At Mogen we found more signs of winter—sledges abundant, and one pigsty kind of hut surmounted by a wonderful group: snow shoes, old reindeer horns and heads, sledges, and a plough.[1] This is primitive; but it is not all: there were the old querns, or haandkværn. In spite of this we had not shaken the influence of travelling civilisation; the bonde asked us if we would like some “Bockley and Pukking’s black-brown beer.” Certainly. “Men hvor meget?” Two and sixpence per bottle: it had been left by an Englishman. Eheu, what an anomaly!
[1] The iron of this plough is exactly the same as the hand-plough, or “casarhome,” used in the Western Highlands, and now fast disappearing.
Jamsgaard.—This was such an evening: north wind strong, bad for tents; large lawn discovered, camp inside; camp beds fitted up, cooking outside. The hammock was slung. How the north wind whistled, until we barricaded that side with hay! Then we all slept. In the morning we were to start early, and the perfect dignity with which the page entered the dormitory, with coffee for all, was truly a picture. We got a very good pony here, a true bakken, with black-centred hog mane, and zebra-marked legs, and started in lovely weather by the crystally clear Totak Vand, where we saw a large white owl; then to the larger Toftland, and on to Botten. We are now in snow-shoe land, with spills of birch-wood for pipes, and more mills, one over the other, for grinding. Grouge Kirk was interesting; and we saw a woman rowing over with homespun, to be sent to some commercial centre. Starting in a stolkjær, Botten is a good high-latitude station: bleak to a degree. The snow was close to the house, but within all one could wish: preserved meat, reindeer flesh, port wine, but no white bread; looms, spinning-wheels, snow shoes; many old ale bowls, saddles, carved boxes; and, at one end of the barn, boughs of trees brought up from the dal for the magpies to build in; at the other end a bunch of wheat, also brought up and placed on a pole for the birds. After leaving Botten we started for Haukelid Sæter, and found the men working on a new road to the Hardanger. As they progress, large monoliths are put up at intervals with the date of construction, and sometimes the elevation above the sea; here it is 2,800 feet, and at this point very large Scotch firs are found in skeleton state, monuments of a past period of giants.
III.
HARDANGER.
HAUKELID—SLAUGHTER OF REINDEER IN A BOTTEN—THE BROKEN BRIDGE—THE FORD—USEFUL OLD PONY—THE ASCENT—ROLDAL VALLEY AND BRIDGE—THE LENSMAND—FLORA AND LONG TRAMP—DOUBLE SOLAR RAINBOW—SNOW SHOES—GRÖNDAL AND DISTANT FOLGEFOND—ZIGZAG ROAD—SELJESTAD—NO FOOD, BUT A GOOD PONY—GRÖNDAL WATERFALLS—SANDEN VAND—THE LATE ARRIVAL AT ODDE.
HE Haukelid Sæter is 3,500 feet above the sea. Here we had the pleasure of meeting the Norwegian engineer of the road, and in the vand below were floating masses of ice. In the morning the vand was frozen (July 15), so that we could not cross in a boat, but had to go round. Near this was the scene of a reindeer slaughter by natives: they had a Remington breech-loading rifle; drove a herd into a botten, or cul-de-sac, and shot forty in six days—nine in one day; but we shall refer to this later on. On our journey we found the bridge carried away, and had to ford, which was great fun. We sent a knowing old pony over first. How we enjoyed it—one might have taken us for schoolboys out for a holiday—in and out of the water! One poor pony, however, did not find it agree with him, the ice-water was so cold, and for a time he was very bad indeed.
Once more in the flat of the valley, it seemed like old times, and we thought a hearty meal at Seljestad would do us good. In the latter respect, however, we were doomed to disappointment, meeting with nothing but picturesqueness and some costume, in which red bodices were conspicuous; so we had to fall back on potted meats and biscuits. Whilst waiting we saw some peasants en route for their sæter, with all their milk apparatus. The only good thing we got was a pony—a beauty—to go down this grand valley, and drive, one may say, through the Laathe Fos. At this point there are three falls in view of each other—Laathe Fos, Espeland Fos, and Hildal Fos. This we enjoyed, and late at night, or rather early in the morning—for it was one o’clock when we got into the boat to go down the Sanden Vand and row to Odde—having had such a good day, we sang “God save the Queen” and many songs about Rensdyr, Jagt, Norwegian love, “det kjære Hjem,” &c.