The fire was soon burning splendidly, and the giant commenced to brew the ale, drinking it off as fast as it was made. Ashpot watched him getting gradually drunk, and heard him mutter to himself, "To-night I will kill him," so he began to think of a plan to outwit his master. When he went to bed he placed the giant"s cream-whisk between the sheets as a dummy, while he himself crept under the bedstead.
In the middle of the night, just as he had expected, he heard the giant come into his room, and then there was a tremendous whack as the giant brought his club down on to the bed. Next morning the boy came out of his room as if nothing had happened, and his master was very much surprised to find him still alive.
"Hullo!" said the giant. "Didn"t you feel anything in the night?"
"I did feel something," said Ashpot; "but I thought that it was only a sausage-peg that had fallen on the bed, so I went to sleep again."
The giant was more astonished than ever, and went off to consult his sister, who lived in a neighbouring mountain, and was about ten times his size. At length it was settled that the giantess should set her cooking-pot on the fire, and that Ashpot should be sent to see her, when she was to tip him into the caldron and boil him. In the course of the day the giant sent the boy off with a message to his sister, and when he reached the giantess"s dwelling he found her busy cooking. But he soon saw through her design, and he took out of his pocket a nut with a hole in it.
"Look here," he said, showing the nut to the ogress, "you think you can do everything. I will tell you one thing that you can"t do: you can"t make yourself so small as to be able to creep into the hole in this nut."
"Rubbish!" replied the giantess. "Of course I can!"
And in a moment she became as small as a fly, and crept into the nut, whereupon Ashpot hurled it into the fire, and that was the end of the giantess.
The boy was so delighted that he returned to his old tyrant the giant and told him what had happened to his sister. This set the big man thinking again as to how he was to rid himself of this sharp-witted little nuisance. He did not understand boys, and he was afraid of Ashpot"s tricks, so he offered him as much gold and silver as he could carry if he would go away and never return. Ashpot, however, replied that the amount he could carry would not be worth having, and that he could not think of going unless he got as much as the giant could carry.
The giant, glad to get rid of him at any cost, agreed, and, loading himself with gold and silver and precious stones, he set out with the boy towards his home. When they reached the outskirts of the farms they saw a herd of cattle, and the giant began to tremble.
"What sort of beasts are these?" he asked.
"They are my father"s cows," replied Ashpot, "and you had better put down your burden and run back to your mountain, or they may bite you."
The giant was only too happy to get away, so, depositing his load, which was as big as a small hill, he made off, and left the boy to carry his treasure home by himself.
So enormous was the amount of the valuables that it was six years before Ashpot succeeded in removing everything from the field where the giant had set it down; but he and all his relations were rich people for the rest of their lives.
CHAPTER VIII
THE HARDANGER FJORD
All that is grand, all that is beautiful, will be found in the Hardanger--the "Smiling Hardanger," as the Norwegians themselves call it; and even if an English visitor went nowhere else, he would have seen typical Norwegian scenery of every possible kind.
The easiest way to go there is from Bergen, and most people bent on a tour in Norway make a start either from Christiania or from Bergen. Bergen itself claims to be the most beautiful town in the country, and it really is a lovely spot, with its old wooden houses all around the harbour, full of picturesque shipping, and with its amphitheatre of bold mountains rising upwards almost from the centre of the town. But Bergen has its drawbacks, and the princ.i.p.al one is that it rains every day, or nearly every day.
To reach the Hardanger from Bergen, and to go from one end of the fjord to the other, you take a pa.s.sage in one of the comfortable little local steamers, and you begin your journey early in the morning. It is a very pleasant way of travelling, as you sit on deck all day and enjoy the scenery, and only go down to the saloon at meal-times. If you do not wish to go all the way to the very end of the fjord, there are numbers of pretty little places where you can break your journey. But if you like you can travel throughout the day and finish up late at night at Odda, or at Vik-i-Eidfjord, each of which is at the head of a branch of the Hardanger Fjord.
