Part 10

We have mentioned the “home-madeness” of everything in a Norwegian farmer’s house; but we have yet to refer to the woodwork supply, namely, sledges, agricultural implements, _stolkjærs_, rakes, scythe handles, carrioles, tankards, teenas (written _tine_), butter-boxes, and bedsteads. These last-mentioned items are the worst things produced in the country. The beds are all too short—never are they long enough. It seems as if the Norwegian has not quite grown out of the idea that in sleep the body should be bent up with the knees to the chin, and in the Isle of Skye tradition assigns to the Norsemen certain stone graves composed of nearly square slabs. The only way in which a tall traveller in Norway can avoid pushing his feet through the footboard is by bending his body up. The best carrioles are built at Drammen and Christiania, but they are advanced specimens, with springs; and springs are considered a little foppish, as well as liable to break, length of shaft being all the spring required. When these vehicles have to go on to steamers or large boats—a very frequent necessity, as the whole seaboard is constantly incised by fjords and arms of the sea—it is usual to take off the wheels, when the body is soon removed. Where rivers have to be crossed, and a small boat only can be procured, the best way is to bring the latter side on to the carriole, place a plank with one end on _terra firma_, and the other on the gunwale of the boat, where the wheel of the carriole nearest to the shore should ultimately go. The object of this is to run the wheel along on this plank to ship the carriole in the boat. This done, there is still a difficult part to be performed: the river has to be crossed, and if once the balance is lost, all is over. The rush of the river is very strong in parts, but even a kind of race makes no difference. A pull on one side, then a shoot and a pull on the other, and smooth water is reached, safety insured, and the carriole is over. Sometimes a river may be forded, but great care should be taken, as the want of local knowledge may in a moment cause a loss of life, or at all events a ducking.

We were once fording a river when Old Kyle, our blind dog, was travelling very comfortably in a dog-bag, or _hund sac_, under the carriole. The excitement and novelty of the ford made us forget our old pet, and the first hint we had of his discomfort was the sorry sight of the dog vainly endeavouring to stem the current, while the only way of recovering him was by wading back. The carriole is used for everything; even the post-carrier is a carriole-driver, and is provided with a huge leather bag or portmanteau, with an iron rod running through it, and padlocked at the end. The postman carries a revolver, more as a staff of office or official status than anything else, for no one ever hears of such a thing as a robbery in this part of the world. The last few years have brought about a very great facility of communication in Norway, for which all travellers are much indebted to the energy of the Government. One can telegraph to any part of Norway for tenpence, and the stations are numerous—surprisingly so, when the extent of country and sparseness of population are considered; and for English travellers the convenience is very great, because almost all the telegraph-station masters speak and write English well.

The woodcut (see page 55), with the sea-houses close to the water and _jægt_ lying close in, shows the character of the country round that beautiful spot in the Hardanger fjord generally known as Rosendal, a place of great interest to the historian as the last seat of the Norwegian nobility. Nestling in a wood on the rising ground beyond the seashore lies this baronial residence, the home of the “last of the barons.” Baron Rosenkrone still lives there, and in this secluded spot art has been cherished and loved, for Rosendal possesses a collection of pictures which is considered the finest in Norway. Who would expect, after trudging for nine hours over the snow expanses of the Folgefond, and rapidly descending on the Hardanger fjord, to find there such examples of highly civilised life?

Close to this point is the island of Varalsoe, famous for its sulphur mines. It lies out of the regular beaten track, but is sometimes visited by the _Argo_ when the steamer is ordered to call for a freight. On such occasions the vessel is naturally light, and the first shoot of ore sent into the hold from the shipping pier above is, of a truth, a shock to the strongest nerves; the rattle and bang of the first few waggon or truck loads would startle any one, and make him fancy they would go through the ship’s bottom and sink her. Not so, however: the people here understand their work, and it is not by any means the first time they have shot ore into an empty hold. May it not be the last!

