Part 9

As to the baker of white bread, this personage is mentioned because white-bread bakers are few and far between, and a valuable adjunct to Fiva, where we stopped. Twice a week “our daughter” drove in from Fiva to the baker at Veblungsnæs, about nine miles in and nine out. Sometimes the white bread was not ready, and after a nine-mile carriole drive, with a long ford across the river, it is rather trying to go back empty-handed. Occasionally there were additions, such as _rød fiske_, or red sea-fish, like very large mullet, hanging from the carriole, and picturesque in colour, to say nothing of odd baskets banging about. We must some time have a sketch of “The Return from Market through the Ford, with the Skyd-gut Boy behind.” Our daughter’s boy was rather an old one, Ole Fiva as he called himself—the _gamel skyd-gut_. The occasional one was very young, and very nice indeed: as he did not understand English, his answers resolved themselves almost always into the “blushing grin” of good-hearted innocence. At last “mee boy Matthias”—pronounced _Matteeus_—found an outlet for his feelings, and brought red berries, or _tyttebær_ in his cap; and when he found them accepted, and that his offering gave us pleasure, he grinned and blushed more than ever. But why were we not sure of getting our white bread when we sent so far for it, hail, rain, or shine? For this reason. One day there was a glorious breeze out in the fjord, the white horses were showing their crests, while the gulls and terns were sweeping round us. What a day for a sail! Herr Onsum had a good sea-boat, and would be sure to lend it to us if we asked. We did. My wife, daughter, self, Ole Fiva, with three Norwegians, full of sea-rovers’ expeditions and sagas, for a crew, were soon on board. As the craft was lying by the landing-place her bowsprit naturally rose up and down as the waves heaved her hull, when a voice came from the end of it: “Ole, Ole! Spørge, Ole, spørge!” Ole took no notice, and again came the same appeal from a figure with a white cap and jacket. It was the baker of the white bread, hanging on with a desperate effort, asking permission to go for a sail with us instead of getting our _vid brod_ ready for us to take back. Judging from the uncertain movements of the applicant, it is to be feared the supply of white bread is equally precarious at Veblungsnæs.

Our view of Næss is taken as looking up the Rauma River. On the left are the Vengetinderne, the Karlstrotind, and the Romsdal Horn over the valley, down which flows the river Rauma by Aak; the centre peak is the Mid-dag Horn; and on the right is the Isterdal valley, with the Biskop and Drönningen towering above. The little spire of Gryten is inserted here to show where it stood before its sand immersion and removal to its present resting-place. From this point one obtains a grand view and general idea of the immense sand and grit deposit collected here from the two valleys of the Rauma and Ister, the greater portion of which was ground off the sides of the valleys by the great glaciers when the glacial period was in full action, and before all the mighty ice giants melted at the presence of the new visitor to the coasts of Norway, the gulf stream. All down the valleys the rocks are worn and ground round by the _débris_ in the ice as it passed down. Only some such phenomenon as that referred to could have so raised the temperature and worked such changes.

On the following page an old friend is shown at work by the riverside—Ole Larsen, a shoemaker of simple habits and small _clientèle_, but very large family, about eighteen in number. Unlike many of our followers of St. Crispin, he begins _ab initio_, with the skin as removed from the animal, and is now getting the hair off previously to tanning. It can well be imagined that Ole Larsen does not do a large business in the course of the financial year, and the family seldom get meat, their whole nourishment being _brod og smör_, bunkers, and cow comforts.

The Norwegian farm-building is called a _laave_, and is so constructed that the hay-carts can drive right in under cover, and be unladen at convenience: underneath are generally stables and a cow-house. Such a _laave_ as the one shown on p. 116 will hold three ponies and about twelve cows. During the summer the cows all go up to the _sæter_, and about September return to the valleys, preparatory to their winter session, when, poor things, they are generally shut up from October right through the winter, till spring comes with all her brightness, and releases these long-pent prisoners from their thraldom. It is an amusing sight to see them first at liberty when the snow has melted in the valley. They gallop, kick, frisk, career, and chase each other; and the ponies join in the festivities with the cows and the goats, and rejoice together for a time, until all finally agree that there is nothing like good quiet steady grazing, to which they betake themselves.

