_ON AND ABOUT THE SOGNEFJORD._
A DAY ON THE SOGNEFJORD—EVENING SCENES AT A NORWEGIAN
HOTEL—CARRIOLING THROUGH THE LAERDAL—BORGUND CHURCH—THE GRANDEURS
OF THE NAERÖFJORD AND WALK THROUGH THE NAERÖDAL—OUR DRIVE TO
VOSSEVANGEN—A MORNING WALK TO EIDE.
We were awakened at five o’clock one morning, by the boy who drove up
with the stolkjærre that was to take us from our dear Sande, and before
six o’clock we had shaken hands with Herr Sivertsen and the whole
family assembled to bid us farewell, and had started down the valley
towards Vadheim. The road was a descent nearly the whole distance
of ten miles, skirting the shore of a dark lake, and crossing and
recrossing the river, which flows through the narrow valley enclosed by
rocky walls two thousand feet high. In places there was just room for
the road between the overhanging cliffs and the river, and in others
it wound among masses of _débris_ brought down by landslides.
Our horse travelled at a good pace, making the gravel fly, and we
arrived at Vadheim, where we were to take the steamer, an hour before
the advertised time of its departure, prepared for the possibility of
its arriving thus early.
In the hotel parlor we saw another instance of the Norwegian’s high
estimate of human nature, and perfect trust in the traveller’s honesty.
On the table were a number of books, filled with several hundred
unmounted photographs of the scenery of the locality, which were for
sale; every one looks over these books, selecting the photographs he
desires, and then generally has to hunt up some one to receive the pay
for them; so there is nothing to prevent one from helping himself, and
making an extensive collection at the expense of the innkeeper. We
found these books at most of the inns and stations, and concluded the
photographs were not taken without being paid for, but we doubt if many
people would care to leave them thus to the stranger’s sense of honor.
Norway is emphatically the land of honest people, and the traveller
soon falls into the habit of neither locking up his belongings nor his
room, and the Norwegians trust strangers to an equal extent.
The Sognefjord is the longest of all the Norwegian fjords; its numerous
arms, branching off in all directions, penetrate far inland, running
up among lofty mountains, until in places they are stopped by immense
glaciers. It is not only an important highway of traffic, but during
the summer months the steamers are crowded with tourists, attracted by
the grand scenery, to whom a day spent upon the steamer, touching at
all the little settlements, the scenery growing grander as one advances
inland, is full of rare enjoyment.
The Norwegians, perhaps with the laudable desire to lighten the burdens
of a married man, and induce him to travel with his family, charge
on their steamers but a fare and a half for a man and his wife, and
for each member of the family a reduction ranging from twenty-five to
fifty per cent. is made. As a couple are reckoned as one and a half,
there may be some discussion among them as to which is to be regarded
as the vulgar fraction, but the feminine constituent may reason, that
as in other countries a married couple are considered one, in Norway,
where they count for one and a half, the extra half belongs to the
wife, who should be reckoned as the _integer_, and the husband as
the _fraction_. Two bachelors must pay full fare on the steamers, yet
in the stolkjærre they go as one and a half; at hotels there is no
reduction, and the benedict and his _integer_ must pay the same as a
brace of “unmated blessings.”
From Vadheim the steamer proceeded down a narrow arm of the fjord,
and then out upon the broad Sognefjord proper, with its grand cliff
and mountain scenery, and occasional settlements on the water’s edge.
At the little village of Balholmen, with its background of imposing
mountains and glaciers, one has a beautiful view of the numerous arms
of the fjord, branching off at this point; the fjord here seems like
a large lake, and bears some resemblance to Lake Lucerne, with its
circle of blue mountains and wooded shores. Then the steamer turns
up a narrow branch, called the Sogndalsfjord, with waterfalls coming
over its smooth sides, and proceeds to Sogndal at its head, shut in by
lofty mountains, but with fertile slopes coming to the water’s edge,
abounding with cultivated fields and comfortable farm houses. The
little village is built upon both sides of a turbulent river, and high
up the slope is a handsome timber-built church and several fine houses;
in the bright afternoon sunlight it appeared to be the most attractive
place we had seen on the fjord.
Regaining the main fjord we enjoyed a most lovely view in our rear. In
the distance were pale blue mountains rising one above the other, with
crystal glaciers streaming down their sides; nearer were mountains of a
deeper blue, and at their feet the dark-green, pine-clad hills rising
from the fjord, whose waters appeared like a sea of gold gleaming in
the sunlight.
