In my late teens, in the guise of being a Venture Scout, I travelled to Norway. Our expedition, from Bergen to Voss, had been planned weeks in advance, each days walking and mileage measured and written down. We had opted for a day in the mountains to begin with, followed by some steadier walking. Half way through the first days walking we hit a snag, a six lane motorway which was not shown on the map (we later discovered that the maps had been drawn up by the US Air Force in 1955). The resulting detour pushed us miles out of the way, we entered the mountains in a different valley, but, we followed close to our group motto, taken from the Scout bible P.O.R., Press On Regardless. By early evening a fog had descended, at the ruins (well, semi-ruins) of a mountain shack we decided to camp, and, having such a ready source of fuel to hand, we had a fire. I may not have mentioned my pyromaniac tendencies before, but one thing leads to another and so soon we had built not so much a bonfire as a conflagration. We had assumed that we were miles from anywhere, imagine our surprise then when a young couple appeared not two hundred yards away, with a dog. Imagine also their surprise, on their regular evening walk with Karsten (typical dogs name in Norway I am told) they find an orange haired (I'll explain some other time) loon with a dubious Mexican bandit style moustache and a cut off Megadeth t-shirt has just burned the old mountain shelter to the ground. We spent the rest of the night fully expecting the police to arrive at any moment, they did not, but the Norwegians had planned a much nastier punishment, later that week, they made us eat Fiskeboller.