Britt-Arnhild's House in the Woods

The Blueberries are ripe

     The blueberries are ripe, and Marta and I are picking the ones we find around our cabin. For lunch one day we eat a fish caught out on the ocean the night before, and the perfect dessert is blueberries with milk and sugar. Nothing tastes more of summer. Afterwards we compare our tongues. Who has the deepest blue?

After lunch it is time for a sunbreak on the terrace. With a cup of coffee I sit down to read about the blueberries:

The blueberry is one of the oldest known fruit, more than 13000 years old. It is part of a family called Vaccinium which have more than 200 different members, varying from small plants to big trees. The Nordic blueberry, which is blue all through and the healthiest one we know filled with antiocidants as it is, has the Latin name Vaccinium myrtillus

     In Norway we have only these wild blueberries, and they have a very short season. Only about 10% of the berries are harvested during the few weeks they are ripe.

     We pick blueberries for the freezer, and have blueberries for pancakes and cupcakes during the long, dark winter months. But most of all we pick for eating while they still are fresh and warm from the sun. The thumbs and index finger of my right hand have a deep blue stain for a few weeks.

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Photos: Sunday breakfast at cabin - blueberry pancakes.

Note: I got the blueberry information from Wenche Frølich in Glad i Mat nr.3/2007

More blueberry stories here, and if you follow the links given, you will find even more blue.

When cousins have fun, everything can happen

Last summer they were four cousings playing together. The four cousings live far, far away from each other and seldom meet all together. Missing two is sad, but you can still have alot of fun.

My photographer

For a long time she dreamed of her own camera. She could always borrow her mother's, but still.......A pink one of her own, oh, sweet dream.

For years she travelled the world borrowing her mother's camera, early in the mornings, late at night. There were always so many things she wanted to capture.

One day she got a good idea. She let her mother use some of her photos in her blog, on one condition; she wanted some money for every comment, money for her pink camera. The responce was overwhelming, and soon afterwards the girl was the proud owner of a sparkling pink camrea. Now the camera travels the world with the girl, and photos are shot high and low.

Sometimes the pink camera is the best one to use, other times a question rises; "Mom, can I borrow your camera? Please?"

Photos: Marta in Lofoten

Sometime, somewhere....

Sometime, somewhere.....a tiny little house is waiting for you. It might still be only in your dreams. Or in your memories. Your dreams are in you, colourful buds waiting to blossom.

Thanks for sharing your "my island" buds and flowers. I loved reading about your dreams, your poems, watching your videos and photos, visiting your paradises.

I have watched Mauro's vaporetta ride where the see and the city lights look like Murano glass beads, I am walking in Venezia with Anna, I am dreaming about Vanessa's ghost city in Arizona, I am taken to Moulay Bouzerktoun with Elizabeth, I fly to islandsparrows beautiful island........(You will find links to all these beautiful places and more in the comment section of If - I lived on a small island.)

And again and again I travel over to Debbie to listen to The Plaintive Cry of a Seagull. Do you want to come along?

A special thank to Janice in my armchairtravelling yahoo group who sent me this poem:

The Lake Isle of Innisfree by William Butler Yeats. 
  
 
I WILL arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, 
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made; 
Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee, 
  And live alone in the bee-loud glade. 
 
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping
slow,         
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings; 
There midnight 's all a-glimmer, and noon a purple glow, 
  And evening full of the linnet's wings. 
 
I will arise and go now, for always night and day 
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;   
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray, 
  I hear it in the deep heart's core.

I have not found my Innisfree, but paradise would be living within
reach of water preferabbly the sea that I could see from my wind with
the hills behind - somewhere in Yorkshire is what I have always
thought.

Home... Fun... - Homefun

The suitcases and bags are unpacked, the washing machine is working non-stop. I look around and see dead wasps on the floors, dead flies in the window sills, dust everywhere. From my music collection I find La Nozze di Figaro and turn the volume high when I start cleaning. A good friend in Germany has given me the word homefun instead of the more dreary word house work. For homefun I need music.

We have been on the road and the house hasn't been cleaned since the grand garden party. When I walk around with my old dust rag, memories from the party play peek a boo from every corner. I count blessings and fill the prayers of thanks-basket. The afternoon feels sacred.

Outdoors Terje is mowing the grass. I give myself a break and walk out in the garden to watch him. And to pick borago flowers for tonight's salad. The boragos seed themselves, and give the herbgarden a fresh paint of summer blue. There is always blue in my palette.