Let us take our tickets right through to Eidfjord, make a good long day of it, and see what there is to be seen. For some little time after leaving the harbour we see nothing of great interest, only a few graceful-looking barges in full sail, reminding us of the pictures of the old Viking ships, and flocks of seagulls fluttering and screaming round the stern of our boat. Then the steamer begins to pick its way through the scattered islands, some of which are mere barren granite rocks, others partially cultivated, and with neat little farmsteads lying snug in the valleys.
So we go on for an hour or two, occasionally stopping off a small group of farms, to land, perhaps, a farmer returning from the Bergen market, or a girl coming home from her situation in the town. Presently we come alongside a pier under an overhanging cliff, and we see the name of the place written up on a board, just like the name of a railway-station. This is G.o.dosund, a favourite holiday haunt of the Bergen people. It is not a town or even a village, but just a chalet-like hotel of two or three buildings, standing on the side of a fir-clad hill, in the midst of a fairyland of creeks and wooded islets--as pretty a spot as one could wish to see.
Now we are nearing the Hardanger Fjord; we pa.s.s through the narrow straits known as the Loksund, and we enter the fjord. Glorious and ever-changing views open out before us, as hour after hour the steamer pa.s.ses from one small station to another, dropping a mail-bag, and perhaps a pa.s.senger or two. We pa.s.s farms lying close to the sh.o.r.e, the wooden houses being in many cases painted red or white, and thus forming a brilliant contrast to the blue-black mountains and dark green forests which rise up behind them. We see every now and then a clean white wooden church, and, away up on the mountain-sides we can discern tiny specks, which, we are told, are the saeter dwellings.
Sometimes the steamer is out in the middle of the fjord, which, in parts, is five miles or more in width, but at other times we find ourselves close in to a rocky precipice, and wondering how it will be possible to avoid grounding. Above us the mountain-side rises perpendicularly to a height of, it may be, 3,000 or 4,000 feet; and, looking down into the clear water, we can see that it is ever so deep. As a matter of fact, the chart tells us that hereabouts it is a little more than 2,000 feet in depth.
Soon we reach the bay in which is Rosendal, where one could spend a very pleasant week or so, with trout fishing to be had in the streams and lakes, and mountain walks up to the edge of the great Folgefond snowfield. The steamer calls for a few minutes, and then goes on up the beautiful little branch fjord known as the Mauranger, at the extremity of which lies Sundal.
The scenery here is delightful, and especially so at the spot where the Bondhus Valley is seen stretching down to the fjord. Half-way up the valley a round-topped mountain appears to bar the way, and farther off a blue-grey glacier--the Bondhus Brae--is seen falling from the white snowfield, and choking the head of the vale.
Those who have the mind to do so can wander up to the glacier, sleep the night at a saeter, and on the following day hire a sleigh, and career for miles over the vast field of perpetual snow, right across the headland to Odda. And great is the joy of plunging suddenly, on a hot August day, into the depths of winter.
But our steamer does not stay here long--only long enough to put some Norwegian pa.s.sengers on sh.o.r.e, and take fresh ones on board. This occupies some time, however, for Norse people, and especially the ladies, refuse to be hurried. It is amusing to watch them starting on their travels. All their friends come to see them off, although it is quite possible that the traveller is only going to the next station on the fjord, not a dozen miles away. Each friend bears some small package--a pot of cranberry jam, a basket of apples or cherries, a bag of cakes, or something of that kind. The gaily-painted wooden trunks and the _tiners_ are stowed away on board; and then the "farvels" commence, with kisses and handshakes, and pats on the back, and many last words until the bell rings for the steamer"s departure, when a lady pa.s.senger suddenly discovers that she has left something behind. The wildest confusion follows, and away run all the friends to fetch it from the house, returning just in time. Then the good-byes begin again, and as the steamer finally departs, everyone shouts, "Farvel! farvel! farvel!" frequently and rapidly; hats are raised, and handkerchiefs continue waving until the boat can no longer be seen.
