Britt-Arnhild's House in the Woods

Not alone any more.

I am on my way to meet Terje and the girls for almost three weeks of travels. I fly south with my niece this morning for a few days with family in the south of Norway, then  10 days in Denmark before driving back north.

Now Terje can get back his old job of chaseing these frightening bedroom monsters for me. I hate doing it alone, though I had to laugh the other night, waking up at around 3am for a chase and when finished I spotted Sue Townsend's book Adrian Mole and the Weapons of Mass Destructions on my bedside table. May be Adrian Mole would be just as good as Terje.....

The Battle of Stiklestad.

Yesterday we celebrated Olsok in Norway, St.Olav's Day. King Olav died in the battle at Stiklestad anno 1030.

I spent the whole day at Stiklestad yesterday, starting with mass in the medieval church in the morning. During the day I took part in seminars at Stiklestad museum, and at 6pm it was time for the outdoor play telling the story about how king Olav died at Stiklestad July 30, 1030.

King Olav wanted to reign all Norway, but many of the local earls didn't want to become men of the king. The king had been abroad and met christianity, and one of his main goals was to christianize Norway, but the people still belived in Odin, Thor and the other Viking gods. King Olav lost the battle of Stiklestad and was killed in the fights. But after his death miracles started to happend and word of moth made the king a saint. After his death a local farmer at Stiklestad and his son took the body to Nidaros (Trondheim) and buried it on the river bank. And it is there you now find the Nidaros Cathedral, the St.Olav Church of Trondheim.

The Battle of Stiklestad is called the mother of all outdoor, historical plays in Norway. The first one was performed in 1954, and it has been performed at Olsok-time every year since then.

Stiklestad is only 90 minutes north of Trondheim, still it was only my third visit to the play. I saw it early in the eighties, then last year, and then again yesterday. Now I regret all the years in between that I haven't been there. Alot of it is due to vacation time and travelling abroad which we often do at this time of the summer. But this is not the whole explanation. So now it is already marked in my calendar for next year. As long as I can help it I am not going to miss it again.

Harvesting.

The berries in my garden are ripening and it is time to harvest. The black currant could still have some days before picking, but I am going on vacation on Tuesday morning and will be away for 2 weeks, so I made the first marmalade of the summer today.

Picking the berries, cleaning them from leaves, cooking them with water, stirring for a long time in 8 movements, adding sugar. As I do this, an increasing, heavenly perfume fills my kitchen. I burn my fingers when taking out the pre-heated glass jars from the oven but don't feel the pain, and I can't take my eyes of the full jars in a row.

The work brings forth sweet memories from summers in my grandmother's garden, other good childhood memories of canning and making marmalade together with my mother. Memories sweet as the smell from my kitchen today.

It is cheap to buy jam in the grocery stores nowadays, but I am never tempted. The jam from my kitchen is clean, just berries, water and sugar, and it is made with love. Love for my family that will find delight in it, love for my garden which gives my such pleasure, love for the Creator of all life. I want to let the mesmerizing smell from my kitchen follow me wherever I go to pay sweet memories forward to people I meet.

The Food of Love or the Love of Food.

I am home alone for a few days, and as I am always used to cook for a whole brunch of people, it is easy to make it simple when you are alone. This time I decided not to do that. On the contrary, being alone actually give me so much free time, time that can be used on cooking.

Inspired by a book I have just read, The Food of Love by Anthonly Capella, and a blog I read every day, Ivonne's Cream Puffs in Venice, I decided to treat myself extra special last night.

I started with a visit to the harbour after work. I had planned to visit the fish market and get inspiration to a fish meal, but a boat were on the dock announcing fresh shrims. The weather was nice and hot, a perfect weather for shrimps, so I couldn't resist. It is a special summer treat to sit out on the docks eating shrimps right out of the bag and throw the leftovers to the seagulls, but I had other plans.

Coming home, after a busride in baking temperatures, no air-condition in Norwegian town buses, I wanted my dinner to be a late one in the garden, so I just found some bread and cheese to help my hunger, and then started a shopping list. Working on the list I realized that I didn't have to shop for groceries at all. The shrimps were already in the fridge, and so were some mayonnaise, I had a lime that could go for lemon and I had flour and yeast to make white bread - and bread from the shop, no matter how fresh it is, is never better than home made bread accompanied with the smell it perfume the whole house with. For dessert I wanted to make a pie with berries from the garden, strawberries, cherries, black and red currants, and I had egg and milk, polenta and vanilla sugar to make the most yummy vanilla sauce - can't be compared to what you buy of course.

