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In The Rhubarb In the morning, I re-heated the fuel tube until it glowed crimson, and managed to shove the cable back in. It came out easily and I repeatedly shoved the cable in and out, scouring the fuel line like a pro. Arran and Rebecca left while I was still re-mantling the stove. On reassembly, a test firing worked magnificently. Sharon and I stopped in Seljord for ice cream. An old woman on a four-wheel scooter slid by, alternately pushing the scooter and then stepping onto the side rails to coast. There was no sign of Arran and Rebecca. Out of Seljord, there was a small road, paralleling the south shore of the lake. There was a larger road on the north side, with trucks and more traffic. Sharon wanted to cycle on the smaller road, but I thought Arran and Rebecca took the larger road and would probably stop somewhere along it for lunch. Sharon told me to decide. I chose the large road. It wiggled up and down, high above the lake shore. We looked across and saw the small traffic-free road running flat along the opposite side of the shore line. We arrived in Bo without seeing Arran and Rebecca. Eating in the park, we kept a watchful eye out for them. Sharon figured we were ahead. We waited in the town park a couple of hours; Sharon lamented she could be swimming in a cool lake, instead of sweltering in this heat. I took one last cruise through town, checking at the grocery store and along main street for their bikes. Deciding we had lost them--we should carry on. We pushed our bikes to the curb, just as they came toodling along looking as fresh as daisies. They had taken the small south road out of Seljord and found a "fabulous golden beach" where they swam and ate lunch. I thought they were rubbing it in a little much; I was already in enough ca-ca. They indicated they took the small road because they knew we liked small roads. So much for my intuitiveness. And they had waited for us in Seljord, under a tree, at the next store a couple of blocks up Near Ulefloss, a one-lane gravel road went to another body of water, passing farmer's houses on the way. Next to the shore, a pair of cabins crouched in the pines; no one was there. Sharon and Rebecca went for a before supper swim. Two men with a sailboat anchored across the inlet swam in less formal garb. After swimming in the buff they scampered onto some rocks to catch the last remaining rays to dry off in. The wind died down as the sun set. Arran told us the only time there was no wind in New Zealand was when it blew equally from the north and south at the same time. Our stove was still fussy. It conked out. I took it apart and cleaned it. A small round shiny metal blob fell out. Was that melted metal from the broken off derailleur cable? Rebecca picked rhubarb; we donated sugar, and Rebecca made a tasty mash. As we cooked, the woman who owned the cabins and lived in the farmhouse up the lane came to tell us we couldn't camp there. She spoke no English and our Norwegian was a little weak. But sign language still worked. Luckily, we had taken all those lessons in Italy. She indicated we could camp across the inlet where the nudees were. I wondered if we had to take off our clothes to stay there. We could hear them yodeling and thrumming a guitar now. The farmwife turned to leave, then came back and motioned for me to follow her. I accompanied her and she pointed to a flattened grassy area, by the rhubarb patch. She conceded it would be all right if we camped there. We set up on the bent grass overlooking the bay. |
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