As I've mentioned in the last post, Morten and I went to the cabin. For those who are unfamiliar with the term, let me explain in a few words. Norwegians, and scandinavians more generally, have a cultural habit of flying their home during holidays to go hiding in little houses in the woods, mountains or by the sea. Some of these houses are often barely two rooms and, because of the location, have neither electricity, nor tap water.
For the past 12 years, Morten and three of his friends have rented one of those cabins in Finnskogen. It's a 440 years old log house situated deep in the forest, where not even the mobile signal can disturb you.
In all, no electricity, no water (besides the one you bring with you), no mobile and naturally, no internet. Instead, wood burners and fire place for the heat, oil lamps and candles for the light at night, gas for the cooking, water collection from the roof for washing and a barrel of drinking water for all the foodish uses and as an extra, a good book, water colors, notebook, plenty of time to relax and meditate and a magical surrounding.
Once in a while, Morten and I take the car for an hour and reach that remote place for a couple of days. Although it sounds idyllic, we've been so used to technology and, for my part, using internet daily (not always for the most interesting thing) that, by the end of the second day, it feels good to know that we're going back home. Maybe a week there would help changing some unnecessary patterns…
Back from the cabin, it was delightful to find the house and the garden overfilled with new and old tasks waiting to be done. The currant were ready to be picked to make jelly, the grass needed cutting, the woodshed had to be fixed, the fire wood was to be cut and split, nettles were still chocking wild raspberries…(and I'm not even mentioning what awaits us inside the house).
With renewed energy, Morten and I started, one by one, the jobs in the garden, starting with the tall grass. While we were at the cabin, I'd spotted a scythe in the corner of the shed. It was still functional so we borrowed it and brought it back to the house to sharpen it. Needless to say it was a fantastic tool.
The result was not pitch perfect, but blo*** amazing !
Then, as before, I took care of the fruits and and my dear friends the nettles while Morten went on with the woodshed. I leave you enjoying the few pictures.
It's almost unbelievable both the amount of currants those bushes are producing and the size of the berries. Since it was to make jelly, Morten advised me to take the once that were on the edge of being ripe. In other words, they had to be red, but not the juiciest. It would help the jelly settle he said. For me, currants brings back old memories of my grand-mother garden. Each summer, we would come and pick the currants and black currants so that she and my mom could make jam. Of course, as any kid would probably do, I used to eat currant while collecting them. To do it today is like living a Proust moment from "À la recherche du temps perdu" (translated "In search of lost time"). The sweet and sour taste of the currant becomes a time travelling experience flying back in that momento as if it was yesterday.
Hmm, 1.2 kg ready to be mixed with the black currants to be reborn as jelly.
Meanwhile, Morten works on the shed. When he arrived here 6 years ago, there was no place to store the fire wood during winter. In hurry, he therefor built a small shed out of wooden palets and a tin roof. So far, it was satisfactory and nearly enough. But this makeshift construction had to be fixed at some point. The walls barely stop the heavy snows of winter from entering and wet logs covered in snow don't make good fires. So, as this year wood is drying in the sun, Morten cuts planks and put together the side walls.
To keep it neat and in harmony with the house and garage, he used the same staggering technic.
Two and a half wall done, under the stoning sun.
Another good day has past, leaving us tired but happy.
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