Norwegian tales from Finland

Allow me to set the scene: I sit at a small coffee shop table, enough for two if no dinner plates are involved. An expensive Marimekko cup contains cheap-tasting, over priced filter coffee. Behind that stands an opened sandwich box, one of those cardboard with plastic window kind, with one of the two halves of a slightly sweated goat cheese and rocket sandwich still left. Outside the large 20 foot windows in front of me, is a floor of grey cement with painted tracks, behind are rows of tall trees - pine I suppose from the pale-ish stalky look, reaching high into their bushy green tops. And an immense sky of light blue ribbed with colourful evening clouds fills the rest of the window. Really quite pleasant. On the loudspeakers above, intermittent announcements firstly in Finnish, followed by a heavily accented English, calls out for the stragglers. Welcome to Helsinki airport, where I await the arrival of E who is arriving on a later flight.

As you know, last week I was in Norway visiting M and L who have settled themselves very nicely, if temporarily, into M's childhood home. A quaint, airy, wooden house in the equally quaint town of Grimstad. Narrow streets with steep hills on the edge of a fjord defines the town, the mostly white wooden houses nestled in among, below and atop the boulderous rocky nature that rises from the sea and falls from the wooded mountains. We borrowed bikes and cycled to Roald Dahl's favoured holiday beach of Fevik Strand, some 8km away. A real treat for this Dahl fanatic. Next door to the house lived M's aunt, G and her tiny skinny frail Scottish husband F, and their not so tiny Scottish Deerhound, Ghillie Rose.

Ghillie Rose

Like a skinny donkey with an abundance of energy, she and F looked comical together, though the big mutt acquiesced to F's small voice telling her to calm or slow down. G and F once owned a very exclusive guest-house / restaurant in the rurals of Scotland, called Altnaharrie Inn, which boasted Scotland's only 2 Michelan star status. G was the cook, F the waiter, and they were legends in their time. Interestingly, G never went to a fancy cooking school. She never went to any cooking school, as a matter of fact. She simply took to it. Within minutes of meeting this woman, G established herself as a very dominant, impressive, no-nonsense type, with a heart of gold. Immediately likeable, she is a sturdy woman, full of lively chatter and no nonsense. F, on the other hand, is a soft spoken gentleman, ever so quietly chipping in with funny comments, usually to bait his adoring wife, in a gorgeous Scottish accent. One story involving a tick having burrowed into G's head: She ploughed on with the story of how F, who was a veterinarian, applied a scalpel to remove the little bugger, and immediately, the severe headache she had been suffering vanished. F chucked and said something about "evil gases" having been released with his blade! They are an endearing couple, opposites who compliment perfectly. This story, and many more, were imparted to us at their holiday home. We three were invited to join them on the near-perfect island of Sandøya, some two hour drive north from Grimstad.

Sandøya

The house, dating from 1850, is exactly what you'd expect: a white wooden slatted, red roofed two story, settled atop a very large rock that curves up and then back down to the water facing and behind the house. They have the privilege of being the only house on the island that sits on a jut that gives them this unique water surround - and two jetties for the water-taxis to park. A modestly titled 'annex' to the side of the house contains a fairly modern bathroom, and a bedroom with three beds for guests. Over and beyond the great rocky hill in front of the annex, is a secluded beach, where we three 'youngsters' went skinny dipping (an annual August habit in the making) in the evening and again the next morning in the crystal clear cool waters. Far superior to any boxed in shower cubicle. A sweeping carpet of green grass stretches between the two jetties and runs alongside the house. Beds of flowers, berry bushes, and a range of herbs crop up in huge clumps at the fringes of the green, meaning a raspberry or cherry or strawberry or rosemary blade is never far from reach should the craving hit. We found, picked and ate, wild onions that were growing in clumps in grassy rock crevices.

