At the next post station we found every horse out, for a prolific English vicar, accompanied by his wife and seven daughters, the long list of whose names—Deborah, Rachel, Olivia, etc.—were entered in the station book, had just passed through, sweeping away every available horse. All the horses near by were at work in the hay fields; the Pige refused to go farther with her horse; and as it would require an hour to send to a distant farm for one, we decided to walk to the next station.
A beautiful, hard, level road extended along the edge of the lake, through pleasant pastoral scenes, with picturesque little villages with rustic churches, and fields near the road from which the haymakers sent us cordial greetings.
After our long ride the ten-mile walk was an agreeable change, and with appetites such as only the bracing and sweet scented air can give, we arrived at sunset at Nedre Vassenden.
The inn was an old, rough house, unpainted on the exterior, situated at the end of the lake, with charming views of its placid water and background of blue mountains; but the interior was neat and inviting, and a motherly old woman gave us a hearty welcome, and soon served us with a supper of fried trout, fried eggs, rich milk and cheese, some delicate marmalade, and wheat, rye, and graham bread.
At all the inns in Norway we found three kinds of bread, which were invariably good.
Our room overlooked the fine rapids formed by a river flowing from the lake, and in comfortable beds we were lulled to peaceful slumber, by the sound of rushing waters. After a substantial breakfast we left the dear old lady, who had won our hearts by her kindness, as well as by her culinary skill, and she gave us a warm handshake as we paid our moderate bill of three crowns (eighty cents) each.
An old farmer was perched on the back of the stolkjærre, who was very talkative and the embodiment of good nature, so that we regretted more than ever our imperfect knowledge of the language, and inability to understand him. The road followed the banks of a river, and skirted occasional lakes amid park-like scenery, with beautiful waterfalls coming down among the dark pine trees. Every few minutes the farmer would point to the water and utter Mange Lax (Many salmon), which to him was the chief attraction. It began to rain and we put on our rubber coats, which filled the farmer’s heart with unbounded admiration, and as he reached forward and softly stroked them with his hand, he asked how much we paid for them, like a simple unsophisticated child.
The rain came down in torrents as we drove up to the inn at Forde, and we were glad to avail ourselves of its shelter and treat the farmer to beer. We then toiled up some terribly steep hills, from which all views were obscured by the thick clouds, and arrived at a rude station where the farmer left us; it was a slow station, and we were forced to wait in a miserable building for over an hour, while a horse was sent for to a distant farm. Starting once more, we drove down a steep descent through the blinding rain, till we came to Sande. We had intended continuing our journey ten miles farther, to a pretentious hotel at Vadheim, but the moment we stepped inside the inn we fell in love with it,—the impression was so cosy and homelike.