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Rendalen Kommune
The Bull Museum in Rendalen. We take you back to the 19th century, with fantastic folk tales written by Jacob B Bull. Rendals yard (Rendals tunet) is open in the summerseason with catering. You can also charge your electric car if you need to.
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You are now at the old parsonage in Øvre Rendal, where the author Jacob Breda Bull grew up. The farm, originally named Vangen before it became a parsonage, is now a museum. In the beautiful garden surrounding the parsonage, you will find the horse Vesleblakken from Bull's famous rural tales buried. Also buried here are the dogs Haktor and Ajaks, who were involved in the dramatic tale of the wolf fight. Rendalen became its own parish in 1741, having previously belonged to Åmot. It was the priest C. W. Schultze who began building the parsonage in 1747. A new parsonage was later built on Bergset, and the old parsonage was sold to private owners in 1880. Bull drew sketches of how the house was furnished, and many of the furniture pieces that are there today are original. The buildings deteriorated and most were demolished. Only the main building and the storehouse remained when the municipality bought the property in 1920. The Bull Museum, as it appears today, also includes the old Berger school, which was built in 1899 as a spacious, light, and modern school building according to the standards of the time. It served as a school until 1939, and later functioned as a residence and industrial premises. Today, the school building houses a museum, café, meeting rooms, toilet facilities, and a country store. The museum also hosts a school exhibition, which was upgraded and further developed in 2021. In 2020, the school building underwent extensive renovation, and a winter garden, toilet facilities, and a new kitchen were added. The museum also offers food and drink services during the summer season.
"The Wolf Battle" by Jacob B. Bull In the vicarage of Øvre Rendal, during the time of Priest Storm, there was a tall fence made of upright farm poles surrounding the doghouse by the servant's quarters. This fence was erected after a wolf, on a raging stormy night just before Christmas, had killed the guard dog right outside the door of the servant's quarters and fled into the forest with it. Even in my father's time, the old doghouse still stood there; but of the fence, only traces remained, and my father never thought of putting it back up; for it had been quite peaceful for wolves in the village for several years. In the vicarage, we had two dogs, Ajax and Hector. Ajax was a common hare dog, black and white, and rather small than large. It was the smartest animal I have ever known, always alert and always playful. A stone thrown, or a rag flung, was enough to send it into the wildest jubilation. In excited leaps and unrestrained snaps, it would run around the farm, and we little boys would follow. With its head between its paws and its eyes gleaming with mischief, it would lie and wait until we came, and when we tried to catch it, it would dart off in nimble jumps here and there, under the storehouse, out under the barn, across the fields, until we, panting, would throw ourselves down and could not go on. Then it would come rushing, grabbing trouser legs or shirt sleeves and tumble overjoyed among us. And not a snap and not a growl no matter how rough we were. Ajax was a sort of big brother in its own right. Not a dog, big or small, could walk down the road without Ajax attacking it. Often it got beaten; but more often it won; for it was so lightning-fast in its turns, so sharp-toothed in its jaws, so unstoppably persistent and so unbendingly brave, that it usually ended up the master in the end. And where it really pinched, Hector would usually come and growl, and then the matter was settled. Hector was a large Bernese Mountain Dog and of the long-haired variety, yellow-white with branded spots. It tolerated everything from us children, was ridden on and driven with and followed us like a shadow. When strangers came to the farm, it would usually report with a couple of coarse snaps, but otherwise took the matter with great calm and let Ajax take care of the music. It never bit smaller dogs, and larger dogs were not to be found in many miles radius. For Ajax, it nurtured a faithful and patient friendship, and at night, Ajax would usually lie in the old doghouse and Hector outside. Then there was an ice-cold, star-clear winter evening in February 1858. Up in Bergslibakken north of the vicarage, we little boys were playing with our sleds as usual, with the top hat down over our ears and the greased mittens on our hands. The snow crackled under the heel as we walked up the hill, and screamed under the steel bars of the sled when we went down. The moonlight cast fairy shadows on the bluish snow, and Hector and Ajax, who always followed, looked strange in the mystical glow. Down from the woodshed in the vicarage, the light from the pine spike pole cut red and warm through; the blows that fell gave the security that the proximity of people always gives; but otherwise, the creaking of a single load coming driving, or the bang of a door being slammed shut far away, was the only thing heard in the snow-heavy winter silence. Suddenly my brother grabs my arm and stops. "Listen," he says. And