Today I explored Finnmark, Norway’s northwestern-most county. Finnmark borders with the rest of Norway to the west, Finland to the south and Russia to the east, with a large coast on the Arctic Ocean. Parts of the region are farther east than Istanbul. The county experiences magnificent displays of the Northern Lights, as well as having midnight sun from May to late July.

First, I landed here, five kilometers west of the Russian border, and not far south of the Arctic Ocean. The surrounding landscape, though rugged and rocky, stays relatively level all around, blanketed by a thick coat of snow. Thin, leafless branches sprout from the snow all around.

Next I dragged into Hammerfest, which claims to be the farthest north city in the world, just north of the seventieth parallel north, on the Arctic coast. I landed here, in its downtown. Looking east down the town’s main street, three-story apartments line the corridor. A few storefronts can be seen further down the street. The street is lined with sidewalks, a rare but beautiful phenomenon in arctic settlements (sadly, they are almost non-existent in the Canadian North). At the end of the road looking south, the white sun is perched on the ridge of the steep hill that surrounds the town. I noticed a couple of significantly taller apartment complexes in the southeast, just before the hill. To the north, the mountains at the end of the road are actually across the water on the opposite shore of the bay.

The Northern Lights in Hammerfest by the Russian impressionist painter Konstantin Korovin:

Still in the municipality of Hammerfest but across the bay from its downtown, I landed here, on a hillside overlooking the water. South across the bay lies the downtown where I landed originally. Down to the southeast on the water lies the town’s port, a freighter moored next to the dock, probably carrying liquefied natural gas out of the town. In the west, a barrier of scattered islands dots the horizon, beyond which lying the open Arctic Ocean. Looking east, several modern housing complexes are peched atop the steep, barren hill. Quite a view from those houses!

Today I explored Europe’s second longest mountain range, the Carpathian Mountains, which stretch 1,500 Kilometers through eastern Europe. They stretch trough Czech Republic, Poland, Hungary and the Ukraine before crossing into Romania, where the majority of the mountain range is, and sadly the only one of these countries with streetview coverage.

The Iezer Ridge in the Romanian Carpathians:

First, I dragged to here to get a feel for the forests of the region. The narrow road winds across the partially snow-capped hillside. Beautiful, dense evergreen forests can be seen well on the ascending hill to the north.

Next I dragged to the city of Sibiu, the old capital of medieval Transylvania, just north of the mountains. I landed here, looking southwest down a cobbled street lined with rustic, two-story housing with steep shingled roofs. The corridor is abnormally wide for a medieval street. Rising above the rooftops in the distance is the 73-meter high steeple of the Biserica Evanghelică din Sibiu, the town’s most prominent Gothic cathedral.

Back into the mountains and much further east, I landed here. The road makes its way through the valley, this time a little bit less snow on the trees and ground. A few meters down the road to the east, the local railroad track crosses over the road, a low iron bridge bringing the train tracks into the forest and beyond sight. 

Today I explored an area that I looked at briefly in my blog on the Pyrenees, Basque Country (Euskal Herria in Basque), which is straddled along the French-Spanish border (though mainly in Spain), at the western extent of the Pyrenees, at the curve of the bay of Biscay (along the Atlantic coast).

The Basque flag:

First I dragged to a spot in the midst of a herd of sheep in the Pyrenees on the French side of the border. I landed here. Hundreds of sheep are scattered across the rocky, barren hillside looking north and east. In the distance in the northwest, across a river-valley that forms the border, mountains rise up on the Spanish side.

I noticed that in several places on the French side of the border, roadside signs had Basque translations, like here. The Basque language is very interesting in that it is a language isolate, meaning that it, though surrounded by Romance Languages (Spanish and French) has almost no relationship with any other language on the planet, and thus does not fall under any language category.

Aizkorri, the highest peak in Basque Country:

On the Spanish side of the border, I landed here, on a hillside just above the Atlantic, about five kilometers west of San Sebastian, one of the largest cities in Basque country. The green hills tumble down towards the misty waters of the Bay of Biscay in the North, a single house perched midway down the grassy hillside.

Next, I dragged into Bilbao, the region’s largest city to get a feel for it, and I landed here. For apparent reasons, majority of the corridor is occupied by wide, tree-lined sidewalks, with only a small car lane. An elegant mix of old and new buildings give the shop-lined street a very nice feel.

