It’s completely silent up here.

When you hear the word mountains, what comes to mind?  I’m from a flattish place, and I’d always thought of the Alps or the Himalayas until I moved to Norway.  Here is a different kind of mountain range, like the highlands of Scotland only bigger.  Last week we went to the Rondane mountains north of Lillehammer for a couple of days.  It is bleak and very wild, quite extraordinary.  Many families have a cabin here that they go to at Easter to ski, and in the autumn to pick multebær, and a few other times every year.  All the cabins are exactly the same, almost; the same shallow pitch to the gable roof and the same dark-stained boards anyway.  They are scattered about the land, not specially pretty but not bothersome either.  Some have grass roofs.


The next time we go I’ll take a picture on the way up from the river valley; it’s a bit like parts of the Rhine, this sort of thing:

with old farms and you expect to see vineyards on the hillsides, which makes the plateau at the top quite a contrast:


There is flat marshland and heather.  And quickly changing weather:


Lots of small streams and waterfalls in the summer:


Some animals: sheep, lynx, elk, reindeer.  And birds: I don’t know all the birds, only grouse.

A forest of tiny old moss-covered birch trees surrounds our cabin:


I’ve never got any further North than this bit right here:


We always say one day we’ll drive all the way to the old copper-mining town of Røros, but it’s a long way and it’s difficult to make the effort.