from the forest thicket up in Grova, a long, hungry howl is heard, singing out into the silence. It answers from a heap further away, and after a little while, distant and finer from the other side of the valley. Hector stands with his head high and listens; Ajax raises its hackles and growls. We knew this sound from before, we little boys; for we had often heard it on winter evenings; but it sent shivers down our spines nonetheless; - it sounded so strangely wild and dangerous in the forest silence. "I think we're going home," said my brother and turned the sled. Then there was a shout from the farm – we sat on the sled and off we went. Down at the farm stood father. "Do you hear the wolves, boys?" he asked. We stopped and listened again; but now it was dead silent. "Yes, it's the same. In with you;" he patted Hector on the head and watched as we put up the sleds, got the snow off us and came in. "They are there now again," he said to mother as he sat down and took the newspaper. "Huff, this is starting to get downright creepy," mother replied; she looked up and put the book down. "Did you hear anything, children?" she added and got up. Yes, we had indeed heard. And then there was an endless story about Bok-Simen who had met a wolf north in Ellevollsveiene, and the beast was so persistent that it sat and showed its teeth to him in the middle of the main road – and about Nils the shoemaker who had raced with two pieces all the way up Lomnessjøen, and about the son of the bell-ringer who clearly thought he had seen one in the pig house one Sunday morning; but when he ran in after his father, and they came out with the gun, it was gone. "Yes children, there you see, it's best to be careful," said mother. Then she went to the kitchen window and asked the maid to come in with the evening meal. The large moderator lamp with its gentle, yellow light was moved; the food was brought to the table, and we sat down. Little Johannes read the table prayer, and silence fell in the living room. Just as we were sitting, Ola Jonsen, the farmhand, came in from the woodshed, cold from the weather and with sawdust and snow over his frozen socks. He stood in the open door. "It might be best to bring the dog in tonight; for it's probably not safe from the wolves," he said. "Have you seen any?" asked father, standing up. "No, but I heard two or three of them up in Groven just now," answered Ola Jonsen, removing his cap. "You can bring Ajax into the servant's room, and Hector can stay in the children's room – that's probably safest," said mother. "Yes!" we three little boys cheered at once; for having Hector as a sleeping companion was incredibly comforting and fun. And among us children, there was, when we left the table, much excited talk about what Hector would do if a wolf came and tried to take us. For Hector was the strongest dog in the whole world, and he could surely kill one, two, three – yes, ten, twenty, a hundred wolves, many, many more than there were in the whole village. But through all our courage, the howling of the wolves and the mysterious atmosphere of the night brought with it an involuntary fear; we ran, each one more scared than the last, and up the stairs when we were going to bed, and when Marit, the nanny, came with Hector, we screamed in fear – we thought it was the wolf itself that had come into the house. And thoughts of wolves and fear of the forest and trembling in the desolate, ice-cold night followed us behind the frozen windows, padded on the dark corridors and only died down as the evening quiet came with crackling warmth from the stove and Hector's heavy, sure breath at the door where he lay on guard. Then, at last, the child-safe sleep took us with its half-erased dreams. I don't know how long I could have been lying like that when I suddenly woke up in unspeakable fear. Outside, in the distance, there is a strange wild mix of howls and growls, and against the window, I see a large, dark animal head outlined with an open mouth. I scream and cover my eyes with my hands. The nanny, who was sleeping in the room next door, comes in frightened and asks with a sleepy breath what's going on. "Don't you see it there?" I shout and point. But at the same moment, Hector – for it was him – gives a growling snap and stands tall with both paws on the windowsill. Marit comes over to the window and scrapes off the frost to look out, but stands and stares as if transfixed out into the ice-cold winter night. And next to her, I stand barefoot and trembling. For away on the field, north of the farm, we see a sight I will not soon forget. Over the snow, dark lumps were rolling and writhing, rising and falling like a distant waterfall through the night. "Wolves!" Marit whispered and turned pale, took my arm and pulled me away. But Hector lay with both his broad paws high up on the door, pushing and wanting out. Then mother opened the door. Hector sprinted out through the hallway and down the stairs, but was stopped by the hallway door which was closed. "Dress the children," said mother. "For this is dreadful," she added, went to the window and stared out, but quickly turned away to avoid seeing more. Within a few minutes, everyone in the house was dressed and up and stood staring and listening north over the field until everything was over. For in this hour, the famous battle between six or seven wolves and all the village's