Returning down the Mauranger Fjord we steam out across the main fjord, and early in the afternoon call at several small places on the northern sh.o.r.e--Bakke, Vikingnaes, Nordheimsund--each with its spruce hotel, enticing the traveller to loiter and explore the country in the neighbourhood. A little later we enter the Fiksensund, a narrow branch fjord, and a wonder of wonders. For a distance of seven miles it wends its way amongst the mountains. In places the precipitous hillsides are within a hundred yards of each other, and in no part is this extraordinary fjord-arm a third of a mile in width. For thousands of feet sheer out of the water rise the bold walls of granite, with here and there a ledge thickly wooded with fir and birch. It looks as if the mountains had been torn asunder to admit the sea, and local legends say that a spiteful giantess did this and many other nasty things in the giant age. Half-way up the fjord the steamer fires a gun, so that the pa.s.sengers may hear the echo, and the sound comes back time after time from every nook and cranny. At the end is Botnen, with a road running away north to other farms, and eventually to the railway from Bergen to Vossevangen.
Again we return to the main fjord, and before long enter the Gravensfjord, wherein lies Eide, a kind of junction of the steamer-routes, and a very touristy place, as there is a good driving-road to Voss. The Bergen steamer continues its way up the Sorfjord to Odda, which is reached late at night; but we, who are bound for Eidfjord, change into a small branch steamer, and are soon rounding a mighty headland, and, if there is any wind, getting a tossing for a few minutes, the fjord just here being wide and open. The head of a seal may occasionally be seen bobbing up and down, and large flocks of duck are always swimming about at a respectful distance from the steamer. And what a view we have across the expanse of water! The never-ending mountains stretch away one behind the other, to be crowned in the distance by the dazzling white snowfield, lighted up by the fast sinking sun.
And when the sun goes down the scenery, as we steam on, changes each moment. In the twilight the granite cliffs stand out black and uninviting, and the country looks cold and grey. It may be that we are tired of the long journey, for with the growing darkness comes the feeling that something to eat and bed would be pleasant things. Then the steamer"s whistle makes us spring to our feet, and, peering ahead, we see lights on the Vik jetty and in the hotel close by. In a few minutes we are in Naesheim"s comfortable dining-room, enjoying our well-deserved supper after a day of days on Norway"s most glorious fjord.
CHAPTER IX
A GLIMPSE OF THE FJELDS
"Fjeld-weather" is the Norwegian term for fine, warm, bright days. It implies that the weather is suitable for a tour on the mountains. But, alas! it is not the weather that is always encountered there, for even in the summer the climate of the high plateau is ever varying, and though there may be a long spell of fine, hot weather, with a glorious crisp air, yet at any moment a change of the wind may bring a week of soaking rain, sleet, possibly snow, and a fall of temperature by twenty degrees. That is no time for the fjelds, and the traveller is better off in a fjordside hotel.
Given fine weather, there is no more splendid touring ground than the highlands of Norway, where, at a height of anything up to 4,000 or 5,000 feet above the sea, stretch thousands of square miles of wild and uninhabited moorland, cut up with numerous large lakes, and clothed only with a dwarf vegetation. Such parts usually lie off the beaten track, and to reach them means an expedition--heavy, uphill walking for two or three days, with the baggage carried on the backs of ponies.
If you were going to undertake an expedition to these high fjelds, you would probably make a start from the lowlands by following some well-worn track leading to a saeter. In nine cases out of ten the track will be running by the side of a river, at first wide and flowing lazily through the valley, but soon narrowing, until its upper waters become a rushing mountain torrent, swishing between mighty boulders. After a while you find that the path gradually begins to ascend by zigzags up the mountain-side, and the scenery, whenever you pause to look down, is magnificent. In time you reach the upland pastures, with here and there a saeter-dwelling, and this is the end of the first stage of your journey, for you probably will have climbed some 2,000 feet and walked a dozen miles or more. Thus you will be glad enough to accept the hospitality offered to you by the simple peasants.
