I’d gone on holiday by mistake. Only after booking did I realise that the city of Bergen, on the Western coast of Norway, the second longest coastline in the world, is one of the rainiest cities on the planet. As a choice for a UK-based Irishman, there’s a hint of a busman’s holiday, sure. I was surprised to note , however, that none of Ireland’s towns feature in that same top 10 – surely some mistake? But it turns out there are other places that experience more torrential rain, whereas for us it’s more a permadrizzle etched into the fabric of every living thing on the island. Where we do come out on top though is much coveted league of Lack of Sunlight. Championes!! To compound matters, in a cruel twist of faith, despite being ripe in vitamins B9 (folate), B3 (niacin), B2(riboflavin) and B1 (thiamin), vitamin D is wholly absent from your standard pint of Guinness.

I originally choose Bergen for three central reasons. First of all, I’d not been to the proud nation of Norway, pearl of the fjords, so needs must. Second, in terms of Norse cities, Bergen has a lot going for it- a longstanding reputation for music; a uni town, one of history, arts and impressive mountain ridges all within minutes’ walk of the city. But finally, and what first brought Bergen to my consciousness initially was an interview I did with RT2 the Bergen based TV channel. In doing some basic research before our chat to ingratiate myself with the hosts, it struck me that in a city of about a quarter of a million, there were some 5 Irish pubs, a hefty ratio worth further investigation. So, what has caused our Scandi cousins to become so enamoured with the many, many charms of the Irish Public House?

Straight from the off, while at the airport, as is befitting a smaller city, it’s possible to slow down and chat with people, which is also a very Irish thing. In the airport immigration queue, an elderly gent spots my iconic much-sought after Irish passport. ‘I’m from Wexford myself” announces a Mr Willy Howlett, an affable octogenarian who turns out to be a tropical medicine specialist based in Tanzania, pioneer of AIDs treatment back in the 80’s and former Wexford GAA goalkeeper in the 1960’s. Impressive!! (I looked him up on Wikipedia! ).He is extremely friendly, and we have a pleasant chat; he’s returning to his alma mater here in Bergen where he did his PhD, and is distinctly non-plussed on learning about my mission. ‘Oh, they like the Irish here though’ he adds.

The first explanation for the surplus of Irish pubs is the obvious one- with weather like this, a pub is a handy thing. On arrival, I instantly recognise the familiar tone of grey of the sky, and even that of the rain-soaked footpaths. Like Kerry, it’s that mix of sea & mountains that make Bergen absolutely stunning, temperate all year round and one soggy boy. On walking to my Airbnb, I come across the first Irish Pub, and if it isn’t my old nemesis, The Old Irish Pub, as seen in Aarhus. The Old Irish Pub Bergen is neither Old, nor Irish nor even a Pub, but more of a night club, owned by Danish entrepreneurs who wished to invoke the ”UK Pub ambiance”. Sigh. I learn that the outlandish oversized building housing the Old Irish Pub was the old Gestapo HQ during WW2. Prisoners were said to have thrown themselves out the window rather than squeal. So in a sense , you could argue the premises are being put to a slightly better use in their current incarnation. In Norway, the saying is there’s no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothing, which I think is something they’ve had to tell themselves because pissing it down for 8 hrs for me is bad weather regardless of sartorial embellishments. Norwegian 80’s pop sensations A-Ha famously had a hit with The Sun always shines on TV. By comparison, it does.

A second factor that might make the Irish pub more attractive is the city’s strong musical legacy. As the former capital of Norway, once its largest and most prosperous city, its arts and cultural scene stands out.Take their most celebrated composer, Edvard Grieg, who wrote some of the most epic orchestral maneuverers in the rain, like the absolutely insane Hall of the Mountain King, a song that they blast out on a fjord cruise I go on, like some Scandi Apocalypse Now scene. In the early 2000s, Bergen saw a bergening music scene with a number of internationally successful bands , like whispering softbois The Kings of Convenience and ubiquitous-dance-music -for- adverts duo Royksopp. These more cheerful artistes stand in comparison to the city’s most infamous musical legacy, the Satanic Black Metal era, featuring folk bogeyman and modern day troll Varg Vikernes. In the early 90’s, a spate of church burnings took place across Norway, seemingly orchestrated by a growing Black Metal cadre of fanatics. The splendid Fantoft Stave church was one such victim (see pic below). The police never found the culprit, but Varg himself put an image of the burnt-out husk on his album cover, which might have been a clue? I travel to the now rebuilt church in the suburban neighbourhood of Fantoft, and what’s most strking is that this church must be the most Black Metal looking place of worship I’ve ever seen, its architecture a fusion of Norse and Christian styles, embellished with dragon features. Varg was later sentenced to life for the murder of another member of the scene, Euronymous, whom he bosched repeatedly in an attack in his home. What is hard to reconclie is how this beautiful, peaceful, bucolic, and very exceedingly well-off nation spawned these acolytes of Beelzebub? Perhaps in a place so idyllic, you need something to rebel against, to break the monotony. The Norwegian sovereign investment fund, taking it’s funds from the nation’s plentiful well-managed oil resereves now stands at £1 trillion, almost enough to get in up to 2 rounds in Temple Bar (haho!!!l) so no wonder they have 5 Irish pubs. The fund is ruled by strict code of ethics, so they refuse to invest in companies tied to illegal Israeli settlements, tobacco ,the arms industry, Wetherspoons or Bray County Council. 

