Britt-Arnhild's House in the Woods

A Dairymaid Travels the World

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While searching the net to find a place for us to stay the first nights of our drive around Iceland, I was charmed by the tale of Anna, a dairymaid born in the tiny little village of Moldnúpur in 1901. In 1947 Anna decides to travel, and this leads to years of exploring the world. Back home she wrote travel books, publishing them, 7 in all, by herself.

Moldnúpur today is a tiny little village, on the mainland south in Iceland, looking directly out to the Vestmannaeyir. The village consists of a church, a few farms and Hotel Anna, named in tribute to the dairywoman who became a world traveler.

As soon as I found Hotel Anne online, and read Anna the Traveler´s tale, I couldn´t resist. Could I? I sent an email to the hotel, asking for a double room, but heard nothing back. I wouldn´t give up though, and after a couple of days I had my sister in law call the hotel. And "yes, they had a room available for us for two nights"

Our two days there turned out to be a dream. In the little hotel, with only 7 rooms, we were the only guests the first night, the second night two other rooms were occupied as well. The kitchen was splendid, and on our second night we took the chance to eat an Icelandic speciality - horse meet. Oh my, it was delicious.

But back to Anna. She did publish 7 books through her lifetime (she passed away in 1979). One is translated into English. I think I must learn Icelandic to be able to read the others.

Anna from Moldnúpur was born in the Icelandic countryside in 1901. She was energetic and eager to learn but her curcumstances did not allow for the possibility of long-term schooling. She worked at various jobs in Reykjavik and the countryside, and also practiced weaving, eventually leaving behind many woven treasures. After her first trip abroad Anna was always on the move; during the following years she made six long trips to Britain and mainland Europe, and in the summer of 1964 she traveled around the USA for more than three months. Anna wrote detailed novels about her journes and published them at her own expense. The voice of Anna from Moldnúpur is unique in the history of Icelandic literature and is a valuable witness to the self-image and the life experience of a common Icelandic woman of that time period, no less than to the countries she visited.
From the back cover of 
Anna from Moldnúpur. A Dairymaid Travels the World.
Publisged by Hotel Anna
www.hotelanna.is

Anna wrote her books from memory when she came home.
She had a most excellent memory!

Most of the female travellers I read wrote as they went, and before computers they used to write letters home and then using the letters as base for their travel books.

Travel letters is a dying art.
I still do write a few postcards, but no letters anymore:
Of course we must live in our own time, and today is the time of the digital nomad.
But what will be left after us?

I write my blog at least once a day when I travel. You can call it my travel letters to the world. But will the blog still be there in 50 years? In 100? 200?
Like letters I read today in my travel book collection?

I want to do my share to keep the travel letter writing alive.
Starting from Iceland, I want to send one handwritten letter to one of my readers during every travel abroad I do.

 

Do you want to be the receiver of one of the BrittArnhild´s House in the Woods Travel Letters?
If so, leave a comment on this post and tell me why you would cheerish a handwritten travel letter from me.

 

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Link to Hotel Anna

When life makes her own decision

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I had planned a  Lental walk in silence and spiritual reading. Sometimes life makes her own desicions. Reading is now writing. Writing is legends about creation.

Me?
I follow the path.

Curious, and 
deeply satisfied.

Photos:
Trondheim this morning.
No filter.

Words, tales, essays.......and the use of grave emulsion......

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I am surrounded by words.
Books, letters, papers, emails, blogging, diary.......

Not long ago I was asked to read through a manuscript for a friend,
then the same question from another friend.

I have read my dad´s poems over and over again while serching for images to illustrate them.

I am working on a series of old and new legends told with my words.

Last night Terje came with an article, from Brazil, originally written in Spanish, translated into English, for use in Norway. About "the use of Grave Emulsion in Brazil"
"Britt-Arnhild, can you read through this and tell me if it is something we can use in Norway?"

Grave Emulsion?
I have no clue!
Absolutely NO CLUE!

But I love words,
I read about Grave Emulsion,
and I gave my opinion.

 

I like to read manuscripts.
If I were to apply for a new job today, I would contact a publisher and ask if they had something for me.
Actually, last fall I was about to apply for a new job,
kind of a manuscript reader.

I know I would have loved it.

I did not apply.

And yesterday, when I went back to work after my sinus infection sick leave, I felt with all my heart and all my body

that the job I have for the bishop and diocese board of Nidaros

is The Job God has given me.

The Job He wants me to do.

I will continue to play with words.
To read, to write, to explore.

My heart will be in it,

but not as a job.

My job I have had for the last 13 years is a blessing.

And what a blessing!

 

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Photos: from my collection,
from Alambra, Krakow, Madeira, London
and Nidaros cathedral 

The Christmas Gift

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Among the gifts under our tree was a very special one.
"En morgen ny"
My father´s book of poems. 

My father has written poems all his life.
Mostly in secret.
Some time ago he decided to open up his world of words, and one day he came to me with a stack of papers.
"Britt-Arnhild, here are my poems. Do you think you can illustrate them with your photos, and may be we can make it into a book?"

 

Now, a year later, much work and many blessings later,
the book is a reality.

The most precious gift under our Christmas tree.

