Water Falling

It was almost constantly raining, maybe stopping every so often, but not long enough for the glistening to leave the ground.  Low, dark clouds cast the illusion of premature dusk all day long.

On the ferry I stayed outside while everyone else headed for the warmth and seating inside.

All around the mountains seemed to be leaking.  Or weeping.  Great cracks and fissures down the vast bulk of rock were white with the cascading water.  Even from a distance I could pick out the movement of the waterfalls in the otherwise inanimate panorama.

These bodies of moving water are powerful.  Literally.  They provide energy and wealth to Norway when harnessed.  They forcefully inject the fjord with masses of water from snow and rain much higher up, making it too cold for me to swim.

After a bus and two boats, I was picked up in Kinsarvik and we began the final leg of our journey to the folk music festival in Suldal.  It was four in the afternoon and already half-light, swiftly to be night.  But even so, I could still distinguish the faintly glowing whiteness of big gushing waterfalls and rivers pushing their way alongside us in the near-darkness.

It has been dry for two days now.  The waterfalls have suddenly quietened and died down to pathetic dribbles, exposing slimy moss and slick black rocks.  Each afternoon there is a pretty sunset down the fjord.

But I preferred it when it was raining.  I liked wallowing in the tumultuous, miserable, grey beauty of it all.

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