I had a visitor for 10 days. The itinerary was totally up to her, and it ended up being leisurely. We walked to the store. We drove to Lillehammer, looking for a Norwegian sweater for her and a SIM card for me. We snowshoed. We went to Gjovik CC mall, had a lovely dinner, and then I rehearsed with the Gjoviksimfoniorkester while she read and played solitaire in the back of the hall.
But the big expedition was an overnight to Sognefjord, which my friend had seen in pictures. En route, we planned to see Borgund Stavkirk and then take the ferry to Kaupanger, and Urnes for those stavkirken. As it turned out, we only saw the outside of Borgund and never took the ferries, but it was a successful trip, nonetheless, due to the pleasures of serendipity and a like-minded traveling companion.
The beauty of travel in the off season is that the places are free of tourists, and plane flights are cheaper. The disadvantage of travel in the off season is that roads and buildings can be closed, and, indeed, usually are. Thus, as we headed north and west, we saw signs for stavkirken, and we saw beautiful Jotunheim floating white above lesser peaks and iced-in lakes, but none of them were accessible. The road to Jotunheim is closed until spring, and the stavkirk stood locked in pathless snow-covered fields. Borgund had the added barriers of chain-link fences and hazard tapes: there was restoration in process. Even the newer church nearby was locked.
Still, it was a beautiful drive. I learned to look for brown signs with the "attraction" symbol or the word "gamle" (old) I took surprisingly successful pictures from the car window, using the "live" option so I had a fighting chance at a sharp enough focus. We stopped occasionally at bus pullouts and trail-heads so P could look too. (She was very kindly doing the driving.) The road paralleled the Kongevegen, the old road linking east and west, from Valdres Valley to Laerdal, our destination for the night. It followed bodies of water variously referred to as vatnet, fjord, and sjo, each ending with the V's and U's of glaciation, the road continuously flowing into new valleys and vistas. I'm used to thinking of a fjord as being an inlet attached to the sea, but that does not seem to be the case.
We also followed signs to Lomen Stavkirk and Hore Stavkirk. We pulled over to take a picture at Oye and found its stavkirk, beautifully posed with the fjord and hills behind. We drove past the more modern Vang church, knowing that its stavkirk had been dismantled an reassembled in Germany or Czechoslovakia (the sources differed), and then turned around to take a better look at the huge stone I had glimpsed in passing. It was the Vang Stone. Standing taller than me, shielded by a locked glass case like a lean-to, it was a mystery until we got to WiFi and looked it up. Apparently, Gasi's sons raised it in honor of their nephew Gunnar. Who they were and why he was being honored is unknown, at least in the cursory internet research tools available to me. It appears that such stones were often raised during the transition from pagan to Christian times, honoring events and people.
We finally reached Borgund church at around 3 pm. It was shadowed in its narrow valley, all black angles and spikes, almost featureless against the white snow until we got closer. Then we could see the carvings on the doors and the details of the spiky dragon heads on the roofs. I was stunned by the black mossy textures on the roof tiles: were they slate or wood? I'm still not sure.
We clambered around the fences and through the foot-packed snow: we were not the only visitors to ignore the obvious signs that we were not welcome. In the shade and icy wind, my hands soon burned with cold, and I stopped taking picture. I walked over to the newer church, a red-painted rectangular hall, it's walls filled with tall windows made of tiny square panes, shimmering with the ripples of age. I was saddened that even modern churches in regular use need to be locked up. That was not the case in England, but maybe there were guardians that I didin't notice. In these isolated valleys, even though there were settlements and houses nearby, it may be there is no one to watch over buildings, and perhaps there are portable valuables.
Making our way onward, I saw a beautifully ice-covered river and implored P to pull over. She found a side road and we drove down to an icy pull-out next to a gated road at the base of cliffs that formed a gorge from which the river emerged. It was stunning: rocks with lacy clear ice collars, blue-green ice arches over rippling emerald green water, slick melted sheets of snow ice, sculpted and reflected by dark still pools. We walked a ways down the road until our camera batteries died in the cold, and it was time to turn around.
Reaching Laerdal in late afternoon light, we were struck by the lack of snow on the hills rising above the valley at the end of the fjord. Frozen rivulets streaked the hills, but they were surrounded by green mosses, dark boulders, and straw-colored grasses. We learned from various people that the west, and this valley in particular, are fairly dry year round, unlike my current home near Gjovik and the Swedish border.
P had reserved a room at a camping resort next to the boat dock, right where the river entered the fjord. There were around 40 cabins, all painted marigold yellow with bright blue, green, and salmon-colored doors. Ours was next to the boats, at the end of a short row of 2 story cabins with 4 rooms in each corner and a stairwell in the center. The center of the resort held camping spaces, marked with short poles (hook ups?) but no tables or firepits. There were no trees: camping was ringed by a road that served sites as well as the one-story cabins. We were pleased by our rooms, although we had forgotten to bring our own linens and had to pay extra. The twin beds could be separated, and the tiny kitchen was stocked with cook pots as well as dishes. This was good, because the only restaurant in town was closed by the time we settled down.