The sides of the fjord grew more wooded, with farm houses among small
clearings, and occasional shoots for conveying lumber from the heights
to the water’s edge, while smiling slopes replaced the barren and
abrupt walls through which we had journeyed the greater part of the
way. As we advanced up the branch called the Laerdalsfjord, we were
once more amid the rugged rock formations, and the fjord became a
narrow passage running inland between lofty walls of rock, at the end
of which is the little town of Laerdalsören, the limit of our day’s
journey. The hotel is over a mile from the pier, but we were eager for
a walk and refused to accept the proffered conveyance.
We found Lindström’s Hotel very comfortable, and as we sat on the
piazza in the evening we seemed to be in Chamonix or Zermatt; not on
account of the scenery, for it is neither striking nor interesting,
but from the bustle and movement and scenes about us. Young men in
knickerbockers, and maidens in Scotch helmets and stout shoes, were
coming in from walking excursions; sportsmen were returning from a
day’s fishing or hunting; travellers who had driven from Christiania
were constantly arriving until every room in the hotel and the large
annex was taken; guides were before the hotel interviewing the guests,
and men and boys with carrioles and stolkjærres were all striving to
secure a passenger for the next day.
Laerdalsören wholly owes its importance to being situated at the terminus
of two important land routes from Christiania, and the point of departure
for steamers, by way of the Sognefjord, for Bergen and the north.
The greater part of the hotel guests were English. Perhaps it is
owing to the sociability and good nature of the Norwegians that the
travelling Briton in Norway casts aside his natural reserve and
stiffness, and becomes the most genial and delightful of companions;
certainly, neither in England nor in any country in Europe have we met
such charming and sociable English people as we encountered everywhere
in Norway, and that evening we soon made some pleasant acquaintances
and arranged with them an excursion for the morrow.
In the morning, quite a procession of carrioles and stolkjærres started
up the valley on a seventeen mile drive. I had a nimble horse, an easy
riding carriole, my _Skydsgut_ was a bright boy speaking a little
English, and with the added features of a warm sunny day and pleasant
companions, I had all the requisites for a day of enjoyment.
The Laerdal is at first a wide valley, well cultivated and sprinkled
with farm houses; it is enclosed by mountains with snow-capped peaks,
and many fine waterfalls gleam on their dark sides. It gradually
contracts, and the road ascends until we enter a wild rocky ravine,
with hardly space for the roadway at the base of steep cliffs, on the
edge of a tumultuous river. In many places the road is blasted into the
precipitous cliff, passing beneath overhanging rock, while far below
among great boulders dashes the rushing river in foaming rapids; then
it skirts the edge of projecting cliffs, and you look down a hundred
feet into the great “giant cauldrons,” worn by the water in the solid
rock, as it works onward in its resistless course. A magnificent
waterfall, fringed with many small cascades, comes over the wall of
rock on the opposite side; the foam and thunder of its waters, added
to that of the river, the grand rock formations of the narrow gorge,
and the great boulders scattered in wild confusion all around, form an
imposing scene.
We left our horses at a small station and walked, by what is called
the old road, to Borgund church. It was formerly a well-built road
ascending a cliff in tremendously steep zigzags, but it is now
disused, and one would tremble at the thought of riding over it.
From the summit, after resting and enjoying the view, we descended
through pastures to the Borgund church, the most interesting church in
Norway. It dates from the twelfth century, and is a curious, small,
timber-built structure somewhat in the style of a Chinese pagoda, with
a series of roofs, with many projecting gables, diminishing in size
as they rise one above the other; they are surmounted by a graceful
tapering tower ending in a slender spire, which is crowned with a
weather vane and a cross. The sides and the roofs are covered with long
pointed shingles of a deep black hue, produced by a coating of tar
applied for their preservation. From the ridges of the two upper roofs
project grotesque carvings, somewhat resembling horns, while the west
doorway is carved with two entwined snakes, and the south doorway has
elaborately carved columns and griffins’ heads. Around the exterior is
a low arcade; the lower part is closed, while the upper part is open
and supported by small columns. It was probably built as a protection
against snow and cold. Above the roof of the arcade, on the sides,
are small round holes to admit light and air, for the church has but
one small window, and the interior is dark and open to the roof. The
interior contains little of interest, save the rich dark coloring of
the ancient wooden walls and pillars; there are the remains of an old
stone altar and font, and a dilapidated altar picture which it is
impossible to form much idea of, as it is too dark to permit of its
being seen, and no lights are allowed in the church. It is many years
since the church has been used for service, and it now belongs to the
Antiquarian Society of Christiania, who preserve it as one of the
architectural monuments of the country.
