In April 1900, an 18 year old Bergen-born Norwegian sailor sailor embarked on a schooner with 5 other sailors in Kristiansand a southern port of Norway and ended up at Old Sydney Town in Australia. The next step in my own voyage of discovery is to find out the destination of that ship. What was its cargo, apart from my oldefar. This might finally confirm or deny the family rumour that he jumped ship at Sydney never to return to Norway again.
A little over 100 years later and I'm back in Norway to find out more about my elusive great grandfather. Elusive in the sense that his daughter, who I spoke to before coming here, told me that he never really spoke of Norway, which I think is a real shame. So my quest for discovering my roots bring me to Norway to find out more.
Claus Clausen was the firstborn of 9 children. His mother, Anna Jørgensdatter Førde died 5 months after giving birth to her last child. Within a year, Claus's father Berge Clausen Smørdal was remarried and young Claus was working. What a hard way to start this life. I knew I needed to go to Bergen to find out more so this is the story of my first trip to the places of my ancestors.
Easter 2004. We set off from Sandnes on the afternoon of good Thursday, following the E39 (European highway) northwards along the coast. We crossed over bridges, through underwater tunnels and rode two ferry boats across the fjords.
At around 7pm we reached Førde in Sveio, just north of Haugesund. Førde is the place where Anna Jørgensdatter Førde was born. Note the name and place are the same. Names have always been a means of identification or even prophecy of who a person is or will become. In norwegian tradition, the name tells you the person's roots, eg....Anna Jørgensdatter Førde - Anna is the daughter (datter) of Jørgen (sen if she were a son), and she was born at Førde gård (farm).
We arrived at a beautiful old wooden white church that we spotted in the distance and as we arrived we saw people walking inside. It seemed like something was about to start. When we got out of the car, four elderly people passed us by on their way to the church doors. I asked Ole to ask them if they knew anything of the Førdes or Jørgensdatters and so he asked and within a few minutes one of the old men was getting into our car and taking us to meet a farmer whose name was Førde and who also happened to be a journalist. What luck!
Along the way I asked the old man many questions, translated of course, by my partner. I was so hungry for knowledge and for the first time in my twenty years of family research I was stepping on ground that perhaps once my ancestors tread on and it became so real to me. It was as if, my ancestors were coming to life. The old man instructed us to stop alongside a homestead that was situated very close to the road. We pulled up and he got out of the car and scurried around to the back of the house, which was actually the front door. No one answered so we walked back around to the front of the house and crossed the road to where the farmhouse was. The old man opened the gate and walked across the field to a reddish brown barn. At that moment, a man, dressed in a pair of dirty overalls and galoshes, walked out from the barn. It was evident we’d disturbed him from his work. They talked for a moment and then walked over to us. My anticipation was rapidly increasing as they approached us. I wasn’t sure whether I should look him in the eyes or look away, so I looked right at him.
The man greeted us and introduced himself as Tomas Førde. I felt a particularly eerie sense of déjà vu as we shook hands, looking intently into his eyes, wondering if he held a piece of the jigsaw puzzle of my ancestry. I could feel my heart quickening beneath my heavy coat and an expectancy that was invigorating, almost euphoric. We sat at his outdoor table and I pulled out my A3 sized pencilled scetching of my family tree that connected as far back on the Norwegian tree as 1756. Yes, I’d been doing my research back in Australia long before I’d ever imagined that I would one day be in Norway. Although Tomas was very impressed with my tree, he did not think we were related as there were many families living on the Førde farms who took the name Førde but were not blood relatives.
We arrived at a beautiful old wooden white church that we spotted in the distance and as we arrived we saw people walking inside. It seemed like something was about to start. When we got out of the car, four elderly people passed us by on their way to the church doors. I asked Ole to ask them if they knew anything of the Førdes or Jørgensdatters and so he asked and within a few minutes one of the old men was getting into our car and taking us to meet a farmer whose name was Førde and who also happened to be a journalist. What luck!Along the way I asked the old man many questions, translated of course, by my partner. I was so hungry for knowledge and for the first time in my twenty years of family research I was stepping on ground that perhaps once my ancestors tread on and it became so real to me. It was as if, my ancestors were coming to life. The old man instructed us to stop alongside a homestead that was situated very close to the road. We pulled up and he got out of the car and scurried around to the back of the house, which was actually the front door. No one answered so we walked back around to the front of the house and crossed the road to where the farmhouse was. The old man opened the gate and walked across the field to a reddish brown barn. At that moment, a man, dressed in a pair of dirty overalls and galoshes, walked out from the barn. It was evident we’d disturbed him from his work. They talked for a moment and then walked over to us. My anticipation was rapidly increasing as they approached us. I wasn’t sure whether I should look him in the eyes or look away, so I looked right at him.
