Peeps at Many Lands: Norway Part 5

Which of Norway's many waterfalls is the finest is a matter of opinion. Some people give the palm to the Rjukanfos (Telemarken), some to the Skjaeggedalsfos [2] (or Ringedalsfos), some to the Voringfos, while others maintain that the Vettifos, the Tvindefos, and the Tyssedalsfos are without rivals. The fact is that each of these (and other falls which could be named) has its own particular charm, and the last one visited always seems to be the best. A great deal also depends on the time of year, and on the amount of snow which has fallen on the mountains during the preceding winter. For, it must be remembered, it is the rapid melting of the snow in the spring that gives to most of the Norwegian waterfalls such a volume of water in the early months of the year.

But the summer rainfall on the high fjelds is always heavy, and even after all the snow of the year has melted, an immense amount of water has to drain away to the lowlands, and so to the sea. At first it collects in the tarns which fill the hollows of the mountain plateaux, but these, overflowing, soon send their surplus water by certain channels away over the cliffs.

The greater waterfalls, however, are those which indirectly carry off the water from the snowfields, the mountains capped with perpetual snow; for, except during the frost-bound months of winter, these falls are always full.

The snowfields are of themselves of immense interest, but so intimately are they connected with the glaciers that we shall speak of the two together. A snowfield may exist without a glacier, but a glacier cannot exist without a snowfield--that is to say, the glacier is made by the snowfield.

How snowfields came into existence n.o.body knows for certain, but it is generally supposed by learned people who have studied the matter that, thousands of years ago, after what is called the Great Ice Age, Norway gradually put off her mantle of ice and snow and became what she is now; but the snow on the higher parts of the land has never yet had time to melt right away, because fresh snow is always falling and adding to the pile. And it is the weight of all this fresh snow on the top of the acc.u.mulation of centuries which produces the glaciers.

The Folgefond, in the Hardanger district, is the snowfield which most people who visit Norway see sooner or later, and since it covers an area of 120 square miles, at a height of about 5,500 feet above the sea, it is visible from a great many points of view. It forms a background to many a picture of the varied scenery of the Hardanger Fjord, and it has the advantage of being easily accessible.

Of course, the belief in the old popular legends is dying out even in Norway, but there are still some aged grandfathers and grandmothers living near the great snowfield who can tell the tales as they were told to them. Thus they relate that where the Folgefond now lies was once a fertile and well-peopled valley, called Folgedalen, and that in one night its farms, forests, people, and cattle were buried in snow as a judgment for some great sin. One story ascribes the misfortune to the curse of a gipsy woman, who had been refused alms by the priest; while another relates that the valley was overwhelmed because the inhabitants had murdered their liege lord, the petty King of the district.

But why it happened and how it happened does not really much matter, for there the vast field of snow is to-day, and there it will doubtless remain for many centuries to come. As has been said, you can go up to the top of it and sleigh across a portion of its summit, or you can potter round about it and examine its many glaciers.

The two largest glaciers of the Folgefond are the Buar Brae, near Odda, and the Bondhus Brae, near Sundal, and to spend a day at either of them is a real treat. But it is not wise to visit these glaciers without someone who knows them, for one might easily fall into one of the great fissures in the ice, known as creva.s.ses, especially if lately-fallen snow had hidden the opening of the mighty crack.

A glacier, as most people know (now that everyone goes to Switzerland, if not to Norway), is nothing more than a river of ice; not a nice, clean, smooth sheet of ice, but a rough ma.s.s of frozen billows, almost blue in colour, and generally covered with sand, dust, and stones of all sizes. Wherever, beneath the edge of a snowfield, the country shapes itself into a valley, there you will find a glacier.

If you make a s...o...b..ll, and keep pressing and kneading it in your hands, you will soon convert it into a solid lump of ice. That is just what the sun does to the snowfield. It keeps melting the new snow, and this presses down into the old snow, so that the weight of the whole thing squeezes out the frozen snow into the valleys in the form of glaciers. And, as this process goes on year after year, the glacier would naturally keep going lower and lower down into the valley were it not for the fact that the point (or snout, as it is termed) of the glacier very frequently breaks off, and disappears into the torrent of ice-water which flows away from it. So some glaciers, although always moving, never grow any longer, but others creep a little bit farther down each year.