Here seems centred all that is grand in nature, bold in outline, interesting in geological formation, with the constant registers of the ice passage down the valley, as it existed before the glacial period was melted away by the influence of the gulf stream. The whole valley suggests the idea of the crust of the earth having cracked in cooling, the fissures forming these immense valleys. At the entrance of the latter, as the river approaches the fjords or the sea, large plateaux of sand have been deposited in past ages, and through these sandhills the river forces its way, very frequently altering its course, until finally it reaches the sea. These sand plateaux or ridges are very distinctly shown at the entrance of the Rauma River, a little above Veblungsnæs, and being exposed to the winds through the two valleys—Romsdalen and Isterdalen—a change on the dry sand is perceptibly going on at all times. This is especially to be noticed at a spot called Gryten. In the maps it is marked as a church, and a church there once was in the position indicated; but, as we have already observed, it was so sanded up that it was taken to pieces and removed to Veblungsnæs away from the sand-storms, and just bordering on the fjord.

The tourist of the promiscuous class is sure to rejoice in this part of Romsdal, as here is situated an old farmhouse, now adapted to modern customs, and purveying comforts of all kinds not generally found in Norway. A friend, visiting this happy spot some twenty years ago, was kindly received by the proprietor, Herr Landmark, who is still spared to conduce more than ever to the increasing wants of Norwegian travellers. By degrees the farmhouse has developed, and is now, with its new _annexe_, generally spoken of as the “Hotel at Aak.” Still, how different is it from the modern idea of such things! Very much of the leaven yet remains— the same kindly reception, and the _likkelig reise_ to the parting guest. Many ask regretfully as they leave the entrance of the house—in itself a picture: up four wooden steps to a stage with two small tables and seats—where such is to be found; others, perhaps just arrived, feast their eyes on the view over the Rauma towards the Drönningen and Biskop, in Isterdal; while others, again, anxiously watch for the first peep of the Romsdal Horn. Over the door and by the side clusters generally a glorious honeysuckle, which grows most profusely, and adds much to the picturesqueness. Inside, to the left, is the _salle à manger_, out of which leads a small room, which is, I believe, now generally left for any ladies stopping in the house. Not much monotony is there, but many delightful evenings, with a little music, and sometimes an exceedingly good rendering of Mendelssohn, Schumann, Offenbach, or even the severe but sterling Beethoven.

One evening, after a very earnest attempt on the part of our coterie to sing some Norwegian songs by Kjerulf, it was discovered that amongst those listening outside was the brother of the composer, Professor Kjerulf, now of the Geological chair at Christiania. He expressed himself as being highly gratified with the English appreciation of his brother’s undoubted talent. All this musician’s work has great individuality and crispness, and his airs always “go” well. Hear his “Brudefærden.”

[Music: BRUDEFÆRDEN I HARDANGER.

SUNG AT BUVALDEN AND THORBU-SÆTER.

Words by A. MUNCH. Music by H. KJERULF.

Der aander en tin-dren-de Som-mer-luft varmt o-ver Har-danger fjords Van- de, hvor højt op mod Him-len i blaa-lig Duft de mæg-ti-ge Fjel-de stan-de; det skin-ner fra Bræ, det grøn-nes fra Li, sit Hel-lig-dags- skrud staar E-nenkæde i; thi se——, o-ver grønkla-re Bøl-ge hjem- gu-der et Bru-de-føl-ge. O-ho! aahej! la la la la la la la la O-ho! aahej! la la la la la la, thi se, o-ver grønkla-re Bøl-ge hjem- gli-der et Bru-do føl—-— ge. O-ho—— —— ——]

The previous woodcut shows the north side of the house and farm-buildings. The _stabur_, or provision-house, is there, with the bell above. This bell is rung regularly for the farm labourers to come in, as they are always fed by the _bönder_, and the meals, though very simple, seem frequent. It was at this good hostelry that Lady Di Beauclerc stopped and described the French count who was in search of good “chase” of reindeer there, and the lady whose pursuit was _le saumon_, and who had a fly of the same colour as her costume. One becomes imperceptibly very curiously impressed by an association of ideas. Several people have mentioned that they felt rather surprised that they had never seen the count with his French hunting horn, nor the lady. There is still an idea that their ghosts linger about the spot, waiting, we suppose, for the reindeer and the salmon to come to them. The friend who was so kindly received here some twenty years ago was offered a little fishing by Herr Landmark. A portion of the river Rauma runs in front under the house, and the good sport made the happy fisherman rabid for life on salmon: he has been to Norway almost every year since, and taken many with him.

