The
flight took us from Sumburgh Airport in the Shetland Islands across
the North Sea to Bergen, a distance of about 370 kilometres (230
miles). It was the ‘Shetland bus’ route, the sea crossing used
during the second world war to drop off resistance agents and to pick
others up. The plan was to board our bus at Bergen Airport and drive
to the end of the Hardangerfjord, the fourth longest fjord in the
world; the second longest in Norway. It was an unusually sunny,
clear, cool day. The journey was much anticipated. After a couple of
hours in Bergen, browsing the waterside fair with the Saturday
crowds, the drive along the fjord began. Bergen was busy. It was only
a couple of days before the celebrations of Constitution Day, the
National Day of Norway that is observed with much fervour by all - a
day of national dress, parades and feasting.
Stunning
vistas were revealed at every hair-raising bend and twist. The road
to Ulvik was at times too narrow for two cars let alone buses, but
with subtle, unspoken negotiations, the impossible was achieved with
millimetres to spare between vehicles and beside long, multi-metre
drops into depths of cold, fjord water. Tunnels appeared time and
time again, plunging into raw, grey, fractured rocks that dipped into
bright reflections. These mountain thoroughfares were always a
surprise, plummeting one into a cool dimness of indeterminate length
that eventually blazed into the surprising glare of a fresh vista.
The unusual roundabout tunnel
New bus shelter at the Steinsdalsfossen Waterfall
New visitor information centre at the Steinsdalsfossen Waterfall
The
fjord was impressive. Distance did not reduce its size or impact, or
its astonishment. There was one stop on the way to see the
Steinsdalsfossen Waterfall. This tourist attraction was impressive,
not only for the natural features, but also for the new, what
appeared to be the recently-completed, park and information centre.
Even the bus stop shelter had been uniquely shaped for the novel
development. The traditional souvenir shop was an older building with
a small, cluttered interior, completely filled with every conceivable
souvenir and trinket. Trolls of all sizes and poses stared at one at
the entry as they aligned with the decorative mugs marked with more
of the same images, while moose models, reindeer skins and jumpers
accumulated in amongst the massed array of all of the usual and
unusual kitsch that these places seem to have to stock. Why is it so
difficult to get something either meaningful or useful, or both, as a
reminder of place? - see:
http://voussoirs.blogspot.com.au/2013/02/on-souvenirs-place-memories.html
and http://voussoirs.blogspot.com.au/2013/02/my-souvenir.html
Ulvik in the distance
Ulvik - the hotel is on the left foreground, the church is on the right.
The drive
took the whole afternoon. After a few false guesses at various bends
in the fjord that kept on opening up to stunning new depths as the
evening light softened, Ulvik finally appeared at the terminus. It
was first seen as a small, grey smudge, a fuzz at the water’s edge.
As the bus got closer, the details fragmented into recognisable
village parts. Our hotel was the large building directly at the end
of, and on the edge of the water, behind and around which rose the
hills that encased the fjord. Mountains reached up beyond these
limits into the snowline. The population of Ulvik seemed to cluster
at the water’s edge and up these slopes, using the locations for
red-painted boathouses and cosy timber homes. A small stream gushed
into the fjord through a deep gorge. Was this the beginning of the
fjord, its source, rather than its end? The hotel room looked
directly across the water mirror down the depth of the fjord into
snow-capped mountains that were catching the last rays of the sun.
Cool air drifted into the over-heated rooms with a refreshing
draught. It was a splendid end to a day’s drive: a calendar view
that one had seen many times before. Was it this acquaintance that
dulled one’s senses to this astonishing beauty that was easily
dismissed for its cliché ‘postcard’ quality? Was it simply too
grand a prospect to contemplate? Does too much exposure to the hype
of beauty make one blasé?
The next
morning revealed a new view – well the same vista in a new light.
The mountain glowed crisply with golden splotches of sunlight
reflected perfectly into the face of the glistening waters.
Occasionally fine ripples from the light breeze or a small boat
distorted this mirrored perfection into an interesting patchwork.
After enjoying the standard Norwegian buffet breakfast that is always
an excessive delight - or is it a delight in excess? - we left the
hotel to explore the village that tucked itself around the water’s
fringes and up into the hills. Directly opposite the hotel entry was
a small shopping complex - ‘CLOSED’ - beside the formal council
buildings that seemed to define the core of the village. Between this
civic complex and the water to the south, was a small white church
that looked almost insignificant; hardly worth the effort to get
there. We strolled in the morning warmth along the roadway and down
to this sanctuary that was surrounded by a small ring road that
followed the alignment of the enclosing fence. The aim was to get to
the water’s edge, but we paused to peruse this place. The church
stood in the centre of this green, with graves in the grassy
surrounds and a large tree on the west. There was an eastern gate and
a western approach to this churchyard and its modest building. The
church had an axial tower on the west, and a set of stepped gables
that reduced in scale and height to the east. The roof was grey
slate; the walls were brilliant white; the windows and doors were
simplistic, classical forms, almost diagrammatic. It was an unusual
composite massing, a collage of forms.
