‘You are a Yorkshire Rambler, Yes?’
While Derek Smithson, David Hall and Kjetil Tveranger went on to climb Storen I stayed overnight at the Stolsmaradalen Hut, feeling disappointed that I wasn’t with them but being realistic enough to accept that I couldn’t have kept up with them. A Norwegian couple were the only occupants of the main hut while I had the annexe to myself, so having had a reasonably comfortable night and after saying farewell to them at 8.00am I set off back to Årdal. The path ran through dwarf willow along the rim of the valley with a 600 metre drop on the left and a more gentle rise to the hills on the right. The overnight rain had resulted in the trees holding a lot of water so that in-between the showers the going was just as wet with the low thin branches causing an uncomfortable obstruction for much of the way. The streams crossing the path were more full than during the previous afternoon, probably giving spectacular views of waterfalls when seen from the other side of the valley.
At 1.00pm I decided to stop for some lunch at the deserted farm at Avdalen. Leaning in the rain against a retaining wall near a small waterfall I had just begun to enjoy a tin of sardines when the farmhouse door opened and a face appeared. Although this was the first face seen in five hours it wasn’t too surprising. However, the face disappeared without a word and it was several minutes before it reappeared. This time the whole person made an appearance and slowly came across to me. He spoke. “You are English, yes?” As I was using a battered old Joe Brown rucksack and was wearing an English kagoule and boots the question didn’t really surprise me so I merely nodded and answered, “Yes”. “You are a member of the Yorkshire Ramblers’ Club?” This question did surprise me. I wasn’t wearing any YRC centenary clothing, not that it would have been visible under my waterproofs, and there was nothing to distinguish me from any other smartly dressed English walker. I did have a climbing rope slung over my rucksack but as it was nearly new it couldn’t have been recognised as belonging to the club.
Again I nodded and muttered ‘Yes’. His next question, or statement, really did take me aback. ‘Your name is Ken Aldred, yes?’ Imagine the situation, this was my first visit to Norway, we were more than half an hour from the nearest road and I’d seen no one since 8.00 am yet here was someone who seemed to know a fair bit about me. My reply could have been so hesitant that my interrogator must have thought that an explanation was necessary.
He was a local man who had been born at the farm on the 8th August 1962. Some years ago the family had abandoned the farm but he and his twin sister were cleaning the main building in order to hold a 30th birthday party for family and friends the following week. On our way up to the Stolsmaradalen Hut the previous day we had stopped at the farm and had entered an outbuilding which was being renovated as accommodation for a local mountaineering club. (See Jotun-heimen Avdalen, page 59 in the club handbook). Here, unbeknown to me, Kjetil had entered our names in the hut book. As the farmer knew Kjetil and had met both Dave and Derek on previous skiing trips he had merely eliminated them and arrived at my name as being the only stranger in the area.
A very simple explanation but I was glad that the meeting was not at dusk when the Trolls appear in the forest.