As we were copying the inscription, Noah and Zachariah, had proceeded onwards, along the road towards Christiania.
After following them about a mile, we returned back in a heavy shower of rain, to camp on the open space at the head of the Krogkleven gorge.
CHAPTER XLI.
“I fear, Colonel,” I replied, “that I must plead guilty to having been an associate of these gipsy vagabonds, and I may as well add that I have spent nearly all the summer with them, and found them pleasant, healthy, and instructive companions. I like the gipsies, and the wild life they live; and it is a pleasant occupation for me to study their manners, customs, traditions, and language.”
George S. Phillips (January Searle).
SUMMER WANING—NORWEGIAN SCENERY—SPLENDID VIEWS—THE CROSS FIRE—SORTE DÖD—ROMANTIC CAMP—MANDY’S A RYE—THE TOURIST’S DOG—THE HOBBENENGREE’S SURPRISE—THE BARON AT BŒRUMS VERK—SNAKE KILLED NEAR OUR TENT—OUR LAST NIGHT IN CAMP—ADIEU, CAMP LIFE.
On the open space near the road, our donkeys were unloaded. The spot was surrounded by forest. It was convenient for an early visit to the King and Queen’s views next morning. A can of milk was procured from the house near, for nine skillings, and with some barley-meal, we had our aftens-mad, which consisted of gröd. It was rather thin, but Noah pronounced it meget godt. Whilst the tents were being pitched, the pale young Norwegian from Sundvolden passed by our camp, and conversed for a short time, and then continued his route. We retired to rest at eight o’clock. The nights were now getting cold, and damp, with heavy dews, and the air had a wintry feeling. Night draws on quickly, and the ferns are already changing tint.
It is Saturday, the 20th of August. We rise at five o’clock. Noah obtained water; a fire was lighted, and we had tea, bread, butter and cheese for our breakfast. First we took Noah with us up a broken, rough track, through the forest to the Kongen’s Udsigt. It was not far from our camp. A lady and gentleman had preceded us on horseback. The morning was dull, and cloudy. In twenty minutes we were at the top of the cliff, and standing on a kind of large balcony of rough boards.
An old man suddenly appeared from the rocks near, as a spider would pounce on two flies. He pointed out different fjelds, and told many of their names. What a magnificent extent of wild mountain, wood, and water lay before us! The Gousta we could distinctly see, although said to be distant seventy English miles. It recalled to mind a period of former travel, when we once ascended its wild, and narrow ridge, of loose rocks, to its highest point.
Far below us, we could see the smooth waters of the Tyri Fjord, the Steens Fjord and the Holz Fjord.
As to the wooden frame-work, it was covered with names—the pencilled autographs of numerous travellers; many now dead and gone. Yet, amongst the many, we saw the name of “B. Disraeli.”