Special Issue: Oslo
It’s time for another special issue - like the one for the Isle of Man, we’re going to briefly explore a cluster of cool things in one place instead of my usual practice of exploring one cool thing in minute and almost tortuous detail. This time that place is Oslo, in Norway!
I flew out to Oslo to do some work at the Poetry Festival there, and unusually I also had a whole free day to explore, so you know what that means: Churches.
There’s so much to see in Oslo, but I had one day to see as much as I could, so I’m going to restrict this issue to three headline churches: The Cathedral, the Oldest Church in Oslo, and a Stave Church. What’s a stave church, you ask? Oh my friends, my normal, non-church-obsessed friends, you’re gonna love it. A stave church is basically my white whale, and we’ll get to it at the end. So let’s go church hunting!
Oslo Domkirke
‘Oslo Cathedral’
When I visited the Cathedral was busy, with people setting up for a service of some kind. I try not to photograph people on my visits - I believe privacy in worship is extremely important - and that limited the angles I could take photos from, but luckily for us all, the most important thing to remember when visiting Oslo Cathedral is to look up!
Built between 1694 and 1699, the plan and exterior of the Cathedral is fairly typical for Norwegian churches of the late 1600’s and early 1700’s (with obvious work in the 1800’s - the spire for example!).
The Cathedral is an image of regularity, with tall clear windows spaced out evenly in the walls, and pews throughout. To the west a great balcony holds a highly decorated organ. And, because this is the Cathedral of the capital city, just a short walk from the Royal Palace, there, on the corner of the balcony, is also the royal box. The royal box has a separate entrance from the outside of the church, so the King and Queen do not have to mingle with the public at all if they don’t wish to. With nothing to mirror it on the north corner of the balcony it really stands out, even as it fits, seamlessly, into the rest of the balcony, being built at the same time, instead of being tacked on at random (like most features of old British churches).
To the north rows of pews, flanked by tall windows, with small monochrome panels of painted glass. It’s a style you rarely see in the UK, and I really quite like it - it’s like the stained glass version of a pen and ink drawing - neither better nor worse than the multi-coloured windows, just different.
Here you can also see one of the three grand entrances which were added during the great restoration and renovation of 1849. It is also here that the ceiling really comes to life.
The vast painted ceiling is, apparently, controversial - I, however, love it deeply and will fight everyone who disagrees with me. Painted by Hugo Lous Mohr between 1935 and 1950, the brightly coloured stippled designs cover every inch of the ceiling, converging in the centre with a great wheel of fire surrounding the top of a hanging chandelier.
To the east, the only coloured stained glass echoes the colours of the ceiling, as it surrounds a grand gilded altar piece, which somehow manages to avoid feeling out of place in such an architecturally simplistic church, the clean lines and white walls of the building almost magnifying the carvings and gold.
At the entrance to the chancel, just before the altar, the great pulpit sits, with a vast, almost oversized canopy suspended overhead. Though beautifully executed, the amount of gold and decoration on this did feel a little bit much for the current building, so it didn’t surprise me to discover that, though originally made for the building, this pulpit and cover were removed and then re-installed in that 1849 renovation - unfortunately, the building it was created for, though physically still here, has changed a little too much for this pulpit to quite fit in anymore.
I don’t speak Norwegian but it was clear something was occurring, and I had a whole city to see, and only one day to see it in, so, small cathedral visited, small prayers prayed, and on we go!
Gamle Aker kirke
‘Old Aker Church’
Leaving the Cathedral I began my walk to the oldest church in Oslo - it was out of the city a little, and the rain was getting heavy. I trudged on, enjoying the adventure, but praying that the website I’d visited was correct, and the church was open.
After about 20 minutes of walking I came to the church - but the doors were closed. I pushed the handle, hoping they were simply shut to keep out the rain, but the door wouldn’t budge.
I stepped back, and looked up at the tower in the pelting rain, when, suddenly, the door opened. A woman looked out. She asked if I’d come to visit. When I said yes, she said I could come in, ‘for five minutes’ as she was setting up for a wedding, and members of the wedding party were due to arrive at any moment.
Grateful for the invitation I slicked the wet hair from my eyes, and went inside.
Built in 1080, Old Aker Church is not only the oldest church in Oslo, but the oldest building in Oslo.
Built of a dark grey limestone quarried nearby, the church flaunts fat stone pillars, topped by beautifully realised Romanesque arches. This gives a delightfully ancient, almost crypt-like appearance, even as a later clerestory brings a huge amount of light into the space.
From the outside of the church you can see that all the windows on the north side of the church have been filled in, so it really is wonderful to see how the clerestory (and modern lighting) can illuminate what could be quite a dark space.
The east end is capped off by a gorgeous apse, the small nook incredibly homely, it’s lines mirroring the semi-circular arches throughout the building.
It seems strange to say, but this church felt extremely homely - perhaps it’s the amount of time I spend in a church built in the 800’s back home, but there was something familiar about it, something safe and welcoming.
