"Gamle Norge": Rambles and Scrambles in Norway

by R. T. Pritchett

HERE is a great charm about the freedom of driving one’s own pony and carriole, or stolkjær, for a long run, or even for a short excursion; it conduces to the peaceful rest we are all longing for, and saves one from reminders that at the next station the horses will be charged for if we do not hurry on. This is rather tantalising when one is drinking in nature, and realising the fact that each moment is revealing fresh beauties and developing lifelong impressions—the very time when one wants to be left to nature and himself. In the excursion now before us we had our own ponies part of the way, and pedestrianism for cross country. Our route was from Romsdal, the weird valley where, on the previous evening, the trolds had been playing pranks in the following manner:—About 8.30 a tremendously heavy roll as of thunder, lasting forty seconds, brought us suddenly to the window. The mist was hanging round the peaks, with cirri-strati across them; down came the steen-skreed, or slip, with a mighty rush; and the cloud was driven out by the shower of rocks and stone as they came madly down. It was unusually grand. The sheep boy with his horn ran in, Anna rushed to the door to see it, and as she came the dust rose up in a cloud as incense after Nature’s work. Ole remarked that it was a fine shower, and very impressive it certainly was; still Anna said she did not like it. In some cases in the winter-time the peasants go on to the ice to avoid the possibility of these erratic masses reaching them.

We were soon off to Gudbransdalen, calling as usual at Fladmark—that lovely spot, beautiful to a degree if you have provisions. Should such be the case, you certainly must have brought them, for the station is not one of refreshment, as Mrs. Brassey testified by her anxiety to regain her yacht, the Sunbeam, which is truly a sunbeam to her friends. Long may it be so to her and her husband and son!

We must leave the hurly-burly of rocks through which the Rauma dashes in this part. Rocks the size of detached villas seem to have been “chucked” about, for this is the only term we can bestow upon such higgledy-piggledy positions. One can only realise the idea by imagining one’s self a minute insect in a basin of lump sugar, with a great rushing river beneath.

Arriving at Mølmen, we found it a most healthy spot, and worth staying at for a time, as the people are so kind, and the whole surroundings inviting. Being on a high plateau, the air is perfect, and the place seems to be more than usually fortunate in its weather. The following morning, there being no service at kirk, we availed ourselves of the perfect weather for enjoyment on the hillside. Striking off from the houses, we sauntered up through the stunted birch and the heather till the grey rocks became more prominent, the vegetation sparse, the plants closer to the ground, and then we lay down on the fjeld side. What a view there was beneath us! The whole scene was a rare combination of all the prismatic colours so characteristic of Scotland in October. At our feet was the long Lesje Vand, beyond that the Dovre fjeld, and we fancied we could see Sneehatten; then, away to the right, were snow ranges to Storhættan, which is ascended from Ormem. How we basked in the sunlight and longed for more life on the fjeld! “Why should we not go to Eikesdal?” said Ole all at once. “That would be fine: why not?” The idea was caught at. “How long would it take to walk, Ole?” “Well, eighteen hours if there is no mist.” “Very well, then; no mist, if you please, and we will do it.” This was a new joy: eighteen hours’ walk without a house to call at, carrying one’s own nosebag, and great doubts as to a bed on arriving—more delightful still! This is enjoyment indeed, though not to every one, perhaps. We therefore decided to start the next morning at three a.m., provided there was neither mist on the mountains nor the chance of it. How we revelled on the journey in anticipation, enhanced as our happiness was by the beauty of the scene and the grandeur of the surroundings! All the way down we conversed on our coming walk, interrupted only by a visit to a farm, where we heard some of the good folk singing. It was hay-time; the weather fine, with a refreshing breeze that gently waved the new-cut grass as it hung from the frames, like huge towel-horses, which are used for drying it. We were invited to enter the farmhouse, where we found the room tidied up for Sunday, and the family singing a hymn in their customary devotional manner. There was the usual three-cornered cupboard; an old gun which had laid low many a good buck, the powder-flask, primer, and ball-bag were ready for August; the ivy was carefully trained up the windows inside; and the ale-bowls and tankards were about the room. It was quite a Norwegian homestead. One thing was unusual—a musical instrument called a psalmodicum, which is a board painted green with red flowers, about an inch thick and thirty inches long, with three strings raised on a bridge like a violin. These strings are played with a bow, also of the violin class, but different in character. We regretted very much that we could not persuade any one to perform upon it.

