I slept with the window open and got plenty of fresh air. The departure of a couple of tour buses heralded my return to consciousness. The watch claimed eight hours of good sleep, which was good because I’d need every scrap of energy today: I had to climb 870 meters up, along 10 kilometers of road. That’s about 3000 feet of ascent in a little over 6 miles.
How do they know when a bridge like this has gotten too damaged to use?
How do they know when a bridge like this has gotten too damaged to use?
But before the hard part, I had a couple of easy miles following a river. I passed a grand waterfall called Åsafossen, a lake called Eidsvatnet, and a couple of kiosks that proudly declared a philosopher named Ludwig Wittgenstein had lived in the area:
Ludwig Wittgenstein is important around these parts.
All about Ludwig Wittgenstein (English taken directly from sign)
Wittingstein (born 1889 in Vienna: died 1951 in Cambridge) changed the entire direction of philosophy twice during the 20th century. On both occasions, central parts of his work emerged during his stays in Skjolden. Upon his upbringing in one of the wealthiest and most talented Jewish families in Vienna he left for studies in Berlin, Manchester and Cambridge, becoming acquainted with some of the foremost thinkers at the time.
Philosophy was not an aim in itself for Wittgenstein, but a way of dealing with life and existence — most importantly by developing new ways of thinking about them.
Comparing philosophy to both poetry and architecture, he found asking the right questions more important than offering decisive answers.
In 1922 Wittgenstein published his Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus, a short, yet very complex work. His text was the result of pondering problems throughout four years of war as well as important preparatory work in Skjolden in 1913-14. “What can be said at all can be said clearly; and whereof one cannot speak thereof one must be silent.”
His second main work was published in 1953, after his death: His Philosophische Untersuchungen (Philosophical Investigations) was largely a critique of his first book.
Some of the most famous sections were written in Skjolden in 1936.
Wittgenstein in Skjolden (English taken directly from sign)
Wittgenstein visited Norway on six occasions between 1913 and 1950. After his visit to Oystese in the Hardanger fjord in the summer of 1913 he returned in October the same year — this time to Skjolden, exiling himself in order to concentrate on his work.
Wittgenstein commenced building his own house in Skjolden as early as 1914. He acquired land on a ledge above the north end of the Eidsvatnet lake. Due to the war he didn’t return to Skjolden until 1921, a brief stay which also saw him work at the local lemonade factory after having given away his entire inheritance. He came back for a few weeks in 1931; but his longest stay in Skjolden was during the years 1936-37, and for a period of 15 months he lived in his house at the Eidsvatnet working on his philosophical questions. In 1950, the year before his death, Wittgenstein visited Skjolden one last time.
Local church and local mountains, seen from ground level.
In a few miles I beheld the Fortun Church. Very pretty! Just beyond it was the beginning of the very steep part of my route. I poked a map in case there was a café and the “Fortunsdalen Besøkssenter kafe” came up, but alas it was closed. The only thing I could do was make a right turn and begin ascending the mountain.
Google Maps describes this highway (Sognefjellsvegen) as “The National Tourist Route: A steep, narrow road from Luster to Lom, passing lakes, snowfields, and craggy mountain peaks.” And I can attest, that’s pretty dang accurate.
At the first turnout, probably 500 feet up from the valley, I stopped to rest my knees and eat a snack.
Looking over the railing at the town where I’d been a few hours ago, I realized I could see the same church. Now I was seeing it from above, between shoulders of mountain dusted with snow, on a road that I had been climbing all morning and would continue to climb all day.
I found that astonishing, and beyond that I was also astonished that I remembered the list, which I’d written over seven years ago. I could still remember the moment: I’d been soaking in a bathtub back home in Oakland, after a long workday in a long procession of workdays, asking myself “How did I get here? How did I get from being content with what I’ve already done, to being desperate for something more?”
It’s funny – in a grim kind of way – that seven years later I’m on a bike trip mostly because my job wasn’t right for me. Not the work itself, but the job: The conditions of the employment. The flexibility to travel really is that important to me, apparently. I hungered for it then and I still do now.
A car pulled in next to me and three older people got out. Two of them posed at the railing while the third took their photo. I volunteered to take a photo with all three, and they gratefully accepted.
The oldest of them asked a few friendly questions in halting English about my bike and my trip, then pointed at his friends and said, “These are from Kirkenes. On the border with Russia. They have never been here to see the mountain park.”
“Oh,” I said. “Are they from Finland?”
He shook his head, then gestured for me to look at his phone. He opened a map and scrolled it north. There, at the very end of the skinny tail of Norway, was a chunk of border that reached over the top of Sweden and Finland and connected directly with Russia. I had no idea the two shared a border.
I told the man so, and he smiled, then made a kind of grimace and glanced at his friends. “They are worried about war with Russia. I am showing them other places; maybe they will move.”