The man greeted us and introduced himself as Tomas Førde. I felt a particularly eerie sense of déjà vu as we shook hands, looking intently into his eyes, wondering if he held a piece of the jigsaw puzzle of my ancestry. I could feel my heart quickening beneath my heavy coat and an expectancy that was invigorating, almost euphoric. We sat at his outdoor table and I pulled out my A3 sized pencilled scetching of my family tree that connected as far back on the Norwegian tree as 1756. Yes, I’d been doing my research back in Australia long before I’d ever imagined that I would one day be in Norway. Although Tomas was very impressed with my tree, he did not think we were related as there were many families living on the Førde farms who took the name Førde but were not blood relatives.
Tomas told us there were only two Førde families left in the area. He gave us directions where to go to find the graveyard and the other Førde farm across the main road through Førde. A long time ago, Førde was one farm, with many families living on it. Owners, workers, children leaving home to start their own families would build a new house somewhere on the property. The farm was divided into two at some point and now the two farms are owned, one by Tomas and the other by someone who bought the farm in the 60s.
We talked with Tomas for about an hour. He gave us some phone numbers of possible places we could stay the night so we headed off, taking the old man back to the church, then doubling back to a very old church in the heart of Førde situated on a peaceful plot beside the fjord. It had a quaint little gate that you passed through to enter its graveyard. It was a beautiful place, so peaceful, there beside the water, as the evening dwindled. Mind you, I've always been fascinated by graveyards. Alas I could find no ancestors. There were a few names here and there that may have been connected but nothing I could get excited about. No Jørgensdatters or Jørgensens (sons and daughters of Jørgen). They must have been buried somewhere else. They must have belonged to another church in the area. Or more likely, due to having no living descendants tending the plots, they get replaced by the newly departed. In Førde today, there are several houses scattered round about, some of whose inhabitants carry the name Førde, a few roads that shoot of from the E39 that passes straight through it, separating the 2 Førde farms that remain.
This was to become the first of many meetings with people we would meet on our trip who knew someone, who knew something about my ancestors. Much was uncovered over coffee and cake as we browsed through the old farm books of Norwegian ancestry, going from place to place on our travels. The people we met were so warm and hospitable and had the time to invite in a stranger and offer them refreshments. A very rare commodity these days when you’re used to living in big cities.
We left the graveyard, back along the E39 for a stone's throw, then down a winding gravel road leading to Førde farm no.2. As we got closer, my gut instinct told me that this was the place Anna Jørgensdatter was born. There were two white houses, and a delapidated unpainted wooden barn. The larger white house, obviously was the present owner's residence because it was fully maintained, the other was small and old and run-down looking, but the old girl still seemed to hold herself in some rigour, as if by pride if nothing else. 
We saw a man in overalls and galoshes working in the yard. He was the present day owner who had bought the farm about forty years ago. He didn’t know very much of the farm’s history but I gave him my phone number and he said he would give it to someone who knew more about the history of the place, although nothing ever came of it. He showed us around a bit giving us the chance to look in at the old original farmhouse which was now partly used as a storage shed. 
Peering through the cracked and dusty windows and stiff creaky doors we could see the fixtures and fittings of the original house, now all covered in dust and cobwebs. There was a rather small stairway that would have led up to the small bedrooms, typical of older Norwegian homes. There was, what looked like, the old sitting room, kitchen and hallway all very small rooms, closed off by doors to keep in the heat. I gazed perplexed, at its history, modesty but mostly because perhaps this was the place that my great great grandmother, Anna Jørgensdatter was born. Such a humble and modest little place. 
What I was to learn about this place was that Anna Jørgensdatter was born in this house, and lived here till she was fourteen or fifteen. Her mother died when she was nine and her couldn't maintain the farm (without the help of a good woman) so he lost the farm in 1868, it was sold at auction and he moved north and bought a small farm in Solheim, changing his last name from Førde to Solheim. So his records appear in both Førde and Solheim farm books. These books detail the marriages, the offspring and the contents of the farm. Next to his purchase at Solheim, the next recorded entry for him was that he was found dead in a field (fandtes død på makten) in 1883, age 72 (but more of that later). Incidentally, I have just discovered that he married his first cousin, which was common back then I'm told, sometimes for economic reasons of keeping the farms within families. It is still not illegal in Norway to marry your cousin - Go Elvis! Anna's parents were cousins because their mothers were sisters, and even though there were 15 years between the sisters, they were daughters of Tørres Jørgensen Kike and Lisbeth Johannesdatter Landevaag who married in 1770 and bought a piece of land in Skartland 2 years earlier, as far as I can understand from the farm books, he bought some dairy and skins there. The sisters married men, one with Solheim surname and the other Førde, thus expanding their hold upon the land perhaps and explains the Solheim connection. From these marriages was born Jørgen Gunnarsen Solheim b1811 and Brynhilde Rasmusdatter Førde b1824 who married each other...but I really am jumping ahead of myself here...more of that later.
