“It is called Prest-vei (the Priest’s-way), because that is the road the clergyman has to take to get to one of his distant churches.”
“Gee up!” said I to the horse, a young one, and unused to his work, adding a slight flip with the whip (Svöbe), a compliment which the colt returned by lashing out with his heels.
“Hilloa, Erik! this won’t do; it’s quite dangerous.”
“Oh no, he has no back shoes; he won’t hurt you—except,” he afterwards added, “out of fun he should happen to strike a little higher.”
The ill-omened shriek of a couple of jays which crossed the road diverted my attention, and I asked their Norwegian name, which I found to be “skov-shur” (wood-magpie) in these parts.
As we skirt the western bank of the Kile Fjord, a fresh-water lake, a dozen miles long, and abounding in fish (meget fiskerig), the man points to me a spot on the further shore where the Torrisdal River, after flowing through the lake, debouches by a succession of falls in its course to Vigeland and the sea at Christiansand.
At every station the question is, “Are you going up to the copper works?” These are at Valle, a long way up the valley. They have been discontinued some years, but, it is said, are now likely to be re-opened.
At Ketilsaa I am recommended to call on the Foged of the district, a fine, hearty sexagenarian, who gave me much valuable information respecting this singular valley and its inhabitants; besides which, what I especially valued under the circumstances, he set before me capital home-brewed beer, port wine, Trondjem’s aquavit, not to mention speil aeg (poached eggs) and bear ham. Bear flesh is the best travel of all, say the Greenlanders, so I did not spare the last. The superstitions and tales about Huldra and fairies (here called jügere) are, the Foged tells me, dying out hereabout, though not higher up the valley.
His foster-son,[4] a jolly-looking gentleman, sends off a messenger to see if his own horse is near at hand, in order that I may not be detained by waiting for one at the neighbouring station, Fahret. But the pony is somewhere in the forest, so that his benevolent designs cannot be realized. Altogether, I have never visited any house in Norway where intelligence, manliness, and good-nature seemed so thoroughly at home as at the Foged’s.