The way to cure a cold--Author shoots some dotterel--Pit-fall
for reindeer--How mountains look in mountain air--A
natural terrace--The meeting of the waters--A phantom
of delight--Proves to be a clever dairymaid--A singular
cavalcade--Terrific descent into Tjelmö-dal--A volley of
questions--Crossing a cataract--A tale of a tub--Author reaches
Garatun--Futile attempt to drive a bargain.
The grey light of the morning was peeping through the hole in the
roof, when I was awoke by Nicholas bestirring himself, and kicking
his way through the conglomerate of prostrate forms. Thank goodness,
my feverish chill had left me. “Richard was himself again!” The
superfluity of vestments, together with the animal heat generated by
seven human beings, packed as we had been, had done the business. The
black wall I found trickling with moisture, like the sides of a Russian
bath, from the hot smoke and steam, condensed by the colder stones. I
felt no return of the complaint, and doubtless the sovereign nostrum
for me, under the circumstances, was the one I accidentally took.
After a cup of coffee, some cold trout and biscuit, I was ready to
start; before doing which I put a trifle in Nicholas’ hand, which he
pronounced a great deal too much. As we trudged along, a solitary raven
or two were not wanting to the landscape; while, contrasting with
their funereal plumage and dismal croak, was the cheerful twittering
white-rumped stone-chat (steen-ducker), bobbing about from stone to
stone, seemingly determined to enjoy himself in spite of the Robinson
Crusoe nature of his haunts. Presently I let fly at a large flock of
dotterel--“Rundfugel,” as the guide called them--and made a handsome
addition to the proviant.
In one spot, where the available space for walking was narrowed by the
head of a lake on one side, and an abrupt hill on the other, we came
upon what looked like a saw-pit, four feet long and two feet broad,
but which had been filled up with large stones. This, I was informed,
was once a pit-fall for the reindeer, but now discontinued. It was
judiciously placed in a defile which the deer were known to make for
when disturbed.
Not far beyond, as I passed what looked like a grey stone, the guide
said--“That is Viensla Bue.” In fact, it was a small den, four feet
high, constructed by some reindeer-hunter. I peeped in, and saw an iron
pot and bed of moss, which show that it is still at times visited by
man.
“Yonder is Harteigen,” exclaimed Ole, pointing to a singular
square-shaped mountain, to the left, with precipitous sides, which
looked two or three miles off, but which was in reality a dozen; such
is the clearness of this atmosphere. Indeed, at home, every object
appears to me to have a fuzzy, indistinct outline, when compared with
the intensely sharp, definite outline of everything here.
“That mountain to our right, is Granatknuten,” continued my guide, “and
this is Soveringsrindan.”
At least such was the name, as far as I could decipher his strange
pronunciation, of the curious terraced elevation on which our path now
lay.
It looked like a regular embankment, which it was difficult to imagine
was not the work of men’s hands. In height, this terrace varied from
thirty to eighty feet; its crown, which was perfectly even, and
composed of shingle, mossed over in places, was about twenty feet
broad, and afforded excellent walking; while in length it was about
two English miles, and formed a gentle curve, cut in two about midway
by a stream flowing from the Granatknuten to our right. On either
side of the terrace were narrow moat-like lakes; while, to complete
the illusion of its being a work of defence, at the distance of a few
hundred yards to the right below the mountain, stood a mass of what
seemed the irregular fortifications of an old castle.
Leaving the terrace, we presently walked along the bed of an ancient
torrent, the peculiarity of which was that the stones which formed it
fitted so exactly that they looked as if they had been laid by the
hand of a mason. Before long we joined company with a stream going
the same way as ourselves, so that we have now passed the water-shed.
Hitherto the waters we have seen find their outlet in the River
Lougen, which flows down past Kongsberg to Laurvig, at the mouth of the
Christiania-Fjord. Henceforward all the converging streams descend into
the Hardanger-Fjord.