Near by is the quaint timber bell tower, its bells all in good working
order, as was tested by one of our party. One wonders how these simple
Norsemen, so plain and severe in their tastes, ever happened to build
such a fantastic and grotesque church, which seems the expression of
the vivid imagination and luxuriant fancies of a southern clime. We
returned to Husum by the new road, following the banks of a river
forming a series of effective rapids and waterfalls, as it winds
through a narrow defile amid wild and striking scenery. We then drove
back to Laerdalsören through the grand gorge, and at ten o’clock in the
evening embarked on the steamer bound for Gudvangen. It grew dark at
eleven o’clock, and we retired to the cabin and slept until two in the
morning, when we were called and went on deck to find bright sunlight.
The Naeröfjord, which the steamer was entering, is a worthy rival of
the celebrated Geiranger fjord; lofty mountains, many with snow-crowned
summits, bound it on either side, rising, precipitously from the water.
The fjord is winding in its course, and in places the mountains close
it in so that it appears to be a small lake, the great headlands of
granite forming grand and imposing boundaries. Many waterfalls—some
over a thousand feet high appearing like threads of silver as they
descend in a broken course from the snow-fields above, others with
more volume of water from lesser heights—plunge into the fjord below.
Every turn of the steamer unfolds new grandeurs of rock formation and
a fresh supply of waterfalls. At last we come to a little hamlet, with
scarcely room for its few houses on the narrow strip of land between
the base of the mountains and the water, a short distance beyond which
is Gudvangen, at the end of the fjord, so completely shut in by the
mountains that the sun’s rays do not reach it throughout the entire
winter.
It was half-past three o’clock in the morning when we landed, yet
many were at the wharf to meet us (for little distinction is made
between day and night), among whom were the innkeepers, and men and
boys with carrioles and stolkjærres, which they tried to persuade us
to hire for a drive up the valley. But we sought the nearest inn, and
shutting out the sunlight to the best of our ability with the curtains,
retired and slept soundly till ten o’clock; then having partaken of a
good breakfast we started on a six mile walk up the grand Naerödal, a
valley bounded by mountains. A smooth, well-made road passes through
the valley; on either side the roar of waterfalls greeted us as they
fell hundreds of feet and dashed their spray against the rocks, and
as we advanced the Jordalsnut, nearly four thousand feet high, an
immense cone of light-gray feldspar, its sides and summit as smooth
as if trimmed off with a knife, projected into the valley. The effect
is strange in the extreme as one views this great cone from base to
summit, standing far out from the other mountains, like a gigantic
monument set down in the valley.
At the base of the abrupt precipices forming the sides of the Naerödal,
are great masses of rock brought down by avalanches and landslides.
The valley ends in a precipitous cliff, a thousand feet high, called
the Stalheimsklev, on one side of which is the Sevlefos, on the other
the Stalheimsfos, two fine waterfalls, carrying on a continual and
thundering rivalry.
The road ascends by exceedingly steep zigzags (every one dismounting
from their stolkjærres, and walking up or down) to Stalheim, on the
summit of the cliff, where a large modern hotel has been lately built.
Its wide upper piazza commands a beautiful view of the whole extent of
the magnificent Naerödal, a view almost equalling that of the Yosemite
from Inspiration Point. The lofty sides of the valley, with their
tracery of silvery waterfalls, appear but a few hundred feet apart;
the great Jordalsnut seems to have stepped forth from its mountain
environment and stands alone in solemn grandeur, while winding through
the valley beside the foaming river, like a coil of white thread, is
the road to Gudvangen.
The hotel at Stalheim is called a sanitarium. Certainly the situation
is one of the healthiest, its pure air and grand view must be restful
and restoring to both tired mind and body, and, judging from the
excellent dinner we were served with, the hotel can furnish many bodily
comforts. For the drive to Vossevangen we engaged an easy riding
stolkjærre and a young horse, of a communicative and intelligent young
man named David Larson, who spoke excellent English. David told us that
every Norwegian must learn to read and write; in the higher schools
English is taught but as he lived in a small village, he had spent the
previous winter in Bergen, where he had studied English. A young man
becomes of age when twenty-five; if able-bodied he enters the army at
twenty-three, serving six months the first year, and one month during
each of the two succeeding years.
