THE HARDANGER FJORD
All that is grand, all that is beautiful, will be found in the
Hardanger--the "Smiling Hardanger," as the Norwegians themselves call
it; and even if an English visitor went nowhere else, he would have
seen typical Norwegian scenery of every possible kind.
The easiest way to go there is from Bergen, and most people bent
on a tour in Norway make a start either from Christiania or from
Bergen. Bergen itself claims to be the most beautiful town in the
country, and it really is a lovely spot, with its old wooden houses
all around the harbour, full of picturesque shipping, and with its
amphitheatre of bold mountains rising upwards almost from the centre
of the town. But Bergen has its drawbacks, and the principal one is
that it rains every day, or nearly every day.
To reach the Hardanger from Bergen, and to go from one end of the fjord
to the other, you take a passage in one of the comfortable little
local steamers, and you begin your journey early in the morning. It
is a very pleasant way of travelling, as you sit on deck all day and
enjoy the scenery, and only go down to the saloon at meal-times. If
you do not wish to go all the way to the very end of the fjord,
there are numbers of pretty little places where you can break your
journey. But if you like you can travel throughout the day and finish
up late at night at Odda, or at Vik-i-Eidfjord, each of which is at
the head of a branch of the Hardanger Fjord.
Let us take our tickets right through to Eidfjord, make a good long
day of it, and see what there is to be seen. For some little time
after leaving the harbour we see nothing of great interest, only a few
graceful-looking barges in full sail, reminding us of the pictures of
the old Viking ships, and flocks of seagulls fluttering and screaming
round the stern of our boat. Then the steamer begins to pick its way
through the scattered islands, some of which are mere barren granite
rocks, others partially cultivated, and with neat little farmsteads
lying snug in the valleys.
So we go on for an hour or two, occasionally stopping off a small group
of farms, to land, perhaps, a farmer returning from the Bergen market,
or a girl coming home from her situation in the town. Presently we
come alongside a pier under an overhanging cliff, and we see the
name of the place written up on a board, just like the name of a
railway-station. This is Godösund, a favourite holiday haunt of
the Bergen people. It is not a town or even a village, but just a
châlet-like hotel of two or three buildings, standing on the side
of a fir-clad hill, in the midst of a fairyland of creeks and wooded
islets--as pretty a spot as one could wish to see.
Now we are nearing the Hardanger Fjord; we pass through the narrow
straits known as the Löksund, and we enter the fjord. Glorious and
ever-changing views open out before us, as hour after hour the steamer
passes from one small station to another, dropping a mail-bag, and
perhaps a passenger or two. We pass farms lying close to the shore,
the wooden houses being in many cases painted red or white, and thus
forming a brilliant contrast to the blue-black mountains and dark
green forests which rise up behind them. We see every now and then
a clean white wooden church, and, away up on the mountain-sides we
can discern tiny specks, which, we are told, are the sæter dwellings.
Sometimes the steamer is out in the middle of the fjord, which, in
parts, is five miles or more in width, but at other times we find
ourselves close in to a rocky precipice, and wondering how it will
be possible to avoid grounding. Above us the mountain-side rises
perpendicularly to a height of, it may be, 3,000 or 4,000 feet;
and, looking down into the clear water, we can see that it is ever
so deep. As a matter of fact, the chart tells us that hereabouts it
is a little more than 2,000 feet in depth.
Soon we reach the bay in which is Rosendal, where one could spend
a very pleasant week or so, with trout fishing to be had in the
streams and lakes, and mountain walks up to the edge of the great
Folgefond snowfield. The steamer calls for a few minutes, and then
goes on up the beautiful little branch fjord known as the Mauranger,
at the extremity of which lies Sundal.
The scenery here is delightful, and especially so at the spot where
the Bondhus Valley is seen stretching down to the fjord. Half-way
up the valley a round-topped mountain appears to bar the way, and
farther off a blue-grey glacier--the Bondhus Bræ--is seen falling
from the white snowfield, and choking the head of the vale.
Those who have the mind to do so can wander up to the glacier, sleep
the night at a sæter, and on the following day hire a sleigh, and
career for miles over the vast field of perpetual snow, right across
the headland to Odda. And great is the joy of plunging suddenly,
on a hot August day, into the depths of winter.
But our steamer does not stay here long--only long enough to put some
Norwegian passengers on shore, and take fresh ones on board. This
occupies some time, however, for Norse people, and especially the
ladies, refuse to be hurried. It is amusing to watch them starting
on their travels. All their friends come to see them off, although
it is quite possible that the traveller is only going to the next
station on the fjord, not a dozen miles away. Each friend bears
some small package--a pot of cranberry jam, a basket of apples or
cherries, a bag of cakes, or something of that kind. The gaily-painted
wooden trunks and the _tiners_ are stowed away on board; and then the
"farvels" commence, with kisses and handshakes, and pats on the back,
and many last words until the bell rings for the steamer's departure,
when a lady passenger suddenly discovers that she has left something
behind. The wildest confusion follows, and away run all the friends to
fetch it from the house, returning just in time. Then the good-byes
begin again, and as the steamer finally departs, everyone shouts,
"Farvel! farvel! farvel!" frequently and rapidly; hats are raised,
and handkerchiefs continue waving until the boat can no longer be seen.
Returning down the Mauranger Fjord we steam out across the main
fjord, and early in the afternoon call at several small places on the
northern shore--Bakke, Vikingnæs, Nordheimsund--each with its spruce
hotel, enticing the traveller to loiter and explore the country in
the neighbourhood. A little later we enter the Fiksensund, a narrow
branch fjord, and a wonder of wonders. For a distance of seven miles
it wends its way amongst the mountains. In places the precipitous
hillsides are within a hundred yards of each other, and in no part is
this extraordinary fjord-arm a third of a mile in width. For thousands
of feet sheer out of the water rise the bold walls of granite, with
here and there a ledge thickly wooded with fir and birch. It looks as
if the mountains had been torn asunder to admit the sea, and local
legends say that a spiteful giantess did this and many other nasty
things in the giant age. Half-way up the fjord the steamer fires a
gun, so that the passengers may hear the echo, and the sound comes
back time after time from every nook and cranny. At the end is Botnen,
with a road running away north to other farms, and eventually to the
railway from Bergen to Vossevangen.
Again we return to the main fjord, and before long enter the
Gravensfjord, wherein lies Eide, a kind of junction of the
steamer-routes, and a very touristy place, as there is a good
driving-road to Voss. The Bergen steamer continues its way up
the Sörfjord to Odda, which is reached late at night; but we,
who are bound for Eidfjord, change into a small branch steamer,
and are soon rounding a mighty headland, and, if there is any wind,
getting a tossing for a few minutes, the fjord just here being wide
and open. The head of a seal may occasionally be seen bobbing up
and down, and large flocks of duck are always swimming about at a
respectful distance from the steamer. And what a view we have across
the expanse of water! The never-ending mountains stretch away one
behind the other, to be crowned in the distance by the dazzling white
snowfield, lighted up by the fast sinking sun.
And when the sun goes down the scenery, as we steam on, changes
each moment. In the twilight the granite cliffs stand out black and
uninviting, and the country looks cold and grey. It may be that
we are tired of the long journey, for with the growing darkness
comes the feeling that something to eat and bed would be pleasant
things. Then the steamer's whistle makes us spring to our feet, and,
peering ahead, we see lights on the Vik jetty and in the hotel close
by. In a few minutes we are in Næsheim's comfortable dining-room,
enjoying our well-deserved supper after a day of days on Norway's
most glorious fjord.