CHAPTER IX.
Langeid—Up the mountain—Vanity of vanity—Forest perfumes—The glad thrill of adventure—An ancient beacon—Rough fellows—Daring pine-trees—Quaint old powder-horn—Curiosities for sale—Sketch of a group of giants—Information for Le Follet—Rather cool—Rural dainties and delights—The great miracle—An odd name—The wedding garment—Ivar Aasen—The Study of Words—Philological lucubrations—A slagsmal—Nice subject for a spasmodic poet—Smoking rooms—The lady of the house—A Simon Svipu—A professional story-teller—Always about Yule-tide—The supernatural turns out to be very natural—What happened to an old woman—Killing the whirlwind—Hearing is believing—Mr. Parsonage corroborates Mr. Salomon—The grey horse at Roysland—There can be no doubt about it—Theological argument between a fairy and a clergyman—Adam’s first wife, Lileth.
At Langeid station, where we arrived late at night, there was great difficulty in finding anybody at home. At last we ferreted out an old man in one of the multifarious buildings, which, as usual, formed the establishment. All the rest of the family are paa hoien (up on the mountain). That Langeid was a horrid place. As there was no wash-basin to be found, I laid hands upon a quaint brass mortar, which the old man informed me was “manifold hundred years old.” In the travellers’ book I see a German has been informing the people that he is a Ph.D. But then I have seen elsewhere, in this country, an Englishman’s name in the book with M.P. attached to it. But he went down, poor man, with the steamer Ercolano, so we must leave him alone.
What a lovely morning after the rain. The spines of the fir-trees, and the hairy lichen (alectoria jubata) festooning the branches, frosted over with the moisture which still adheres to them, and is not yet sucked up by the sun that is just rising over the high mountains. What refreshing odours they shed abroad, seconded by the lowlier “pors,” with its delicious aromatic perfume.
What an intense pleasure it is thus to travel through an unknown country, not knowing where one is to be at the day’s end, and looking at the map to find out where in the world one is. Give me this rather than a journey in Switzerland, and all the first-rate hotels in the world.
“Up yonder,” said my attendant, “a bear used to harbour. The man in the gaard above shot him not long ago. He was very large. That’s a ‘Vitr’ (warning) yonder, on the top of that mountain to the east. There are a great many dozen of pine-logs piled up there from the olden times.”
I discovered that this was a beacon-hill, formerly used to give notice of the approach of foes on the coast. The next beacon was at Lobdal, a great many miles down the valley. The establishment of beacons from Naes to Helgeland, is attributed, by Snorro, to Hacon the Good. A slower way of conveying intelligence of the descent of an enemy on the coast, was the split arrow (haeror), equivalent to the fiery cross of Scotland.
“Are not you frightened to travel all alone?” said the little fellow, looking curiously into my face. “You might be injured.”
“Not I,” replied I.