Sadly,
one was not welcomed into this zone that was well secured, even on
this Sunday. Had church attendance dropped off? It was only later in
the day that we found out why: the church had been too much loved by
tourists who were over-zealous, too keen in their enthusiasm to visit
this place on their ‘bucket list.’ It was their usual
disrespectful self-interest in their search for entertaining
distractions that had caused the problems that resulted in the locks
being engaged to exclude the careless impact of the wear and tear:
see -
http://springbrooklocale.blogspot.com.au/2012/06/who-or-what-is-tourist.html
This protective stance that appears to have grown out of pure
frustration, was a shame, not only because it is always enjoyable to
discover a welcoming, open church – is not this the essence of
Christianity? - but also because it was discovered later how the
simplicity of the exterior was in stark contrast with the wonder of
the beautifully painted interior revealed in the Internet images: see
note below. One would have liked to have seen the interior spaces and
their decorations.
It was
not clear just how one might approach this building, as both east and
west ends had doorways off paths from gates. Finally it was decided
that the west was the main entrance, the formal promenade to worship;
and that the eastern path led to what was possibly the informal,
‘service’ entry used by the minister.
The western entry
There was
something here that was difficult to understand. This was a simple
little building, but it held authority and power. The basic
collection, collation, of almost awkward, naive forms seemed to give
it a humanity that was enriched by the grave markers and the
decorative metal gates and fence. The glory of the declaration of the
western tower standing tall above the quirky, neighbouring brick
chimneys, shared the marking of this place with a grand old tree
shedding and spreading dappled markings onto the path. (One is
reminded of the chimney on Notre-Dame Cathedral in Paris; and its unusual clock too.) This prominence contrasted with the modest, domestic
scale of the east. Here the small porch-like appendage read more as
part of a home than a church. This was a transition that fitted well
into the little village: from church tower to home in one place. It
gave the kirke a feeling of being involved not only in the proud and pompous
world of mystery, majesty and power, but also in the ordinary, humble world of the
everyday. It made the place appear accessible; friendly; caring. It
looked like a good place for worship.
Note chimney on northern transept
The more
one walked around this church, the more one was drawn to it, its
innocence; its uncontrived assemblage. The building was no grand
cathedral; it was not a remarkable form; nor did it have any unique
or splendid external decoration. It was the standard church seen in
most villages in Norway: but it held a special power in place. Was it
its ‘island’ setting? Was it the graveyard surrounds that held
history as time and memory in pretty markers that layered into a
filigree of form and shadow, highlighted by the contrasting gleaming
white of the church walls? Did it appeal just because of the
beautiful day with its clear morning splendour? Whatever it was, this
little place was an exemplar. It showed how simple traditional forms
can be beautiful, inspirational, without struggling to be different,
or unique or special in any particular manner. The church showed that
sacred place is more than grand cathedrals; that beauty and spirit
can be touched in the ordinary.
For a discussion on the boat as a symbol of the church see:
The
interiors, as revealed in the Internet, revealed how the
extraordinary can be captured in care and dedication, in simple
colours without extreme distortion or smartly slick manipulation. One
needs to look closely at this place. There is much to admire and much
to learn here. One recalls the Princess Theatre at Wooloongabba,
Brisbane with its ordinary simple massing and expression; and the Rialto Theatre at West End.
Note chimney on southern transept
Princess Theatre, Wooloongabba, Brisbane
Rialto Theatre, West End, Brisbane
The similarity in the theatre form is the formal front with the stacked sheds behind
The bus
left later in the morning and headed for the mountains. The snow
still lay metres deep, higher than the bus that funnelled its way
through the white cliffs. Distant roofs occasionally peaked up above
the fluffy white wastelands as they waited for the melt to get ready
for new habitation. Occasionally one passed people walking or skiing.
It was indeed a grand day. As the snow thinned on the descent,
clusters of small cabins were revealed with their marker flag poles
used to declare occupation. Norway was proud of its flag. There were
not many flags flying this early in the season. Things seemed to have
paused, to be on hold, waiting for more spring sunlight to highlight
the possibility of summer enjoyments.
Typical Norwegian village churches
Stave church
Our trip
took us through little villages with more churches like that at
Ulvik. One needed more time to look closely at these. It was an
intriguing model that had beginnings suggested in the old timber
stave churches of Norway. Even its simplification into this standard
massing and its familiarity did not modify the impact of the form.
Why do we constantly struggle for difference, the bespoke, that
cannot even get close to this authority, this ordinary beauty? Do we
baffle ourselves with our own cleverness? Do we pervert our
expectations and hopes for feeling with our own blind ambitions for
personal glory and recognition?
Typical Norwegian village churches
Stave church
Stabbur
Then we
saw our first stabbur, the traditional Norwegian storehouse in its
original farmyard context. These picture-postcard structures always
surprised and delighted. Sadly, there were just too many to stop at
and stare; admire; to marvel at. These iconic buildings seemed to
touch on something that echoed in the little churches, something
homely, straightforward and simple – unpretentious and humble. They
stood as references for form, function and place, for things
Norwegian: measures for wonder and its effortless possibilities.
It was a
memorable day.
NOTE:
The church of Ulvik was consecrated in
1859. The interior was decorated with the traditional rose painting
in 1923 by the artist Lars Osa.
For more on Norwegian timber buildings,
and a corrugated iron cathedral, see:
and
http://voussoirs.blogspot.com.au/2014/10/the-corrugated-iron-cathedral.html
21 February 2017
For a comparison with Russian timber churches, see:
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: only a member of this blog may post a comment.