I nodded, and said a few sympathetic things. He shook my hand, then they all bundled into the car and continued down the mountain.
Do I look like I’m enjoying the climb? Actually I kind of am…
Do I look like I’m enjoying the climb? Actually I kind of am…
Up, up, up I went, swapping between podcasts and my Norway/Sweden playlist. The looming clouds threatened rain but didn’t quite deliver, for which I was grateful.
In many places, the road didn’t bother switching back to keep the grade reasonable, and just plowed straight up the mountainside. On one of these I had an odd encounter with some sheep:
It looks like there’s one sheep braver than the others, and it’s leading the rest of the flock down the side of the mountain in search of fresher grass. Where would they end up? Who can say.
Meanwhile, I kept going up, and up. I embraced a habit of holding the brake with my left hand and grabbing the guardrail with my right, so I could take a breather without climbing off the bike — always an awkward maneuver on steep hills.
Progress was very slow, but I had nothing to do except climb. The only choice I could make was between resting my knees and using them some more, so I concentrated on balancing that. I was glad I had plenty of podcasts to catch up on, and enough cell coverage to trade little notes with family and friends.
We have funny ways of mixing being totally alone, and always connected, in this wacky modern world…
In the late evening I reached a little spot called “The Four Waterfalls”:
Another hundred feet upward I could see a bend in the road with a hotel. I wanted to get indoors and maybe find some dinner, but I carefully avoided rushing.
The mist was swirling as I parked and went inside…
The clerk at reception couldn’t find my reservation. I looked in through my notes, then through my emails… Oh dear; this wasn’t the hotel I booked at. The hotel I needed was another 2000 feet up the mountain!
I told the clerk about my error, and she went poking at her computer again. “Our rooms are fully booked for a wedding, but you can stay in the hostel. If anyone asks just say you’re with the wedding party.”
I gratefully booked and paid for a hostel bed. “I don’t suppose your restaurant is still open?”
“No, we closed an hour ago, but let me check something…” She walked into the back, towards the sound of clanging pots and pans. A minute later she emerged. “We still have soup! I can heat you up some.”
And so, I sat in the lobby of the hotel, next to some canoodling wedding guests, and devoured a bowl of fish soup and a couple of rolls. Twenty bucks was a lot for soup but I was grateful to have it.
Not sure which I’m more curious about: Cluedo, or Norge Rundt.
Not sure which I’m more curious about: Cluedo, or Norge Rundt.
I also called the other hotel and left a message, saying that even though I’d booked two days I would only be arriving for the second one. They pointed out that they had a tough cancellation policy where I still owed them 70% of the cost of the room even if I didn’t show up, and I shrugged and said I didn’t have a choice. To keep pedaling as it got darker and colder would be dangerous.
The hostel bed turned out to be a bunk bed in its own room, so I had more privacy than I expected. I sipped a root beer I’d been carrying since Balestrand and poked at photos for a while. My schedule had tomorrow labeled as a day off, but now I would need to keep my legs moving to reach the “actual” hotel and stay on schedule. I felt embarrassed: I don’t usually mix up map markers or confuse locations, and this was the second day in a row of that. Arrr!
Helmer Storhaug: Decent mocha, fine cookie, great atmosphere!
I walked to a couple nearby coffee shops. The first was full to bursting. The snacks looked really good but there was nowhere to sit, so I tried another.
There I got a tasty cookie and a mocha with very good coffee but not enough chocolate. I sipped it and wrote for almost four hours.
I was pressed in by Norwegians on all sides having lively discussions, but I felt a bit lonely. Most of the time there’s been the constant sensory input of a new location, and the constant concentration of spinning the pedals and staying upright. But not today.
I realized I felt proud that I made this adventure happen. Overall it felt like the right thing to do, even though my motives were complicated and I still couldn’t quite untangle them all, or perhaps even see them. I’ve been trying not to dwell on the big neon sign reading “UNEMPLOYED“, and trying not to let my mind drift too far into my finances. It’s only been three weeks and I’m still a really long way from even needing to dip into savings, but that paranoia is based on intense experience.
A couple weeks ago Michael said something that surprised me. “You know, you keep saying that this trip is irresponsible. Like you’re an irresponsible person. But you have this career, and you’ve been managing a property for ten years, doing all those repairs. You’re a really responsible person. Isn’t that obvious to you?”
And I said: “Well, no. I don’t feel responsible.”
I’ve been supporting myself, trying to stay out of debt and build some kind of retirement plan, for so much of my life that it’s … unnatural I guess? … to have a different priority, even temporarily.
I want to pronounce it “skoal!”, like the road is giving a toast. But it’s “school”.
I want to pronounce it “skoal!”, like the road is giving a toast. But it’s “school”.