After oil, Norway’s second major export remains fishys on a dishy. Bergen is pure fishy, and overtime it grew extremely wealthy due to its stockfish industry- wind dried cod suitable for export prior to refrigeration. The iconic Temple Bar/ overpriced bit of Bergen is the UNESCO world heritage wharf Bryggen. Here, the Hanseatic League of German merchants set up a kontor , an outpost with a monopoly on trade, with locally brewed city beer named ‘Hansa‘ in their honour. The attractive mutlicolured wooden houses of the wharf have been burnt down and rebuilt about 75 times, and house a range of overpriced tat. Housed within is surely one of the prettiest of Irish Pubs, O’Connors, a pub that is more a mix of peaky-blinders nautical themes rather than anything specifically Irish. On the far end wall, amid rigging and wall mounted steering wheels, soundtracked by stomp-clap indie tunes is a portrait of some Hanseatic chancer in a flat cap. And in a world first, it becomes the only Irish pub I’ve seen where they’re showing the chess live on tele. Imagine in Tralee asking the barman to stick on the chess. After visiting, I head to local fav Trekroneren to sample the ”best hotdog in the world”. And by God, they mean it- reindeer with lingonberry.

Norse food is sometimes unfairly slandered, but they have such staples as Grot, Gryterett, Farikal, Sodd and Smalahove and of course the famous sweet Brown Cheese, which is an absolute abomination to be fair. The specialty of Bergen is, naturally, a creamy fish soup, which is pretty excellent. In local canteen Pingvinen, I go for a simple lamb stew called Lapskaus, a dish carried overseas and adopted in ports like Liverpool, hence ‘Scousers’. Which leads us nicely to our next Irish Pub, cementing this cross-cultural link with fellow port Liverpool, as Scruffy Murphys houses the Bergen Liverpool Supporters clubs, with an extensive cabinet of signed shirts and replica trophies galore. It is with a heavy heart that Scruffy Murphys, with an emphasis on scruffy, now holds the record for the most expensive Guinness I have ever had in my life, £13.95 for some watery sadness. Kop that.

This nautical connection brings us to the second reason why perhaps there are so many Irish pubs. Norwegians, and Bergeners/ Bergers(?)are, above all, a seafaring peoples. For centuries they headed out across the North Atlantic to visit our fair isles and further afield. Traces of the residual Viking history linger- on the day I arrive, the Norwegian football team along with arch Viking Erling Haaland, pose in an elaboratly staged team photo clad in Viking garb for the upcoming World Cup. And perhaps it’s this historic muscle memory that explains their love for us – going back over a thousand years, Ireland was the original Lads-lads lads holiday of choice for the Norsemen, be it to pick up some duty-free trinkets via the defenceless monasteries or checking out the local honeys and kidnapping the fit ones to either bring home or take to settle other Viking kingdoms like Iceland. Deep down, part of them surely yearns for us far-off island dwellers as they once did. Most major Irish cities are of Viking origin, a fact evident in their names- Waterford, Wexford, and of course Dublin itself.

 In the Bryggen museum, I note with curiosity one particular displays, a weaving of the Saga of Åsmund, who comes to the rescue of the King of Ireland , saving his daughter, the princess Ermelin from the hall of the Trolls, and they live happily forever in the greatest kingdom of all – Ireland. If this tale was transposed to the modern day, it surely would have ended with Åsmund finding his social media comments flooded with off-colour insults labelling him a ‘cuck-pilled simp’. In the more touristified parts of the town, you’ll see more Trolls, the local equivalent of leprechauns, playing an similar important dual role as folk history metaphor for the otherworldly pre-Christian realm and cheap merch opportunity, their podgy figures goading you outside the shops offering tax free purchases to the many, many Americans who’ve wandered off the latest cruise liner. Fittingly, the largest crowd I see all week in the city is the queue outside the new Moomin Cafe, home to the iconic moonfaced featureless cattle like trolls.

