Waterfalls
Norway is the land of waterfalls. In no other country are they so numerous, and the murmur of them may be in your ears during many days of travelling. The beautiful district of Hardanger is particularly happy in this respect.
The moist and warm summers produce a vegetation unequalled in richness and beauty, and in the springtime, when the snows are melting, the warm and still air is palpitant with the music of countless waterfalls. Some, appearing to shoot from the sky over high perpendicular crags into the fjord, or gurgling in deep gorge unseen, send mellow music floating in the balmy air above in delicious waves of sweetest sound.
In the immediate neighbourhood of Odde, on the innermost reach of the Hardanger Fjord, are found some of the finest waterfalls in the country. One of them in particular—the Skjæggedalsfos, or, more properly, Ringdalsfos—is considered by many travellers to be the grandest waterfall in Europe.
I visited this magnificent fall about the end of May in perfect weather.
Landing, after two hours' row from Odde, at the farm Tyssedal, by the fjord's margin, a path is found which leads uphill through aromatic woods of silver birch and pine, and winding up the rough, craggy, and bosky valley of Skjæggedal, it approaches in places quite abruptly the very brink of the deep dark gorge where thunders the river in a succession of cataracts. After a walk of some three English miles, the farm which takes its name from, or gives it to, the valley is reached.
Just before I arrived at the farmstead, I overtook a young peasant and his wife, who were driving a herd of goats before them. The man had several young kids in a covered basket slung over his shoulders. The woman walked in front of the goats, knitting as she went.
Procuring a boat and boatman at the farm, I was rowed across a small lake formed by the river widening at this place. I had for my companions de voyage the peasants and their goats, these of themselves being quite as much as the boat could carry. There was but little room for the rower, but with short and steady strokes he landed his cargo over in safety.
The young peasant informed me that on their way from Roldal they had observed for some considerable time the movements of a bear making her way with two cubs over the Hardanger-vidde in the direction of Ringdalsvand (lake), our destination, and although the man carried a gun, he was unable to follow the bear on account of the goats under his charge.
On bidding good-bye at this place to these young peasants and their domestic flock, I noticed that the man's attire was somewhat out of the ordinary and quite picturesque. He wore dark-blue knee-breeches, with stockings of undyed wool, red shirt-sleeves, and wideawake hat of grey felt. A number of old silver coins, used as buttons in a double row, decorated his brown waistcoat; his gun and coat were thrown over his shoulders, and in his hand he carried a long alpenstock, thus making up together quite a picture which suited well the romantic surroundings.