The first coffee shop was between me and the hotel, so I checked inside and it was almost empty. They had several savory things left to sell, including some sausage croissants that were amazing. I got two of them, and a slice of quiche. That plus the rest of the cookie and the fries from the previous day got me more than full.
I woke up in the wee cabin with about 45 minutes to pack everything, which turned out to be enough.
I dropped off the key, washed my face in the common bathrooms, then headed down to a bakery and bought a croissant and donut. I ate the croissant immediately. Not bad! Still needed coffee though, so I went in search of that and found a tiny café with some outdoor seating.
A cozy little kaffebar to settle down and do some planning.
A cozy little kaffebar to settle down and do some planning.
When I walked into the café, a couple of women in the back were having a conversation about work in English. As soon as I ordered a mocha with an American accent, they both switched to Norwegian, with a few English phrases mixed in, possibly out of a desire to remain more anonymous around this American stranger, or possibly out of a desire to make it obvious that they weren’t talking to me.
Either way, it reminded me of how people back home would sometimes switch between Spanish and English in the middle of a sentence, and how I was witnessing in both cases the blending of two languages. How far did that blending actually go, here in Norway? As usual, I was curious.
I jammed my mocha into the bicycle cupholder and found the Eurovelo route again, headed northwest. It approached a tunnel and then sidestepped it, onto a gravel path that followed some train tracks at the shore of a lake.
Too fast, too narrow. Luckily there’s a tunnel bypass just for cyclists.
After reading it, I was struck all over again by the way English translations are so frequently provided right alongside Norwegian, and thought about what it must be like to live in a culture that has a “native” language – at least, a language that did not clearly arrive by displacing an earlier one – and how it must feel to see that language being displaced in real time. Norwegians must be concerned about the loss, as young people find that English or Chinese are more utilitarian and give them access to a wider world.
I don’t know how well I can relate to that concern personally. My own language has certainly drifted a lot in the three or four cultural generations I’ve lived through, but the process doesn’t have the feel of a foreign invasion, more like change from within. Plenty of vocabulary in the cultural and technological moments I grew up in (“dialtone”, “hella”, ironic use of “yo” by white people, etc), has moved into history and nostalgia, and added to a sense of disconnection between me and young people, but … I’ve realized that I’m being subject to the same disconnection that I inflicted on my parents’ generation. So I can’t really complain.
I also believe that language is remarkably agnostic about morals. In fact, it seems more like a passive reflection of moral attitudes as they change — for example, the replacement of “he” as the default singular pronoun in English with “they”. To me, this change is a good thing because I agree with the attitude that’s prompting it: Why should an anonymous person be male by default, when men and women do things? If I didn’t agree with the change, I would probably feel a sense of panic, and probably feel like I needed to reinforce the old “rules” in order to prevent the cultural change from happening. But I’d be fighting a symptom, not a cause.
What the Norwegians are going through is something more profound than I’ve experienced though. English and Norwegian are not hybridizing into something else, as far as I can tell. There’s too much pressure on correct use of English from outside. If there’s a battle happening and Norwegian is losing, that means there is a real loss happening: The loss of easy access to history – written and spoken – to art, to personal family legacy, et cetera.
I can relate to that, but only distantly, which is kind of its own tragedy: One of my grandfathers spoke Danish as a kid, another grew up in a household that spoke German. Both habits were aggressively discouraged in favor of English because that was the common language of the country they immigrated to. There was a loss, but it happened before I was born. Perhaps that loss is now being addressed in some way by my exploration of these other countries…
Would it have been better for America overall, over the last few centuries, if the country had taken a much more relaxed view of multilingualism? If the pockets of German, Irish, Spanish, French, Dutch, Danish, Russian, Chinese, Vietnamese, had somehow been encouraged to grow, while remaining distinct, instead of being stomped on in public education?
I know it’s a very academic question, but I do wonder about it. Especially now that I’m wandering around in a region where you just can’t assume the people you meet will understand you, and you need to negotiate among two or three languages to start a conversation, which is then sometimes hesitant. Do Americans derive more benefit from generally speaking only one language, than the benefit they might derive from the experience of language diversity from one region to the next? Does the sense of unity and the ease of interaction with even distantly located people compensate for the lack of cultural diversity?
Or perhaps this question is based on a false choice: Perhaps what we believe is a unified experience of English has actually become cluttered with local idioms and slang, if we dig down past the surface in any particular place. My nephew Darren lives only a couple hundred miles from me, and could certainly speak exactly the same language as I do, but he also knows an encyclopedia of slang that I couldn’t keep up with even if I pursued it like a college curriculum. And if he used it while speaking to me, I’d be lost.
Maybe the “Jurassic Park” aphorism about natural selection is appropriate: “Diversity finds a way.” Dozens of languages were stomped on as America grew, clear-cutting a space for a unified but young culture to appear, and now it’s showing a bit of the depth that is much more common elsewhere in the world. For example, here in Norway…
The gravel is slow, but the view and the relative quiet are lovely.
