The Last of the Summer Wine; Bottle one
We opened it by taking the old ferry, still running, over Sognefjorden, leaving behind our part of the world. We were the only ones on it, climbing up the side to see the opposite side getting closer, and feeling the gentle tremor of the engines working through the waves. A winding road, blessedly free from trailers, climbed up after it reached the very bottom of nthenfjord when ere the road ascended in steep curves up, leaving the river far below in the valley and it's sound only a soft murmur. Sharp peaks started to appear as we gathered momentum chugging upwards and just as the sun copperheaded the snowy tops over 3000 m peaks with a glow, we stopped by an old Red Wooden Cross memorial where a dead Spaniard was found in 1848 clutching it within his arms. Nobody less than Ibsen wandered past him and the cross and wrote a poem, as enigmatic as Rupert's Soldier. Here too were the 6 “bauta stones” commemorating the 6 men and their horses that had perished, frozen to death as they attempted to cross Sognefjellet. With the bared teeth of ….cold and uncaring, watching them from the heights slowly sink into the snow. They were in search of grain for their starving families.
Young things in red and yellow tents camped around, fires lighting up the stark rocks around, while the blue ridges slowly moved towards the sea in the distance. The night was chilly, calm and starlit, and even to me, used to good views, this vista was something special, with the highest Norwegian mountain sticking out like a nose out of joint above the glacier.
Reached our friends cabin above Ringebu the next day, 900m high up, with the autumn colours already busy changing the green leaves and bright red lingonberries hiding on the ground. The grass waved dry and yellow around us as we walked in the wind in the evening, and the sun set so much later than at home, both because of the height and being further north. We counted 12 blue ridges running west, folding and unfolding upon themselves.
The fire was lit, cosy oil lamps burned, the ancient timbers old surrounded by memories, collected and treasured, all from photographs, sepia colored faces telling their stories, to embroidered cushions, the needle marks worn where mended. Gone lives dotted the cabin. And now, many minds and hopes and loves later, we were here with friends!
Ståhles grandfather had walked these mountains and been the ranger, mapping each hill and mountain top, and he had gone with him like a faithful dog following his boots wherever they wondered. This is his childhood kingdom and now we could see it too.
Morning brought the sunrise at 6 am with sheep bells chiming as they fed on the fast fading grass. The silver birches were protected from the cold with hairy beards of lichen they grow in these high, rough sierra regions. Chins wagging on each branch.
We opened it by taking the old ferry, still running, over Sognefjorden, leaving behind our part of the world. We were the only ones on it, climbing up the side to see the opposite side getting closer, and feeling the gentle tremor of the engines working through the waves. A winding road, blessedly free from trailers, climbed up after it reached the very bottom of nthenfjord when ere the road ascended in steep curves up, leaving the river far below in the valley and it's sound only a soft murmur. Sharp peaks started to appear as we gathered momentum chugging upwards and just as the sun copperheaded the snowy tops over 3000 m peaks with a glow, we stopped by an old Red Wooden Cross memorial where a dead Spaniard was found in 1848 clutching it within his arms. Nobody less than Ibsen wandered past him and the cross and wrote a poem, as enigmatic as Rupert's Soldier. Here too were the 6 “bauta stones” commemorating the 6 men and their horses that had perished, frozen to death as they attempted to cross Sognefjellet. With the bared teeth of ….cold and uncaring, watching them from the heights slowly sink into the snow. They were in search of grain for their starving families.
Young things in red and yellow tents camped around, fires lighting up the stark rocks around, while the blue ridges slowly moved towards the sea in the distance. The night was chilly, calm and starlit, and even to me, used to good views, this vista was something special, with the highest Norwegian mountain sticking out like a nose out of joint above the glacier.
Reached our friends cabin above Ringebu the next day, 900m high up, with the autumn colours already busy changing the green leaves and bright red lingonberries hiding on the ground. The grass waved dry and yellow around us as we walked in the wind in the evening, and the sun set so much later than at home, both because of the height and being further north. We counted 12 blue ridges running west, folding and unfolding upon themselves.
The fire was lit, cosy oil lamps burned, the ancient timbers old surrounded by memories, collected and treasured, all from photographs, sepia colored faces telling their stories, to embroidered cushions, the needle marks worn where mended. Gone lives dotted the cabin. And now, many minds and hopes and loves later, we were here with friends!
Ståhles grandfather had walked these mountains and been the ranger, mapping each hill and mountain top, and he had gone with him like a faithful dog following his boots wherever they wondered. This is his childhood kingdom and now we could see it too.
Morning brought the sunrise at 6 am with sheep bells chiming as they fed on the fast fading grass. The silver birches were protected from the cold with hairy beards of lichen they grow in these high, rough sierra regions. Chins wagging on each branch.