Day 85 – to Vindhella, Lærdal

There was more snow forecast later today so my plan after a morning hike was to head towards the coast, a bit lower in altitude. I’m trying to get away with another week in the mountains, most likely on Sunday I’ll move to being south of Oslo. I have a ferry from Gothenburg to Denmark Wednesday 26th October.

Early this morning there had been a hard frost, and it was clear, with mist lying in the valleys. It was 800 metres asl where I had spent the night.

I joined the E16 heading west and it was picture postcard perfect Norwegian scenery; green valleys with cattle still in the fields, wooden houses and cabins with grass rooves, and on either side towering peaks with magnificent ridges and waterfalls, all with that decent covering of snow.

I stopped at the Tyin-Filefjell ski centre, like a ghost town at this time of year on a weekday, and we walked around the Otrøvatnet lake.

This area has a famous long-distance walking route, which has a bike version also, the Kongevegen over Filefjell, of the King’s Road. It is 100 kilometre long, and has considerable historical significance, as when it was built, in 1793, it was the main horse and cart route between the west and the east of the country. Right from the outset it had a reputation of being the hardest and most dangerous road in the country. In 2016 it was reopened, after a 7 year renovation project. It now encompasses some of the most beautiful scenery in the country.

I walked a section of it today that took in the old mountain lodge of Nystova. It was first mentioned in any documents in 1627, but most likely dates back far further than that. It is located in a small community of what are now holiday cabins, called Gamlestøga.

There is a local folklore tale also, as to the reason it closed in the 1700s. A string of gruesome murders scared visitors away. Dismembered bodies were attributed to the ‘Gamlestøga’ man.

In 1830 it was reopened, with a host, who was obliged to provide those travelling over the mountain with lodging, food and drink, all paid for by a duty applied to farms throughout the valley.

I managed to get back to the van just as the rain started, soon turning to snow. After lunch, we continued the magnificent drive west. I didn’t cycle this way 6 years ago, I stayed nearer the coast. In fact, it’s difficult to ride as the tunnels are so long, several of more than 5 kilometres, and one, Norway’s longest, at 25 kilometres. Bikes aren’t allowed in anything more than 4 kilometres, the option being the old road around, if there is one, and it remains, or to hitchhike, which I did a couple of times. It was easy back then, but after the pandemic, could be it’s more difficult.

I am now down at 350 metres, in the incredibly scenic Lærdal valley, on one of the old roads that goes around the mountain that the tunnel goes through. As expensive in construction as it must have been, the tunnels have left the old valley communities as peaceful as they were in the 1700s, certainly at this time of year. In summer of course, they are infested with tourists. I will explore the valley some more tomorrow.

I’m aware a few days ago, I promised a report back on Donald Henderson’s rather wonderful book from 1930, Mr Bowling Buys A Newspaper, which I greatly enjoyed last week.

Here’s a clip from it, and I’ll put the review in a separate post.

“First he must spend a few very gloomy minutes washing up the blood, it was on Mr Farthing’s ugly mouth and had dried all over his broad nose, and it was on his hands, backs and fronts. Mr Bowling went and got his flannel and some hot water and a basin and some soap. He returned with it to the bathroom. When he had completed this singularly unpleasant task to his satisfaction, and brushed Mr Farthing’s clammy hair, he proceeded to pare Mr Farthing’s nails. They were sure to be full of bits of his murderer’s skin, or clothes, and would betray him under the microscope. Mr Farthing’s frightened eyes were wide open the whole time, watching him, and looking as if it was rather painful, having your nails carefully pared after you were dead. When he had finished, Mr Bowling shoved Mr Farthing’s dead head to and fro, rather fascinated by his broken neck, you could get it back an incredibly long way.

Then he lugged Mr Farthing up and sat him into the low chair in the bedroom, by the dressing table. He wanted to test his weight, and to see how he sagged. He sagged very badly when he tried to hold him upright, his toes hanging down, and his great head flopping forward. Mr Bowling got his own brown felt hat and shoved it on Mr Farthing’s head. It was a little too big, and Mr Farthing looked extremely grotesque in the deep chair there, with his knees all cock-eyed, and his shoulders sagging forward, and the brown hat bent in prayer. Mr Bowling looked at his watch again and hurried out. “