We stopped at several stations along the way, and while the horse was
resting and being fed we walked on, telling David to overtake us. The
road led through a pleasant, fertile valley, dotted with comfortable
farmhouses, with fields filled with haymakers. The distant mountains
were not as lofty and grand as those we had just viewed on our walk
through the Naerödal, but there was the customary supply of fine
waterfalls, and the usual turbulent river flowed through the valley.
High up the sides were rough wooden structures and clearings, which
were filled with hay, stored there until winter, when the farmers make
a road over the snow, and draw it down on sleds with oxen.
The ride of twenty miles amid these pleasant scenes, along the river
and by a series of lakes, and the descent by a steep road into the
village of Vossevangen, was accomplished all too quickly. It was the
height of the summer travel, and finding both of the large hotels full,
we went to Dykesten’s inn, which is unpretending but very comfortable.
Vossevangen is connected by railway with Bergen, sixty-six miles
distant, and the evening train brought many guests to the little inn,
who sat down to the supper table perfect strangers, but they quickly
became acquainted with their neighbors, right and left; for all reserve
is cast off, and one becomes as natural and genial as the Norwegians
themselves. An abundance of material for conversation is furnished
in the comparison of travelling experiences, and the imparting and
receiving of information concerning routes and places to be visited,
and each one seems anxious that others shall enjoy their journey in
Norway equally with himself.
The pleasant little village is charmingly situated at the end of a
large lake, across which rises a range of snow-capped mountains over
four thousand feet high; a small stone church with picturesque wooden
steeple, dating from the thirteenth century, stands in the midst of a
quiet churchyard, and extending up the sides of the hills, in the rear
of the village, are numerous farms with well-tilled fields. Vossevangen
is often spoken of as “the kitchen garden of Bergen,” its environs
having a large area of land, for Norway, under cultivation, and it
forms one of the chief sources of supply for the Bergen market.
The next morning, after being fortified with a hearty breakfast
of delicious trout, eggs, and Scotch marmalade, we shouldered our
knapsacks, and began the process of hand-shaking with the crowd
assembled to see us off, which included not only the Norwegians
connected with the inn, but a dozen English and Scotch people whose
acquaintance we had formed the previous evening; at length, after many
hearty farewells and good wishes, we started on a nineteen mile walk to
Eide, on the Hardangerfjord.
In pleasant weather, walking, over a fine road in the bracing air,
with ever-changing and delightful views of interesting scenery, is
the perfection of enjoyment. The road leads at first beside a small
river, through a pleasing and well-cultivated country, then ascends
through fragrant woods, till it suddenly terminates as at Stalheim, on
the brow of a high cliff, the view from which into the profound valley
is most striking. The road descends in sharp zigzags down the face of
the cliff, and winds among the masses of detached rock; over the cliff
falls the Skjervefos, its foam and spray bathing the black slate rock,
and forming a mountain torrent which soon becomes a river as it flows
onward to the lake.
At a little village overlooking the lake we entered an inn, and after
repeated knocking, calling, and exploring the whole house, we found the
landlady at a neighboring cottage, who soon served us with some bread,
cheese, and beer, which we particularly relished after our morning
walk. We continued our way along the side of the lake, and through a
rocky defile, ever amid picturesque scenery, and came to a small house,
where a lady who had just been thrown from her carriole was sitting by
the roadside, the horse having suddenly turned up a steep path at the
side, doubtless leading to the farm to which he belonged. The carriole
was broken, that being the only damage, and the _Skydsgut_ had gone
back for another. The lady informed us that she had been driving
through the country for several weeks, and this was the first accident
she had met with; it was the only one we heard of while in Norway.
When one considers the constant change of drivers, many of them very
inexperienced, to which the horses are subjected, the comparative
freedom from accidents shows they are gentle and reliable animals.
Eide is situated at the head of a narrow arm of the Hardangerfjord,
completely shut in by mountains, which are wooded near their base.
It consists of but a handful of houses and three hotels. We were
particularly pleased with Moeland’s Hotel, with a large garden in which
roses and other flowers were in bloom, with inviting seats in shady
nooks, with a river flowing at one side, while at one end the garden
sloped to the fjord’s edge. It was a pleasure to lie upon the grass
that perfect summer afternoon resting after our long walk, listening to
the murmuring water, and watching the fleecy clouds drifting over the
dark mountains.
THE HARDANGER FJORD.