2 MY SPORTING HOLIDAYS 



within measurable distance of the Arctic Circle, but 

 saved from an Arctic climate by the warm current of 

 the Gulf Stream. It is among the largest of the 

 islands that fringe the coast of Norway, being about 

 forty miles in length by fifteen broad, with pine-clad 

 fjelds up to 1,500 feet in height, and containing 

 innumerable lakes and streams. Here it was, amid 

 dark-green forest, purple heather and yellow marsh, 

 that I saw and killed my first red- deer stag those 

 thirty years ago. I have since hunted and killed 

 many a warrantable stag, as well as his magnificent 

 relative, the wapiti bull of North America. But I 

 shall never forget the incidents of that first kill, nor 

 the pleasurable emotions that pervaded my whole 

 being as I gazed on the deer as he lay dead at my 

 feet. 



Our visit to Consul R. Kjeldsberg was short and 

 decisive. There were red-deer, we were told, to be 

 shot on Hitteren ; also grouse and blackgame, with 

 trout-fishing thrown in. Some farms were now to be 

 had on lease, and, by a fortunate coincidence, the 

 leading land-owner of the island, Christopher Strom 

 by name, was then in Throndhjem, and returning by 

 the next boat. 



It was obviously destined that Hitteren was the 

 place for us to go to. The finger of Fate was clearly 

 pointing in that direction, and, accordingly, a little 

 later found us on board a fjord steamer. Five hours 

 after we landed on the seaweedy rocks of Havn Bay, 

 in the early morning of a lovely July day. At that 

 time the best shooting-grounds of Hitteren were 

 leased by other Englishmen. Years later they came 

 into the hands of a friend and myself, but that is 

 another story. By the kindly but not altogether 



