Bergen.

In my dim and distant childhood, I remember being impressed by a funicular railway which had a rack and pinion mechanism to haul the train up the track. Leaving aside the contradiction due to definitions, I can not find any evidence that supports my memory as even being a possibility.
Be that as it may, we bought return tickets for the Fløibanen funicular railway to go 300 metres up the mountainside.
 
At the top we were greeted by this panoramic view over Bergen and a woman with a stentorian voice singing “Oh my beloved father” – not quite in tune and, presumably, in Norwegian. The train ran every ten minutes, and she repeated the performance for every fresh group of passengers.
 
Herself decided that it was a good idea to forgo our investment in a ride back down and that we should walk down – having forgotten that we had an appointment at the bottom with tourist boat, “Eric Bloodaxe” for a cruise around Bergen. Half way down, one of us decided that it wasn’t that good an idea as her knees were hurting, while the other realised that we would be struggling to meet Eric on time. However, we just made it with the aid of some creative navigation skills. By half way through the trip, it was obvious that Martin’s walking tour a few days earlier had been a much better investment and we shouldn’t have bothered with Eric at all.