneakily looked at a few more boarding cards: none said Oslo Rygge.

A few families were glancing at their suitcases, some with real fear. They knew that if their bags were even just one kilogram overweight, then Ryanair’s extra baggage policy would be enforced, policed harshly by the ever-vigilant Ryanair staff. This was the real reason I’d sought out the Ryanair desks; I was hoping to see a check-in meltdown or, better still, a Jeremy Kyle-type fracas.

I moved closer to the front, staying on the outside edge of the tape-barrier. A family of four were at the head of one line: dad, mum and teenage girls. The girls sported long false eyelashes and dramatic fake tans. Dad’s suitcase had just gone on the weighing scale and he was staring at the electronic display awaiting its judgment. A second later, he spun around to face his family. “Get in!” he yelped in a Scouse accent, raising a fist to the air. “Dead on twenty! Get in there!” His wife’s went on next and she was exactly on twenty too. The two girls were just as precise.

They were lucky. A tattooed young man at the next counter plonked his suitcase on the scales and groaned when it was over the limit. His pal thought it hilarious, cackling like a slack-jawed simpleton. A few passengers watched as he removed his case, laid it on the floor and unzipped it. After some rummaging, he removed a pair of jeans and rolled them up, stuffing them into his bag of duty free. Next, he pulled out a few pairs of socks and squeezed them into his jeans pockets, and then handed his pal some to do the same thing. Finally, he hoisted his bag back on the belt but the girl in charge shook her head. He lifted it back off and started going through the same process again, this time wrapping a pair of jeans around his waist, which I thought was a clever move. He handed his pal a heavy-duty T-shirt to wrap around his. This done, the suitcase was hoisted back on the scales and finally passed muster. The boys walked off towards security, jubilant at their resourcefulness. In their place, an old couple dragged their luggage forward.

As for me, I’d had enough of the baggage desks for one day and decided to brave the next segment of airport hell: security.

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Thanks for reading this short excerpt taken from 'From Here to Anywhere: 16 days, 16 countries, 16 budget flights.'

If you enjoyed it head over to my website: www.theredquest.com

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