Wool Holder.

On our return we found the proposed trip emanated from the fact that a house-painter was going over to Eikesdal, and had been waiting for clear weather to carry out his object. By the next morning a farmer from Eikesdal proposed joining us: he knew the way. This completed our party, and at four o’clock we started, with every assurance of fine weather. Working up through the stunted birch-trees, we soon looked over the heights of the Vermer Fos to Storhættan. The Svart-hø rose behind us, and approaching the snow-line, we came upon the reindeer-flower (Ranunculus glacialis), with its sharp-pointed leaves and beautiful white blossom. Then the dreary Gravendal opened to us, wild, bleak, weird, and barren to a degree, with Amra Jura on our right, directly over Eikesdal, far, far away. About this time there was a grand solar rainbow. We now got very rough rock-tramping—regular couloir climbing—and there was no vegetation, the moss being of the “crottle” tribe, a perfectly black lichen. As we ascended the peaks were grander. Many reindeer spör were seen, but no reindeer. At the highest part we found the snow discoloured by a very fine dark gritty dust; and it is a remarkable fact that this discoloration was the result of volcanic eruption in Iceland. After the eruption a gale set in from the W.S.W., which on Easter Monday, 1875, positively carried the clouds of scoriæ right across Norway. The line was followed even to Sweden, and corroborated by some peasants who were out when it fell.

A volcanic eruption in Iceland is a serious matter. One of the worst occurred in 1783. On that occasion 14,000 persons were killed. In the eruption of 1875, the vegetation, which provided for 40,000 sheep, 2,000 cattle, and 3,000 horses, was all destroyed. The hay harvest, the only one in Iceland, was also entirely destroyed. Scoriæ, varying from fine pumice to pieces the size of two fists, covered its surface from an inch and a half to eight inches deep. The eruption began about nine a.m., and when the scoriæ fell there was total darkness. The air was so highly charged with electricity that staff-spikes held up in the hand seemed to be in a blaze.

We soon began to descend a little to a vast plateau. Our provisions had been fallen back upon every few hours, and were now much reduced. The farmer looked forward to the plateau as being likely to afford some multebær, a kind of raspberry with a hard skin, but juicy. A good and most useful man was the farmer. Favoured by the weather, he steered well, and we soon came to an incline on the snow, where we could make a long and safe glissade. It was certainly a novelty to see us all flying down. The farmer was the best man, and happily we reached the bottom in safety. Another hour and we lay down to rest and enjoy our multebær. They were deliciously refreshing. The house-painter, or maler, suggested that there was a sæter somewhere at the head of Eikesdal which we might try for. “That is just what we are making for,” said our cheery chief, the farmer; “in about an hour we shall be there.” On we went, our fatigue being forgotten in the grandeur of the scenery and the difficulty of picking one’s way, for hopping from stone to stone absorbs the attention considerably. The time soon passed, and after we had completed our twelve hours’ walk we had arrived at some weather-worn, storm-riven, dwarfed, gnarled, and twisted birches, beyond which, in a botten, lay our sæter. What an invasion! The two girls were astonished, but when they heard the voice of the farmer all was well. Ole immediately ordered a bunker, as it is called in Romsdal; in Gudbransdalen it is termed rummer coller. How we enjoyed our rest after this simple food! A bunker, however, should be described: it is a flat wooden tub of curds and whey, and is handed to two people. Each person is armed with a spoon, with which it is etiquette to draw a line across the centre for your vis-à-vis to eat up to, not beyond; but few Englishmen ever reach the line unless they are very old hands.