Liv clung to Torjus' hand as they scrambled up boulders beside the waterfall. "How lovely!" Liv cried, above the rush and splash of the falls. Aspens shook their golden leaves overhead in a rustle nearly as loud as the tumbling water. Between their pale trunks she could see the sloping fields of Morgedal below.

"How did you ever learn about this beautiful place?" she asked.

"Jon, over in Byggland." Torjus pointed across the valley. "He told me Håtveit was the most romantic lookout for miles around. He should know!"

Liv laughed at the tale, for at each dance that year of 1743, she had seen Jon take a swing around the barn floor with every single girl.

"When he told about kissing you behind the barn," Torjus said, "I was ready to toss him from a bridge."

"He never kissed me behind any barn!" Liv broke in, tossing back her blond braids.

Torjus laughed. "It was Liv Talleivsdotter here at Håtveit he meant! But this is what ran through my jealous thoughts." He drew Liv close for a kiss.

The late autumn sun glanced through the dancing boughs to spatter their clothing with ever-changing golden dapples. No thought of silver crowns crowded Liv's mind, for she already wore a shining wreath of a different kind. She was twenty-one years old, and Torjus, older brother of her childhood buddy, was twenty-six, and the light of her life.

"Are you hungry?" Torjus asked when they finally broke their kiss.

"Hungry? Who needs food when they have a free day to spend with their beloved?"

Torjus grinned and tugged on one of her braids. "Well, I am hungry. And look, we're in luck. Someone left a picnic basket behind this tree!"

Liv sniffed. "No one just leaves picnic baskets lying around, especially not at the top of such a climb."

Torjus shrugged. "Maybe it was left by a nisse from a hollow in a magical oak. Or one of the tusse-folk from under the mountain." He leaned close to Liv and whispered, "Who knows what's inside. Perhaps enchanted food that will keep us young forever! Wouldn't that be a fine treat!"

"You planned all this, didn't you?" Liv said, reaching for the basket. "What a sweetheart! Well then, what enchanted dishes have we to sup upon?"

She drew out a cloth-wrapped parcel of kling – flatbread layered with butter. "Mm!"

"Ja, it's 'mm' all right. I got your cousin Egeleiv to make this batch for us."

"She did? Wonderful! She makes the best flatbread! The envy of all the travelling baker-wives in the parish."

"I told her I needed her best for a special occasion."

"How special?" Liv licked the lightly sugared butter from her fingers.

Torjus drew a silver goblet from the basket.

Liv's eyes widened. "That's your grandpa's best cup! Shame on you for stealing such a treasure for our little outing!"

"I didn't steal it. He loaned it to me, gladly." Torjus scooped a brimming cupful from the waterfall. "Drink me a toast, Liv! Skoal!" He sipped and handed the goblet to Liv.

With a grin she took it. "What a tease. Very well. Skoal!" She drank, and shivered. "Brr! Cold as a glacier. What are we toasting?"

Torjus' ears turned red. "Look in the basket."

Liv did, and found a small wooden box, cleverly jointed at the seams, painted with the swirling bright floral pattern of rosemaling. She took off the lid, and gasped. "Oh Torjus!" was all she said at sight of the plain silver ring inside.

With a squeak to his voice he asked, "Will you marry me?"

The waterfall tumbling down from Håtveit farm

BEHIND THE SCENES

Overshadowed by a thick stand of aspens, a waterfall tumbles down into Morgedal beside the road that leads up to Håtveit farm. ("HOE-t'veight": hå ("high") + tveit ("subdivided farm") ) Håtveit is eight miles from Moen as the crow flies, though much farther than that by twisting mountain paths.

In 1743, Jon Åsmundsson of Byggland would have been eighteen years old. Young folk looked forward to barn dances, the most lively entertainment of the mountain dales, where they traded partners for the lively springar dances and the slower-paced gangar steps, often accompanied by hardanger fiddle and a drum.

There is no birth date given for Liv Talleivsdotter, but her granddaughter born at Brekke farm in 1804 will marry Liv Steinarsdotter's grandson in 1829.

In the old days, Norwegians ate two meals a day, with barley meal mush often the only dish on the menu. Wheat doesn't grow well so far north, but rye and oats were sometimes cultivated. The "bygg" of Byggland means barley.

The Norse grew kitchen gardens of peas, cabbage, onions, and garlic, and kept herds of cattle, goats, sheep, and pigs, which provided meat and dairy products. They hunted wild game on the forested ridges, caught trout and eels in the streams and lakes, and competed with bears for wild honey. Most farms were so isolated they had to be self-sufficient.

The Norwegian word for honey is "honning," similar in origin to the Old English "hunig."

In Norwegian folklore, the nisse is a brownie-like creature attached to the farm, who might live in a hollow oak or a hole in the ground. You must be careful not to offend him, or he'll bring the farm bad luck.

The tussar-folk can more easily be mistaken for humans, and live in a magical realm inside the mountains. They are said to kidnap people, or drive them crazy when alone in the woods.

Flatbread and tortillas have a lot in common. Both are unleavened bread rolled flat and cooked on both sides on a large, flat skillet. Flatbread was originally baked from barley flour.

Potatoes were introduced around 1800, an import from the New World. Many of today's flatbread and lefse recipes call for cooked potato in addition to wheat or barley flour. They also include milk and butter.

Flatbread was usually allowed to dry, then stacked in storage sheds where it would keep for months. It would be moistened to soften it before using. In the old days, a team of skilled women would often travel from farm to farm during the spring and fall, making flatbread for each household.

"Skoal!" is the traditional greeting as two people lift their cups in a toast to each other. They are supposed to keep eye contact as they drink. "Skål" means "cup."

Norwegian woodworkers specialize in the making of cleverly jointed wooden boxes. Rosemaling, a traditional craft in many parts of Norway, is a style of painting with colorful floral and leaf motifs.