All these saeter-huts are much alike, though, of course, they vary in size and in the way in which they are fitted up; but as they are only occupied during the summer months, luxurious fittings are not considered a necessity. The outer walls are constructed of fir-trunks, let into one another at the corners on the log-hut principle, and the interior is lined with boarding. In some parts, however, where timber is scarce the buildings are of stone.
The roof consists of rough planks, on which is placed a layer of birch-bark to fill in the cracks; and on the top, again, are laid sods of earth to a thickness of about a foot. Gra.s.s and weeds soon cover the roof, binding it together and keeping the rain out.
The door opens into a dark hall or chamber, which serves as a receptacle for rubbish of all kinds--fishing-nets, tools, skins, empty milk-pans, and the like; and in the corner is a roughly-built fireplace for boiling the milk and for cooking. On one side of this hall is the door into the sole living apartment, which possesses a window at one end, and against one of the side walls a couple of bunks, wherein three or four dairymaids sleep.
Sometimes there is a separate room, or even a detached hut, for the dairy work; but there is generally only the one room, the milk being set in large, shallow wooden vessels on a number of shelves fixed against one of the walls. Everything is scrupulously clean, and the cattle women are working hard all the long daylight hours. Periodically a man from the farm in the lowlands comes up to the saeter with a couple of ponies and takes down b.u.t.ter and cheese, and such visits are the only excitement in saeter-life.
If you have time to linger here for a day or two you will be made welcome, and you will find plenty to interest you. The views down into the deep valleys and away to the fjords in the distance are always delightful, and there may be a stream with pools holding trout worth trying for. The tiny rivulets which trickle down from the hills are lined with ferns and forget-me nots, and elsewhere may be seen flowers of every hue--red Alpine catchfly, blue meadow cranesbill, hawksweed, wild radis, and a score of other pretty things.
But the greatest joy of all is the sight of a wide marsh covered with the delicious _multebaer_, whose luscious, yellow fruit and gold-red leaves brighten the country-side. This is the cloudberry, found in Scotland and in the North of England, and to come on a stretch of this fruit after a long, hot walk is a thing worth living for. Besides this best of all Norse wild fruits, the fjelds produce many excellent berries, such as crowberries, whortleberries, marsh whortleberries, bearberries, dewberries, cranberries, and others. The children of the country parts all over Norway spend much of their time in feasting on these little fruits, and during the summer and autumn months their hands and faces are generally well stained with the dark juice.
Upwards, beyond these pleasant pastures, when you have left behind the last saeter-shanty and the last thicket of birches, you reach a world where, except for the scattered Tourist Club huts and their summer caretakers, you cannot count on coming across either dwelling or human being.
Wandering far afield, you may meet a couple of Lapps with their herd of reindeer, and down by one of the tarns you may chance on a rough stone shelter, inhabited for the time being by two Norwegian fishermen, whose nets are laid in the mountain lake.
All over this lofty wilderness the snow lies deep for several months of the year, but as soon as it begins to thaw it disappears rapidly, when, as in Switzerland, Nature"s garden immediately blossoms forth in all its glory. It must be confessed, however, that the carpet of Alpine flowers on the Norwegian high-fjelds cannot compare with that of Switzerland. On the great mountain plateau of Norway everything gives way to the lichen-like reindeer moss, and the flowers are merely in patches, or growing in ma.s.ses only in those swampy parts where the moss does not thrive.
The fjelds furnish a recreation-ground for the Norwegian townsman. There he can lead the life that he loves best, and one week of the wilds will set him up for the remainder of the year. Even though he cares nothing for shooting or fishing, the sense of freedom as he does his daily tramp delights his soul. And his wife or his sister as often as not will accompany him, for the Norwegian ladies are brave walkers, and know how to rough it.