[Dropcap caption: _Grave-board, Mølmen Churchyard._]

The Gudbransdalen valley is characterized by an immense _vand_, or lake, which is the source of the two rivers Rauma and Logen, the former running south-east, and the latter north-west into the Christiania fjord. Coming up from the Rauma valley, it was twilight as we reached the plateau of this upper valley, lying about 4,000 feet above the sea—a vast mass of far-stretching moorland, with heather, matted cotoneaster, and every variety of berry, in all the prismatic colour of the west coast of Scotland, but more vast, mysterious, and weird; and like witches looming moodily away from anything with life, we came ever and anon on some bleached relic of the grandeur of those noble Scotch firs which now seem fast fading away into mere skeletons and dried bones, the fibre in many cases appearing twisted like the strands of a rope, as though the dissolution had been one of agony and torture.

Soon after passing a monolith supposed to have been erected to the memory of Sinclair and his Scots we approach Mølmen. Judging from its appearance on the map, any one would fancy it to be a town. Such, however, is not the case, for it merely consists of a church school, open on alternate Sundays, and a station, or farm, for the convenience of travellers. Within the last few years this station has greatly improved. We arrived late in the evening, and, feeling very chilly, huddled up to the fireplace. As we inquired from the _pige_ what _aftenmad_ we were likely to obtain, from the depths of the dimness of darkness muffled peals came from under a heap of “somethings” in a long parallelogramic case, but really a bed, containing the mistress of the house, and the muffled peals were to summon a supper for us, and quickly. So delighted were we get it, that we said “Tak for mad” before we began, instead of waiting till we had finished.

The church is of wood, larger than most Norwegian churches, and has a spire with four turrets, each with an elaborate weathercock. Mølmen must at one time have had weathercock on the brain, for there is one at the end of the roof, another on the top of the spire and on each of the turrets, and even one on the lych gate. This crop of ironwork is accounted for by the fact of there having been iron works at Lesje, some seven miles farther to the eastward. Passing through the lych gate, which is ponderous, the grave-boards attract attention from their variety; one in particular had the novel feature of a weathercock on the top, and at the back might be seen quite a contrast in sentiment—a small simple iron cross firmly mortised into the solid rock.

Entering the church, the general appearance is most striking, very quaint old carving, rudely painted—most comically rudely painted, especially on the rood screen, which is above—running from the pulpit to the two pillars in the centre, through which the altar is seen. The church floor is strewn with juniper tips, and the altar covered with a white linen cloth, whereon were two large candlesticks, which are lighted in the great festivals. The panels of the altar are painted in rather good colour, the back of it being of a slate colour; and, on the right side of it, standing back, is the carved stall for the use of the bishop when he visits the district. On the rood screen, over the centre, are the arms of King Christian V., with supporters, and above these a large but very uncouth figure of the Saviour on the cross, with I. H. S. above. On each side is a figure rudely carved and painted, as is the case with the pulpit. There are traces, too, of the delightful annual custom of these good people, who, when the summer bursts suddenly and joyfully upon them, and the flowers come rapidly out, cull the earliest, and take them to the church as first-fruits of thankful joy. After viewing the front of the altar we went round to the back of it—the Sanctum. This was a treat. There we found old silver chalices and curious cases for the sacred wafers; for these good people consider the form of worship immaterial, if the spirit be sound. The size of the wafer is about one inch and a quarter in diameter.

A very fine old vestment is still worn for the communion; it is richly brocaded, with a large purple cross on the back, and in the centre of this is a brass crucifix. The verger said it was a pity to have a new one until this was worn out. It certainly wears well, for it has been in constant use ever since the Reformation. The great feature, however, has yet to be noticed. A curious instrument is used as a persuader during the service: it consists of a pole, painted red, about eight feet long, with a knob at each end. On inquiring the use of this instrument and for what ceremonial, the verger, with surprise at our ignorance, said, “To wake the sleepers.” How? “Here, sirs,” continued he, placing his hand on his waistcoat, as indicative of the best place to tilt at effectually. The reader will be glad to know that the knobs did not betray much sign of wear.

