When I was young, my Norwegian Granny told me, “Someday, child, you will see the fjords.”
Now I have and even though a writer, there are no words.
We traveled by ship from Copenhagen to Norway to Iceland. We will go to Scotland and back.
Granny said, “And then you will understand.”
Understand what? My heritage? The wild North? Proof of God? Granny did not say.
After the first pass through the fjords, a waiter at dinner found more words than I could. He was loquacious; I was struck dumb. We stood together staring at the mighty, towering, silently thundering beauty.
The highlights of the trip so far are many and varied. I asked my traveling companion to add to the mix so the best would not be overlooked.
There was the child dancing to street music seemingly out of pure joy and an inner rhythm. There was the Chinese threesome, trying with glee and cleverness to sort out English and making us tea. There were the myriad waterfalls – water out of rock as in the Bible. The fresh, clear, sparkling water rushing to the sea, and no people. No people. Wild, empty land as far as the eye could see.
Flam, Norway, was incredible. A toy village in the midst of the fjords; everything made by man made small by nature. The climbs were wonderful, and the reward—the views—worth the panting.
In the small and far-flung cities, there was fresh king crab in an outdoor restaurant on the shore of the sea from which it was taken. There was the funicular—a seemingly vertical trolley traveling up 1,800 feet.
We are in Iceland. We go next to Scotland. We are far away and out of touch. I don’t know if this (and the photographs) will reach you. I hope so.