Next, I dragged to here, to take a look at the Guggenheim museum of the city. the building was designed by Frank Gehry (one of my favourite architects) and opened in 1997 on the bank of the Nervion River. The silvery, shiny exterior of the building was textured with inspiration from the scales of a fish. Since Bilbao is a port city, the shape of the museum resembles that of a ship. The curves and bends of the bright silver reflect the sunlight in the most beautiful way, creating shadows and patches of overwhelming brightness that change over the course of the day.

Today I explored Prague, the capital of Czech Republic.

First, I landed here, on the edge of Old Town Square. In the southeast, the fourteenth-century Týn Church’s eighty-metre high towers topped by black Gothic spires loom above the apartments around the square.

A nineteenth century print of the back of the church (from the east):

Next, I went to take a look at the city’s largest synagogue, Jubilejní (Jubilee). The Moorish architecture of the facade is decorated with ornate Art Nouveau painting.

Next, I took a look at the Dancing house, a truly amazing piece of architecture on the eastern bank of the Vltava River. The building was designed by the Croatian-Czech architect Vlado Milunic and Canadian architect Frank Gehry. The house was built on a lot that had been destroyed in Prague’s bombings in 1945, and was vacant until its construction in the mid-nineties. I landed here for a view of the house. The swirl and curve of the building is something rarely seen in glass, and makes you see why some have nicknamed the building the Drunken House. To the right of the glass, a cylinder forms the corner of the building, with windows jutting out at various heights and angles from its surface.

The back of the Dancing House:

Today I explored the south-eastern French city of Avignon, home to the famous Pont d’Avignon, and the residence of numerous medieval popes. 

First, I landed here, for a view of the Palais des Papes, the medieval popes’ residence. The menacing, majestic palace looms up over the cobbled square to the east in the distance.

Next, I went to look at Pont Saint-Benezet (Pont d’Avignon), and landed here. The bridge, originally constructed in the late twelfth century, once spanned the width of the Rone River, but throughout several floods and reconstructions, the northern section of the bridge was destroyed.

Sur le Pont d’Avignon

Next, I landed here, a spot on a downtown street where a large rock face has been left untouched, supporting several stories of apartments. Plants are growing  from the rough, layered grey rock face. 

Today I visited the Cantabrian mountains, which stretch three hundred kilometers across Northern Spain, from the western extent of the Pyrenees to Galacia, Nearly parallel to the Bay of Biscay.

First I dragged to here, in the heart of the western part of the mountains. The road is surrounded on all sides by enormous, looming, rough stone cliffs. The bottom of the canyon is overflowing with plant life. Vines and shrubs are crawling up the sides of the cliffs of sheer, grey rock.

Next, I dragged to a more liveable stretch of the western segment of the mountains. I landed here. Looking west, old, clay-rooved houses dot the green valley. To the northwest, the green land steepens, although it is still dottet with houses straight up until the mountain makes its steep, rocky final ascent to its top.

Next, I dragged east a bit into some of the thickest forests I’ve ever seen, here. Perched on meter-high banks on either side of the narrow, windy road, are short trees. Although the shot was taken during the day, the road is in almost complete darkness, canopied by the thick, low-lying tree branches that stretch overhead.

Back in the more open, green, mountainous valleys of the Cantabrian mountains, I landed here. Once again, the nearby hillside is dotted with houses, placed at seemingly random intervals. The sky overhead is stormy, and the trees are shaking in the wind of an oncoming storm.

The Cantabrian Mountains are known for their threatened brown bear population:

Today I returned to South Africa for a look at Southern Africa’s highest mountain range, uKhahlamba. The range lies in the eastern part of the country, shared along the Lesotho border. But since there is no streetview coverage in Lesotho, I will only be exploring the South African side of the region, which is a Unesco World Heritage Site.

First I landed here, in the northeast part of the area. In the north and west, uKhahlamba’s distinct and incredibly beautiful landscape rises up. Past a small valley to the west of the road, a green, rocky mountain rises up. Roughly twenty-five meters up, the mountain levels out, and here are perched roughly thirty trees, some growing out of surfaces that are virtually cliffs. 

Next I dragged further north, and landed here. To the southwest lies a very majestic mountain, shining with the last beams of the setting sun. As our current location is at the very edge of the mountain range, if you look north, you can see the foothills of uKhahlamba sprawl into the horizon, as the range draws to an end. 

At the base of uKhahlamba, I dragged here, on a bridge crossing a stream flowing down from the mountains eastwards. The few trees left in the area make this particular spot very beautiful.

I wondered, after looking at these beautiful landscapes, what they must look like during the large part of the year that the range experiences up to twenty centimeters of snow.