I picked the berries while the bread dough was raising and made the vanilla sauce while the breads were in the oven. The crust for the pie was made and put in the fridge, the berries were cleaned and all I had to do was to wait. It was still a bit early, so I sat out in the garden, listening to Mozart's Don Giovanni, reading Susan Howatch's A Question of Integrity and enjoying the funny clouds in the sky.

Around 9pm I couldn't resist the nice smell from the kitchen any more. I went out in the garden to pick salad and herbs for the butter, made a salad for one, laid the table, and my slow food feast started.

To be alone and be able to treat myself like this is a blessing, but of course the blessing is so rich because I know I have my family still very close, and will be together with them again in a few days. I look forward to keep on making feasts like this, Food of Love, for Terje and the kids, and for friends of course, in the future.

Life wasn't always serene like today.

To reach Smøla from our cabin we have to drive for about 25 minutes, and then take two ferry rides. We woke up Monday morning to a bright, smiling northern summer sun, had breakfast on terracce, made some extra coffee to bring with us, and started our adventure. First stop was already on the ferry quay with coffee and home made waffles made by a local lady - we were well prepared for the day.

Smøla is a small, flat island, or rather thousands of small and bigger islands out in the North Sea, south west of Trondheim. I haven't found out how many people there are living there today, but I can guess that there are a couple of thousands liveing there all year round, alot more during the summer months.

Our day was beautiful, and the island showed it's buttered side as the locals love to say. But life isn't always like this. Smøla is and has always been an island for fishermen, and when you live of your fishing you are bound to go out with your boat no matter how hard the wind blows.

The first thing we met when we boarded the island was Edøy Old Church and the churchyard on it's western side. The church might be more than 800 years old, and is beautifully restored in stones and red painted wood. Through the centuries the church has seen everything, joy and sorrows, baptism and funerals, the shy smile when a young woman gives her yes to a young man, the tears when the same woman are there years later, dressed in black, following a coffin.

Driving around we realised that the island hosted alot of small graveyards, old and new, telling stories about fishermen who were forced to give their life to the sea, stories about fright, unsecurity, loss, mothers losing young sons, wives losing husbands, children losing fathers

I embrace my beloved ones, thankful that I have them all close to my heart, send a thanks to God for the blessings he give me every day, and send a thank to the people who have walked before me, making my world a peaceful,sacred place. And I send another prayer to God for peace for all people.

Oliva's House

At Smøla, a small island in the North Sea, you can find an old house with white painted walls, dark red paint around the windows, grass growing on the roof. The house has been the home for generations during several hundred years and is marked with signs of love and work, hard and stormy winter days when the wind made it impossible to open the door, warm and sunny summer days when thousands of roses were in bloom. Oliva came to this house as a young bride with white roses in her bridal bouquet, she was the last person to live in "Olivastua", and her name has therefore been given to the house. The first thing Oliva did after moving in with the love of her life was to plant one of the roses from her bouquet. The rose rooted, just like Oliva did, and though Oliva died about 40 years ago, the rose survived and is blooming with hundreds of sweet smelling roses every summer.

Oliva never had a child of her own, and when her husband died she and her cat were the only remnants in the house. All the love that was in her meant for her own babies were spred out on the other children on the island. They loved to visit Oliva. She had stories to tell about days long gone, she had songs to sing, there was always home made suger covered cakes in her tins, and she had a smile and a hug for everyone.

Oliva was never lonely. In the summer she had her garden, her cooking and baking and all the work which followed the small farm. And during long winter nights she knitted. She subscribed to a magazine from Oslo, and every second week she got a thrill when she found the newest issue in her mailbox. Together with stories about people living totally different lives from her, there were recipes and patterns in her magazine. Olive loved to flip through the knitting patterns, sweathers in bright colours, chic hats and mittens, lace patterned table clothes. In her dreams she made it all, and her dreams sometimes took her on long trips around the world, visiting exotic and far away places. All through her dreaming her fingers were fluently working the needles, and knitted quilts made of scrap wool were created. Running out of wool was no problem for Oliva. If the quilt was still too small when there was no wool left she just cut up her old nylon pants and worn out aprons, braided them and sewn them to the quilt. The quilts were used to cover old chairs, and they gave the best warmth during cold winter nights.

Guest were treated royaly in Olivastua. They got to sleep in the best bedroom under the best quilts decorated with English embroidery, filled with the smoothest and softest bird feathers Oliva had gathered around the island.

And from her book cabinet Oliva found one of her Bibels or religious books which she put near the bed to be sure that you had the proper litterature to read before sleeping.

