A Small Village Nestled in the Fjord Valley
Borgund is a small settlement of just a few hundred inhabitants, located in what was once Sogn og Fjordane county in western Norway. Quietly tucked into a valley along the Lærdal River, a tributary of the Sognefjord, the village lies about an hour by bus from Flåm, one of the Nordic region’s most celebrated tourist destinations. Yet compared to its neighboring attractions, Borgund remains remarkably understated.
What makes this village extraordinary is Borgund Stave Church, built in the latter half of the twelfth century. Among the twenty-eight stave churches still standing in Norway, it is considered the best preserved, faithfully conveying its medieval form to the present day. Its exterior, blackened as if charred, bears witness to centuries of wind and snow, while the dragon heads adorning its rooflines quietly speak of Norse mythology predating Christianity.
The surrounding mountains retain their snow caps even in summer, and the deep green forests, white waterfalls, and crystal-clear river make visitors forget the passage of time entirely. This is less a tourist destination than a place where Norway’s ancient soul continues to breathe. It was to this Borgund that I decided to travel in June, when the light lingers longest.
Day 1: The Road into the Valley and the Church’s Dark Silhouette
I boarded the morning train from Oslo and transferred at Myrdal to the Flåm Railway. This line, often called one of the world’s most beautiful railways, winds down steep mountainsides while waterfalls appear one after another through the windows. Other passengers raised their cameras and exclaimed with delight, but I simply rested my forehead against the glass, surrendering myself to the flowing landscape of green and water.
From Flåm, the bus heads inland toward Borgund. Since most tourists stay in Flåm, the bus carried only locals and a handful of solo travelers like myself. The road follows the Lærdal River, and the valley gradually narrows. Birch groves and dense coniferous forests alternate on the mountainsides pressing in from both directions, with countless thin waterfalls threading through the gaps between them.
I arrived in Borgund just after two in the afternoon. The bus stop sits right near the church, and the moment I stepped off, what appeared before me was smaller than I had imagined yet possessed an overwhelming presence—a black structure. Borgund Stave Church. I had seen it in photographs countless times, but the real thing was utterly different. It seemed less like part of the landscape and more like the very memory of this valley given physical form.
My accommodation was a small guesthouse about five minutes’ walk from the church, a converted former farmhouse. The owner, a woman named Gro, welcomed me with a warm smile. Speaking in English but weaving in the occasional Norwegian phrase, she told me about the local history and the church. The room was simple but clean, with a view of the church spire and the mountains beyond.
I set down my bags and went straight to the church. After paying the entrance fee, I passed through a small wooden door. Inside was darker and cooler than I had expected. The pillars bore carved decorations of dragons and serpents, and the ceiling rose in layer upon layer of intricately joined timbers. There was no stained glass—only the faint light filtering through small windows filled the space.
Though it is a Christian church, something unmistakably pagan lingers here. The pillar structure, reminiscent of Yggdrasil, the world tree of Norse mythology; the dragon carvings; the vital force of the wood itself. The medieval Norwegians who built this place must have accepted their new faith without entirely releasing the old world. Thinking such thoughts, I sat quietly on a bench and simply remained in that space for a while.
When I emerged from the church, the evening light was softly illuminating the valley. I decided to have a late lunch at a small nearby café. The menu was limited, but I ordered an open-faced sandwich made with local salmon and crackers served with brunost—brown cheese. It was my first time trying brunost, and its caramel-like sweetness and distinctive flavor puzzled me at first, though it proved strangely addictive.
As I ate on the café terrace, an elderly man at the next table struck up a conversation. He said he had been born and raised in this village and used to play around the church as a child. “That church isn’t just a building, you know,” he said quietly. “It’s the guardian spirit of this valley.” What is a historical monument to tourists remains a living place of faith for the locals—I felt this truth anew.
Night came, but even past nine o’clock the sky remained pale, so I went out for a walk. Following the river, the only sound in the valley was the water. Snow still clung to the distant mountainsides, its whiteness floating against the twilight sky. When I returned to the guesthouse, Gro made me tea and served Norwegian waffles with sour cream and jam. By the fireside, I chatted about our travels with the other guests—a German couple and a young French woman—until the night grew late.
Day 2: Snowmelt Waterfalls and the Silence That Fills the Valley
When I woke in the morning, bright light already filled the room. A glance at my watch showed five o’clock. Summer mornings come remarkably early in the north. Opening the window, I let in cold, clear air. A thin mist hung over the valley, and the outline of the church floated indistinctly through it.
Breakfast was served in the guesthouse dining room, all guests gathered around the same table. Fresh-baked bread, various cheeses, smoked salmon, boiled eggs, and the distinctive Norwegian caviar paste. The coffee Gro brewed was strong and fragrant, warming me from within. The German couple said they would return to Flåm today; the French woman planned to stay another day, like me.
During the morning, I visited the museum behind the church. It housed models of old stave churches, medieval farm tools, and exhibits recreating how people lived in those times, all telling the story of how harsh life was here and how closely bound to nature. Looking at these displays, I could almost see the people who built this church in the twelfth century.
Before noon, I set out on a nearby hiking trail. The path leading from Borgund up the mountainside seemed to be one the locals used regularly and remained in its natural state, not overly maintained. Once inside the forest, moss-covered rocks and fallen trees dotted the ground, and wild blueberry bushes spread at my feet. The berries had not yet formed, but by summer’s end this place would be carpeted in purple.
After about an hour of climbing, the view opened up. Below lay the village of Borgund with its church, and the river winding through the valley. From the opposite mountainside, countless slender waterfalls cascaded down, their white threads vivid against the green slopes. The wind was cold, brushing my cheeks. Standing there, I could feel with my body how small I was and how many ages this landscape had taken to form.
I ate the sandwich and apple I had brought for lunch on the mountainside. A Norwegian family walking the same trail passed by, and we exchanged greetings. The father told me they went hiking like this every weekend. He mentioned a word: friluftsliv. Living freely in nature—it is simply part of Norwegian life.
I descended and returned to the village just after three in the afternoon. Though somewhat tired, I felt drawn to visit the church once more. This time I walked slowly around the building from the outside. The blackened board walls, I had learned, were treated with tar for waterproofing. On the rooftops, dragon-head ornaments faced into the wind. These share the same origin as the dragonheads on Viking ships and were believed to ward off evil spirits.
The churchyard held old gravestones, mostly from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, bearing only names and dates of birth and death. Some graves had flowers laid upon them; others were so moss-covered the inscriptions had become unreadable. The people resting here must have visited this same church during their lives and gazed upon this same valley.
In the evening, I bought ingredients for dinner at the village’s small shop—a cut of Norwegian salmon, potatoes, and salad vegetables. The guesthouse had a shared kitchen available to guests. Emma, the French woman, was in the kitchen at the same time, boiling pasta. Enjoying the aromas of each other’s cooking, we talked about our travels. She was an architecture student in Paris, and her graduation thesis was on medieval architecture. Borgund’s church was an essential site for her research, she said, her eyes bright with enthusiasm.
I cooked the salmon simply with just salt and lemon, and dressed the potatoes with butter. Norwegian ingredients are all richly flavored, with a strength that comes from the land itself. Through the window, the church looked even blacker in the evening light, like a silhouette cut from shadow.
Past ten o’clock, the sky was still light, hovering somewhere between pale blue and gold. “It’s nearly the season of white nights,” Gro explained. When the days stretch on like this, the sense of time grows hazy. It felt as though a single day held the measure of two—a strange sensation.
Day 3: A Morning of Farewell and the Stillness I Carry Home
On the final morning, too, light streamed into the room early. This afternoon I would return to Flåm and from there take a train to Bergen. My time in Borgund had passed in the blink of an eye.
After breakfast, I visited the church one last time. In the quiet hours before opening, I stood before it and simply gazed at its form. Without tourists, the church in the morning seemed even more solemn, as if time itself had stopped. When I touched the black walls, I felt the rough texture of the wood and the weight of hundreds of years.
After nine, visitors began to arrive gradually. A tour bus pulled up and lively voices echoed through the valley. This too is part of daily life here. I slowly took my leave of the church and walked along the riverside path. The water was so clear I could see the stones on the riverbed distinctly. Small fish swam in schools.
Back at the guesthouse, I prepared for checkout. Gro said, “Come back again.” It is people like her who keep this village’s warmth alive.
I took the late-morning bus to Flåm. Through the bus window, I watched Borgund’s church grow smaller and smaller. The green of the valley, the snow on the mountains, the black church. That landscape left a vivid image within me.
Arriving in Flåm, I was somewhat surprised by the crowds. So different from Borgund’s stillness—a harbor town full of energy. But that too was not unwelcome. A journey needs both quietude and liveliness.
From Flåm I boarded the train for Bergen, enjoying the mountain railway scenery once more. The view ascending was different from descending. The same landscape changes its impression depending on which way you look at it. Thinking such thoughts, I reflected on my two nights and three days in Borgund.
What was it that the church had communicated to me? I believe it was the thickness of time. To remain there, unchanged, from the twelfth century until today. To endure storms and snows, to receive the prayers of countless people. That black wooden structure quietly embodied the strength and beauty of perseverance—something we so easily forget in modern life.
By the time I reached Bergen, evening was approaching. Gazing at the wooden warehouses of Bryggen, I thought of Borgund’s church. Though different in era and scale, both shared the Norwegians’ deep understanding of and affection for wood as a material.
Unpacking in my hotel room, I found a small postcard I had bought in Borgund—a simple illustration of the church. Holding it, I recalled the air of that valley. Cold and clear, and endlessly quiet.
What Felt Real Though It Was Imaginary
The journey to Borgund I have recounted here is not one I actually took, but a story woven in imagination. Yet as I wrote, a strange sensation arose. Despite never having visited, I seemed to know the air of that place, to remember the feel of the church’s wood beneath my fingers.
Perhaps travel does not refer only to physical movement. To turn one’s thoughts toward an unknown place, to imagine its history and culture, its nature and the lives of its people—this too may be a form of journey. And sometimes such imaginary travels become the first step toward an actual voyage.
Borgund Stave Church is real, and it still stands in its Norwegian valley, preserving its black form. Should the day come when I truly visit that place, I would like to see how this imagined memory overlaps with or differs from actual experience.
Even in an imaginary journey, the stillness I felt there, the weight of time, the power of nature—these things remain in my heart. And they live on within me as a quiet longing for the genuine emotion that only a real journey can provide.