After a rough descent, we reach the first sæter, where Ole stops to
talk with a damsel, Gunvor by name. Her dark hair, being drawn tightly
back, so as to leave a thorough view of her well-cut face, eventuated
in two tails, neatly braided with red tape.
A sleeveless jacket of red cloth fitted tightly to her figure,
reminding me of the Tyrolese bodice, while her arms were covered with
voluminous coarse linen shirt-sleeves, of spotless white, and buttoned
at the wrist, while the collar was fastened at the throat to large
silver studs. Across her bosom, in the fork of the bodice, was an inner
patch of black cloth, garnished with beads. Gunvor smiled with an air
of conscious pride as she bid us enter into her sæter, which, like
herself, was extremely neat, contrasting favourably with the slovenly
appearance of things in Thelemarken, which I had left behind me.
Around were ranged well-scoured vessels, full of all the mysterious
products of the mountain dairy; were I to recount the names of which,
the reader, who knows practically of nothing beyond milk and cream, and
cheese and butter, would be astonished that so many things, of which
he never heard, could be prepared out of simple cow’s and goat’s milk.
The only thing that did not quite square with my notions of the idyllic
modesty and simplicity of the scene was the sight of a youth, who had
come up from the Hardanger, and was a servant of the farmer to whom the
sæter belonged, stretched out asleep on Gunvor’s bed.
Refreshed with a lump of reindeer flesh out of my wallet, together
with thick milk and brandy, we followed the path in its circuit round
some more _rochers montonnées_, where the action of former glaciers is
visible to perfection in the smoothed inclines and erratic blocks now
standing stockstill. After many a toilsome up and down, we at length
get the first bird’s-eye view of a darksome piece of water, lying
thousands of feet below us in a deep trough of gigantic precipices. My
destination is the farm-house of Garatun (tun = town, the original
meaning of which was enclosure); but to my utter astonishment I find
that we have still fourteen miles of toil between us and the haven of
rest.
Before long we overtake a singular cavalcade, which afforded an insight
into Norwegian peasant life. There were four light little horses, each
loaded with what looked like a pair of enormous milk pails. These are
called strumpe, and are full of whey or thick milk, or some product of
the mountain dairy. Two men followed the horses, each with a sort of
Alpen-stock, only that at the end, grasped by the hand, there stuck
out a stump of a branch. This I found is not only used as a walking
staff, but is also most useful in another way. Each of the pails has
of course to be hung on the straddle separately, and unless there is a
second man to hold up the pail, already slung, till the other is also
adjusted, the straddle would turn round under the horse’s belly, and
the pail upset. This crutched stick, therefore, is used to prop up one
side until the counterpoising pail is suspended on the other side the
horse. Besides the men, there was a young girl, with her fair hair
braided with red tape, her bodice of green cloth, while the stomacher
or “bringeklut” was of red cloth, studded as usual with strings of
coloured beads. A little boy was also of the party, dressed in the
costume of the men, the only characteristic feature of which was a
pair of red garters, tied _over_ the trousers below the knee, for the
purpose I heard of keeping them out of the dirt.
The descent into Tjelmö-dal was terrific. My horse was lightly loaded;
but the others were weighted, as I thought, beyond their powers, and
the liquid within was alive, and swayed about, and was therefore more
burdensome than dead weight proper. But, as usual, the horses were left
to pick their own way, which was in places steeper than the ascent of
St. Paul’s, the only assistance given them being a drag on the crupper
from behind. The crupper, be it said, was not such as one generally
sees, but a pole, about two feet long, curved in the middle for the
tail to fit into, with either end fastened by wicker straps to the
corresponding pail. This pristine contrivance, which has no doubt been
in use for centuries, keeps the weight comparatively steady, and eases
the horse.
“Who are you? Where do you come from? Are you an Englishman? Are you
a landscape painter?” was a part of the volley of questions which
they forthwith discharged at the writer of these lines, as he joined
the party at the side of a thundering torrent of some breadth and
depth--too deep to ford--where the little boy and girl, I observed,
were jumping upon the nags.