A few miles above Aak, leaving the sand plateau behind, we enter the Romsdal valley proper, with the Romsdal Horn rearing its grand peak on the left. The Troltinderne, or the Witches, is one of the most remarkable groups of fantastically jagged rocks in Norway, ever varying in effect, the mist wreathing and most delicately veiling or throwing a film over them, which makes them more gigantic and weird than ever. The outline of the peaks when clear is very serrated indeed, and with the Northern people a fair share of superstition attaches to them. These two elements have brought about the tradition that the series of _aiguilles_ represent a wedding party going to the church. First, the _spilleman_ (fiddler), then the _kanderman_ (best man) with a tankard; the next large peak is the priest; then come two peaks, turning away as it were one from another: these were the unhappy bride and bridegroom, who foolishly and injudiciously quarrelled. Next come the father and mother. But the most curious character yet remains. By the side of a sharp point is a mass of rock, which certainly does look very much like a figure: this is the disconsolate lover, who, seeing that the bride and bridegroom had already quarrelled, makes a frantic rush to cut in and carry off the lady. This must have been the precise moment when they were all turned into stone, and so they remain, a warning to all frequenters of the valley. That the peasants believe in spirits and “little people” living on the fjeld, even in this year of grace, cannot be denied, as they say they do; but why they should think that these little people have blue heads I cannot imagine.

Exactly opposite to the Romsdal Horn, on the other side of the valley, is an immense _couloir_, originally an enormous landslip, leaving the perpendicular sides of the Troltinderne to gradually crumble and fall down, the finer stuff and _débris_ filling up the interstices between the bigger rocks. After frost the thunder of the falling rocks and stones into this terrific shoot will last as long as thirty seconds, and the nightfalls create constant alarm to new-corners; whereas the _elve-wakker_, or river-keeper, merely remarks, “The old ladies are quarrelling,” or “The old ladies have finished _aftenmad_ and are throwing out the bones.” Still, this brings about a new range of thought to a person who has never observed portions of the earth’s surface in motion. After seeing a huge rock, the size of a stucco-faced villa, hop down the side of a mountain, there arise a certain impressiveness and grandeur unknown before. About once a year there is an important landslip in Norway—hardly more. Most of the loose rocks have their regular grooves, and the peasants know how to avoid them; still, as the vast country is so sparsely inhabited, many must occur which do not “get into the papers.” A curious instance of the effect of a small landslip occurred in this valley to an old man personally known to us. A slip came down behind his house, of good timber stuff, and fortunately stopped just short of it. He and his wife decided to leave, and go to live at a place called Aalesund; they did so for a twelvemonth, after which time they became home-sick, and, chancing all further damage, returned to the old house, where they were living very happily last year. In another part a description will be given of an important _steen-skreed_—a scene of terrible destruction and considerable interest.

The centre of the valley has two or three good farms, highly productive for Norway, and presenting a very curious appearance to a foreigner when the corn is cut, as the sheaves are stuck upon a pole, sometimes five, sometimes ten, with the head facing the sun, and, as the sun works round, the heads of corn are kept turned to it, so as to get the greatest amount of heat, which is an advantage when the peasants arrive at the happy time for carrying their corn, as they have only to pull up the stakes with the five or ten sheaves on them, and they are easily carried. Whilst on the subject of corn-drying, it is a most remarkable thing that during the fine weather of the short Norwegian summer the wind helps materially by blowing what the natives call a _sol-gang_: the wind goes round with the sun all day, beginning to blow from the east in the morning, clue south at mid-day, and north-west in the evening.

Having paid especial notice to the Trols, we must turn to the Horn, which rises on the left side: 4,000 feet is the height of it, and it goes sheer up out of the valley; in fact, one morning, as we were sitting by the river, a carriole came hurrying by, and a voice from it inquired, “Where’s the Horn?” The old fisherman with me stared at the flying folk in search of information, and pointed straight up over our heads. The summit has never been reached yet, either by the Government engineers who surveyed the country, or by Alpine men, who have all given up the Aiguille Dru as hopeless, or by captive balloon, which has been proposed. A very likely party from a yacht made a bold attempt at it, but even some of these looked upon it as a hopeless case, from the fact that there is a lean-to on a huge shoulder on the north-west side. Perhaps the most beautiful time of all to see this wild valley is after the first sprinkling of snow, when the tops are powdered, which happens when the “iron days” come, the first snow falling about August 20th. After a little sharp frost the weather recovers from its first shudder, but by the 29th of September all is snow again down to the river. Patches of old snow are always lying in the valley, even during the hottest summer, but much more in the _couloir_; and, from the immense scale of everything here, the real quantity is most difficult to appreciate.