We must now return to the station, which is associated with greyling in the river, and wood-carving executed during the winter months in the farmhouses—spoons, bellows, tankards, mangel brats, and culinary implements. It was our good fortune to meet at Mølmen a delightful Austrian—his grey and green jacket informed us of that fact—but his general information was an oasis for travellers. A great botanist, it was delightful to go out with him, especially as he was, at that moment, perfectly mad about saxifrages and the flora of Norway. Then, again, “flies.” He had been up the North Cape, to the Namsen and other large rivers, and some one had given him a few Namsen “Butcher’s” salmon flies of immense size. These he showed to us; and we, finding him so interested, asked him if he would like to see our collection of _natural_ flies. “Certainly.” The flies we exhibited were the mosquitoes we had shut up between the leaves of note-books when the flies had been thickest in our tents on a warm evening. “Ah!” exclaimed our Austrian, “ten tousand of dose fellows did I swallow at the North Cape, and they bite all the way going down.” Happily, however, he had survived. We also met here a distinguished Prussian—large forefinger ring, _très Prussien_—whose favourite exercise at the festive board astonished us. Mountain strawberries at Mølmen are a treat, and at dinner we had some. Our aristocratic foreigner plunged them into a tumbler of sparkling wine, but alas! how did he extract them? The Count must have been in a lancer regiment, for with a tent-peg action he tried to pig-stick each strawberry and raise it to his mouth with his toothpick, persevering until the tumbler was emptied, and the last strawberry pierced and entombed.

In passing along the shores of the fjords a kind of stage may be seen occasionally, which would give the casual observer an idea of preparations for pile-driving; but the object of this construction is for quite a different purpose. It is one of the dreadful means used by the Norwegian farmers to obtain salmon. The system is this:—_Netting_.—A man sits in the perch-box; the net is laid round to the buoys as indicated in the previous illustration, and, as soon as the fisherman (if he may be designated by that name) sees a salmon underneath and within his net limit, he hauls in, and generally gets him. The salmon, being in the habit of returning to the same river or _fos_, are sometimes the victims of an inquiring mind in the following manner:—The Norwegian whitens the face of the rock, or places a light plank so that the fish’s attention may be attracted, and, whilst making up his mind as to whether it may be right or wrong, his fate is sealed, and he will soon be hung up in the farmer’s house, with two sticks across his body. After it has been rubbed with sugar and smoked in juniper fumes it is certainly a goodly adjunct to a breakfast; but when the weary traveller finds only smoked salmon, he cannot help thinking of the days when he was young, and had fresh meat regularly.

When coming down from the Haukelid Pass out of Sæterdal to the Hardanger, we had not time or space to refer to a very beautiful passage between the two, which we will now notice. We came from Haukelid a little gloomy; we had seen a corrie which had been the scene of a reindeer slaughter, or Glencoe, the result of misplaced generosity on the part of an Englishman to a Norwegian. The former had given the latter a double-barrelled breech-loading rifle, with a good battue supply of cartridges. The consequence was that the local Nimrod, assisted by a confederate, drove a herd of reindeer into a _cul-de-sac_ corrie, and then shot down more than twenty. This was worse than the friend who gave his river watcher a salmon rod and flies; the _elve-wakker_, or keeper, fished hard with fly and worm, and with much glee wrote to his lord and master in England that he had caught “plenty salmons, or _stor lax_,” and the river would soon be ready for him, but he would like two new tops brought out for the rod so kindly given to him.

Journeying from Haukelid, we came down to Roldal, where the pass combines to produce a scene of great grandeur. The old wooden bridge, the blustering torrent falling with ponderous leap down into a chasm below, the serenity and peace of the distant snow range, and the placid lake far, far below, formed a combination which causes regret that it can never be adequately depicted on paper. The scenery is immensely grand, the living proportionately sparse and meagre. It is the old story, the quotation of Bennett’s Guide-book—“Magnificent waterfall at back; only two wooden spoons at this station.”

A tremendous zigzag is being cut by the Government in connection with a road which is ultimately intended to be opened over the pass. From the top of this zigzag a very commanding view is obtained of the valley of Seljestad and the Folgefond—an immense expanse of snow. We were very tired on arriving at Seljestad, and could get nothing but a recorked bottle of beer, which must have been put back several times on being declined by previous travellers. There was nothing to eat or drink; but such a _blakken_, or Norwegian pony, was put into No. 3 carriole, with the proprietor up as _skyds_. Having gone about five miles, the owner thought that the animal was not showing what he could do, or even up to his fair average; so, taking the rope reins, he stood up at the back of the carriage, grunted at him, and with deep growlings of “Elephanta!” sent him flying at a tremendous pace downhill, and, when far down the valley, we flew along the road through the spoondrift of two fine falls. The owner explained that the pony hated being called an elephant, and always went better when a little abused.