Figaro and Susanna are still singing indoors, and with a bowl filled with fresh ruccola (rocket?) leaves and blue borago flowers I walk inside again. To finish cleaning. To start preparing dinner. And when everything is quiet late in the night, I play with glasses, stones and seashells gathered from my island, and a memory corner is set up.

My paradise island is here. Now.

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Listening to opera is my best way of turning housework into homefun. What is yours?

Young love

He was only 16 when he left his island to go to the big city to study. There he met a city girl, hands to hold, a mouth to kiss, eyes to look into, dreams to share, and he was comforted when his longing back to his beloved island was too strong.

The years passed. Some days sweet and easy, other days love had to be fighted for. Young love can be hard work. Young love can be a dance on roses.

 He took her back to his island several times. To let her walk the paths of his childhood. To discover new trails together. They studied maps. They discovered new land. On the map and in themselves. In each other. She was already deep in love with him. Now she also learned to love his island.

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Ingrid and her boyfriend Marius. Marius comes from Lofoten, from the small city close to where my brother and his family live. Last week we all were there, and could spend island time together.

"Little Venezia" of Lofoten

     The small fishing village Henningsvær is situated on alot of small islands and is often called The Venice of Lofoten. How can I not feel at home in a place called Venezia.

     Terje and I left Marta with her cousin and spend a day sightseeing alone. Henningsvær was high up on our list. After a couple of hours walking around and lunching in one of the old warehouses at the harbour, we find a glassblower's workshop, and I am hooked. I watch the whole process of making a wineglass, and count my pennies again and again; "shall I buy one?" But it is still in the beginning of our vacation and I know there will be other temptations, so I walk from there without a glass.

     The image of the beautiful coloured glasses followed me all week, and on our last day in Lofoten, when we took Marta and her cousin to the Lofoten Aquarium, in the neighbour village, to watch the newborn seal baby, I made Terje take a detour out to Henningsvær and the glassblowers.

Now one of the limegreen glasses have left Lofoten to find a new home in Trondheim.

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My "very own" glassblower in real Venezia, charming Mauro, has opened his own blog. Look here to see his magic hands giving birth to a dragon. Glasshandmade is now my blog of the week.

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We came home at 11pm last night, left Lofoten at 7am. Not much to show you from the drive in rain and mist, but my island stories will go on. I am at work now, but tonight I will unpack and see how many Lofoten-postcards I have.......

Flying South

     We are going south today, a 15+ hour's car drive. Work starts tomorrow morning.

I have one Lofoten postcard left. Who wants it?

Note: I have gathered stories in Lofoten and will share them during days and weeks to come.......

If - I lived on a small island

     If - I lived my life on a small island I would walk out every morning in search of life, in search of beauty. I would walk along the beach looking for shells and beautiful stones. I would listen to the seagulls and would learn the songs and scedules of other seabirds as well. I would bend in the wind like straws, or raise my whole body to meet the morning sun.

     If - I lived on a small island, I would walk out in spring to look for the nests, and make sure not to disturb the birds. If - I lived on a small island, I would walk out in summer to look for the wild roses. If - I lived on a small island, I would walk out in autumn to say goodbye to the migrant birds. If - I lived on a small island, I would walk out in the dark winter night to dance with the northern aurora borealis light.

     If - I lived on a small island, I would live in an old cabin with red painting worn almost grey by the sea and the wind. The cabin would have windows facing all four compass directions, and in front of every window there would be a small table. A small table for my diary, a sketchpad and an old mug filled with coloured pencils. In the main room there would be a table with a few chairs, enough to invite you to share a meal with me.

    I would share my island stories with you, and you would bring me a gift - a sea shell, a beautiful stone, a bouquet of wildflowers, a bird's feather. And you would tell me about your island.

Tell me about your favorite place, in words or with a link, and let's share life stories.

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Photos: from the island Vega. The island awakened a dream in me.

On the Ferry

     Have you ever been on board a ferry. For hours. With the sea and the sky as your travel companions. And the sun taking possession of both.

Saying good bye to a familiar place. Looking forward to exploring new land. New adventures.

     With a basket filled with guidebooks, novels, a couple of magazines, my camera, paper and pens, I was armed to meet four hours on the Atlantic Ocean, from the city of Bodø out to the Lofoten Islands. On our way to visit family.

The ferry took us over Vestfjorden, a part of the Atlantic known for high waves. But this day the sea was still. Friendly. Amiable.

     I let my basket stand. I let the sun, the wind, salt drops from the ocean embrace me. Four hours is not enough to digest all this beauty. You need a lifetime.