Perhaps that was the obvious love and care which this building is filled with - impeccably clean, and beautifully restored. Perhaps it was simply the large new windows (look closely for a ghost of the previous smaller window). Perhaps it was just relief to be out of the rain. But I could have stayed here a very long time.
As I turned to leave I raised my hand in thanks to the woman who had let me in - shouting seemed wrong in the peace of this place - but I don’t know if she saw me; she had a wedding to prepare for, after all.
Gol Stavkirke
‘Gol Stave Church’
This is, I confess, slightly a cheat. Most stave churches in Norway are out in smaller towns and villages, far from Oslo. They are, however, an incredible part of Norway’s architectural heritage, and I could not leave without seeing one. Luckily, in the 1880’s King Oscar II saw this problem, and came up with a wild solution. He would carefully take apart heritage buildings from the middle of nowhere, transport them to the capital city, and rebuild them in what was to become the world’s first open-air museum.
The centrepiece of that original museum, and of its successor, the Norwegian Museum of Cultural History, is Gol Stave Church.
It is not an exaggeration to say that the prospect of seeing a stave church enormously influenced my decision to fly to Norway for a job less than two weeks before I set off on a six week long pilgrimage. But I had to see it. I had to. I walked for well over an hour in the pouring rain to see the Gol Stave Church, and it was worth the walk.
Gol Stave Church dates from the 12th and 13th centuries, with some caveats - those being that, like many ancient structures, it was enormously “restored” in the 1800’s. The restoration focussed mostly on the outside of the building, and so basically everything you see of the exterior dates from the 1880’s - though it was based on historic records, and other stave churches.
From the outside this restored exterior is almost fantastical, the stacked roofs reaching up to the sky. On a wet day, the rain turns the roof tiles almost black, leaving the dryer parts of the wood, protected by the overhang, gleaming like gold in contrast.
The church is surrounded by a covered walkway, that runs around the outside of the church. This, too, was replaced and “restored” in the 1800’s, but is the same size and design as the original.
The church itself has two doors, the main one to the west, and a second one to the south. Entering through the west door, the first thing you notice is the strong smell of pine (due to the wood, and also the waterproofing pine tar). It’s a scent thicker and more wild than any I’ve experienced in England. It’s almost like being inside a tree, being part of it, surrounded and overwhelmed by the wooden nature of this place. This sense, of being somehow inside a tree, is underlined by the shape of the space, small, but extremely tall - looking up it reminded me of my childhood, climbing inside the hollowed out trunks of dead trees, and looking up, up, up, to the sky, alone in those narrow cathedrals of wood. Here, too, there was a sense of confinement, the darkness of the space, the close wooden walls, but above, an openness, with light trickling through glassless windows, high above my head.
The interior of the church is, broadly, original. The structure, high cross bracing, and much of the upper decorations, date back to the 12th or 13th century, and the paintings in the chancel, commissioned by local residents to beautify the space, date from 1652.
I took a moment to sit quietly on the small bench that runs around the inner walls - this, too, is a strange combination of historic and artificial, being an original from the time of this churches construction, but having been brought from Heddal Stave Church, in order to create a ‘faithful reconstruction’ of the nave space during the early medieval period.
It’s a strange place, this church - and I’m not sure if it’s what I expected to find or not. Part tourist attraction. Part theme park. Part original. Part reconstruction. Popular for for weddings, but not used for regular services. Carefully curated to give a specific impression. Everything here is exactly what it seems, except for the things you expect.
I tried to puzzle it out while I sat, as tourist groups drifted in and out - I think I like it - but also, I don’t. As a museum piece it’s a good solution to the problem of this type of architectural heritage being so far away from major centres of tourism - I almost certainly wouldn’t have seen a stave church if this one wasn’t here - but it’s also let down by the 1880’s style of it’s restoration. It also falls into the category of tourist attraction more than church, in a way that utterly trumps some of the other churches I’ve complained about. This is, firmly, a secular space, with little of the ‘vibe’ of a church remaining. But then, what did I expect from a museum attraction?
I enjoyed seeing it though - I enjoyed the whole museum - I genuinely think it’s the museum I have had the most fun at, in all my years of being a nerd.
But as I looked up at the ancient cross-bracing, the carved heads, the symbolism, so simply and clinically described by the tour guides who came in like clockwork every ten minutes, to explain the main points, and usher their crowds onwards, I couldn’t help wonder what had been lost.
After a while in the church, having watched three tours come and go, I found myself staring out at the south doorway, the bright light contrasting with the dimness of this strange space. It felt time to leave.
So out, onto that long covered walkway - past the gorgeous carvings placed here in the 1800’s. Perhaps faithful replicas of the originals. Perhaps fanciful recreations. Perhaps both, somehow…
The only way to leave is via the steps on the west side, so I headed round the walkway to a space just outside the west door. Here, the carvings flanking the door are original. Their carefully defined curls having stood the test of time.
My head was full of questions, but I had gained all I could from this strange and beautiful place, and it was time to move on, out into the rain of a long summers day.