Oliva had a secret passion - old photos and frames. Photos filled almost all the available space in her "bestestue"  (livingrooom used only for guests and on Sundays), and when the tinker passed by her house every second months she couldn't resist buying more frames. Old and gone family members, made eternal through her portraits were her very good friends and advisers. Framed photos filled every inch of space on tables and on top of cupboards and hutches. Only on the walls she laft room to show her pride, the brown rose wall paper.

Oliva is long gone, but she is still living in tracks she left, in love she spread out and care she payed forward. Oliva is not one of my foremothers if I follow strikt family lines. Still I feel live I live in her heritage. She is one of so many strong women that has lived her time on earth making the world a better place for us to live on, making it possible for me today to live as a free, erect woman proud of myself and proud of my gender

Blueberry season and travelling like Frances Mayes.

The blueberry season has started, which means that Marta is in seventh heaven. Our cabin is placed right in the middle of a blueberry hill, and though it is usually quite dry there which means fewer berries, there is always enough to make a 10 year old tongue perfectly blue.

Can you imagine more perfect images than a child's hand filled with juicy, blue berries, and the same child putting out her tongue as far as she can, crossing her eyes, trying to catch a glimpse of the sweet and tasty blue colour.

We love the west side of our cabin where we can enjoy the late evening sun. A few pieces of furniture placed on random, glorious nature as far as we can see.

Sunday night I was planning our day trip to Smøla, and Isat there surrounded by books and travel diaries. And in between I read pages from Frances Mayes' latets book, "A Year in the World". Now, almost 10 years after discovering Frances Mayes' writing, I still remember how it was to read "Under the Tuscan Sun" for the first time. At that time I had only been to Italy once, and travel litterature was a genre almost new to me, so the book opened up a new world. I had started to write my own travel diaries already then, I have quite a collection of them now. But Mayes taught me a totally new way to see things. I know that some people don't like her new book where she tells about alot of different travels. It can at times be too sketchily, only scratching the surface, and too much "just seeing the tourist part" of a place. Still there is something with her writing that hit my travel genes in a way that make them play a totally new song. The way she reflects on what she sees, the way she tells about authors and artists connected to the places she visits, the way she love to play with rare words to describe her experiences and feelings. I love it, and it makes me want to write myself, which I am doing more and more. Now I never go anywhere without a notebook, a diary or a sketch book. And when you first start to travel write, or photograph seriously, a new world opens. You see new and old places with fresh eyes, and travelling becomes a passion you can't live without.

Travelling for me is not necessarily to go to far away and exotic places. Travelling for me is to sit in my office and look out the window, it is the bus ride I do to and from work, it is a hike in the countryside behind our house, it is two weeks in Laos or a week-end to Prague. Of course my "art of travelling" could have developed without Frances Mayes, still, I know in the deep of my heart that I have alot to be thankful to her for. And I soon need to buy new copies of "Under the Tuscan Sun" and "Bella Tuscany". The ones I have are read over and over again and are worn out.

Can't talk now, I'm out enjoying life.

Sunday night we went down to the sea for fishing. I have always heard that you can't have luck both in love and in fishing, and my luck in love must be extra big right now. We got no fishes, but enjoyed a perfect night.

Sunday morning breakfast in garden

Father-in-law is here for a week, and we are just back home from taking him to our cabin for two days. Had a lovely time and I have so much to tell and so many photos to show. But we came home late tonight, Ingrid phoned on our way home and asked "Mum, can you please make som home made pizza when you come home?" - which of course I couldn't say no to. And now after eating almost more than we could have (we all LOVE home made pizza) I have alot of unpacking to do, and also prepearing for another workday tomorrow. So a photo from yesterday morning's breakfast in the garden must do for tonight. Enjoy! And welcome over to share a meal with us in our garden.

I love making breakfast tables making the table with china and glass from my collection

Take time to enjoy the beauty.

Last night I sat out in the garden reading in the late evening sun. Books capture me and I tend to forget all around me, creeping into the book, travelling the world with my heroes. Last night I travelled in  Norway together with the Czech writer Carel Kapek. What a golden eye and a colden pen this man had! And what a talent to share his travels. My heart was, and is captured by his writing.

Then, totally obsessed by his writinging, I opened my eyes and realised that I sat right in the middle of sacred beauty - my own garden. What a blessing to have such a spot where I can relax, where I can work till all my muscles aches, where I can be alone, where I can spend time with my family or with friends. A place where I can play with colours, where bees and butterflies swarm and where the squirrels now almost eat from Marta's hand. A place where I can travel the world with books and my writing, or where I can forget time and just enjoy smell and beauty. Praise to the Almighty Creator who made this sacred piece of earth mine.

Can you see the heart of the flower, do you take time to enjoy it's pure beauty?