VII. THE FJELD AND REINDEER.

OPENING DAY FOR REINDEER—AALESUND—AURORA BOREALIS—INQUIRING FRIENDS—BERRY VARIETIES—TO THE FJELD—NECESSARIES—REINDEER-FLOWERS—TO THE TENTS—THE DOGGIES—DANJEL AND OLE—MØLMEN—THE ARRIVAL—OUR CONCERT—PTARMIGAN—REINDEER SPÖR—TROUT-FISHING IN THE VAND—GOOD SPORT—THE TENTMASTER’S STORY—PASSOP AND THE STOR BUCK—SNOW-WORK—SÆTER LIFE—MARITZ’S LONELY STATE—HER KINDLINESS—THE SWIZZLE-STICK—THE OLD BOAT—THE EAGLE AND NEST—REINDEER AND RED DEER HEADS—THE DIFFICULTY OF GETTING THEM—INDFJORD—OLE ERIKSON BOE—HALVER JACOBSEN—INGEBORG AND THE STEEN-SKREED—INGRANA’S ACCOUNT—INGEBORG’S FUNERAL—RUNIC STONE—GRAVE-BOARDS—ISTERDAL—THE MEAL-MILL—OLD KYLE—A SIMPLE-MINDED COW—OLE FIVA—AIGUILLES—VALDAL—THE SOURCE OF THE ISTER—EXPEDITION TO A FROZEN LAKE.

Ever and anon we arrive at some landmark in life which stands out prominently for the rest of our terrestrial journey. Perchance it is one that, surrounded with pleasant associations, invites us back to chew the cud of past happiness, and rises before us as an angel of comfort from time to time, when shadows, storms, or squalls of trouble cross our path, or the hurry-skurry of advanced civilisation has ruffled our calmer nature, and we have become irritable and overstrained, liable to spontaneous combustion of temper, and less kindly than usual. Such a happy landmark is “after reindeer” in Norwegian travel. Let us, then, look back to it, and enjoy it over and over again; and may others derive equal pleasure from similar outings!

The 1st of August is the opening day for reindeer-shooting. About the end of July the enthusiasm gradually increases, everything is supposed to be ready, lists are gone over, fine weather hoped for, and the 1st of August eagerly anticipated. On our way to Gudbransdalen we stopped at Aalesund for the night; and what a night! We had hardly settled down to our _aftenmad_, or supper, before a servant came in to tell us of a grand sunset, which she thought the English gentlemen would like to see. We all rushed up-stairs, clambered through attics, and finally came out on a kind of platform; and what a sight met us here! The whole heavens were bathed in the most astounding crimson; at our feet lay the harbour of Aalesund, and on the horizon, out in the Atlantic, long ultramarine-purple islands. It was sundown in its most intense arctic grandeur, with a few golden scraps of cirri in the upper heavens. So impressed were we that we mused in silence; adjectives had no power of expression; and we tacitly admired with awe and reverence.

On our return to the table some Cantabs had just arrived, and finding we were compatriots, the all-prevailing subject of the latter days of July rose to the surface. “Were we going after reindeer?” was followed by a sort of mitrailleuse volley of cognate inquiries. They had heard of three Englishmen—did we know them? as they were anxious to meet them before starting. At last the suggestion was thrown out, “Had we not better go another time?” We thought not. Then they divulged the name of him they sought, and the Patriarch revealed himself, quoting the _Duke’s Motto_, “I am here.” General rejoicing, fraternity, and a _skaal_ for good sport succeeded, and the next morning we all started off together by steamer for our happy hunting-grounds.

