I am listening to Hardanger music all the time here. When I walk through the house my footsteps meld with the pulsating tap of the fiddle player’s feet in my headphones. The music is haunting and resonant; I can see its relationship to the environment in the inscrutability of the epic mountains, too vast and dangerous to be really known fully. I imagine the Hardanger Fiddle’s melodies echoing across the water, bouncing off the sheer rock faces.
But when I go outside all possibility and thought of resonance is thwarted in the incessant rain, dampness and moisture. The mountains seem as if a blanket of sodden sheep’s wool has been dragged across them, heavy and dripping.
This afternoon the fjord is quite still with a faint wave coming in constantly, like a lake, but every so often I catch the smell of the sea; salt and seaweed, which is familiar and comforting.
Everything is grey. Sky and cloud and mountain and high-snow and rain and waterfall and reflection all merge.
I slip my way across slimy rocks to get my hands in the cold water. The shore is inhospitable here below the house. The razored mussel shells assist my boots in gripping the surface and balancing. I get my feet wedged in between some rocks and enjoy the expanse and sensations.
Under the greyscale calm is fertility, abundance and colour.
The droplets push bubbles below and little vertical lines of water above when they hit the surface of the fjord. The sound is soothing and I want to stay longer even though I am steadily getting drenched.
My camera catches sight of the abyss where the slippy rocks and seaweed give way to the eight hundred metre drop, the mountain side continuing downwards under water. I want to swim out there.
But swimming is not possible today. Instead I make my way back uphill along the leaf-carpeted, branch-strewn path to the house; dry off and practice my Hardanger in the acoustics of the lofty studio.