fiercest Finnish dogs, from the north and the south, as they came dragging after the sound in the air, angry snaps and muffled growls when throat grips were taken! The strong, lean backs of the wolves that stood, and the lightning-fast, hissing throws of the Finnish dogs that threw themselves and rolled, jumped up and attacked again – it all gave a tension so that I trembled in every limb. Suddenly we hear a shout and see a man running from the servant's room and up towards the porch. It was Ola Styggpåjord, the farmhand. Father opens the window. "Don't go out!" he shouts. "Ajax is with them!" Ola shouts up and stands bareheaded and half-dressed in the icy cold. "Let Hector out!" he shouts again, heads towards the woodshed, grabs an axe and wants to go north. "You're not to move! Have you gone completely mad!" father shouts with all his might. Ola stops and stands, indecisive. Then through the noise comes a high, helpless cry of a voice known among hundreds. At first strong, wailing, then more and more choked and weak and finally just like a gurgling howl in the fearful noise. "They're tearing him apart!" Marit shouted, she grabbed the windowsill with both hands and cried loudly. "That will never happen," we hear Ola's voice through the noise and see him start to move. But at the same moment, there rings a coarse, mighty growl down in the hallway, and a great noise is heard. Hector had recognized Ajax's voice. He threw himself at the hallway door with all his might, tore and struggled with teeth and paws and wanted out. "So in God's name let the dog out," father shouted – and Marit down. With his head held high, the big animal sets off in heavy leaps northwards, past Ola Styggpåjord who is running out of breath with the axe in his hand, and straight into the pack of wolves. He makes a swing here and a swing there with his mighty head, before he finds what he is looking for. But then he grabs hold, and Ola Styggpåjord stops and stares, and we in the window stand captivated and carried away by the spectacle of unyielding power and wildness that now began. A tall, thin wolf was lifted and thrown so we saw its whole body against the sky. The grip loosened; but with a violent leap, Hector was over it, immediately took a throat grip and swung it here and swung it there so the snow sprayed high. For a whole, long minute he held the grip fast while the wolf tossed and writhed in its death throes. Then he suddenly let go, and lifted his head proudly and looked around for Ajax. And when he heard him whimpering in the nearest cluster – four dogs and a wolf – he sought there, tried time and time again where he could find a spot where he could get a grip, finally hits the wolf's bare back, and just as it knocked Ajax under him, - and now he struck. Ola Styggpåjord who stood close, but dared not do anything, told us all this later. The other dogs let go as if scared and barked away in all directions when Hector took hold. The wolf, a large powerful animal, made a violent throw to free itself; but Hector rose in all his height and broke the wolf down so Ola Styggpåjord heard it crack and pop in the wolf's backbones. A long, dying howl was heard. Hector took new grips, crack after crack forward over the wolf's back and neck and began to shake and swing it like a madman. Then he suddenly lifts his head – the wolf was dead. But away by the servant's door, Ola Styggpåjord was already standing with Ajax in his lap and shouting. Hector looked around a couple of times and then came dragging in large leaps, sniffed at Ajax, who was whimpering and bleeding, listened to the noise and howls and then set off again. Ola Styggpåjord carried Ajax into the servant's room, got dressed, and now they, he and two young boys, each with an axe, went north. But when they got there, the outcome of the battle was decided. Of the wolves, four were dead or dying among torn dogs; the others had slunk away, and from time to time you could hear the howls of them up at the edge of the forest where they sat. Hector walked around from cluster to cluster, sniffed at the dead and wagged his tail for the bitten ones who lay or sat licking themselves in the snow. There came the Bru-dog limping and trembling over to Ola Styggpåjord. The ear was torn off, and it had a large wound over the loin; but the spiked collar had saved its life. There lay the Widow's dog with a torn throat, still alive. Ola Styggpåjord gave it a merciful blow with the axe hammer. Of the Sve-dog, there was only the head and some of the neck left. But the Hårsett-dog stood with flaming eyes and blood-dripping mouth and stared up towards the forest and listened. Ola Styggpåjord got hold of Hector and wanted to bring him in; but he was like wild. He growled and bared his teeth so he had to let go. And for over half an hour he walked back and forth on the field, lay down and got up again. Finally, when the other dogs one by one had slunk home, he came, gave a snap at the door and wanted in. Then he went over to Ajax, sniffed and wagged his tail and licked his wounds, finally lay down with a long sigh and started on his own. But Ajax crawled trembling away between his legs, went around in a circle a couple of times and lay down there. He had a deep wound in his back and a long, gaping gash in his neck. The morning after there was a large viewing of the dead on the parsonage field. The snow was spotted red far around