Before we knew it, we were on a Fokker, twin engine, jet aircraft out of Copenhagen bound for Stavenger, Bergen and Trondheim, Norway, where we rested up for two days before boarding a four passenger float plane in the tiny Village of Hell. The Land Rover manned by our gilly (guide) waited where the A-Elv River joined the sea at the head of the fjord.

Her soul shone transfiguringly through her face, and kindled her eyes into tenderness, which her rising tears served to heighten.

“The white hen is a cock” And true it was. The motherly chicken, growing older and larger, and more sheltersome of wing, had now developed a comb and wattle and a tail altogether inconsistent with henhood or motherliness of any sort.

When the causeway doglegs and all of a sudden you spot sixteen roller coasters in the same place, it can take your breath away.