Peering through the windows, I thought of the sorrows and joys that had taken place inside. If only these walls could talk. They would confide in me all the missing details, the secrets, that family research is unable to tell. I really felt this had to be the place because I felt such a strong connection to it. Looking beyond the farmhouses across the grassy fields between the trees, you could see shimmering glimpses of the now silvery lake, so peaceful and calm in the evening. It gave me the same feeling when I stood in the Førde graveyard gazing out across the lake to the other side. Before the roads were built, the lake was the mode of transport for the people of this place. So my ancestors were boat people. They would row across the lake to go to church for baptisms, weddings, and funerals. The lakes and Fjords carried them everywhere. They were our roads and highways. 
As we drove out, back along the winding gravel road from the farmhouse we passed two elderly couples conversing at a gate to a house so we stopped and asked if they knew anything about the Førde farm and again explaining who I was and what we were doing. By sheer coincidence, one of the ladies was from one of the two remaining Førde families. They led us to the home of a brother and sister who were very interested in local history. They warmly welcomed us into their humble home. The walls were covered with old black and white photographs of, no doubt family and their ancestors which is another typical habit I’ve seen of norwegians. These siblings lived together as the brother had never married and the sister had been widowed. We sat and looked at the old farmbooks, drank coffee, ate cake and talked. We stayed for many hours well into the evening and it was 10pm before we left. They had showed us the Sveio farm books and we planned to visit them on our way back to Sandnes but unfortunately we ran out of time so we didn’t see them again. They pointed us to a yellow wooden house down the rode where there lived a man who was connected to the Jørgensens so we planned to visit him the next morning.It wasn’t until we finally left there, that we called the number Tomas gave us to find a place to stay the night, but the guy on the other end of the phone said he had no vacancies because his cabins were inhabited by german tourists. This was the typical season for semi retired germans to travel around Norway in their campervans. He gave us another number to call and this time we were lucky to secure a cabin 10 km north of Førde in a place called Valvåg. Another former farm place turned village I imagined. Although months later I was to find out that Valvåg also had a connection to my ancestor Anna Jørgensdatter, that is was the place where the church farm was.
The cabin at Valvåg was typically made of wood with colourful curtains in all the windows, bunk beds in one bedroom, a double in the other and a breakfast bench and wraparound sofa seat that also converted into beds. It was simple clean and warm. We cooked ourselves some dinner and went to bed rather late. I didn’t sleep much that night. My mind was tossing and turning, spinning round and round with all the information that we’d accumulated that evening and my mind just wouldn’t switch off. Little did I know at this point this was just the beginning of an amazing adventure that would take me to the very heart of my ancestors, where they lived, died worked and cried. The flesh of my ancestral skeletons was finally beginning to wrap around the bones.
Early the next morning, ooking out the bedroom window of our cabin, at the mist-filled mountains and soft rolling valleys, there was one thought in my mind. Anna Jørgensdatter would have looked out her window many times in her life and saw the same view I was seeing. As I gazed out in wonderment, I felt a new sense of knowing, a connection that felt homely and comforting. I was beginning to feel a sense of belonging to a place I’d never been to before, yet felt familiar at the same. The thick misty morning dew, the birds, the smell of freshness, the quiet stillness of a new day and knowing that this place was more to me than a beautiful place in the countryside that we were passing through, made for a very special moment for me. One of just many, that I will never forget. The memory is etched in my mind.The day soon dawned into business and bustle as we showered and prepared to leave. We ate breakfast, cleaned up and took off back to Førde. It was about midday by this time. We went to the yellow house where lived this possible relation and were greeted at the door by his wife. It was raining lightly as we stood at the door explaining who we were and what we wanted. Finally, we were invited into the house, took off our shoes and coats and were invited into the living room.