with tracks and scratches from the wolves' claws. Here and there it darkened on a dead dog that lay there stiff and straight with frozen eyes and gaping throat. To and from the place there were battle tracks, large and small, crisscross, and all around hung grey-black tufts of hair trembling in the morning wind. Soon people came from all the farms in the village to see and hear. Some stood in the woodshed where Ola Jonsen told, while he skinned the wolves, others searched among the dog carcasses away on the field until they found the one they were looking for. But Ajax lay in the servant's room, trembling from blood loss and from wound fever, and in front of him lay Hector immovable on guard, while the dark, serious eyes slowly moved from one to the other of those who came. Just as we were standing there in the woodshed, blue with cold, we little boys and watching, a little girl came crying over. "Is Flink gone?" she asked. "Do you say so?" said Ola Jonsen a little sharply. "Is Flink gone," she repeated, biting her mittens and looking around helplessly while the tears flowed. "You'll have to look north," answered Ola Styggpåjord, he pulled the wolf skin so it cracked in the lean carcass. The girl looked at him, helplessly, turned and stared northwards; then she walked slowly. I don't know how it was; but I felt so strange at the little girl's grief. I knew her, and I knew Flink, a small brown-black, full-grown dog from one of the cottages. Almost without realizing it, I followed at a distance, but stood still up by the firehouse and watched her go across the field and search, from one black lump to another, always with her mittens up in her face and her head bowed. Suddenly she stops at something that darkens far north on the field, stares and throws herself down on her knees, lifts her head as in despair high, backwards, then throws it violently forward, down and forward in the snow. She had found Flink. I wasn't good for moving from the spot. I felt I had to go over to the little girl who was so alone; but I stood still. She got up after a while, but threw herself down again and sat like that. Then Ola Jonsen came out of the woodshed and over to the stream to wash his fingers. He turned there and I stared, and saw the girl. "Hm," he muttered, rubbed his fingers in the snow and strolled over. Then I pulled myself together and followed. When he got there, Ola Jonsen stood for a long time quietly and watched. Then he said softly and lowly: "You'll have to go up now, my little Vechla!" The girl turned half away and looked away, so strange, so strange. "You'll freeze your fingers off," he said even more gently, went right up to her and wanted to lift her up. "Be quiet," she answered, as if scared, and sank together again. "Is this your Vechl dog maybe?" He bends over her and coos. "Yes-ah," came as a trembling breath. Ola stands for a while and chews his quid hard. Then he bends down over the girl again. "I'll help you maybe," he says. She looks up at him, wondering; she doesn't understand him. Then he carefully lifts the stiff, dead animal to carry and bury. But as soon as he sees what's left, he quickly lets go. "There's nothing left for you – anymore," he says softly and takes her gently by the arm. The girl looks at him, scared, but follows. Then she turns suddenly, bursts into tears and says: "Is he going to be left behind, Flink then?" "Your father will take him," answers Ola and drags her along. She turns a couple more times and stares with large, longing eyes northwards; then she follows listlessly. But inside the servant's room, mother has already arrived, and there the talk goes about the hero of the night, being petted and praised, there he lies and turns the large, intelligent eyes from one to the other, now as before immovable guard in front of Ajax. Two days later, we boys held a strange celebration in the parsonage. Ola Styggpåjord had carried the carcass of Flink up to the farm, and there it had now lain untouched behind the shed for two days, without anyone coming to fetch it. And so we children had decided to hold a wake over it. With axes and shovels, we had dug a grave in ice and snow north by the stream; an old pig trough was the coffin, and now the procession set off: Hector for the iron rod sled with dumbbells on, the coffin on the sled and we three boys mourning behind. And there was sung at the grave, and there was spoken; and the cold grave soil was thrown in a heap with fire shovels and spades. The small caps came off and were held in front of the eyes in the manner of adults, and we felt so strangely melancholy when we left there. In the afternoon, father went down to see. And he found the crooked wooden cross in the snow, and he read the clumsy child's writing: Here rests the dog Flink dead in the great wolf battle fought at Rendalen parsonage on the 18th of this month 1858. Peace with your dust, blessed be your memory. And when he came back up, he stroked me over the head so gently, so gently, where I stood and waited to read in his face. Now many years have passed. Father and mother have long since died, Ajax and Hector long before them. But if you pass by Rendalen parsonage northwards, you have the garden to your right. There close to the gate you see a mound, low and neglected. It is Hector's and Ajax's grave, and further up, right by the gatepost, under the withered rowan, lies Vesleblakken.