No need to run a cable if you have enough solar… But does it last long enough in the winter?
The gravel path had a few very steep hills that made me grumble, but compensated for it with some cute tunnels and by being generally deserted. Only a few cyclists passed me, and a few more people on foot, over the next three hours or so.
Info about the formation of this region, and how it compares to the surface of the moon.
The official route was taking me into a preserve, with an old road running through it that was closed to motorized traffic: The “Old Main Road Of West Norway.” It promised more hills and gravel, and I don’t mind hills but I hate gravel. I almost turned south to avoid it. Then I did some scrolling on my phone and realized the preserve wasn’t actually very big. I figured I could tolerate gravel for a while in exchange for nice scenery.
I also crossed another route, called “The Footsteps Of St Olav“. Compelling, but it would have taken me inland.
A more detailed description of the Westland route.
A rock wall ran along the north side of the road. Staring at it, I felt like I could identify a Norwegian farm in photographs just by looking at the kinds of rocks in the walls: They tend to be large and rounded, leaving big gaps, and also generally free of plants because of all the snow they get covered in.
The weather was great for the time of year. Still cold, but no rain. I reminded myself that I could go just as slow as I wanted because the daylight would last very long, and I was camping so I didn’t need to check into a room.
The old road had informative kiosks every couple of kilometers. I took pictures of them all, then translated them later and learned a lot about the region I’d crossed.
For those traveling over longer distances, it was necessary in earlier times to have guesthouses and carriage stations at regular intervals. There were carriage stations at Hegrestad and at Kvianes in Ogna. Here, travelers could change horses and carriages. They could also get food and accommodation.
Many traveling people stopped by Hegrestad train station, and it was a lot of fun to say the least. The house is now demolished. (It stood on the first hilltop up from the R44 in Hegrestad, on the right side of the road.)
As conditions changed, there was no longer a need for train stations and train interchanges. The train stations in Ogna and Hegrestad were closed in 1894.
“Doomsday”
One of the first people to get a car in Rogaland was grocer Ludvig Helland. He came from Hellvik, but lived in Stavanger. Late one evening he drove to Hellvik, but had trouble getting over a hill. He tried and tried, and the engine made a lot of noise. One of those who heard the commotion was Alette Hegrestad, and it is said that she wondered if it was doomsday. This is said to have happened around 1915.
In the 1920s and 30s, cars were still rare. If one came along the road, the kids would shout “Car, car”, and run to find out, said Lars Hegrestad. They always knew what time the grocer Johan Bjorheim from Stavanger arrived, since blew the horn before every turn.
In the summer months, the bandits would walk along the road, often in groups of two or three, but also whole families. The Fantasteinen just above Hegrestadgardane got its name from these. Before the forest grew, you could see the farm from the Fantasteinen. If the bandits arrived early in the afternoon, they would wait here until it was time for supper, and then go down to Hegrestadgardarte. There they would get food and sleep in barns or huts.
During Prohibition in the early 1920s, some smuggling is said to have taken place along Den Vestlandske Hovedvei.
Large quantities of alcohol were stored under Kjerringhedleren by Ulvhusvatnet, it is said. The alcohol is said to have come by sea to Egersund and the surrounding ports, and then been transported by car to Sandnes and Stavanger.
Mail Transport – Not For “Small Children or Quindfolck”
The mail had to arrive, cost what it would cost, in the old days.. When the post horn rang, other travelers had to wait. Stavanger was connected to the postal network in 1653, six years after the postal service was established in Norway. The mail was to go between Stavanger and Kristiania once a week.
According to a postal regulation of 25 December 1694, the mail was to go from Stavanger on Saturday afternoon, and from Kristiansand on Friday afternoon the following week. The mail did not arrive in Kristiania for two weeks after it left Stavanger. A reply could be expected at the earliest four weeks after the letter was sent.
In the beginning, the farmers were responsible for the transport. The postmen were obliged to take the mail on to the next post office, a mile or two away, every week, night or day in all kinds of weather. They did not receive a salary, but did not have to pay taxes and were exempt from military service.
In a decree from King Frederick in 1650, it was stated that the bailiffs were to see to it that the postmen were always ready with a cart and a horse. They couldn’t slouch by sending the postbag with “small children or Quindfolck…”
The instructions said that the mail must not rest. From a post office in Dalane it was said that a sack was hung from the ceiling and it was swung back and forth for a whole night to avoid having to go out in the dark and bad weather.
The volume of mail was not large in those days. At the beginning of the 19th century, no more than one letter sack was sent to Kristiansand, and from there only one bag of letters to Stavanger. Next to the sealed mail was a “flap” for the local correspondence. This was mostly used by the civil servants.