There are many other interesting things about a glacier. One of them is the moraine, which consists of heaps of rocks and stones broken off from the edges of the valley by the great river of ice as it pushes its way imperceptibly forward. These rocks are embedded in the ice or borne on its surface, and are only given up when the extremity of the glacier melts away into the torrent. Some of the rocks thus transported are of immense weight, and the torrent is powerless to move them; year by year, therefore, the jumbled heap of boulders and rocks is added to until it often grows to an enormous size.

Another fine snowfield in the Hardanger district is the Jokul, a splendid white dome, whose melting snows help to swell the Voringfos. The Jokul does not possess many large glaciers, but one of them has, in past years, been a great source of trouble to the people who live near it. This is the Rembesdal glacier, at the far end of the Simodal Valley, near Eidfjord.

The Simodal is a beautiful and fertile valley, with farms on either bank of the river, which rushes through it to the fjord. This river comes from the glacier, but not directly. The head of the valley is choked by a high cliff, over which tumbles a grand waterfall, and this issues from a large mountain lake, into the opposite end of which descends the snout of the glacier, with a continuous stream of milky water flowing from it. So far there is nothing peculiar in all this, but the peculiarity lies higher up.

Some little distance up the glacier, and almost at right angles to one side of it, is a rocky hollow or small valley, and into this the water begins to pour in the spring as soon as the sun is strong enough to begin to melt the snow. The great glacier blocks up the end of this hollow with a thick dam of ice, and before long a huge lake is formed.

What used to happen every two or three years was that the pressure of the water in this dammed-up lake became so tremendous that the glacier at last could resist it no longer. Away went the side and lower part of the glacier, and with one mighty crash the water escaped. Down into the lower lake, and over the waterfall, the wall of solid water, several feet in height, descended into the valley. There it carried destruction far and wide, sweeping away crops, cattle, farm buildings, bridges, and everything that came in its way. The loss of life also was often considerable, for there was no warning other than the roar of the water as it burst into the valley.

A few years ago, however, some Norwegian engineers devised a means of averting these terrible floods by enabling the upper lake to empty itself gradually. They constructed under the glacier an iron-lined tunnel, connecting the upper lake with the lower, and in this way the water escaped at once. So the people of Simodal can now sleep in peace.

CHAPTER XIII

DRIVING IN NORWAY

Like Switzerland, Norway has splendid roads. No difficulty in road-making seems to be too great for the Norwegian engineers to overcome. One frequently sees miles of road cut out of the solid rock of some mountain-side, and skirting the edge of a fjord or long lake. Again, a road may wind its way through a narrow gorge, with precipices a thousand feet high on either hand, and down in the depths a wild torrent, crossed every here and there by ma.s.sive stone bridges; or, over the open mountains a road will zigzag upwards to a pa.s.s in long loops, like the famous "Snake Road" near Roldal.

And the surface of all these roads is hard and kept in good repair--at any rate, in the summer months. In the winter they are, of course, thick in snow, which, when beaten down by the sleigh traffic, forms a new surface, which takes the wear and tear off the actual roadway for several months.

But we are now writing of the summer, after the snow has all melted, the snow-ploughs put on one side, and the roads recovered from the havoc wrought by the streams of melting snow. Then the sleighs have been hidden away in the innermost recesses of barns and outhouses, and the driving season begins.

Driving is one of the greatest enjoyments of Norwegian travel, though too much of it is perhaps wearisome. The best plan is to arrange a tour, so that some of it shall be by railway, some by steamer, some walking, and some driving, and this is generally easy to manage. The particular charm of driving is that the traveller can take his own time, go his own pace, and stop when and where he chooses. In this manner the scenery is capable of being more fully appreciated.

Until quite recently there were very few railways in Norway, and there are not many now. There are, however, plenty of excellent roads, and a well-organized system of posting. The posting-stations are situated about ten miles apart, and consist usually of a small inn or farmhouse, where the traveller can demand food and lodgings, as well as a change of conveyance and horses. The _skydsgut_ (literally post-boy, but frequently an old man, or even a woman), accompanies the conveyance from his station to the next, and returns with it, though nowadays it is more usual to engage a vehicle (if not also a horse or pony) for a whole day's journey, which has the advantage of avoiding the perpetual rearrangement of one's luggage.

There are four kinds of conveyance in general use: the _caleche_, drawn by a pair of horses, and something like a heavily-built victoria; the _trille_, a light, four-wheeled trap with two horses; and the _stolkjaerre_ and the _carriole_, the last two being the most popular and convenient vehicles for quick travelling.