"Vesleblakken" is a short story by Jacob Breda Bull, portrayed as an authentic childhood memory from the author's upbringing in Rendalen, a rural area in Norway. In the story, a brother is critically ill, and medical help must be fetched from Tynset, a town some distance away. The horse Vesleblakken, both the fastest horse on the farm and the children's dearest friend, is driven to death by the farmhand Ola Jonsen Styggpåjord (a name that roughly translates to "Ola Ugly-on-Earth") in order to fetch the doctor in time. Bull wrote the story of Vesleblakken following an event at the parsonage in 1860. At that time, Bull's own brother Johannes had fallen ill with a severe case of pneumonia. Johannes fell ill again shortly after and died from what was referred to as "The Trondheim Throat Disease." Nordahl Rolfsen included the text in his "Reader for the Public School" in 1908, making it widely known. Vesleblakken is Bull's most popular story.
Photo: Toril Andreassen Directly east of the Bull Museum, below the courtyard of the old parsonage, archaeologists recently found signs of settlement from the Iron Age on the very first day of their exploratory excavation. Because the land-use plan for the museum was to be changed, it was necessary to determine whether the area might contain ancient cultural artifacts. The archaeologists began at the top near the Bull Museum, where they thought the area was most interesting, and used an excavator to remove the layer of plowed, cultivated land in a two-meter-wide path down from the museum courtyard. Within ten minutes, the excavator had uncovered the first of what would soon become several cooking pits, and then there appeared finds that the archaeologists are currently interpreting as bone remains of humans or animals, postholes, layers of old cultivation soil, and remnants of a chalk pipe.
In Bull's time, there was both an ornamental garden and a kitchen garden, apple trees, berry bushes, flowers, vegetables, and herbs. They even had a cold frame in the garden. Now, the Øvre Rendal Garden Society takes care of the garden. From "Mr. Samuel's Kingdom," Bull writes the following: Samuel Mandall paced back and forth in the paths of the small garden south of the old parsonage, eagerly observing the ongoing garden work.
Jacob Breda Bull was a renowned author, poet, and folklorist. Born in 1853, Bull spent his early years in Rendalen with his family until his father was appointed to a new pastoral position in Tønsberg. Bull was a teenager at the time and moved away from Rendalen, but he often returned during the summers to hunt, fish, and visit old friends in the valley he cherished. It was in this valley that he found the inspiration for his most famous stories, drawn from his own childhood memories or tales he heard from others. These included "Vesleblakken", "Ulveslaget", "Glomdalsbruden", "Fløtar-Lars", "Tater-Kristen", and many more. Bull was one of Norway's best-selling authors of his time, an active participant in the country's cultural elite, and a close friend of Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson. (1853-1930). In Bull's writings, the people of Rendalen appear as subtle, with a sense for beautiful melodies and good stories. Bull himself wrote himself into this tradition like no other in the village he so colorfully describes. In stories like "Vesleblakken" and "Ulveslaget", and in his novels and poems, he has brought the folk life, culture, and nature of Rendalen to a wide readership, making the people of Rendalen proud of their village. He was married twice and had five children with his second wife, including Olaf Bull. Towards the end of his life, he lived in Copenhagen. He passed away in 1930 and was buried outside Ytre Rendal Church. The old parsonage in Øvre Rendal, where Jacob Breda Bull grew up as the son of a pastor, is now a museum. Every summer, plays based on his stories are performed at the Bull Museum. Source: Rendalen Bygdemuseum: https://rendalenbygdemuseum.wordpress.com