Picking up our brand new electric car in Oslo was the start of our next adventure. I’d already flirted with the “wrong” side of the road in a manual car during my escapades down south, so I felt confident enough. That confidence quickly unravelled as the car started yelling at me for no apparent reason, and the exits in the middle of a major city suddenly felt like the maze scene from the Triwizard Cup—confusing, and mildly terrifying.
After leaving the city limits, my confidence came out of its hidey hole. However, believing the cars were heading for front on collisions remained in my stream of consciousness. We hugged the coastline, winding through scenery borrowed from a fairytale.
We arrived in Lillehammer, the home of the 1994 Olympic Winter Games, just shy of two hours later. That night, an extortionate amount of NOK (Norwegian Krona) was handed over for dinner—a face-slapping reminder that travelling in this country is not only an explosion of unimaginable scenery, but also a crash course in budgeting. The cost of dinner was the equivalent of eighty-four Aussie dollars for a vegetarian burger, a kids’-sized fish and chips, and a pint. My frugal heart died a little that night—and didn’t recover until I returned home to Galway.
That night, the sun blazed through the shade-less window at 11pm, and sleep was hard to come by for both of us. After creating a makeshift cubby for Méabh, she eventually passed out. I remained saturated in sunlight, silently fearing that every remaining Airbnb experience would be exactly the same.
By morning, the striking difference between travelling with children versus others became clear: convenience supersedes everything else. The car needed charging, and Méabh needed feeding. I’m usually meticulous to a fault when it comes to researching cafés, but I didn’t have it in me. On this occasion, comfort was found in McDonald’s. As the car charged, the familiar taste of a warm McMuffin and a reasonably priced flat white offered a strange but welcome sense of security—easing some of the anxiety stirred by a sleepless night.
Lom was our next destination—a hiker’s paradise. Home to Galdhøpiggen, Norway’s highest mountain, it was an inviting alpine village—the kind that so often steals my heart. As a pretty keen hiker, it felt like I was being teased by mountains that couldn’t easily be climbed. The realities of travelling with a toddler on my own hit hard that day. We did a small walk through the town, but I know solo me would have loved Lom. After spending $40 on a pizza and $20 on chips that Méabh didn’t eat, we returned to our accommodation, where—luckily—the blackout blinds made everything feel that much better.
The following day, the journey began through Europe’s highest mountain pass—the Sognefjellet Scenic Route. Mountains soared above the clouds while waterfalls plunged at every turn. Pockets of lingering winter snow felt magical against the jagged rock faces.
As the elevation rose, the landscape continued to unfold—snow was no longer sparse but spread thick across the ground. The temperature dropped, and only the lack of appropriate attire reminded us it was midsummer, and not the dead of winter. Méabh looked at me with pure disgust when I asked her to get out of the car for a photo. How dare I.
In the heart of the fjord region lay Flåm. Amongst the cruise ships, this impressive town was heartstoppingly beautiful. Just beyond the city’s skirts, the view from Brekkefossen Waterfall stretched past the mountains, revealing cerulean blue waters – as calm as the day was bright. A crowded, short and steep hike – I was greeted by a woman with a thick German accent at the top. She looked at me, saw Méabh on my back and said “Respect”. I only realised when we finished that Méabh had drawn in black texta all over her face, looking like someone about to compete in war games.
The Flåmsbana train journey (dubbed the world’s prettiest) led passengers through the luscious landscape of Flåm Valley. Through shades of green, fast-flowing rivers, and cascading falls, the train chugs along. Clouds hung low in the valley, adding a sense of mystery and intrigue. It rolled past small, charming villages with classic Scandi-style red wooden homes — the perfect contrast against the dramatic scenery. We sat across from a Finnish couple who were on a day excursion from their gigantic cruise ship. I was craving adult conversation, having been utterly starved of it for days, so was happy for a chat. But as the train rattled along, it became painfully clear that I’d forgotten how to speak to anyone over the age of four. I soon found myself wishing everyone would just stop talking. Méabh lapped up the attention at first, but even she began to tire of it as the journey wore on. Parenting a pissed off toddler in a cramped, crowded train carriage with no escape route is an experience that will haunt my dreams for years to come.
Leaving Flåm, we headed west to Norway’s wettest city – Bergen. Surprisingly, sun shone for the two days spent there. Here we spent two glorious days doing two surprisingly difficult hikes. Mt Ulriken and Mt Løvstakken – two of the seven peaks surrounding the city. Sturdy and challenging and selfishly, more of an activity to keep me sane.
We headed back to Oslo via a very unappealing town called Gelio – likely more of a winter’s delight. My parenting patience was almost depleted so a night in with Paw Patrol was all that was on the agenda. “Mummmm, my tummy hurts” Méabh was saying before bed. She’d been mentioning various physical aliments over the course of the week to decoy bedtime, so I was in disbelief over this boy who cried wolf scenario. Lesson learnt immediately when projectile vomit landed all over me and the couch. To make matters worse, I accidentally put the clothes in the dryer before the washing machine.
We returned back to Oslo, returned the rental car and breathed a sigh of relief. I absolutely love travelling, I really do. To explore nature’s playground, see how other’s live, experience different cultures and customs. It’s a privilege and one I’m so lucky to be able to enjoy.
However, travelling as a solo parent with a toddler is arguably the hardest job on the planet. And honestly, I don’t even think it was the actual act of parenting — it goes beyond that. It was the expectations that I found difficult to navigate. Both in the sense that I had to let go of my own, and somehow ignore the parental angst echoing loudly in my brain.
Even in the remote fjordlands, I somehow let these unrealistic modern parenting ideals get to me. I’ve managed, for the most part, to silence the hard and fast “rules” that supposedly prevent future difficulties in children, and instead parent my own way. But somewhere along the journey, I forgot to tune them out and instead – let them overwhelm me.
Suddenly, how I should parent was furiously competing with how I want to parent. I started beating myself up for letting Méabh use my iPad when I needed a break, or getting upset that she wasn’t eating what was in front of her (I did pay $20 for that sandwich though). I started listening to the “experts” who say things like, “Don’t ask your child if they had a good day — instead, ask open-ended questions.” Stuff I’d previously scoffed at somehow became etched in my mind as I tried to communicate with my child.
Fear of “ruining” her plagued me — despite absolutely knowing an extra few hours of screen time on holiday wasn’t going to cause catastrophic problems for me in ten years’ time.
I realised, quite quickly, how much I cared about what strangers thought of my parenting, and how much I let that affect my interactions with Méabh. I was angry at myself for not being able to recognise that it’s okay — okay to let her watch TV, to eat an ice cream every day, and to throw her hands around in anger when I told her no. She is three.
These expectations we, as parents in the modern world, place upon ourselves are ludicrous — and pave the way for a world of hurt. We now live in a world where scores of adults, apparently “damaged” by their own upbringing, have rewritten the parenting rulebook, leaving minimal room for error. While research exists for a reason, the level of scrutiny and self-criticism new mums place upon themselves is, in part, fuelled by the rise of “therapy talk” and the obsession with how not to ruin your child. and for some reason — and I’m going to blame the lack of blackout blinds — my somewhat pragmatic mind was swallowed by the fjords, and this strange parent was left.
Sometimes, travelling with a child can feel lonelier than travelling alone. I loved Norway — we both did. We had a fabulous time. But the realities of travel in my twenties versus travel with overwhelming responsibilities hit hard. This blog showcases our amazing journey, but beneath that, it was hard and, at times, very lonely.
I know I will look back on this journey through a less tainted lens and recognise how absolutely wonderful it was. But there sure were hard parts!