On July 31st we made our head habitable quarters on the high plateau of the Lesje Vand, and had time to enjoy the detailed study of the upper flora and berry varieties, which are numerous in this country. Thus:—

_Tyttebær_ Red, juicy berry. _Blaabær_ Blueberries. _Multebær_ Juicy, hard berry of raspberry form. _Kirsebær_ Cherry. _Bringebær_ Raspberry. _Björnebær_ Bearberry. _Winborr, Ripsbær_ Currants. _Stikkelbær_ Gooseberry. _Silbær_ Black currant. _Jordbær_ Strawberry.

The ponies were packed with their curious birch-twig saddles, waterproof sheets for cork bed, deer-skins and air cushions, provisions, a small spade to trench round the tents, cooking canteen—a great work most cunningly carried out by the Tentmaster—lint, chlorodyne, &c.; steel nails to screw into boots for ice-work, _vanters_, or mufflers, long flannel night-shirts for cold, blue spectacles for snow, a little glycerine, telescope, compass, &c. Our beds were made with Iceland moss, waterproof sheet, cork mattress, and skins, and we slept in thick socks, gloves, and long flannel night-shirts with hood to keep off the flies. Hans Luther was with us, and Trophas the faithful, the doggie with sharp nose and curled tail. The tents had been sent up to the fjeld before us, and, after about six hours’ walk, we spied the white dot—the tent. In making the ascent to the upper plateau the gradual decrease of vegetation was very noticeable, culminating in the reindeer flower, or _Ranunculus glacialis_, which is much liked by the reindeer. Happy and buoyant with hope the hunter who finds the flowers nibbled off! Their peculiarity is to grow most freely where the snow has melted back. At the tents we found Ole of Lesje, whose first news was that he had seen a herd of about fifty reindeer, after which an important subject was mooted: a glutton had been seen the night before near the tent. Danjel Kulingen had been thirteen years after reindeer, and had never seen one. On the other hand, Hans Luther had shot one, and there was a skin at the station at Mølmen, which reminded us that at fishing inns on the banks of the Thames larger fish are seen stuffed and glazed than the itinerant angler generally hooks and lands.

All at once the dogs, three in number—Trophas, Barefoed, and Storm—opened a barking chorus; but we did not seize our rifles, as the telescopes revealed our Paymaster-general, who was returning from his _chasse de bagage_, which he had happily recovered. The aneroids registered 5,000 feet, and all was full of promise, save the one fact that the rifle of our friend was below in the valley. The despair and ferocity engendered by this unhappy discovery were soon dispelled by good food, and plenty of it, a word of comfort and sympathy, and last, not least, a little whiskey, after which he took a siesta in his tent, on which we wrote “Requiescat in pace,” and left our cards as a welcome. Being Sunday, we made it quite a day of rest, and revelled in the flora, mosses, and lichens of our new ground, always, however, with an eye to the glutton, which evidently had a day of rest also, as he never appeared. In the evening, at 6.30, we had a hunters’ chorus, for the Norwegian Sunday terminates at six o’clock.

[Music: NORGES HERLIGHED.

Words by I. N. BRUN.

Bor jeg paa det høje Fjeld, hvor en Fin skjød en Ren med sin Rifle paa Ski-en hvor der sprang et Kildevæld, og hvor Ryperne pladsked i Li-en. Jeg med Sang vil mane frem hveren Skat som er skjult udi Klip-pernes Rif-ter, jeg er gladog rig ved dem, kjøber Vin og klare-rer Ud-gif-ter. Klippens Top som Gra-nen bær, muntre Sjælers Fri-sted er, Ver-dens Tummel ned-en-for til min sky-høje Bo-lig ej naar.]

Ole sang “Saga’s Hall.” Luther, with his sweet high tenor, was very good, and eventually a bouquet was thrown to him. The delicate attention seemed to be appreciated, although it was composed of straw and red labels from the tin cans of our preserved meats, &c. Then we had a bar or two of “God save the Queen,” and so into our tents. The next day we made a long journey, with much snow and heavy winds. In the afternoon we had to swim the ponies through a river—a very pretty sight indeed—the only drawback being clouds of mosquitoes. They were perfectly awful, and no avoiding them. We were even thankful to think we should not have them at home for a continuance, for the remark that we should soon get used to them afforded no comfort.