The _stolkjaerre_ is a rough, box-like cart, with a seat for two persons, and another little seat behind for the _skydsgut_. It has the advantages of ample room for luggage, and economy when travelling two together, the hire of one _stolkjaerre_ being less than that of two _carrioles_; but, having no springs, it jolts and jars its occupants most unmercifully.

The _carriole_ may be considered to be the national vehicle of Norway, and is certainly the most comfortable. In appearance it resembles a miniature buggy, and it holds one person, who can stretch his legs in a long, narrow trough between the seat and the splash-board; or, by straddling the trough, the occupant can rest his feet on two conveniently-placed iron steps. The luggage is strapped on to a board behind, and the _skydsgut_ sits on it. A day's drive in a _carriole_, if the weather be fine and the pony a good one, is a real pleasure, and an intelligent _skydsgut_ will enliven the journey with his amusing babble, as well as with sc.r.a.ps of information about the country traversed.

The ponies are generally about thirteen hands in height, good-tempered, sure-footed, strong, and hardy, and think nothing of doing thirty or forty miles a day, if given an occasional rest. Driving them requires no great skill, and it is best to leave them as much as possible to their own devices, since reins and bit have very little influence over their movements. One may haul on to the reins for half an hour without inducing the pony to pull up, but the magic sound of the "burr-r-r" uttered by the _skydsgut_ will cause the little beast to stop dead. And he will not go on again until he hears the peculiar click of his master's tongue. So the stranger in the _carriole_ or _stolkjaerre_ will do well to hold the reins for the sake of appearances, and allow his _skydsgut_ to do the rest.

One word of comfort to the adventurous driver: Do not be alarmed if you notice that the harness is dropping to pieces. Your henchman (up behind) will soon put matters right with some sc.r.a.ps of string and a few bits of stick.

But the actual drive--how lovely it all is! Now you are pa.s.sing up a valley among the hayfields and orchards which border the river, and by the roadside you find a profusion of wild flowers--great purple gentians, blue harebells, yellow mountain globe flowers, and other blossoms of varied colours. b.u.t.terflies there are also in abundance, and, if you be an entomologist, your heart will rejoice at the sight of such rare English insects as the Camberwell Beauty, the Northern Brown, and others. Now you enter a dark pine-forest, to find yourself before long emerging on to an open stretch of wild moorland; and so you cross the col, and commence to drop down into another valley, narrow and shut in by towering mountains. Waterfalls sparkle in the sun as they tumble over the cliffs, and the still unmelted snow stands out white and glistering on the distant hill-tops. The road swings from side to side of the valley, crossing the torrent in its bottom by stout timber bridges, and at last you reach the margin of the great lake, where stands the neat little inn ready to provide you with your midday meal.

The organized tours, however short they be, always include a drive of this description, and no Englishman would consider that he had visited Norway unless he had driven through a part of the country. Even in a week one can cover a deal of ground. One can go by steamer from Bergen up the Hardanger Fjord to Eide, and thence drive across the neck of land to the Sogne Fjord, through the finest and most varied scenery imaginable, returning to Bergen, if needs be, by steamer down the Sogne Fjord. Or, if there be a few days to spare, one can steam across the head of the Sogne Fjord from Gudvangen to Laerdalsoren, and thence again take _carriole_ or _stolkjaerre_ to the Fillefjeld, and so visit the wildest of Norway's mountain districts, the Jotunheim--the Home of the Giants.

CHAPTER XIV

ARCTIC DAYS AND NIGHTS

Everyone has read of the midnight sun and of the sunless winter of the North. They are features of all tales of Arctic exploration. Yet, in order to see the sun s.h.i.+ning at midnight or to experience pitch-dark days, it is not necessary to be actually a seeker after the North Pole. Sunny nights and black winter days may be enjoyed, or otherwise, even in Norway, but only in the Far North--within the Arctic Circle.

It is not quite easy to realize what things are like right away up in the North, as it were, on the top of the world, and why things are as they are is difficult to explain without entering into a host of scientific details. We will, therefore, avoid a long discussion about the movements of the earth and suchlike matters, and merely mention certain facts. At the North Pole itself there is continuous day for six months of the year, and continuous night for the other six months, while on the line known as the Arctic Circle the sun s.h.i.+nes at midnight once, and once only, in the year, and during one entire day of twenty-four hours in the winter it does not rise above the horizon at all. South of the Arctic Circle there is no such thing as midnight sun or as a day without sunrise.