The first half of the 19th century saw a rich development of postal services and the postal network. The volume of mail increased and numerous post offices were opened along the routes. In 1837, the postal administration ordinance was introduced. The farmers were now paid for their work and began to drive the mail by horse and cart.
The postage varied with the distance until in 1854, a uniform postage was introduced for the entire country. The first stamp came the following year and had the value of four shillings. From 1866, books and printed matter could be sent together with the letter mail.
Rapid Telegraph Expansion
1857 the telegraph came to Rogaland, two years after the Norwegian state telegraph had officially been opened. The telegraph line followed the road between Hegrestad and Hølland, and the government proposed a new main line should be laid from Mandal to Bergen. Parliament approved money for the facility in March 1857. Several main lines had already been built. The telegraph was seen as very important for the economic development of the country.
A hectic work season began. Pole after pole was erected on the line between Mandal and Bergen in late summer of the same year. The telegraph stations in Flekkefjord and Egersund opened in August, while in September, stations were opened in Stavanger, Haugesund, Leirvik and Bergen. 16,000 people were connected to the 4 stations along the Mandal – Stavanger line. Most of them – 12,000 – lived in Stavanger.
The first road over Hegrestad Mountain was built as a bridleway in the period 1810-1820. Before that time, there was a bridleway from Ogna via Sirevåg to Hellvikbukta – from there you had to take a boat.
In the early 18th century, the bridleway was re-laid and shortened somewhat, but even now it ends in Hellvik.
At the time when it was only a bridleway, the villagers still usually walked when they went to church in Ogna. The priest came from Egersund. According to an agreement from 1710, the villagers in Ogna were to keep riding horses for the priest over the mountain, when there was a service in the church in Ogna.
Around 1820, the road was improved, so it could be driven by cart. Few people had such vehicles at the time. Farmers did not have carts until well into the 19th century. When they had to transport goods, they used sledges in winter and forked in summer.
Around 1800, the principle for road construction was that the road should go as straight as possible. This construction method was a legacy from the Danish era. In hilly landscapes, there were many steep slopes, which were often called horse-drawn carts. With all the inclines, the road was not very suitable for horse transport with large loads.
The construction method also created difficulties for newer vehicles. The cars that were put into use over Hegrestadfjellet in the early 20th century had to accelerate downhill to make it up the next hill.
Right up until the First World War, there was great opposition in the Storting against a large-scale investment in the car.
In 1908, the Rogaland County Council passed the “Regulations for the Use of Motor Vehicles on Public Roads within the County”. County Engineer Bassøe wanted to restrict the permit to apply to cars on the road:
“The horses will soon get used to such cars. On the other hand, in my opinion, no permit should be given for pleasure driving with cars, as such driving will be an extremely large inconvenience and of almost no benefit.”
The Road Act of 1912 stated that in principle it should be permitted to use cars on all public roads, streets and squares. The speed limits were 15 km per hour in built-up areas and 25 km per hour outside built-up areas. When it was dark, no one was allowed to drive faster than 15 km per hour.
Traffic along the road increased dramatically during the almost 100 years that the road over Hegrestadfjellet was in use. In the late 1930s, chief engineer Th. Riis declared this road completely impossible, and it was closed as a national road in 1940.
I tried to deploy the little drone in “follow” mode, but after about 100 meters it smacked into a tree branch and fell into some bushes. I was very lucky to spot it afterwards. It should make some kind of ‘ping’ noise after it drops…
Much of the Western Main Road was built by forced labour in accordance with the Road Act of 1824. Many farmers had a staunchly negative attitude towards road construction. A story is told about this from the time when the main road was to be built:
Crew from the entire county were ordered to participate in the construction, but several of the farmers from Karmøy refused. This was seen as a rebellion and Danish warships were therefore sent to Kopervik. The ship’s commander arranged a party on board and invited the city’s best men to participate, primarily Knud Syre, who was the leader of the farmers. After treating them to good drinks so that several fell asleep, the ship put to sea, and the rebels were thus taken to Copenhagen. With the exception of Syre, everyone was sent home the next day with a fatherly admonition to “be obedient to superior authorities” from now on. Knud Syre was held prisoner for one year before he was released.
Dynamite was not used in road construction until the 1860s. The rock was blasted by first drilling holes with a hand drill and chisel. The holes were then filled with gunpowder. Other tools used were sledgehammers, chisels, hoe, diggers and shovels. The largest stones were dislodged with picks and the masses were moved away with troughs and wheelbarrows.
Hølland Bridge was built as part of the Vestlandske Hovedvei in 1843 by the famous bridge builder Andreas Aanonsen. A total of 16 stone arch bridges were built on the Vestlandske Hovedvei, with spans ranging from 6.9 to 8.7 meters. The county paid for the bridge without any subsidies from the state. The cost of the Holland Bridge alone is not known, but Ogna and Hollarrar Bridge cost a total of 2,164 spesiedalar (NOK 8,656).
