Sinister: I had a dream.... of the sea...

[idleberry]

It’s odd sometimes, the way some things remind me of
other things. I heard two seagulls today, as I was
leaving home, and memories of going to Norway as a kid
came flooding back. 

My mum, for those of you who aren’t aware, is
Norwegian. She is from this tiny little fishing
village, in the far north. Farther North than
Trondheim, which is pretty far north to some people.
Farther North than Tromso. Just stop before you get to
Hammerfest on a map, and you’re there. 

It is only a small village, inaccessible by car, so we
used to take a two hour ferry, that always made me sea
sick. We’d go down into the lounge, and I would lie on
the plastic cushioned benches, trying to ignore the
sweet smell of waffle mixture and coffee, and trying
to concentrate on watching a fuzzy picture of ‘Allo
‘Allo! with Norwegian subtitles being shown on NRK –
the only TV station that hasn’t left the 1950’s in
terms of the presenters appearance. When we arrived at
the harbour, we’d be greeted by the scent of the
seawater corroding the slimy metal of the boat, and
the fragrance of fish in a nearby unit, having been
recently caught, and the cry of the gull’s overhead.  

There isn’t much in the village, just beautiful houses
made of wood, painted in any colour imaginable with a
complimenting shade for the trim around the gutters
and the window frames, and tarmac roofs. The gardens
are usually neatly kept, and not particularly
different to the garden you might find n the North of
Scotland, with the exception of perhaps a local stream
running down from a glacier through the landscape, or
a towering white flagpole with the Norwegian flag
flying at the top. None of the houses are more than 55
years old – The Germans burnt every building in the
North as they fled at the end of the Second World War,
leaving a wake of Norwegians trying to find shelter
from the harsh winters. I read that one such group of
Norwegians, on the other side of the fiord, found
shelter for a long winter in an upturned fishing boat.

There is a pub there, that seems to have a habit of
being burnt down every five years or so. It is owned
by this blonde man, who has lines of hair sewn into
his head as a transplant. His scalp reminds me of a
Barbie doll, the way those lines are so uniform. 

There is a post office in the concrete basement of a
house. You go in, with your little key for the little
steel post box. The houses don’t have numbers there;
the address is usually the name of the recipient, the
village and postcode.  

There is a beautiful little white wooden church, with
a wooden steeple. Everyone from the village is buried
there, and the graves all point out towards the
whitest sand beach, and a cold, azure sea, and beyond
to the mountains and glaciers. At Christmas, it is
traditional to put a lantern on the graves, something
I think is a lovely idea. I’ve never seen it in
winter, but I imagine dark marble headstones poking
out from feet of snow, and a dark grey sky (as the sun
doesn’t rise above the mountains for a good few months
in the winter) and all these little lanterns
flickering in the wind.

Memories of going to the boathouse, and tentatively
exploring my grandfathers fishing boat, and my great
grandfathers fishing boat, and my mothers old bicycle.
Gazing in the dusty sunlight that creeps behind me
through the doorway at an archive of old thick fishing
ropes, and floats, a museum and a testament to the way
it was. 

There is a barn where my grandparents used to keep
animals. A huge wood barn, with two floors, and now
filled with chunks of wood and timber used over the
years, and old saws and a scythe they still use to cut
the grass and scatterings of dried mouse droppings.

People don’t bother knocking on your front door when
they come to visit in the village. People leave the
front door open. When a visitor comes calling, they
usually take off their shoes and boots, and walk
across the wooden floored hall with its rag woven rugs
and scent of soap and cakes and fish. They knock on
the kitchen door and let themselves in. Then a pot of
coffee is put on the stove to boil, and the cakes are
served and people stay for hours, sometimes until 2am,
chatting and catching up.

We used to go berry picking in the daytime, and try to
avoid being bitten by the mosquitoes. There is only
one television channel in service that we can get at
my grandmother’s old house, NRK. It comes on around
6pm, and shows 1980’s Czechoslovakian animations for
the children. Then through the evening, there will be
a documentary, perhaps from the UK, with subtitles,
and perhaps an old 1980’s comedy. In between
programmes, there is a presenter, with immaculate
hair, and a fresh faced look and perhaps a vase of
flowers, speaking kindly to the presenter. And later
on, an old film, from the 1970’s, perhaps from Paris. 

On rainy days, I’d lie in my great-grandfathers old
bed (I was named after him) and write stories, or read
books. In the summer, I could lie awake at night,
until 4am, without needing to turn on a single light
since it was still daylight.

I’d go through a biscuit tin from Queen Elizabeth’s
Silver Jubilee, of old photographs dating from 1890,
of members of my family, and fading blue handwriting
on the back of who they were. 

My mum would wash clothes in the stream, or in the
twin tub that sits in the corner of the bathroom my
dad and uncles built in the 1970’s. Before that, there
was only a shed to go to, with a box and a deep hole
cut into it that went into a pit and served as a
toilet. In some parts of rural Norway, you still find
public toilets like that. 

And then it was with the sound of cars driving past on
the roundabout that took me from this daydream, and I
still had to go to work, and I still had to take the
train through the suburbs to the city. 

I wish I could take you there, I really wish I could.

love and day dreams

idles


=====
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