At the foot of this Romsdal Horn is the Rauma itself, the first fall caused by the rocks thrown down when the _couloir_ was originally formed; and between the river and the base of the Horn runs the road through the valley to Gudbransdalen. There are a few sheep here in the advanced farms, and these, like all animals in Norge, are wonderfully docile. For some time we heard sounds of music at a distance, but could never discover either the music or the musician, until one day a boy was found playing in a barn, or _laave_, on a goat’s horn with six holes in it, and with a reed mouthpiece. The sound is quaint. This instrument was intended and used for the amusement of the sheep, and the boy’s mission was to play to them on it. The sheep and goats here always follow instead of being driven; and, like all other animals in this country, they are remarkably tame, never exhibiting the least signs of fear. This is another pleasant feature resulting from the kindliness of the people and their domestic happiness. Long may both remain to them!

• • • • •

The sight of the square-sailed craft with one mast and a bold rampant black stem at once shuts out all intrusive thoughts of civilisation, for these same vessels—relics of very old days—are seldom seen anywhere save on the wild shores of Heligoland, working down to Bergen, or still farther south round by the coast, and up to the town of Christiania. These craft are mostly from the north of Trondhjem: their lines are very fine indeed forward, the after part, with quarter-deck, forming a kind of citadel for the captain. As these vessels come from the coast opposite to the Lofoden, they are closely allied with the fishery of that district—the great national fishing ground of Norway, to which rushes every able-bodied fisherman from Bergen northwards as far as the North Cape. In the month of February the fish are in force—principally early arrivals; and ultimately such immense quantities are gathered together that tradition has handed down to us as a fact that there are times when a deep-sea line will hardly sink through them. Lines and nets are both worked with the greatest system. The take is generally tremendous, and the results lucrative. The fish are cured as stock-fish until April, when they are split, salted, and dried on the rocks like Scotch cod. It is a simple process to gut and hang up these cod-fish two and two across poles; not even salt is used—nothing but the sea breezes, sun, and wind. Many years ago the takes were even more enormous than at present, amounting to as much as 16,000,000 fish, or 8,000 tons dried, to say nothing of the cod-liver oil and roe; but when we consider that these fish are gradually dispersed over Europe, even 8,000 tons would soon go during the period of a continental Lent. About April most of the fishers return home, and are ready for any chance of herrings, which are as great a blessing to the Norwegians as to the Scotch and Irish.

There was a very striking instance of an old custom in one of the outlying fjords, where the fashion of bygone centuries is still faithfully kept up. At the entrance of the fjord is a boat, in which is stationed the watcher, with a horn or bugle. As soon as the herrings are descried the watcher, or rather the look-out, stands up in the bow of the boat and sounds his horn. The notes are quickly caught by the anxious longing ears on the beach, the boats put off, and soon the herrings feel that they are “fish out of water,” and will ere long be adding much to the happiness and support of all the _bönder_ and agricultural peasantry of the neighbourhood.

Near our herring scene was a well-to-do but scattered hamlet, for it could scarcely be called a village; and, having visited some of the good people, who were much interested in the foreigners—N.B., it is a curious sensation when it first dawns upon the mind of an Englishman that he is a regular foreigner in the eyes of others—we came to the conclusion that, all in all, the Norwegian _bönder_, as a class, are more comfortably provided with the good things of this world than any other of similar position. Their outdoor life brings sound health; they work hard, especially the women; and their reward is abundance. Their farms produce all they require to eat, drink, and even wear. In the fine weather they work for internal comforts; in the bad winter weather they provide for external wants in the form of carding, combing, and weaving in their houses, and making _vadmel_, or homespun—a material in which “shoddy” is unknown, and for which “everlasting wear” is the best name. They have their ponies, their boats, a wholesome love of God, and veneration for true, practical religion. Their houses are of their own building—sound, solid, and warm. There is no money greed amongst them, until spoilt by tasting the fruit of the tree of civilisation, and then the reaction is all the worse. Another great blessing that remains to them is, that there is no tendency to extravagance, no wish to launch out in competition with their neighbour. A peaceful, contented, simple life seems to them the _summum bonum_: this they possess, and are careful not to part with. Until savings-banks were introduced they really had no use for money, and when they acquired silver, instead of investing it, they had something new made of it, in this respect strongly resembling the old Dutch farmers, who were sometimes quite at a loss to know what they should have made next. The latter, indeed, went so far as to have candle-boxes, as well as other domestic utensils, of silver. Again, Norwegian servants are in good relationship with their masters and mistresses: much kindly feeling exists, coupled with a sense of duty and a proper regard for relative position, which is never forgotten.