STERDAL is full of interest and character, with a wild river, precipitous mountains on either side, snow on the high peaks above, a rushing of waters below, hardly any track, and shut in by a façade of rock at the end of the valley; and yet it is the way from Romsdal to Valdal. Let us, therefore, explore it, and do so in two fyttes—a short carriole ride to the sæter with the ladies, and beyond, high, high up, for real research without the ladies.
Place aux dames. We tried the short journey with two carrioles, and for an English mile or two we did pretty well, as they will go anywhere and over anything; but as we got into the scrubwood and underwood the road grew worse, the wheels going sometimes over a boulder one or two feet in height, the axle assuming an alarming angle, and the skyd-gut hanging on the high side to keep the vehicle from turning over—first one side and then the other—till the fair occupants of the machine were shaken to a jelly, and would fain try to walk. Still we all persevere, and soon arrive at the meal-mill, given in the accompanying page illustration. What a retired spot for business! Who would ever think of it as a centre to draw customers and found a business—as a likely spot for a man beginning with the conventional half-crown becoming the architect of his own fortune?
The water seen here is the Ister—ever thick and muddy, and always in violent motion. What a contrast to the calm dignity of the adjacent mountains in all their graduated phases! A little above this is a shoot which brings down water to turn the mill. On our arrival the miller comes out with a quiet kind of welcome, and very kindly shows us the stones doing their share of work to bring about fladbrod for the people of the valley during their summer visit: it is for the sæter people they work principally.
Leaving the mill, we pass on to the denser scrub and brushwood. We had with us an old Skye terrier, full of noble traits of character—courage and endurance—but being as blind as Belisarius, and running against some of the rocks in the track, he was not only thrown on his haunches, but his nerve was shaken—that Highland nerve which is of such rare stuff. Let us immortalise our blind Norwegian canine traveller by a description. If lost, an advertisement should run thus:—“Lost, a brindled Skye terrier, answering to the name of ‘Kyle.’ Rough broken hair, broad chest, short-legged, bow-legged, middle-aged and strong, and carries his tail high. True to the core, with a head as large as a deerhound’s. Teeth to match.” The Norwegians at first thought it would be well to shoot him, but when they came to know him better he soon enlisted them all among his many ardent admirers.
Perhaps the idea may flit across the mind of some, Why bring a blind Scotch terrier into a work on Norway? This is why: old Kyle was taken that day for a young bear by a simple-minded Norwegian cow. Never were fear and fright more vividly portrayed than by the action of that animal, and of her tail especially, on the first glimpse of the brown brindled terrier. Hearing his name mentioned, he has just wagged his tail, which is quite flat, like an otter’s, and when very pleased he wags it with the flat side on to the floor to produce more sound.
By this time we are at the sæter, where the piger have come to look after the cows until September. Having driven on to the only flat piece of grass, we unpack for lunch, when the produce of the aforesaid cows comes to our comfort in an unadulterated form, and thoroughly is the simple fare enjoyed. After lunch we visit the interior of the sæter, and find spinning going on steadily, a little national tune being hummed to the whirring wheel accompaniment. The weaving is done during the winter months. In the summer a little spinning is done, but only by the most industrious.
Spinning in the Sæter: Isterdal.
To see Isterdal the only way is to walk. Let us, therefore, continue on from the sæter in the direction of the Valdal. This was done with Ole Fiva. Soon we began to ascend, for the end of the valley is precipitous, with a fine fall, the top of which must be reached before arriving at the plateau, botten, or balloch. On commencing the ascent Ole pointed out in the river below a spot where a bear had been killed; and higher up again where a bear lived, for he had seen it there. Some idea of the situation is given by the opposite woodcut, with the aiguilles on the right. This is looking down Isterdal. The path was effaced the day before we passed by the descent of a quantity of rough stuff, more than sufficient to have carried us with it into the valley beneath. The aiguilles are of a similar formation to the Troltinderne in Romsdal, and seem to be a nursery of trolds for future ages.