Our next Irish pub is Finnegan’s, which appears to be attached to and thus collaborating with the Old Irish, which doesn’t bode well. On the outside, it appears like an open-air pride based prison cell. Inside, the highlight is the appearance of a full skeleton, also dressed in a pride colours, the city having certainly gone all out for its Pride Celebrations. Stung by my experience of the Scruff Murphy Guinness, I take a more affjordable Carlsberg and sit outside. All the hits are blaring – Mambo no.5, Kylie Minogue and perhaps in a nod to the former 1940’s occupants, an ABBA medley , featuring Lebensborn singer Anni-Frid “Frida” Lyngstad. I would have preferred a pint of local beer Hansa or at least, other local brew Aass, from the Aass Brewery, owned by the Aass Family. I’m an Aassman.

That evening at the lush Bryggensloft restaurant, I notice a preponderance of older, Yankified crowd, perhaps refugees from one of the many cruise ships. “How fishy is the fish soup would you say? Is it pretty fishy? I’m just wondering cause we don’t want too fishy” asks my dining neighbour to an increasingly perplexed Norwegian waiter, American customer-is-always-right culture clashing with the Nordic law of Jante don’t make a fuss stoicism. I later talk to the guy, a well-off Brooklyn-Jewish -Irishman (via marriage). “I’m an O ‘Glickman, you could say”. We chat about where I’m from and what I do, and he tells proceeds to wish me good luck with my writing. ”I was never any good at it myself. My professor used to always totally trash my work’. His English Professor at Stuyvesant High School ? Frank McCourt.

After a lovely day’s hiking up the lovely Fløyen Mountain during an uncharacteristic moment of blissful sunshine, I decide to visit Bergen’s final boss of Irish pubs- the Brian Boru. You may not know who Brian Boru was, but you certainly know his harp – recreated here on the window, the same harp that inspired the one on the Euro coins as well as the one on each and every Guinness pint glass.This forced the Irish state to turn theirs around to avoid copyright. Brian was the famed ”Last High King of Ireland”,said to have inflicted the final defeat on the Dublin Vikings alongside some Vikings against some other different Vikings. A fitting name for a Norse- Irish pub if ever there was one. And what we find is a pub worthy of this lofty title. If you come for the king, you best not miss. …,.

On entry, to your right you see the Proclamation on the wall. Bodes well. The small bar has the lit-up Guinness tap, a smaller Murphy’s one, and a third for an unknown local stout. I order my pint and head towards the mid-section of the pub where two large screens are showing a rugby match. ‘Are you the fella visiting all the Pubs?” a voice booms as I look up, to see Wexford native Jimmy in a bright sequinned pink shirt for Pride. ‘I am, yes, I reply’ taken aback. I regularly communicate with pub aficionados online, sometimes with little idea of their real names or their actual faces. In many instances, I am literally communicating with the anthropomorphic avatar of the pub. So perhaps we have already spoken. ‘Let me buy you a pint’ says Jimmy. Good start.

Shortly after, two young brothers come over to introduce themselves, Scouse-Norwegians like the previous mentioned lamb stew, and they proceed to ask a rake of questions- how many pubs? Best pint? Weirdest pub?? etc… It must be said, never in my many 9 years of travelling, not since my first trip to Bilbao in 2017 have I spent such a good time in an Irish pub abroad, chatting absolute sense to the many sound regulars. In between pints, there’s shots of baby Guinness, the local porter, cocktails and Minttu, a Finnish spirit that’s like drinking a packet of polos. The night carries on in high spirits; there’s live guitar music complete with Ronan Keating covers, a chat with local brewer Andres who explains why Brian Boru’s has the best Guinness, coming from a position of actual knowledge. The good times proceed till closing, where I make an impromptu photoshoot of all the sound locals, culminating in an afterparty in Jimmy’s with guitar till sunrise (4AM in these parts).

A gem of an Irish Pub and set to feature highly in the Greatest Irish Pub honours at the end of year and the pride of all Scandinavia. I must extend a huge heartfelt thanks to all the sound people I met on this leg of my journey. The next day’s 9AM Fjord cruise was a tough one, as I awake still wobbling from the previous night’s shenanigans. As we glide through the glacial valleys, each perilous listing and triming causting great consternation to my already fragile constitution, a brief moment of clarity – the answer to our initial question is simple- they have pubs the same way we have loads of pubs- for the craic, to meet people, to go a bit mad and cut lose. A noble reason. Trolls be damned.