But our steamer does not stay here long--only long enough to put some Norwegian passengers on shore, and take fresh ones on board. This occupies some time, however, for Norse people, and especially the ladies, refuse to be hurried. It is amusing to watch them starting on their travels. All their friends come to see them off, although it is quite possible that the traveller is only going to the next station on the fjord, not a dozen miles away. Each friend bears some small package--a pot of cranberry jam, a basket of apples or cherries, a bag of cakes, or something of that kind. The gaily-painted wooden trunks and the _tiners_ are stowed away on board; and then the "farvels" commence, with kisses and handshakes, and pats on the back, and many last words until the bell rings for the steamer's departure, when a lady passenger suddenly discovers that she has left something behind. The wildest confusion follows, and away run all the friends to fetch it from the house, returning just in time. Then the good-byes begin again, and as the steamer finally departs, everyone shouts, "Farvel! farvel! farvel!" frequently and rapidly; hats are raised, and handkerchiefs continue waving until the boat can no longer be seen. Returning down the Mauranger Fjord we steam out across the main fjord, and early in the afternoon call at several small places on the northern shore--Bakke, Vikingnaes, Nordheimsund--each with its spruce hotel, enticing the traveller to loiter and explore the country in the neighbourhood. A little later we enter the Fiksensund, a narrow branch fjord, and a wonder of wonders. For a distance of seven miles it wends its way amongst the mountains. In places the precipitous hillsides are within a hundred yards of each other, and in no part is this extraordinary fjord-arm a third of a mile in width. For thousands of feet sheer out of the water rise the bold walls of granite, with here and there a ledge thickly wooded with fir and birch. It looks as if the mountains had been torn asunder to admit the sea, and local legends say that a spiteful giantess did this and many other nasty things in the giant age. Half-way up the fjord the steamer fires a gun, so that the passengers may hear the echo, and the sound comes back time after time from every nook and cranny. At the end is Botnen, with a road running away north to other farms, and eventually to the railway from Bergen to Vossevangen.