Bridge Construction
The bridge was built of natural stone. The stone was divided using wedges and blocks, which were placed in a row. The wedge was driven between the blocks and helped to split the stone. In order to straighten and fit the stone precisely, different sets of wedges were used. The “double” set was used to give the stone shape, the “spike” set was used to level the surfaces so that the stones fit together well.
The construction method is briefly outlined as follows:
Lay a foundation with coarse stone and crushed stone
Build a bridge deck, possibly of pillars.
Stabilize the riverbed around with large, flat stone slabs
Erect wooden scaffolding as a framework for the arch
Construct the masonry of the stone arch
The principle of the arch bridge is that the stones should transfer the pressure from each other down to the foundation. The capstone, or crown stone, is the name of the stone that “locks” the arch at the top. The more pressure you put on the arch, the more the stones are pressed together, maintaining the structure.
The entire Gulating Act from the year 950 mentions road rights and road maintenance.
“The road shall lie where he always has a doctor”, the law states. The road was to be as wide as a spear was long, about three meters. The farmers were to maintain the roads.
Magnus Lagabøter’s Landslov from the year 1274 contains many of the same provisions as the Gulating Act. The road width on the main roads was now to be 8 ells (about 5 meters). The king’s ombudsman was given responsibility for inspecting the roads.
He did the inspection by holding a bowstring. An 8 ell long spear with wicker handles on the spear tips was placed across the saddle button of the horse. For each branch or twig torn from a wicker handle, the farmer in question had to pay one ørtug of silver (9.83 grams) to the king.
More recent laws also maintained the principle that farmers should be responsible for the maintenance of the roads. In the 18th century, farmers with this responsibility were given the title of “Rode”-Master, a title that gave status. The “rode” was the portion of the road that they were to maintain. “Every rode-master shall make a road post, which is placed at the beginning of his road” was stated in a royal decree from 1792. The farmer was to see the road as his property, and “show diligence”.
In 1824, the first special road law came from “Carl Johan of God’s grace, King of Sweden and Norway”. It contains, among other things, provisions on the division of roads into main roads and rural roads, the sharing of costs and the sectioning of roads. The law stipulated that the county should cover the costs of public roads, and that the county governor should supervise the roads.
The law maintained the system of compulsory work, even when it came to new construction. When new roads were to be built at the county’s expense, farmers were obliged to perform up to 8 days of road work, without payment, each summer until the road was completed.
The rules for road standards stated, among other things, that:
All bridges on main roads must be built of stone.
All roads must have ditches.
All main roads must be marked with milestones and signposts.
The law did not say anything about maximum gradients, and gradients of up to 1:5 were accepted on roadways and 1:3 on bridleways.
The Swede Edvard Fölch rode across Jæren in 1817, and wrote the following in his diary: “Near Varhaug I began to follow the low-lying seashore, after half an hour’s ride I came to the most eerie mountains I have yet crossed.”
It is the rare bedrock rock anorthosite that makes up these “most eerie mountains” in Dalane. The anorthosite was formed more than a billion years ago, from molten mass that solidified 25 kilometers below the earth’s surface. Later, the mass cracked open, and new rock types – norite and diabase – floated into the cracks and solidified there. Along some of these passages, the blue-black, matte titanium igneous rock – ilmenite – was precipitated.
Natural forces took 1,000 million years to wear away the 25 kilometers of mountains that lay over the anorthosite. After another 50 million years of new chemical and physical weathering, the landscape became what it looks like today.
Anorthosite rocks provide loose soil, which is why the area is dominated by bare hills and mountains.
Along the Vestlandske Hovedvei you can also see labradorizing anorthosite. Labradorization is a play of colors in blue, green, or yellow, which is visible in fracture surfaces in the anorthosite. The colors come from internal reflections in feldspar crystals with a special composition.
The King Of The Forest And The “Masked” Predator
Place names such as Ulvhusvatnet and Skrubbemyra testify to the presence of large predators here in earlier times. Today, hikers will not see wolves in the Hegrestad Mountains, but you can encounter many different kinds of animals and birds.
The largest predator in the area is the badger. It is a distinctive animal, with a black and white “mask”. The rest of the fur is gray and even though the badger is around 80 cm long, it is not easy to catch sight of. The badger is also a distinctly nocturnal animal.
The king of the forest – the moose – is a newcomer to the area. If you do not see the moose itself, you may be able to find traces of it in the form of hoof prints or dung.
Moose tracks are 13-15 cm long and 11-13 cm wide. A somewhat smaller deer, the roe deer, is also found here. Roe deer tracks are 4-5 cm long and can resemble sheep.
The hare is the most common larger mammal. The spring hare does not turn white in winter, as it is adapted to the mild snow-poor climate.
The largest owl of the spring – the hubbro – lives here, but is rarely seen during the day. Barn owls also nest in the area in small rodent years.
