June 14: I got up in good time to leave at 9:00 a.m., in spite of getting very little sleep. Our goal: Etne and Hardanger, two of the most picturesque areas of Norway.

At Etne we stopped at the statue of King Magnus Erlingsson, who was not the son of Erling Skjalgsson but of a later magnate, Erling Skakke (“Erling Wry-neck,” due to an old injury incurred during a Crusade-adjacent raid in the Mediterranean). Norwegian law said that only a king’s son could inherit the throne. The problem was, there were no acceptable kings’ sons available at the time. So Erling Skakke, who was married to a daughter of King Sigurd the Crusader, managed to get his son Magnus crowned. In order to wangle this, he agreed to have his son crowned by the archbishop in Nidaros Cathedral (Norwegian kings had always been elected by the Things up to that point). This was the first time a Norwegian king was crowned and anointed in a religious ceremony, and it won him support from the Church. Resistance to this innovation led to generations of bloody civil war in the country.

We also stopped at the ancient church on Erling Skakke’s one-time estate.

As we drove through the Etne area, I realized I had to tell my sister-in-law, whose maiden name was Frette, that she absolutely must visit the land of her ancestors. The Etne area features stunning mountain and valley landscapes, made doubly dramatic by the misty weather today. I thought it was some of the most glorious scenery I’d ever seen.

We stopped to photograph the Langfoss, one of Norway’s largest waterfalls. I don’t have words for it. Dramatic and powerful.

After passing through a long tunnel we reached the area of the Hardangerfjord, even more dramatic than Etne, though I might not have believed it. The drama was increased by the ridiculous precariousness of the road we took. It clung to the shoulders of the mountains, often only one lane wide. In some places, if you encounter a driver coming the other way, one of you has to back up into one of the periodic pull-over spots. Farms and even small communities teeter on mountain ledges high above you, and sometimes when the rock ledge falls away on your right, you catch a glimpse of an isolated clearing where someone has built a smallholding, in a valley or a fjord cove. It all took my breath away. I came home drunk with beauty.

We were delayed returning by a one hour wait for the ferry going to Skånevik, which used to be the address of the farms across the fjord where my Swelland ancestors came from (because before cars and road-building, the water united rather than divided). But that governmental arrangement has been changed now.

After we returned, I was taken to visit Gerd, who I think is the oldest of my relatives on Karmøy, by Cousin Tor Bjørn. He also took me to the docks at Kopervik, where most of the Viking fleet was docked. Tomorrow they’ll head for Stavanger.

And so will I.