We overindulged in sleep a tad more than we likely should have this morning, but I blame yesterday’s rigorously physical demands of photographing people doing rigorously physical work. I jest, of course; our time in the orchard was not overly strenuous, but it did call for some extra time to recuperate after being outside on our feet for many hours, and so we obliged. We may regret the decision in hindsight following this day of near-total sunshine, but I take solace in knowing we made the best decision for ourselves at the time, and sometimes that has to be enough.
Our time in Sogndal has forced us to master the art of spontaneity (my close friends will quickly recall that it is not a pronounced specialty of mine). The weather has a habit of spoiling ideas borne from wanderlust, and one must remain nimble enough to downgrade plans of adventure to simpler alternatives, or to take unplanned advantage of a break in the gloom. Today, fortunately, provided an opportunity for the latter, so we quickly plotted a course for Balestrand, a town about an hour’s drive westward from Sogndal. The route, short as it was, featured two quirks that are quintessentially Norwegian: narrow, winding mountainside roads; and a fjord-crossing ferry.
I remain lost for words to describe the vistas we encounter on these joyrides across the Norwegian countryside. If there is ever a point you reach when the view becomes tiresome, I’ve yet to even approach it. Driving is mostly a chore for me in the United States (though I no longer own a vehicle, deferring instead to Washington’s public transit system), but I’ve rediscovered a particular fondness for it here. There is a specific serenity to it–at least when you are not dodging road equipment and wide-load busses on tricky passageways!
Today’s journey took us to and then beyond familiar territory, passing through Leikanger, then arriving in Hella, where we boarded the ferry across the point where Fjærlandsfjorden and Sognefjorden meet (I will have to consult with a local expert later, since maps are unclear about which fjord we technically crossed). The ferries we encountered today follow a triangulating course through Hella, Dragsvik, and Vangsnes, and surprised me with their sharp adherence to posted time schedules. I mentioned previously that I am a user of Washington’s public transit system, though at times the word “victim” feels more appropriate.
Our time sacrificed for a few extra winks left us in a mildly hurried state once we arrived in Balestrand, so we wasted little time in selecting the Kviknes Hotel as our point of interest for our visit. It was here we met Filip, whom I’ve dubbed the Bartender from Balestrand to provide him with an adequately prestigious mystique for his heroics. A brief aside: I am a professional barista, and I love black coffee; my blood likely resembles it. But I am also an avid espresso devotee, and I have missed it dearly during my time in Norway, yielding politely to the country’s clear preference for the filter variety. The cappuccinos Filip made for me today felt, without a whiff of overstatement, like drinking from the fountain of life. (Yes, I ordered more than one; yes, his skill as a barista was notable; and, yes, I called him a bartender: like many of us employed in the beverage craft, he wore many hats.)
Filip was also kind enough to provide us with some information on the finer points regarding the decor of the hotel, which was itself a marvel. Half of the hotel was clearly a relatively recent addition with noticeably more modern aesthetics, but the original half had been maintained in its original form, with handcrafted wooden sculptures and furniture adorning several ornate dining halls. One of the chairs in the room where we enjoyed a superbly delicious lunch held a hidden inscription underneath the seat cushion regarding a particular guest of disrepute, Kaiser Wilhelm II, who apparently frequented the hotel in the early twentieth century, though some of the words were insufficiently legible for us to piece together the entire story.
We thanked Filip profusely for his excellent hospitality and retraced our steps back to Sogndal, though we actually passed straight through the city, our sights set on neighboring town Kaupanger, where we had a planned rendezvous with another branch of the sprawling Foss family tree. On this occasion, we met and dined at the home of Hjørdis and Robert, joined also by their daughter, Ida. Hjørdis is the daughter of Magnar–one of the six Foss brothers to whom this blog often refers–and his wife Marie, both of whom also joined us. Hjørdis prepared an enviable feast: a tantalizing main course of lasagna, salad, and house-made bread baked that morning leading into the star feature, a dessert of apple pie (they refer to it as cake here, but by American reckoning, this was a pie) made from freshly picked Gravenstein apples from the Foss orchards. It was yet another evening of enlivened discussion that quickly felt like repartee among friends, though all were new faces to me at the outset of the evening. I greatly enjoyed the opportunity to meet this segment of the family, and hope we cross paths again during our time here. I thank them profusely for their excellent food and thoughtful dialogue.
True to our newfound acquiescence to improvisation, we have made no plans for tomorrow’s endeavors, though we anticipate a possible return to drearier skies. We will have to see what awaits us in the great unknown. I haven’t paused to acknowledge it in some time, so I do want to take a moment to thank readers who have been tuning in to my recollections of our days in Norway, some of whom have also shared humbling words of praise and kindness that have deeply moved me. As I did not start this blog with any intention of readership being the driving force, I have been surprised and touched by any and all views it has received. Truly, and from my heart, thank you.
Where the Waterfalls Mean Home 
One Reply to “”