We walked along a footpath under the bridge and met a Filipino who has lived in Laerdal for 6 years as a nurse at the home for the elderly: can't recall what they call it, but it's something like Sick House, but not quite, as that's the word for hospital. He told us about hiking in the hills and about the 24 km Laerdal Tunnel towards Bergen, and I said "no fucking way." We shopped at the Kiwi and bought fixings for turkey and cheese sandwiches including a sinus-clearing Dijon mustard. We also made a side of pasta and pesto and had citron cake for desert. A feast!
The next day we wandered the town, starting at the fjord's beach, which was filled with piled up blocks of ice. Ducks sat on the ice and floated on the pools of water. Past the energy plant, a playground filled with balancing structures arrested us for a bit. I walked along a board balanced on tough springs. P tried the circle of platforms and then insisted on walking up a series of tiny rocks set on a row of poles that increased in height to a point and then came down again. I stood nearby to give a hand when she lost her balance, but she made me take her picture at the top. Foolishness! As we left the area we saw the sign reminding us that we needed a ticket to enter and that it was dangerous. Turns out, its more a training site than a playground. Oh well.
The restaurant was now open, run by a young Asian woman. We got coffee and I tried a new take on lefse: it's a traditional Sogne valley recipe called lefsekling. The lefse is made with flour, cream and butter that have chilled overnight: no potatoes. The sheets of lefse are fried and then layered with a butter cream filling called kling. It's really rich and creamy.
There's a center for wild salmon, closed of course, with a fish ladder and a stream. We walked along the stream back to the resort, listening to the ice cracking with loud pops. It was after noon by then, and the trip to Urnes was not possible in the time we had, as it required two ferry rides, the last of which only runs a few times. Plus, we knew that we would not be able to enter, and P wanted to walk along the road we had discovered the day before. So, we drove the 7-km tunnel to see another arm of the fjord and watch the ferry to Kaupanger; then it was back to Laerdal, a gas-up, and the long drive home.
Fortunately, P decided we did not have time for the long tunnel. The several tunnels along the Kongesvegen would have to suffice: ranging from 2 to 6 km in length, they were more than enough for me. They were also more filled with exhaust than on the day before, so even P was not so thrilled. We discovered later that the Laerdal tunnel had several stopping places, all lit up like a disco. But...no.
We saw a lovely waterfall and a bridge over the river that seemed to lead to it, so we took a slight detour onto Mosvegen. A friendly cavalier spaniel named Nora came to the fence when we pulled over for pictures, and her owner said that the farmer across the field would let us park there if we wanted to hike the fall, but we drove on, eastward, looking for another bridge back across to E16. We saw some donkeys and bulls and took pictures of the farm and its barns: P was fascinated by the two story barns with ramps to the upper levels.
The bridge shown on my map turned out to be a narrow one-lane plank bridge, with open metal railings, and P was convinced it was a bike bridge. At any rate, she was not willing to chance it, and we turned back. Back on E16, we pulled off for another find: an archaeological site called Vikingstaden Bjorkum. I can't find much about it, so P's pictures of the signs will have to suffice.
We found the road and walked about 12,000 steps, according to P's step tracker. The road had been constructed along an ancient way. There was a hiking path on the other side, and we came across an old settlement with a sign that declared it to be Galdane. We also saw areas with narrow boardwalks just above the water, and are still mystified by their purpose, as there is no fishing allowed. I saw a rock in the middle of the river, covered with bloody and rumpled snow. We figured it was someone's lunch, but whose? Our working theory is that a bird caught a fish. P was unsuccessfully looking for fish in the stream. She knows how to think like a fish, and there were plenty of backwaters for them, but they were elusive. We did see a red-billed bird floating down the rapids that dived at one point. It's quarry remained unseen.
It was a gorgeous walk. I was torn between the amazing ice falls on the cliffs, and the tumbling green water and ice-rimmed shores and rocks of the river. Bits of sun broke through clouds, lighting up the falls. It would be lovely in the summer, but there was a unique beauty to this frozen landscape, which we had all to ourselves. We were very happy with our discovery.
The drive back was less pleasant. It had been snowing the entire time we were gone and resumed snowing past the Seltun Tunnel, and we got trapped behind trucks. Speed limits were unclear, only posted around settlements. We didn't want to get ticketed: apparently it's done electronically and is quite expensive. The light failed, and P was getting very hungry: she'd only had a snack at breakfast and a hot dog at the gas station. We took the steep road back after Dokka, and the Skoda got us through nobly. P said the car was like a tank, stable and with excellent traction. Subtext, stop being such a wimp.
The cats were happy to see us. P built the fire while I fed them and then made a quick meal of sauteed mushrooms and scrambled eggs and salad. We settled down to edit our pictures and argue over linguistics, and Lily climbed into P's lap with a sigh of pleasure. Why do we ever leave home?
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