In a recent blogpost, I mentioned that I have been writing short pieces on local history for the parish magazine of my municipality. This is a very satisfying way to dig into the history of my native village, and it has helped me to think more carefully about certain aspects of the local past. One such aspect has been the way people from my village had to travel when going to church. In the period c.1600-1876, my village, Hyen, had no church of its own, so the villagers had to row all the length of one fjord - about eight to nine kilometres -, then half the length of another fjord, and the across that second fjord in order to get to church. And then they had to return the same way. Last year, when doing some research about this watery church road, I accidentally re-enacted part of the voyage.
It all started when I was talking with a neighbour about these church voyages. As no one alive today has any personal recollection of having to travel back and forth on this arduous journey, I was curious about he - who comes from a hamlet sitated along the fjord - had heard any stories passed down from previous generations. He mentioned that there is a promontory a bit over halfway along the fjord where the churchgoers would lie to, drag their boats ashore, and take a break - especially if the wind was blowing hard against them. This place is called "Kyrkjesvora", or "Kirkjesvøra" in my local dialect, and the name translates literally as "the church ravine". This combination of elements is common in names of promontories here, as there is typically a ravine that terminates at a promontory, and which has brought the materials by which the promontory once came into being. As the ravines are more visible from afar than the promontories, it makes sense to use the ravines in the names of the promontories rather than the other way around.
When my neighbour told me about this place, I was immediately excited and decided to go and see whether I could find any indications about these past voyages - something like an assemblage of stones to serve as a simple quay or anything that could indicate human activity and that might date from before 1876. I was given directions, but it turned out that I had misunderstood and came ashore one promontory too early, at a place called "Bøasvøra", or "the field promontory", a name possibly indicating that people harvested grass for winter fodder in this place.
Bøasvøra - where I ended up going
Kirkjesvøra - where I should have gone (about one kilometre further out)
courtesy of norgeskart.no
Even though the research trip ended up being a failure in the sense that I came ashore at the wrong place, it did have some historical value after all. And all things else aside, it was a lovely trip which was pure balm for the soul. The day was cloudless and warm, which made it a perfect opportunity to get out on the fjord in a boat with an outboard engine, and feel a slightly cooler air against the skin. The fjord is particularly beautiful this time of year, as uninhabited western side of the fjord is covered in trees, a belt of forest that is only cut through by brooks and rivers tumbling down towards the sea. It is one of my favourite places to be in the world.
After about half an hour, I came ashore at the promontory which I thought was the one my neighbour had mentioned. I had brought with me my youngest sister's dog, some reading material, some food, and I spent the next couple of hours exploring, reading, and swimming in lovely shallows just beside the shore. Even though the fjord is never really warm, these shallows do get warmed up by the sun, even on high tide. I had calculated my journey so that I would reach the shore at a time when the waters would be deep enough for swimming.
My exploration of the area yielded no tangible evidence of human activity that could be ascribed to the historical churchgoers. However, since the landscape was largely unchanged since that period in time, I nonetheless managed to get a sense of how things must have appeared to my antecessors who travelled this way several times a year, and in much more demanding conditions. The view towards the mouth of the fjord, for instance, would have been just as familiar to them.
Looking out towards the mouth of the fjord from Bøasvøra
After a couple of hours, it was time to head back. The sun was still shining, but it was slowly retreating behind the western mountains, leaving the western shore in the shadows but most of the fjord still in its warmth. I got everything back into the boat, pushed away from the shore, and started pulling the starting mechanism of the outboard engine - which, as the reader might remember, had worked perfectly on the way out. This time, however, the engine refused to start. It was not the first time I had had problems with this engine, and it was particularly annoying since it was a new purchase of the summer, and I was beyond furious. Not that I remember them now, but I am pretty sure that my dominant choice of words would have been offensive to my churchgoing antecessors. I cursed and shouted to no avail, however; the engine still refused to start.
Eventually, I came to the conclusion that I would expend far less energy by starting to row homewards than I would in my failed attempts to get the engine going. Consequently, I brought out the oars, sat down on the thwart, and started rowing. As the sun was still beating down along the middle of the fjord, I had to stick to the shadow of the western shore to avoid giving the dog a sunstroke, which made the journey longer by far. It also did not help that the plastic boat I was using had not been made for rowing, and so the progress was far slower than what it would have been if I had used one of the wooden boats my antecessors used when travelling to and from church. In that moment - or rather, in that series of unending successive moments - I envied them.
From time to time I would try to get the engine running. One time I went ashore to refill the water bottles and give the dog an opportunity to find a seat of ease somewhere. Aside from those times, however, all I did was stare straight ahead and row, and row, and row, and then row some more. Although I had travelled this stretch several times before, this was the first time I had done so without an outboard engine. Consequently, I now learned a lot more about the landscape - mainly for how long a certain section of the shore would curve before I got to a new promontory.
I remember very little of the journey itself. My main recollection was that I kept staring at one particular ravine which cut through the greenery like a white wound, and which persisted in the vanishing point of my vision for kilometres on end. And I remember the elation I felt when i rounded a small island and lost that ravine from view - I then knew that I was quite close to home.
I kept rowing. I was never in any danger, as I did have my phone with me, and there were other boats on the fjord whom I could hail if I got into trouble. Moreover, the water was perfectly still, and there was neither wind nor wave to hinder what little progress I made between the oar strokes. Because of these conditions, I decided to keep going as far as I could, to see whether I would be able to get all the way home before my strength failed me. And because I let go of my thoughts - at least any thoughts about how long I had been rowing and how long I had left to row - I was at a sort of peace. And the dog seemed to have the time of her life, as she was able to take in the many scents and smells from the life-laden forests along the mountainside.
Three hours and about eight kilometres later, I pulled the boat alongside the pontoon from where I had started the voyage earlier that day. As I scrambled the short way from the pontoon to the main road, I was carrying a backpack, I was holding the dog on a leash with one hand, and with the other I was clutch the antler of a deer that I had discovered on my journey. It was around nine in the evening, and for the next few days my arms and - above all - my derriere would remind me of what I had been doing for those three hours.
Yet I must also confess to a sense of pride that I had managed to complete the journey in this fashion. And I was glad that I had re-enacted part of the historical voyages that my antecessors had undertaken in order to attend church in the neighbouring fjord. While the conditions were very different - especially the fact that their boats were better suited for such travel - I could finally say that I had come closer to understanding this particular chapter in the history of my native village.
Next time, though, I hope to use a wooden boat.
The view home, on the way out
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