Chair in Hitterdal Church.

Leaving Hitterdal, we were off in earnest for the Hardanger, with a grand country before us. The first night we pulled up at Skeje. Before coming to our resting-place at the end of the lake, we noticed the saw-mills and corn-mills (seven, one above the other); not that torrents are scarce in Norway, but in this valley there was employment. Arrived at Skeje, our Tentmaster having selected his spot, tents were pitched, and everything put ship-shape for the night. The only milk we could get was goat’s milk, and fladbröd in abundance. It is, perhaps, superfluous to mention here that fladbröd can be made very toothsome by drying it before the fire: the peasants keep it in a state ready for travelling, with the means of folding it up so as not to be shaken into dust by the jolting of the stolkjær, which certainly would be the case had it been fit for eating. The smoke of our fire had gone up, and after our meal and a chat with our neighbours we turned in. A strange dog came into the Patriarch’s tent, and eventually curled himself up for the night, and, as a mark of gratitude for welcome, woke him in the morning by licking his face.

Next day brought us on to Flatdal. Looking over that grand, deep valley, we halted awhile at a picturesque wooden house: we asked for milk, which was brought forthwith, and it was goat’s milk. The daughter, as it was Saturday afternoon, was engaged plaiting her two long tails ready for the morrow. The good mother had a very fine antique silver brooch, and the proprietor one also on his shirt-front, and after we had drunk our milk they showed us their rooms, which were most interesting, and dated very far back; for traces of the fact presented themselves on all sides, especially in the harness and elaborately carved horse-collars, which bore the crest of a lion’s head on an escutcheon—evidently belonging to the days of aristocratic Norway.

Flatdal: Thelemarken.

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We had bivouacked on a green lawn near the village, close to a house which was a carriole station. Our three tents were a novelty, and our cooking at last brought a crowd around us; but we must say that the people were most kindly and considerate towards us. They had never seen such a thing before, and hated fanter, tinkers, and gipsies, which nearly included all wanderers in tents: such latter were we.

Next we inspected the loom, where a daughter was hard at work. There were a fine old bed, with inscription, and many spinning-wheels, highly coloured (green, red, and blue and white, with black). It is a pity an illustration of this room cannot be given in colour. We descended into the dal: the heat was intense, no air below, and a pandemonium of flies. Bathing under the wheel of a mill was a temporary relief: our torment was renewed at lunch. But we were out to enjoy ourselves; so we did, in spite of mosquitoes. At lunch we cooked some of the trout our chief had killed en route, which that day numbered thirty. We were immensely amused here by noticing the very comic and inquiring expression in a magpie while listening, for the first time probably, to the English snore with which one of our party favoured us on this occasion, putting his head first on one side and then on the other, then taking a hop, and, when the music broke into a staccato bass passage, hopping back still more interested, until it finally flew off. Magpies are the sacred birds of the land, and are regarded as the private property of his Satanic Majesty.

After a long day and a mid-day meal, during which we were devoured by mosquitoes until nothing was left of us but our monograms, we arrived late in the evening in front of a farmhouse at Sillejord. It was Saturday night, and no room in the house, but an open space close by, most inviting for tents. In the twinkling of an eye the Tentmaster issued his order, each man had his tent laid out, and up they went simultaneously, to the astonishment of the natives. Was it a sort of fair, only read of in books? Was it the first germ of the great Russian fair of Nijni Novgorod? Was it one of the lost tribes of Israel come down from the clouds? Or were we Germans, who, having already annexed Denmark, had just run on with a message from Prince Bismarck to say that Norway also was annexed? No; the peasants rather looked on at a respectful distance, with a certain openness of mouth and absence of expression. By this time, the tents being up, beds laid, saddle-bags in places, and guns hung on tent-pole with telescope, food had to be thought of, and the canteen business looked after. The canteen was well organized and an old traveller—almost self-acting; so accustomed to the names of Fortnum and Mason’s tinned soups, &c., that the very words “mock-turtle” made it burn and bristle up to a really good fire. That night we had good lake trout; and how welcome, with our then appetites, the mock-turtle! Three cheers for Fortnum and Mason! And then the mörbradsteg! Some of our readers have never been introduced to those satisfying and necessary pleasures of life; if not, let us explain. Mörbradsteg and other good things in tins come from Stavanger in Norway, which is great in potted meats, ryper, tins of all kinds of preserved things, soups, lobsters, &c., and these mörbrader. The inquiring mind may ask, “But mörbrader—what is it? how made?” All I can say is, that it was so good we thought we had no time to ask what it was: perfect in flavour, solid in substance, very satisfying to the most energetic of gastric juices, and wholesome. Three cheers, therefore, for Stavanger! Then came wild strawberries, brought by dear little children in costume, who had already begun to go through the process of purification ready for Sunday, biscuits and Dutch cheese, and a skaal for Gamle Norge. After this we followed the suggestion of the good motto, “Rest and be thankful,” and then some hunters’ songs.