Trip to Tautra
This was the coldest summer I have ever experienced. It felt a like a Narnian “Always winter, never Christmas” season. While wildfires and sweltering temperatures suffocated mainland Europe, I spent my days slightly disappointed that I couldn't wear the light, colorful clothes I had been storing in my closet all year. The temperatures hovered between 10-15C with gloomy rain on the typical forecast. I can't complain too much though, to see all the lush greenery here as a result of the rain and cold was worth it.
Predictably, it was a rainy day in May and our main destination was a historical landmark called the Tautra Maria Monastery. Located on the small island of Tautra in the Frosta municipality, this monastery was founded by the Cistercienser monk order in 1207. According to the tourism sign, the monks of this time were skilled in a variety of trades such as freshwater draining, wide-scale agriculture, fish farming, medicine, ironworking, and more. They provided a variety of these services and more to the nearby areas.
The original monastery lay in fairly well-preserved ruins, but a new monastery had been built nearby in 2007. Due to our lazy start to the day, and it being a weekend, we just barely missed our short window of opportunity to visit the new monastery. Thankfully we could walk around the ruins and farmlands though.
It's a little strange, stepping in between crumbled ruin walls and wondering what people hundreds of years ago must have been thinking about on that particular day. I pondered how they would feel if they knew what their monastery would become, how we would pick and poke at the stones of their sanctuary, making our best guess at what their lives were like. It was a sobering feeling as I imagined how someone 500 years from now would look back on my era and question how we survived, and that they would likely never know or care about my life in particular.
Shaking off the chill of existential angst, or perhaps that was just the frigid fjord air, we puttered down over the hill to walk along the shores of Trondheimsfjord. The waves were turbulent and clouds of snow were pelting the adjacent mountain, quickly clawing their way across the ragged waters to our shores. I marveled at the large slippery slates of rock dappled with various species of seaweed, lichen, and rocks. The colors and shapes of the shores were both vibrant and austere. We didn't linger for too long, as the storm clouds swallowed up the mountains and obscured our view of the ocean.
Heading back up towards the farmhouses by the monastery ruins, I noticed a little sign that said café. One of life's greatest treasures is a hot cup of coffee on a cold and stormy day, and since we missed out on viewing the new monastery, I thought it would be fun just to pop in for a bit. I’m very glad we did.
Fresh, homemade cakes were lined up on a small wooden countertop, inviting us to pick a slice and a cup of coffee. I opted for a tempting slice of carrot cake. I'm pretty sure we were the youngest people in this tiny, cozy café. Nevertheless, it gave me a lovely feeling of joy looking forward to growing old like the nearby patrons and lazily passing my elder days in cheerful chatter with friends. While we were there, we talked with the café owner and told him we were visiting the area and just looking around. He recommended we check out the nearby bird tower. Well, you don't have to tell me twice. No storms or rain could have stopped me from seeing that.
Bird watching has become a delightful new hobby of mine since moving to Norway. I am enjoying learning new birdsongs and trying to find some of the more elusive small birds playing hide-and-seek with me in the dense forests and bushes. We drove a few minutes away from the monastery and pulled up to a rather awkward, tiny, 2-3 car parking lot if you can call it that… It just looked like a dirt area next to someone's home, but there was a clear sign saying “To Bird Tower” next to a gate that fenced off a trail into the forest.
We walked down a thin dirt path with wooden fences on either side. This area is used both for animal grazing and as a protected wildlife area, but they made it partially accessible for people to observe the migrating and nesting birds in the marshlands. A few horses and a small herd of cows were grazing on the vibrant green rolling hills next to the trail. One beautiful black horse took interest and pranced over with its head bobbing up and down. It had such a unique personality about it, I wondered what it thought of us. Did we feel like intruders, or perhaps new playmates? If it could speak, what would it have said? The cows seemed less enthusiastic and slowly lumbered away over the hills into the forest.