Thank you dear dad for sharing your poems with us.

Thank you Erik at Drømsmia for your important help.

Words put together

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When I started blogging in January 2005, oh my, almost 8 years ago, I knew my blog language was to be English. For several reasons. I wanted my world wide friends to understand my words. But even more important, I wanted to practice my English.

I am glad I have written in English through all these years,

but from time to time I miss writing in my mother tongue, Norwegian. Something can only be described by ones heart language. The deepest feelings, the brightest colours might be wordless, but to try to describe, to try to share, you need words put together, words which form themselves, directly from the heart.

And from time to time, quite often actually, I miss the possibility to share poems and quotes specially dear to me.

 

For some time now I have played with the idea to start a blog in Norwegian. 
Saturday the idea came to live, and
Blåklokkeveien
was born.

Blåklokkeveien,
Bluebell Road,
named after the street, the road where I lived from I was four till I was 19.
Bluebell, the Norwegian bluebell, blåklokke, my favorite flower.

 

Blåklokkeveien,
a place to meet Norwegian readers,
a play to practice writing in my mother tongue,
when you love to put words together,  daily practice
is essential.

 

Welcome over to Blåklokkeveien, The Bluebell Road.

And just to be clear;
I still need my daily English writing practice as well. 

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Photos: from yesterday´s hike to Bosbergheia, with Terje

 

A morning for letters

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Sunday morning.
A perfect day for letters.
Those handwritten, snailmail ones.

An art almost forgotten.

 

The pure joy when you find an envelope with a stamp from abroad in your mailbox.
Words of love over the oceans. 

Do you still write letters? 

 

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After almost 8 years of blogging, in English, I started a Norwegiab blog last night.

Blåklokkeveien

Welcome over.

My little mascot and I

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This charming fisherman and I have spent two mornings together at the cabin.
As always I am up and out of the bed long before the rest of the family. For years I have spent these early mornings blogging.

But not so this time.

My "travels" are taking me into a writing project,
my creativity and my energy are traveling into a world which asks to be known,
and I am the one chosen to find the
colours to paint the picture.

 

What a fascinating travel.
To follow a woman,
through childhood, prime, adulthood.
Being shown her special moments,
what has shaped her into what she has become today.

Her world unfolding in my heart and in my mind
as we walk her memory paths together.

Walking this road has to take focus from blogging.
I will not stop,
but may be not blog every single day,
like I have done for years now.

I will miss it.
I am sure I will miss it,

but I will still be here,
probably ALMOST every day :-)

 

And when I am not, you know I am busy seeking other words. 

The Goal I have set Myself

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I have set myself several goeal for this home alone week. Only problem right now is that the week passes so fast...........but then I know that these goals can be worked on, achieved next week, and the next one after.......

Tha main goal is to find photos for all my father´s poems and have them mailed, together with the poems, to the publisher. And while he will be working on printing a first draft for us, I will write the next for the book.

Not at all an easy task, but how I love doing it.

Reading and rereading my father´s poems, written over so many years. Looking through my ten thousands of photos, trying to find The One for each poem.

Last night I finally found the last photo.
Tonight I will look though all the poems and the photos once again,
and then mail it off.

I am looking forward to do the writing.
And I am looking forward to finish it.......as I have new challenges  dreams waiting.

 

If you deny your dreams, you deny yourself
Cecilia Samartin 

 

 

A Place for Inspiration

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Some places inspiration comes easily.
To me this often happens when I am near water.

Walking alone.
Words come floating.
Forms into sentences.

Wind from the sea grabs the tiny sand grains.
Blows them into a tale.

I am there.
Walking the wooden paths.
Smelling the salty ocean.
Letting grains of sand slip through my fingers.

Down at the beach I take my shoes off,
let mo toes be cherished by the warm sand.

I have my diary with me.
Sitting down I open it,
and starts to write.

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At Asilomar, near Monteray Bay,
inspiration came,
through wind, salt sea, air,
tiny flowers in the white, dry sand.

My novel will not be finished this year,
probably mor the next.

But its story lives in my heart.
And slowly, slowly it forms into words.
Words which might be shared.....

......some day. 

The photo hunt

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My father writes poetry. He has done so all his life. Next year he is turning 80, and for that occation he has gathered his main poems and will have them printed in a book. With my photos as illustration. We are in contact with a published (a friend of mine), we have set a date plan.......and the challenge is mine to get the right photos.

The challenge is....well challenging!

I have my fathers poems, I have some words from him for an introduction and has promised to write them out together with more words from me. I have thousands of photos, ten thousands of photos...... but do I have the right ones?

My father has many poems about human life, many of birds, along with other of nature, a few hymns, family life.

I have photos of much the same. But my photos are seen through my lense, my eyes, my mind, my heart.

My fathers poems are seen through his pen, his fingers, his mind, his heart.

To find the right photos, the best photos, the hand in hand photos.......yes, it is a challenge.

A challenge I love.

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A seagull photo will illustrate the poem we know and love the most. Written when we were children, four siblings, it is about a seagull male, a seagull female, meeting in spring, searching for and finding a place to build their nest, a nest which soon fills up with four eggs.