By Kirstie Bedford
I PEEL BACK THE CURTAIN IN MY CABIN TO A LUSH MOUNTAIN range cloaked with birch trees and dotted with claret-coloured houses reflecting off the mirror-like waters, and there’s no mistaking we’re in Norway. We’re in the village of Hellesylt, at the head of the Sunnylvsfjorden fjord and the postcard-worthy landscape is not for a second lost on me.
On the other side of our ship, the newly built is the centre of this tiny village, split in two by a thundering waterfall that cascades over granite stones. Here, wedged in a striking