Not wishing to disturb them further, we continued back along the narrow trail as the trees pressed in around us and stretched high into the sky. The terrain often changed, and wide flat marshes began to emerge into view behind the fence of trees. We soon arrived at the small wooden tower called Fugletårnet, which just means The Bird Tower, and climbed up the few flights of stairs to the top. This sign says “Be quiet and calm in the bird tower.” and I think it would be difficult to be anything but quiet and calm here.
The marshlands stretched out wide and far in swaths of green mossy floors and small clusters of trees, with streaks of muddy trails from the grazing cows and horses to and from the lakes. Small birds streaked by, eagerly chasing after the wetland bugs. Apparently since the year 2000, 269 different species of birds have been observed on this island, according to the Frosta tourism website. Had I known this place existed before, I would have brought binoculars with me. Even still, was able to track some swallows and gulls zipping about in the air and see the bright orange beaks of the oyster catchers in the distance. Despite the frigid bite of the wind at the top of the tower, I was quite reluctant to pull myself away from the view.
Hopping back into the car and feeling grateful for the shelter against the cold, we continued back on the road to explore the area. Luckily for us, Norway posts “interesting site” signs along the road for notable locations and scenic views. We saw one mentioning a place called “Frostatinget" and thought that sounded intriguing. Frosta is the name of the municipality, and a "ting" is a meeting or assembly where laws are made and disputes are settled. Apparently, in the Middle Ages, Frostating was one of the four major tings in Norway.
We rounded a corner on the road and upon the nearby hilltop was a stone structure reminiscent of Stonehenge. There was a large, rectangular stone standing upright on top of the hill, surrounded by 12 smaller stones with engravings and linked with chains in between them.
According to the tourism sign, this was the location of a ting dating back to 600 AD. The large stone in the center had an inscription that translates to “From law shall our land be built, not from unlawfulness destroyed.” The 12 smaller stones in this structure represent the 12 counties of Frostating and how many representatives were attending from each county. The chains between the stones symbolize cooperation and solidarity. The inscription on the large stone really impressed me, because you still see a strong commitment to law and order in everyday life here today. Norwegians place a lot of value on everyone knowing and abiding by the laws in order to keep a harmonious society.
It was getting a bit late in the day, but we didn't feel like driving back to Trondheim yet and wanted to spend more time exploring the area. Thanks to the power of Google, we found an unusual space to stay overnight. In Verdal municipality there is a village which is home to one of the most famous battles in Norwegian history called The Battle of Stiklestad where King Olaf II was killed in 1030. Now home to both a very modern Scandic hotel and a reconstructed open air museum, this seemed like a wonderful way to spend the evening and rest up before going home.
The next day we decided to drive back along the other side of Trondheimsfjord and do some spontaneous hiking since we had the rented car until the end of the day. It would have been a waste not to explore more of the area while we could. We packed in so much that day it was just a blur of soaking in every ounce of the mountains, the smells, the sea, and repeatedly escaping cyclical storms. We made little pit stops at pretty churches, roadside lake views, and several hikes inland and along the coast just to explore everything we could before returning the car.
My favorite moment from this day was playing on some seaside rocks that had drawn my attention. I always feel content and grounded being by the sea, as though it's a sort of “happy place” from my childhood, though I grew up very far from any large body of water. I can't help but plop myself along the rocks and let myself be mesmerized by the tiny ecosystems of the tide pools, or lulled into contemplation by the waves lapping against the stone.
On this particularly rocky border, there were vibrantly colored snails nestled on top of fiery orange rocks dripping with seaweed. My internal child fully unleashed, I scuttled around for a while, examining all the colors, textures, and creatures of the rocky cove. This resulted in a rather charming photo of me hunkered down on the rocks to get a picture while I wasn't looking.
I live for these moments. The moments when I'm far away from civilization, where I gaze out into an abyss of pale blue waves, where all I can hear are the tides and the gales of the fjord. It might seem strange after the pandemic, but I value isolation more than ever before, and I'm so grateful that I can find moments to enjoy that here.