“May I mount on that horse?” was the short interrogatory with which I
answered them, having an eye to the main chance, and thinking that my
tired horse, who was moreover far behind, had little chance of getting
safely over with me on his back.
“Be so good! be so good! (vær so godt!)” was the good-natured reply,
and I was in a moment astride of the animal, after the fashion for
riding donkeys bareback in England, _i.e._, more aft than forward; and,
after a few plunges among the stones, we were safe over the cataract.
The two men, by the aid of their poles, crossed just above, leaping
from one slippery stone to another, at the risk of flopping into the
deep gurgling rapids that rushed between them.
We had scarcely got through when a terrible commotion was raised in
front, and a simultaneous burst of “burra burraing” (wohoa-ing) ensued
from all the party. In turning an angle of the corkscrew descent one
of the pails had caught a projecting rock, and become unhooked, and
was rolling away, the horse very nearly doing the same thing, right
over the precipice. To stop its course, lift it up, and hook it on the
straddle, was a task speedily accomplished by these agile mountaineers.
The fright having subsided, off we started again, and the queries
recommenced. A Norwegian is a stubborn fellow, and sticks to his point.
Little was to be got out of me but parrying answers, and the peasants
guessed me of all the countries of Europe, ultimately fixing on Denmark
as my probable native country.
After twisting and turning and passing one or two waterfalls of
considerable height, we at length reached the bottom of the chasm,
in which the river, which I had left some hours before, had forced
its almost subterranean passage from the Fjeld. The gigantic wall of
limestone on the opposite side rose, I should say at a rough guess,
five times as high as the cliff impending over the Giant’s Causeway,
and in more than one spot a force tumbled over the battlements.
By nine o’clock, P.M., to my great relief, as I was miserably
foot-sore, my boots not having been properly greased, we arrived at
Garatun, one of half a dozen small farmsteads that lay on the small
grassy slopes by the side of the dark Eidsfjord. An old crone showed
me upstairs into a room, round which were ranged eight chests or boxes
with arching tops, painted in gaudy colours, with the name of Niels
Garatun and his wife inscribed thereon. Round the wooden walls I
counted twenty cloth dresses of red, green, and blue, suspended from
wooden pegs. No beer being procurable, I slaked my raging thirst, while
coffee was preparing, with copious draughts of prim, a sort of whey.
Before long, two or three peasants stalked in, hands in pockets, and
forthwith, according to custom, commenced squirting tobacco-juice from
their mouths with all the assiduity of Yankees.
“Who are you? Are you going up to the Foss to-morrow? Will you have a
horse and a man? Many gentlemen give one dollar for the horse and one
for the man. It’s meget brat (very steep); Slem Vei (bad road).”
To all which observations I replied that I was very tired, and could
answer no questions at all that night. Upon which the spitters retired
with an air of misgiving about me, as they had evidently calculated on
nailing the foreigner to a bargain at the first blush of the thing;
and, when the news of my arrival got wind, their market was sure to be
lowered by competition. One of them, after closing the door, popped his
head in again, and said--
“He thought he could do it cheaper; but I had better say at once, else
he should be up to the sæter in the morning before I got up.”
“I would say nothing till nine o’clock the next morning,” was my reply,
and I was left to rest undisturbed; the men apparently thinking me an
odd individual.
Long before nine o’clock my slumbers were disturbed by the entrance
of a sharp-looking individual, who asked if I would have coffee? He
did not belong to the house even; but by this _ruse_ it was evident he
intended to steal a march on the others.
“For four orts” (three shillings and fourpence), said he, “I’ll
guide you up to the Foss, and then row you across the lake to Vik on
the Hardanger.” The bargain was concluded at once; not a little to
the consternation of the two dollar men, who, when they presented
themselves at 9 o’clock, found that they were forestalled.