After five minutes or so the husband came downstairs and met us with a very friendly smile. We talked and looked at the Sveio farmbooks, made the connections and gave our contact details that he could pass onto someone else who knew more than he did. He told us that he was going to a funeral of a man who had died last Sunday and this man, he thought, was the cousin of my Great Aunt Meryl in Australia, now in her 80s. Which means, Claus's mum and his mum were sibblings. Meryl is the youngest of Claus' children and the last one alive. He said that the man’s daughter would be at the funeral but I couldn’t imagine these people will be discussing family research at his funeral.
He was very happy however, to discuss the ancestors, as his wife lavished tasty treats upon us washed down with warm coffee and tea.
After a very pleasant experience at Førde, we headed north for Bergen. The Førde experience had lifted my expectations and I couldn’t wait to find out what lay ahead for us…..
It was already dusk by the time we arrived in Myking, the small community where Smørdal farm lies near. We had to stop and ask a few times, in people's houses, if we were on the right track because there was little indication where we were. My first impression of Myking was this quaint little church, standing alone and silent on what had to be the best location in the district, with its sweeping views across the mountains and through the valleys towards the fjords. The sky was now a bluey grey and the church took on a mistical quality that was somehow calling me. Tempted as I was, we needed to find the farm before dark, so on we went, again asking people in their houses as we went. 
We lost our way (in hindsight is because Smørdal doesn't have a sign on the road pointing towards the farm and its situated high up in the mountains, a good walk from the main road. You can only drive so far along the bumpy road) so we ended up at the neighbouring farm called Nævdal. Their farm was situated at the end of a long windy road, at the end of a valley. The first thing I noticed when I got out of the car, was the bells on the goats necks, ting-a-ling-ing as they grazed upon the mountain side and it added to the peaceful, tranquil setting in which this farm lay.
These people were very thoughtful and offered us to come inside for refreshments and stories and to look at the old farm book (Bygde bok) that records the ownership and goings on of the surrounding land for the past 400 or so years.
They were Harold and his wife Ronnaug Kleiveland, their son Erland and his wife Eirene, all were teachers except Erland who was an accountant and Harold also worked as a minister.
They were very kind and intelligent people - both happy and friendly. Before it got too dark, Erland drove us to Smørdal farm, to the bottom of the mountain where we had to park the car and walk up the mountain.
We walked up a long cobbly path which would make you very fit if you had to walk up it several times a day. The farmhouse was situated almost at the top of the mountain and those mountains are fairly steep.
The farm land of Smørdal is very large and there were several homes and huts there where all the families of the different generations and siblings lived. Gradually, as time moved on, the land was sold to a new owner outside the Claussen Smørdal family and is now being used to plant pine trees for wood export. As we walked through this mystical magical place of my ancestors, we saw the stone foundations of remains of little houses that I'm sure different members of the family built and dwelt in.
At one point I was so overcome with emotion that I cried. The emotion was very, very intense. I felt empathy for displaced persons everywhere as I experienced what its like to walk among ground that was once owned by my family of days gone by but to no longer have any claim over it. It was really a strange, strange feeling. When we returned to Nævdal, our warm hosts invited us to stay the night. The Kleiveland family have owned their farmland for over 200 years and Erland told me that he had memories of his grandmother telling him stories of taking shortcuts over the top of the mountain, through the forest to the Smørdal farm to exchange produce.
He said she bought butter and wheat, which makes sense seeing Smørdal literally translated from norsk means butter valley. Erland said he'd walk us us over the mountain top tomorrow, in the footsteps of his granny, to see Smørdal again. The thought of that was very exciting and sleeping was difficult.
It was Ole's birthday and good friday and it sure turned out to be. We stayed up til late in the night talking about so many different things. Laughing came easy and it was as if we'd been neighbours all along. Ronnaug kept our tummies filled with warm tea and delicious patries and Harold was never short of a story or two. What a delightful family there were and so connected to their roots. I was taken aback by all the old portraits of their ancestors that lined their walls. They were framed in glass and such good quality. I couldn't resist but take a picture of each of them. I really could see the family resemblances down through the generations.
The next day Erlend appeared with his galoshes and overalls with which we had not. So we made do and headed out up the mountain into the rich, green forest. The bells on the goats were a constant signpost --we're near, we're far--from the house. It was very soothing. I sort of felt that each step through the forest was another step back in time....My anctipation was reaching astronomic proportions. I couldn't wait! 
At Smørdal farm, I was so moved to think that once my ancestors lived and worked and died here. It is such a beautiful beautiful place; the pics dont do it justice. It's nestled in the mountains north of Bergen and its situated at the end of what seems to be a valley that gives views to a fjord far off in the distance and you can see the distant lights twinkling off afar as dusk and mist gracefully descends upon us, laying low in the valley.
