For something mad like 23 years, Bergen has had a festival of gingerbread houses. This is in a disused swimming pool, now filled with hundreds of gingerbread houses, churches, sports stadiums, lighthouses, ships, airships… We wandered through darkened hallways filled with gingerbread.
The kids ignored the gingerbread and spent the whole time sliding down a slide that had been built in one corner of the hall, and after an hour of this we went for lunch.
Or rather, we tried to have lunch while the children grew hysterical arguing about who would look out of the window of the cafe we were in, or, when they could all look out of it, who would sit next to who. I had a sandwich as fast as I could before having to manhandle La Serpiente.
And hence to the bus to get home.
In the afternoon, inspired by the morning, the children decorated gingerbread with icing and sweets. Well, I say inspired; probably more inspired by the idea of eating all the sweets they were meant to be sticking on the gingerbread. Lunatics.
At least the general cacophony from them meant everyone was exhausted, so when it came to bedtime ours were down in ten minutes. I went away from the bedroom and drank heavily while playing Settlers of Catan, then got accused by my wife of cheating at Carcassonne and almost fainted because I was laughing too hard.
Or I’d drunk too much gin.
Tomorrow we fly back to London, and then I assume, away from Bergen temperatures, I can make the kids stand outside all day.
Ironically, the cafe inside the Wonderful World Of Gingerbread sold only stale, rock hard gingerbread, but I suppose you don’t go there to eat, you go to regard the many and varied examples of gingerbread construction.