Peeps at Many Lands: Norway

by A. F. Mockler-Ferryman

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.

Godösund, Hardanger Fjord

Page [39].

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.