Ghillie Rose was positively ecstatic to be at her other home. She bounded in a puppy like fashion, much to the delight of all who watched or interacted with this humongous hound. She loved playing chase, if you ran, she'd run after, and although she could easily have outrun anyone, she played along at human speeds just for the fun of it. Now I realise by now you are probably getting hunger pains in anticipation of a story that involves being a guest at a chef's holiday home. I will release you from your misery with 2 words:

Cheese Soufflé

It is every bit as good as your imagination is dreaming up and I cannot do justice without many years' dedicated practice at the art of sensual writing. So let your imagination run riot with those two magical words. There was a huge breakfast spread the next morning too, with exquisite scrambled eggs dotted with herbs, a range of cheeses, homemade jams, chutneys, warm breads, fresh coffee.... we weren't even hungry come lunch time, but not a chance that would any effect on the gobbling of a big bowl of lentil and vegetable soup, littered with herbs from the garden. I have since wondered if I am so easily swayed by the knowledge of the magical "2 star" status this woman quietly carries (it was M who told us, she made no reference) that the food seemed 'better' for having this knowledge? I don't suppose I'll ever know, short of creating an elaborate hoax on some unsuspecting people, allowing a rumour of a Michelan Star status to fall on me, then observe and note their reactions at my dinner table. (If I ever tell you that I did that... please do advise me strongly to get a hobby, or at least get a grip!)


A danish dentist told me that the best fruit she had ever eaten was Norwegian fruit. She had some theory about the climate dictates that fruit take longer to ripen, so the flavours are much more intense. I don't know about her theory, but I fully agree with her assessment: we had a punnet of the sweetest most succulent strawberries I have every tasted... and the Irish boast of their berry quality, but really this was exceptional. Same too went for the cherries we picked from M's tree in the garden. They even looked perfect.

Y'know, I avoided going to Norway for a long time. A magical version of it was etched permanently by Roald Dahl's tales of his summer holidays at his grandparent's place. He was all I wanted to read as a young 'un. I devoured everything he wrote, fast tracking my literacy to levels beyond my classmates, as noted by some teachers. At least in the early years of school. So my longing to visit the country was hindered by what could have been very unrealistic expectations. As you probably realise from all the tales I've given you about my previous visits, and this third one now too, the expectations held have been exceeded in so many ways. If it's a self deluding view I've concocted to prevent disillusionment from a childhood fantasy... well I'm really impressed at my own faculties for keeping me in such happy fool's paradise!


What else did we do: well, I think I mentioned we borrowed a car from one of M's friends. An old jalopy, it was very noisy, but it got us around well enough. L did the driving - she's a terrible passenger, but since the car was returned minus the right wing mirror, her reputation for awesome driving skills are now back to mere mortal status! Y'see, when on one of rural Norway's narrow roads, a veering away to the right as an oncoming car approached, drove us into a badly positioned wheelie bin parked a bit too close to the road. K'thunk! And there went the mirror. This happened on the way back from Sandøya. We were taking a diversion to Risør where they were busy preparing for their annual wooden boat festival. The car owner, S, was working at the festival. He had sailed his boat there, leaving the car free for us. Cute little town, Risør is. Loaded, as you can imagine, with rows and rows of gorgeous looking boats, including two viking ships in pristine condition. One had sailed to New York, even. We walked the length of the dock, and at the end was the aquarium and an advertisement for an underwater post office. Turns out, they actually have some sort of office parked under the sea, and any letter posted in letterbox (above ground) is brought down by a diver into the underwater office, where it is stamped, brought back up and posted! A bit mad, right?
  

   

Risør

Other than that, we spent our time at home, made jam with the cherries picked from the tree (use too much pectin and it turned to a very solid jelly!) cooked and had coffee at local cafes, and ate out one night in a lovely restaurant, washing our veggie burgers down with a really zesty lemongrass tinged local beer. Really nice. They even had barbeque sauce pooled on the plate beside the burger - this made me so happy! I LOVE barbeque sauce, more than ketchup, and I really like ketchup.

This email seems to be mostly about food.... I'm a bit hungry which might explain it. That sandwich was pretty unsatisfying, even though I did finish that second half during this. Well, E should be landing shortly, so we can head into town and find our host. Not sure which terminal she's arriving in. Matter of fact, I'm not entirely sure what terminal I am sitting in! I will leave this mail here, and go do the necessary.

Toodle-Pip.