Near by is the quaint timber bell tower, its bells all in good working order, as was tested by one of our party. One wonders how these simple Norsemen, so plain and severe in their tastes, ever happened to build such a fantastic and grotesque church, which seems the expression of the vivid imagination and luxuriant fancies of a southern clime. We returned to Husum by the new road, following the banks of a river forming a series of effective rapids and waterfalls, as it winds through a narrow defile amid wild and striking scenery. We then drove back to Laerdalsören through the grand gorge, and at ten o’clock in the evening embarked on the steamer bound for Gudvangen. It grew dark at eleven o’clock, and we retired to the cabin and slept until two in the morning, when we were called and went on deck to find bright sunlight.
The Naeröfjord, which the steamer was entering, is a worthy rival of the celebrated Geiranger fjord; lofty mountains, many with snow-crowned summits, bound it on either side, rising, precipitously from the water. The fjord is winding in its course, and in places the mountains close it in so that it appears to be a small lake, the great headlands of granite forming grand and imposing boundaries. Many waterfalls—some over a thousand feet high appearing like threads of silver as they descend in a broken course from the snow-fields above, others with more volume of water from lesser heights—plunge into the fjord below. Every turn of the steamer unfolds new grandeurs of rock formation and a fresh supply of waterfalls. At last we come to a little hamlet, with scarcely room for its few houses on the narrow strip of land between the base of the mountains and the water, a short distance beyond which is Gudvangen, at the end of the fjord, so completely shut in by the mountains that the sun’s rays do not reach it throughout the entire winter.
It was half-past three o’clock in the morning when we landed, yet many were at the wharf to meet us (for little distinction is made between day and night), among whom were the innkeepers, and men and boys with carrioles and stolkjærres, which they tried to persuade us to hire for a drive up the valley. But we sought the nearest inn, and shutting out the sunlight to the best of our ability with the curtains, retired and slept soundly till ten o’clock; then having partaken of a good breakfast we started on a six mile walk up the grand Naerödal, a valley bounded by mountains. A smooth, well-made road passes through the valley; on either side the roar of waterfalls greeted us as they fell hundreds of feet and dashed their spray against the rocks, and as we advanced the Jordalsnut, nearly four thousand feet high, an immense cone of light-gray feldspar, its sides and summit as smooth as if trimmed off with a knife, projected into the valley. The effect is strange in the extreme as one views this great cone from base to summit, standing far out from the other mountains, like a gigantic monument set down in the valley.
At the base of the abrupt precipices forming the sides of the Naerödal, are great masses of rock brought down by avalanches and landslides. The valley ends in a precipitous cliff, a thousand feet high, called the Stalheimsklev, on one side of which is the Sevlefos, on the other the Stalheimsfos, two fine waterfalls, carrying on a continual and thundering rivalry.
The road ascends by exceedingly steep zigzags (every one dismounting from their stolkjærres, and walking up or down) to Stalheim, on the summit of the cliff, where a large modern hotel has been lately built. Its wide upper piazza commands a beautiful view of the whole extent of the magnificent Naerödal, a view almost equalling that of the Yosemite from Inspiration Point. The lofty sides of the valley, with their tracery of silvery waterfalls, appear but a few hundred feet apart; the great Jordalsnut seems to have stepped forth from its mountain environment and stands alone in solemn grandeur, while winding through the valley beside the foaming river, like a coil of white thread, is the road to Gudvangen.
The hotel at Stalheim is called a sanitarium. Certainly the situation is one of the healthiest, its pure air and grand view must be restful and restoring to both tired mind and body, and, judging from the excellent dinner we were served with, the hotel can furnish many bodily comforts. For the drive to Vossevangen we engaged an easy riding stolkjærre and a young horse, of a communicative and intelligent young man named David Larson, who spoke excellent English. David told us that every Norwegian must learn to read and write; in the higher schools English is taught but as he lived in a small village, he had spent the previous winter in Bergen, where he had studied English. A young man becomes of age when twenty-five; if able-bodied he enters the army at twenty-three, serving six months the first year, and one month during each of the two succeeding years.
We stopped at several stations along the way, and while the horse was resting and being fed we walked on, telling David to overtake us. The road led through a pleasant, fertile valley, dotted with comfortable farmhouses, with fields filled with haymakers. The distant mountains were not as lofty and grand as those we had just viewed on our walk through the Naerödal, but there was the customary supply of fine waterfalls, and the usual turbulent river flowed through the valley. High up the sides were rough wooden structures and clearings, which were filled with hay, stored there until winter, when the farmers make a road over the snow, and draw it down on sleds with oxen.
The ride of twenty miles amid these pleasant scenes, along the river and by a series of lakes, and the descent by a steep road into the village of Vossevangen, was accomplished all too quickly. It was the height of the summer travel, and finding both of the large hotels full, we went to Dykesten’s inn, which is unpretending but very comfortable.
Vossevangen is connected by railway with Bergen, sixty-six miles distant, and the evening train brought many guests to the little inn, who sat down to the supper table perfect strangers, but they quickly became acquainted with their neighbors, right and left; for all reserve is cast off, and one becomes as natural and genial as the Norwegians themselves. An abundance of material for conversation is furnished in the comparison of travelling experiences, and the imparting and receiving of information concerning routes and places to be visited, and each one seems anxious that others shall enjoy their journey in Norway equally with himself.
The pleasant little village is charmingly situated at the end of a large lake, across which rises a range of snow-capped mountains over four thousand feet high; a small stone church with picturesque wooden steeple, dating from the thirteenth century, stands in the midst of a quiet churchyard, and extending up the sides of the hills, in the rear of the village, are numerous farms with well-tilled fields. Vossevangen is often spoken of as “the kitchen garden of Bergen,” its environs having a large area of land, for Norway, under cultivation, and it forms one of the chief sources of supply for the Bergen market.