Trondheim to Sandvikberget, Norway
It doesn’t look one thousand years old, this city of Trondheim, situated about a third of the way up from the southern tip of Norway. For those of us who have spent our formative years in the New World, it is difficult to comprehend just how old these places really are. When human occupancy is considered, our country is newborn compared to the lands of Europe.
Trondheim carries its age well. It seems young, jubilant, like a joyous maiden decked in brilliant colors and spring flowers. The town had burned in 1681 and even then the city fathers had the foresight to recognize that wooden buildings needed wide avenues to serve as fire breaks. Today those same wide streets carry modern vehicles between immaculate buildings of reverse board and batten or ship-lap construction. Not one was wanting for a fresh coat of paint whether ochre, red or blue. In fact the whole country exhibits a precision and pride in design and maintenance.
From Trondheim we followed the valleys carved by water and scoured by ice until we arrived in Hell. Yes, that is correct we went to Hell, but didn’t stay long. Below the station sign a clocked ticked the minutes and a voice announced that the train from Hell would be an hour late. But since we had no intent of boarding, it mattered not and we left by bus just as we had arrived. By the way, in Norwegian, hell means luck!
From Hell to Stiklestad, Inderoy and Osen we explored a cross section of the land. Warm sun alternated with moody charcoal clouds that, fortunately, were fleeting and only served to add drama to the skies. Glowing magenta fireweed lined the roadsides and traced the meandering streams. Ireland claims some thirty or forty shades of green. Norway probably cradles as many or more. As we passed through the mountains, the deep greens of conifers were interrupted here and there by paler conifer leaves. Patches of heather mingled with crowberry, blueberry and cranberry leaves.
In the lower elevations were fertile agricultural lands. The long-awned barley ripening already to a yellowish tone contrasted with oats and other grains, all in their own neatly planted linear fields. Hay had been mowed and hung to dry on three-tiered wire fences or bundled in white plastic bales looking like giant marshmallows placed at the edge of the meadows. Potato plants bloomed. All told of a perfect year with just the right moisture and sun. Cattle grazed near omnipresent red barns and white farmhouses. There was no variation here. Every house was white and every barn was red. Only in the towns did the citizens release themselves and express the freedom of other hues and tones.
Ice sculpted mountains lined the coast at Sandvikberget. Silhouetted against them, the Endeavour waited at anchor for our return, ready to carry us north once again.
It doesn’t look one thousand years old, this city of Trondheim, situated about a third of the way up from the southern tip of Norway. For those of us who have spent our formative years in the New World, it is difficult to comprehend just how old these places really are. When human occupancy is considered, our country is newborn compared to the lands of Europe.
Trondheim carries its age well. It seems young, jubilant, like a joyous maiden decked in brilliant colors and spring flowers. The town had burned in 1681 and even then the city fathers had the foresight to recognize that wooden buildings needed wide avenues to serve as fire breaks. Today those same wide streets carry modern vehicles between immaculate buildings of reverse board and batten or ship-lap construction. Not one was wanting for a fresh coat of paint whether ochre, red or blue. In fact the whole country exhibits a precision and pride in design and maintenance.
From Trondheim we followed the valleys carved by water and scoured by ice until we arrived in Hell. Yes, that is correct we went to Hell, but didn’t stay long. Below the station sign a clocked ticked the minutes and a voice announced that the train from Hell would be an hour late. But since we had no intent of boarding, it mattered not and we left by bus just as we had arrived. By the way, in Norwegian, hell means luck!
From Hell to Stiklestad, Inderoy and Osen we explored a cross section of the land. Warm sun alternated with moody charcoal clouds that, fortunately, were fleeting and only served to add drama to the skies. Glowing magenta fireweed lined the roadsides and traced the meandering streams. Ireland claims some thirty or forty shades of green. Norway probably cradles as many or more. As we passed through the mountains, the deep greens of conifers were interrupted here and there by paler conifer leaves. Patches of heather mingled with crowberry, blueberry and cranberry leaves.
In the lower elevations were fertile agricultural lands. The long-awned barley ripening already to a yellowish tone contrasted with oats and other grains, all in their own neatly planted linear fields. Hay had been mowed and hung to dry on three-tiered wire fences or bundled in white plastic bales looking like giant marshmallows placed at the edge of the meadows. Potato plants bloomed. All told of a perfect year with just the right moisture and sun. Cattle grazed near omnipresent red barns and white farmhouses. There was no variation here. Every house was white and every barn was red. Only in the towns did the citizens release themselves and express the freedom of other hues and tones.
Ice sculpted mountains lined the coast at Sandvikberget. Silhouetted against them, the Endeavour waited at anchor for our return, ready to carry us north once again.