The pied piper and the tern are two of the more common bird species, and you have a good chance of spotting them along the way.
The stone plover is easy to recognize by the fact that he sits and wags his tail. The tiny grey-brown pied piper lets out a characteristic sound (ist-ist). Both the stone plover and the pied piper have adapted to the barren landscape.
I didn’t get a good picture of this bridge, but I swear I rode across it!
All About Hølland Bridge
The bridge is part of the road 4328 over the Ogna River at Holland, about 1 km east of the center of Ogna. The bridge, which has three openings, is built of natural stone laid in mortar.
There are brick railings at the ends of the bridge. Above the bridge there is an iron railing with cast iron pillars. The riverbed under the bridge is paved with stone.
Holland Bridge was built as part of the Vestlandske Hovedveg. It was built by Andreas Aanensen. It was paid for by the county without any subsidies from the state.
The costs of Holland Bridge alone are not known because Aanensen had tendered for this bridge and Helgå Bridge in the same contract. Both bridges cost 2,164 spesidals (NOK 8,656).
From 1843 to the 2020s, there has been little need for maintenance. | In 1901 and 1919, the bridge was pinned, i.e. smaller stones were wedged into the cracks. New cement was also added to the joints and a stone fill was laid on the southeast side of the bridge.
Towards the 2020s, it became clear that the bridge from 1843 was not built for traffic with semi-trailers and milk trucks. The wall in the northwest was collapsing and the bridge itself showed signs that its load-bearing capacity was occasionally exceeded.
In 2024, the bridge was therefore reinforced with reinforced concrete in the arches and a continuous concrete deck along its entire length. The two walls on the Ogna side (northwest) were rebuilt. On the remaining side, only minor repairs were necessary. The bridge also received a crash barrier on the inside, and the outer railing was replaced with a new one in the same style. The repair cost around 22.5 million, and it was assumed that the bridge’s lifespan would be extended by at least 100 years.
The bridge was part of the main road network until 1940, when the national road was realigned and Holland Bridge was downgraded to a rural road. In 1964 it became part of the county road network.
An interesting collection of roadside attractions and personality.
When I rolled into the campground I discovered it was fully automated. Campers paid for their spots and got access to the bathrooms by loading money onto a plastic card at an ATM-like installation. I wasn’t certain I was doing the currency conversion right, but it looked like they charged seven bucks to get into the bathroom and use the showers.
I’ll toss my pee in the bushes, thanks. What’s that? You don’t want pee all over your campsite? Hey, I’ll use your toilet instead, no problem … just pay me seven bucks.
I found a nice spot with some wind cover. When I crawled into the sleeping bag I kept all my layers on, since it was going to drop below freezing.
I woke up an hour early. Decent sleep, mostly due to the quiet of the room
I kitted up the bike and wrestled it down the four sets of stairs to the ground floor. As I was donning gear outside a grizzled cop across the street stared at me, then began ambling across to talk to me, then apparently changed his mind and turned around and went back to his police van. I couldn’t read his intent, but perhaps he saw my own body language and realized he was making me nervous, and would just make me more nervous if he started asking me questions.
It was so early that the city felt empty. Most of the stores were still closed. I meandered my way towards the train station and stopped at a random bakery for coffee and a bunch of breakfast snacks.
I had this feeling like I couldn’t quite relax until I knew exactly where the train was, so I packed the snacks onto the bike. The big screen at the station showed the same platform as yesterday. I took the elevator down and located one of the little screens, and saw this:
Two interesting things here. First, the train in front of me would split in half when it left, with one half going to Flensburg and the other going to Kiel. Good to know; it would suck to get on the wrong half!
And second, the train in front of me was going to the place I wanted, but leaving in a few minutes instead of an hour. I decided to just board the earlier train instead of standing around. If the conductor called me on it, I’d just pretend to be an ignorant tourist!
The conductor who checked my ticket seemed fine with it. When he recognized my accent, he asked which state I was from. When I told him California, he mentioned Gavin Newsom, and said he had been touring through Europe giving talks. I was not aware of that, and told him.
He changed the subject, and in halting English, tried to express his thoughts about the recently started Iran war. I responded slowly, trying to keep my own words simple.
Conductor
I think some countries, they are not suited to democracy like us. Maybe dictatorship works better for them.
Me
Well, I see it this way. I think in Iran, there is a certain kind of land: Most of it is desert, and very hard to live on. Not very profitable. And then some of it, is oil fields. Those pieces of land are very, very profitable, as long as someone tightly controls them. So the land itself makes a situation where it’s easy for a dictatorship to keep control. Just grab the oil fields and hold onto them, and then start passing out money to the people in the desert. Enough to keep them happy, so they don’t try and take over.