As far as Norway is concerned, a considerable tract of country lies within the Arctic Circle--in fact, an area rather larger than that of Ireland--so it is not very difficult to find a place where the midnight sun can be seen for a period in the summer-time, and where in the winter some of the days are really dark. Of course, to see the midnight sun it is necessary to be at the place selected at the right time, and even then there is always the chance of the sky being clouded over, and no sun visible. For the latter reason travellers with plenty of leisure endeavour to go as far North as possible, so as to be almost certain of seeing the great sight.

Nowadays everything is made easy for everybody, and steamers take pa.s.sengers to the North Cape throughout the summer for the sole purpose of enabling them to see the midnight sun from the very best point of view. Here, provided that the sky is clear, the midnight sun can be seen from May 13 to July 31. Between those dates it does not set, and it would be a bad summer indeed if the clouds hid the sun for so long a time.

To reach the North Cape takes a good deal of time, and many people dislike a lengthy sea voyage; but even if one starts from Bergen and goes all the way by sea, there is something of interest to be seen every day, as the steamer keeps close to the coast, threads its way among the innumerable small islands, and calls at many places with beautiful scenery in the background, more especially Molde and Christiansund.

A little farther on you come to Trondhjem; but if you would curtail the sea voyage it is not necessary to take the steamer from Bergen, since Trondhjem can be reached by rail from Christiania or by a driving tour right through the country from various places. Onwards from Trondhjem, however, you must go by sea, unless you are prepared for a long and rough overland journey.

Trondhjem, the ancient capital of Norway, is a place of historic interest, and contains the finest cathedral in Scandinavia. Its name means "throne home," as the old Kings of Norway used to reside there, and it was the place where the coronation ceremony was always performed. Though no longer the capital of the country, it is still a flouris.h.i.+ng town, and the present King (Haakon VII.) was crowned there a few years ago.

Now the real sea voyage to the North Cape commences, and with luck you may reach your destination in five days, but on every one of the five you will stop somewhere or see something which will be worth seeing. The town of Namsos is of no great interest, but the coast and island scenery now becomes stupendous and grand, with great giant rocks rising up out of the sea. The most remarkable of these are Torghatten and Hestmanden.

The peculiarity of Torghatten lies in the fact that there is a hole or tunnel straight through the ma.s.sive rock, which itself is some 800 feet in height. As you sail past it you see daylight through the hole, and if you land to examine it you will find that it is nearly 200 yards from end to end, and that its almost perpendicular sides vary in height from 60 feet at one end to four times that height at the other end. No man can account for this remarkable tunnel except by quoting the local legend, and in this the Hestmand (the other extraordinary rocky island) is mixed up.

Hestmanden, the "man on horseback," is a wonderful ma.s.s of rock, the outline of which, allowing for a little imagination, resembles a man on a horse. And this is the legend:

Not far from Torghatten is an island called Leko, on which, in the age of the giants, there lived a beautiful maiden. In those days the Hestmand was a real live giant, and he fell desperately in love with the Leko maiden. But the latter, who was only half a giantess, was afraid of the great monster, and would have nothing to do with him. So the Hestmand flew into a rage, and one day chased the object of his affections, who fled for her life. The giants did not do things by halves, and the Hestmand was so angry that he meant to kill the maiden, and he shot at her with a giant arrow, which was a fairly large fir-tree. Now, just at the moment that he shot his arrow, the maiden's brother, who was another giant, realized what was going on, and flung his hat between his sister and the arrow. The maiden was saved, but the arrow pierced the hat. Then the sun suddenly appeared above the horizon, and the actors in the tragedy were instantly turned into stone. Hestmanden is the wicked giant on his horse; Torghatten is the hat which was pierced by the arrow; the arrow itself may be seen, as a great stone pinnacle, on a neighbouring island; while Lekomoen, the mountain on Leko, is the beautiful maiden who caused all the trouble.

But to continue the voyage. Immediately after pa.s.sing Hestmanden the Arctic Circle is crossed, and a few hours later a call is made at the little town of Bodo. Thence to the Lofodden Islands is no great distance, and after they have been visited and the wonderful cod drying-grounds inspected, the steamer wends its way to Tromso, and then to Hammerfest, which we have already referred to as a great place for the manufacture of cod-liver oil. Beyond this the rocky coast presents a succession of rugged and wild capes and promontories until the object of the voyage at length comes in sight.