CHAPTER VII
THE NORD FJORD
The first impression we receive on approaching the fjords from the sea is perhaps not often a pleasant one, especially in dull weather. Monotonous grey rocky islands appear to look with wicked eyes on every ship that passes by them, as though expectant of another victim to embrace in the deep waters, there to be torn and mangled in their cruel fangs. Over these rocks moan everlasting breakers, whose weird dirge-like sound is blended with the wild shrieking of sea-birds till it almost appears that there exists some close uncanny relationship and wicked conspiracy between rocks, birds, and breakers.
The steamer, which gradually threads its way through this maze of coast-islands, now emerges into more open water, and presently we arrive at Florö, an island in the blue sea, bright with houses, warehouses, and shipping. Quite a small town has grown up here, and Floro is now an important calling-place for the larger steamers and a great fishing-station.
In a few hours we come to the large island of Bremanger, on whose eastern end stands the huge towering mass of Hornelen, peaked and furrowed, rising perpendicularly out of the sea, the crags appearing even to overhang the steamer as we sail close to the mountain-wall. Here the heavy surges moan in a most uncanny way, and echo in deep notes up the huge cavernous rents in the mountain-side before us.
According to an ancient tradition, King Olav Trygvesson in the tenth century scaled this many-peaked mountain and rescued one of his followers who had got into danger among the crags.
We are now at the entrance to Nord Fjord, and the steamer seems to make its way towards a towering but distant mass of high mountains, on which we discern large uneven patches of perpetual snow. Gradually, as we advance, the nearer masses of rock appear to part asunder, in order to allow the steamer to pass through.
We come now into the fjord proper, and by degrees a new attraction grows into our interest as we say good-bye to the monotonous; for now we may see fresh and unexpected sights—large bright patches of green, small white wooden churches and clusters of brightly painted cottages dotted here and there—and they one and all appear to extend a smile of welcome to us as we approach. We hear the snow-white mountain becks breaking into waterfalls on every side as they hurry on and plunge themselves gleefully into the sparkling fjord. Graceful birches clothe the valleys and shelter in the rocky clefts in the mountain-sides, while in the background are those same snow-topped mountains that we have seen for the last few hours. They are nearer to us now, and as we sail from one side of the fjord to the other, calling to take in or to discharge passengers and goods, these same snow-crowned heights seem to follow us on our way, as if they kept watch and ward over an enchanted land.