My hope is that the people of Iran will get enough economic power to fight their own government. But the government has done another thing: It also controls the religion. If the people are upset, they just say, “It’s your religious enemies that are causing all your problems. The Jews, the Christians. They want your government to change because they want to destroy your religion.”
That’s a very hard position get out of. I think the people would accept democracy but they have to separate religion from government. And I think what’s really making it hard for them is the land.
Conductor
But why drop bombs on them? It’s just a waste. It’s hurting all of us.
Me
I agree with you. It’s a waste. Trump thought the Iranians were going to rise up. He’s an idiot. All the people who tried to rise up, got murdered by the government months ago. He’s trying to make the regime surrender, but for them it’s a holy war. They won’t stop until they’re dead. In the meantime we waste all this money and time. It’s stupid.
Conductor
If I was an American, I’d be a Democrat.
Me
Good!
Conductor
JD Vance will probably run for president next.
Me
Probably, but he’s no Trump. I think he’ll lose.
Conductor
I heard Kamala might try running again.
Me
Yeah, I’m worried about that too. She lost once already. She might be less popular to Democrats than JD Vance is to Republicans…
Conductor
If Newsom runs, I would vote for him. But he has a lot of repairing to do of the relationship between the US and Europe. Lots.
Me
Definitely. He’ll get my vote.
He smiled wished me a great trip, and moved to the next passenger. A nice bit of bonding over our shared frustration. Yesterday I was a Good Samaritan, today I am apparently an ambassador. What a world!
The train ride was uneventful. I arrived at the transfer station with over two hours to spare and there was no earlier connection I could catch, so I got a snack and wandered around.
I’ll never understand this. How do German parents not find this extremely problematic?
Somewhere into the second hour I got a phone message the train from Hamburg had been delayed for nearly an hour. The other train bound for Denmark would not be waiting for it.
If I hadn’t skipped onto the earlier train this morning, I would have lost an entire day!
The transfer at Fredericia was nerve-wracking. The computer-generated schedule gave me five minutes to find another train on a different platform, and my train was two minutes late. Luckily I was bracing for this. I looked up the destination platform in advance and got the bike planted right in front of the doors. When they opened I heaved the bike down and ran for the elevator. Up, then quickly across to the other platform, then down… I managed to haul the bike onto the next train 15 seconds before the doors closed. Come on, Danes, you can do better than this.
The transfer at Aarhus was worse: The train was eight minutes late. People all around me were grumbling in Danish and German about missing their connection. The conductor made an announcement of some kind but it was only in Danish, and the grumbling got louder.
When I got the bike out, I saw a stream of people jogging up the platform towards some other train. Had the conductor found them an alternate? I fell in line and jogged with them, trying not to jab anyone in the ass with the cranks on the recumbent. A minute later they all compressed into a confused horde at the foot of the stairs. Most of them were gazing up at a display with a schedule on it. A lot of arrival times were flashing. The rest of them were looking at their phones and frowning. No easy answers for us.
I used the phone to conjure a new schedule, bound for Hirtshals, and located what was probably the first train in the series on a different platform. Lots of people were swapping platforms around me, looking confused. I didn’t want to trust what the displays were saying but I had no choice.
An hour later I boarded a train, and it was headed in the right direction – north instead of south – so I counted it as a win. If the train matched my phone, I had several more transfers to make…
I was the only person with a bike in the bike car, so there was a lot of space nearby. A woman with a large open-top stroller parked against the opposite wall. She took the infant out and held it over one shoulder, then leaned against the back of the nearest seat, wiggling every now and then to keep the kid happy. All the seats around us were occupied and a man immediately offered her one, but she shook her head and said she preferred to stand.
Another woman walked into the car with an infant riding in a sling on her chest, and leaned against the side of the doorway. The women didn’t seem to know each other. For the next hour or so, both kids made goggle-eyes at everyone, babbled and smiled, and reached out their tiny arms, and every passenger in their line of sight – young or old – made eye contact and responded and gently played with them to pass the time. It was delightfully civilized.
One of the women stopped wiggling and held her infant up and did a smell test. Time to change the diaper. She turned to the big open stroller and lowered the kid inside, and did a quick sequence of practiced arm movements. Something went into a bag and another thing came out. In two minutes the infant was back on her shoulder, looking mildly pleased and wearing a different pair of pajama pants. No embarrassment, no bustling out to a changing station in a tiny bathroom behind a door. Nobody seemed to notice.
It all made me thoughtful. The dynamic of caring for children, for all people of all ages, felt more integrated with the rest of daily life here. How could I encourage that back home?
As I continued north the trains got smaller and smaller. The connection to Hirtshals was just two cars. I felt the trappings of the modern transport system falling away … or perhaps a sense of distance creeping in; a sense of deeper language barriers and differences in custom. I was headed for colder and higher land with a lower sun. The environment was rapidly changing away from what felt like home in California.
