1934 June 17 - Bergen, Norway

The sun scarcely dips below the horizon, gracing the land with the ethereal twilight that the North claims as its own. Here, in the rolling countryside outside the ancient city of Bjǫrgvin, now known as Bergen, I find myself enveloped in the tranquil embrace of my ancestral land. Norway's rugged beauty is as steadfast as the old tales and legends that whisper through the pine trees and ripple along the fjords.

Today, I walked the paths once trodden by my kin, the very soil resonating with the echoes of ancient gods and the sagas of yore. The air is crisp, tasting of salt from the nearby sea and the earthy scent of the forests. This is a place unchanged by the centuries, where one can almost hear the resonant horns of Viking longships readying for distant shores.

In the solitude of the countryside, the majesty of nature is a balm to the weary soul. I spent hours atop a hill overlooking the city, the view a canvas of interlocking rooftops, spires, and the ever-present sea beyond. The distant sounds of Bergen, a harmony of seagulls, church bells, and the hum of daily life, were a gentle reminder of the world's continuous march.

As the day waned, I found a moment of kinship with a local farmer, his hands as rugged as the land he tended. Our conversation, though sparse, was rich with the unspoken understanding that comes from sharing a love for this land. He spoke of his life, a testament to the enduring spirit of the Norwegian people, their connection to the earth as deep and profound as the fjords.