Today I explored one of the most interesting cities I’ve ever seen: Pyongyang, North Korea. The city, with a population of three million, lies in the west-central part of the country, on the Taedong River. Pyongyang literally translates to “flatlands”, and is named thus for its geographical location, on a flat plain 48 kilometers east of the Yellow Sea. 

The most current complete map of Pyongyang I could find (1946):

Google maps, for reasons you might guess, has no data about North Korea at all, and it, along with only Antarctica, is a blank spot on its “map” tool. However, the Google has great sattelite imagery of the country, and Pyongyang can be viewed very well this way. A total of five bridges cross the Taedong within the city, and a string of islands lie throughout. 

View Larger Map

The entire downtown of the city is made up of high rise apartment buildings, most of which being medium in hieght and virtually identical. The two banks of the river appear to be constructed quite differently; The east bank, nearest the river, is almost entirely on a grid network, while the larger blocks of the west bank are less organized, with the city’s second and much narrower river and its train tracks sectioning the half of the city into four.

Along with a two-line subway system, the city appears to have an enormous streetcar network. You can see many of these streetcars from sattelite; On the east bank, about two blocks in, a wide boulevard runs parallel to the river. This street is dotted with trams, in sets of two or more, about one hundred meters apart. Car ownership in Pyongyang is almost nonexistent, so the city’s transit is very busy. 

The Pyongyang Metro:

The city, like most capitals, is home to its own very unique style of patriotic and, in this case, colossal statues and memorials. I found one of Pyongyang’s many, depicting a somewhat soviet-looking image — three hands, holding tools with a fist, here. 

Just outside of Pyongyang’s downtown, I came across a swarm of houses in the most interesting formations, here. These houses, only a fraction of which are on roads, don’t at first glance appear to have any formation or reason for their positioning. But upon closer inspection, I noticed a network of footpaths winding through the blocks.

Today I visited Cornwall, the county forming the southernmost and westernmost peninsula of Great Britain. The Land is home to some truly beautiful coastal and inland landscapes, gridded with the famous Celtic stone walls that I found in my explorations in Kerry, Ireland. 

First I landed here, Near the coast in the region of Cape Cornwall. To the west lies the rugged, rocky Atlantic western coast of Cornwall. Inland, the grass is familiarly divided by ancient stone walls, none more than a meter high. In the northwest, the point rises up into a grass-covered, stony hill. 

Cornwall’s coastline:

Next, I landed here, in the county’s capital of Truro. On the northeast side of the street is a cobbled square, sitting before the town’s Gothic cathedral. The intersection is enclosed by lovely looking 2 and 3-story storefronts, divided by beautiful cobbled streets. 

I then dragged to a cove on Cornwall’s southern coast, here. Looking east across the cove, the rocky shore rises suddenly and steeply upwards, and is soon covered with a shaggy coat of grass. This face, somewhere on a foggy line between hill and cliff, carries on upwards for roughly thirty meters.

Truro and the southern coast:

Today I visited Saquarema, a region about a hundred miles East of Rio de Janeiro, widely known as Brazil’s surfing capital. 

First, I landed here, in the inland and mountainous region of the district. To the north, the land slopes down to form a flat, meadow-filled valley. Beyond this, the land slopes up to form a series of small, heavily forested mountains. To the south and west of the road, the land makes a less gradual ascent; a grassy cliff rises steeply up about 3 meters, with trees growing at various angles from its surface.

Next, I dragged south to the coast, and landed here. North of the road, a foot path leads through the dry earth and into the luscious, low-lying green towards the town. Perched on the northeastern horizon lie the region’s mountains, blue against the stormy sky. Looking South, a car sits on a dirt patch in front of a solitary red house overlooking the vast Atlantic.

Coastal Saquarema at sunset:

About six hundred meters inland of the coast, I dragged to one of several lagoons in the area, all of which no more than two Kilometers inland. I landed here, on the southern coast of Lagao de Saquarema. To the north, calm blue waters of the lagoon stretch out towards its northern, mountainous coast. Looking south is the development of the narrow land bridge between the ocean and the lagoon. A tiny school, complete with seesaws, swings and slides, sits on the left-hand side of the southernly view. 

I then visited the region’s main town, and dragged here, for a view of its famous hilltop church. Looking south, a cobbled road curves upwards towards the church. In the distance westward lies one of the region’s thousands of sandy beaches. Looking North Lies the city of Saquarema, and vast expanses of beach all around it.

Saquarema Chuch: