The rain woke me before the alarm did, a soft drumming on the roof of the little apartment above the bakery on Storgata. It's the kind of rain that settles into a place, not the dramatic kind, just a steady, patient sound that makes you want to pull the duvet up and stay. But I was already awake, and the morning light, even through the clouds, had that pale green quality of a Norwegian summer that refuses to be hurried.
I made coffee in the tiny kitchen, watching the drops race down the windowpane. The Glomma, just a few blocks away, would be grey and heavy today, the forest beyond it a darker green. I thought about the plan for the day, the Hunting and Fishing Days at the Norwegian Forest Museum. I'd been looking forward to it, but the rain, I decided, wasn't a problem. It's only weather, and in a timber town like this, weather is part of the story.
By the time I stepped out, the rain had softened to a drizzle. I walked down towards the museum, past the old wooden houses with their white-painted corners, past the church, its spire a familiar landmark even in the grey. The air smelled of wet earth and pine, the kind of smell that makes you feel alive, even when you're damp.
The museum, when I reached it, was already busy. People in wool sweaters and rain jackets, families with children, old men with the weathered faces of hunters and fishermen. The Hunting and Fishing Days is a real event, not a tourist thing, and you can feel it in the way people talk, the way they handle the gear laid out on the tables. I spent an hour wandering the outdoor exhibits, watching a woman demonstrate how to cast a fly rod, the line arcing over the wet grass like a question mark.
Inside, the museum tells the story of the forest and the people who worked it. There's a log driver's boat, the kind they used to ride down the Glomma with the timber, and I stood in front of it for a long time. Those men, they knew this river in a way I never will. They could read its currents like a book. I thought about how much of a country's identity is tied to its working life, to the things people do to survive, not just to its landscapes.
I had lunch at the museum's restaurant, the one known for its moose burgers. It felt right, sitting there with the rain streaking the windows, eating something that came from the forest just beyond the glass. The burger was good, rich and gamey, and the price, around 300 kroner, about thirty dollars, felt reasonable for the quality and the setting. It's the kind of meal that sticks with you.
Afterwards, I walked across the footbridge to Glomdalsmuseet, the open-air folk museum. The rain had nearly stopped, and the old farm buildings, with their sod roofs and dark timber walls, looked even more ancient in the damp. I wandered through a smokehouse, a stable, a little chapel. Each building is a piece of someone's life, a piece of a pattern of living that has mostly gone. I thought about how much we lose when we stop living that way, when the forest becomes a backdrop instead of a home.
The rain started again, a little harder, as I walked back towards town. I stopped on the bridge over the Glomma, watching the water slide by, brown and swollen with the rain. There's a kind of peace in that, in watching something that has been moving for thousands of years and will keep moving long after you're gone.
That evening, I did something I'd been wanting to do since I saw it on a map. There's a river sauna, a little wooden building on the banks of the Glomma, a short walk from the town centre. It's run by locals, and you can book a session, sweat in the heat, and then plunge into the cold river. It felt like the perfect end to a rainy day, a way to feel the elements directly, to be part of the place instead of just looking at it.
The sauna was warm and dark and smelled of cedar. There was a window looking out over the river, and through the steam I could see the rain still falling, each drop a tiny silver flash before it hit the water. I sat there with a few other people, strangers, but we were all quiet, all part of the same rhythm. When I finally got up and stepped out onto the little deck, the air hit me like a slap, and I walked to the edge and jumped in.
The cold was shocking, but it was also clear. It wiped everything else away, the thoughts about paperwork and bank accounts and D-numbers, and left only the feeling of being absolutely present. I stayed under for a few seconds, then surfaced, gasping, and swam back to the ladder. I did it twice more, the heat and the cold, and by the time I was done, I felt like I'd been rinsed clean from the inside out.
Back in the apartment, I made dinner, simple things from the local shop, some bread, some cheese, the kind of meal that costs around 100 kroner. I sat by the window, watching the rain fall on the quiet street. The light was fading, but only slowly, the way it does in August here. At half past nine, it would still be light enough to see.
I thought about the day, about the rained-in museum, the old log drivers, the cold plunge in the river. This is why I came to Elverum, I think, not for the big sights, but for this. The feeling of a town living its life around you, of a river that has seen it all. The D-number application is still on its way, the bank account still waiting, but somehow, here, they seem less important.
The rain is still falling as I'm speaking. It's a good sound, a sound that says the river will be full tomorrow, the forest will be greener, and the world will go on. I'm beginning to understand something about Norway, something about living here. It's not about finding the perfect moment. It's about being here for all of them, the rain and the cold and the quiet sunsets, and letting them become part of you. That's the whole point, I think. That's the friluftsliv, the open-air life, not as a special occasion, but as a way of being.
Tomorrow, if the rain lets up, I'll take the bike out towards Finnskogen again, or maybe just walk along the river. For now, I'm going to sit here a little longer, watching the rain fall on Elverum, and feel grateful for this quiet, ordinary, extraordinary day. Ha det bra.
This is Ingrid, from Elverum, in the heart of the Østerdalen valley. The river is full, the forest is green, and the night is light. I'll talk to you again tomorrow from wherever the road takes me. Hei.
Actually, the light outside has just shifted, that final deep blue of a summer night. I think I'll open the window and listen to the river for a while before I sleep. It's a good way to end a day, knowing the water is still moving out there, carrying all of it downstream.
There's a particular quiet that comes over a small town after eleven on a summer night, even with the rain. You can hear the river from the street, a low, constant sound, like the town breathing. I've been learning that sound the last two days, and I think I could learn it for a long time and never be finished.
Goodnight, Elverum. Goodnight, Glomma. I'll see you in the morning.
A friend of mine once told me that the secret to Norway is not to fight the weather, but to join it. Tonight, I think I understand that. The rain is not an interruption. It is the story. It is the reason the forest is green, the river is full, and this whole town exists. And I am here, in the middle of it, wet and tired and deeply glad.
Goodnight.
One more note. The train I took from Oslo two days ago, the Rørosbanen, it runs along the river most of the way. And I noticed something I keep thinking about: in Norway, the train tracks and the river seem to have reached an agreement. They follow each other, never quite touching, but always together. I feel a bit like that today, my life here and the life of this town, running parallel, getting closer all the time.
I will sleep now, under the sound of rain on the roof, with the river in my ears. It's the best lullaby I know.
Ha det bra, and goodnight.