River deep and mountain high

This summer has flown by like "a watch in the morning".
Bitter and sweet, high and low.
I would like to share some highlights.
Here; hubby Gunnar on the ferry on our way to Stavanger.
Lots of fjords in Norway and lots of ferries in traffic.
Three 300meter deep tunnels to drive through under the water to get to
Stavanger. Only two hours drive though. Jim's son lived and worked here for a couple of years. His father did not dare to take the trip, though.
Perhaps he should finish his Scandinavian tour sometimes. They'll be welcome.

Train from Stavanger to the utmost south, Kristiansand.
Here passing the station Moi, where my brother has been living for 25 years.
Gunnar watching closely while the scenery keep changing.
Keeping his tension well under control. He's out in a mission.Gunnar is standing at the top of the hill leading down to beach paradise.
I slipped out of my sandals.
The sand was so soft and deep I sunk down to over my ankles.
On the way home, we decided that is was time to call it a day, and stopped at our favorite beach on earth, Ogna.
Mathilda is waltzing with a cellphone in her right hand, already soaked by salt water up to the waist.
Luckily I had handed my phone over to Gunnar before I was overwelled.
Terry, you should have been there, you would have loved it as much as I do. We just bought tooth brush,2, and toothpaste. I washed my clothes and hung them out to dry.
It went like a dream.
Sundown of my longings.
Mission completed. M Gunnar Parker behind the stick of his new, old Sopwith Camel.
Cruising through the landscape of my Mom's. Jaeren.
The Discovery is lead to old hunting fields. Like the old graveyard by the sea.
The stone has the inscription from psalm 121. If you doubleclick, Lil Pilgrim Pal, you can read it in Norwegian.
Terry once asked what roll stones (or rolling stones) was.
They were brought to land's end by the ice some 10000 years ago. In the horizon huge stone age graves close by the beach.
Manitoba by the sea?
In and outdoor art exhibition at the old vicarage.
Main artist, Ellinor Floor was raised in a Pentecost Church. She says that's why she loves hats. The one in the foreground would fit nicely on a Texan lady, or?
They are not really meant for wearing,-I hope.
I just had to snap a picture from the guestbook; Canadian visitors.
Goodbye, Old Vickarage. We'll be back, that's for sure.
Turid and Liv have been out on an eleven days Pilgrimage, walking 250 kilometers a day, also using walking sticks.
Thats how Turid woke up one morning realizing she had developed a biceps of steel.

The three of us went for a hike out to the lighthouse in the nearest village. Local artists were having in exhibition.
There's old Hrafvafloke eith his ravens, before setting outt for Iceland from this very spot.
Indoor art is fine, open air meeting with the Creator even better.

Attending a concert in a small village 1 hour ride from here.
2000 watched Sinead O'Connor performing in a circus tent.
We were amazed. The critics of the local paper not.
I don't wonder that they could not take the heavy stuff from the old Testament. Theology is the name of her latest album. Performed in The Royal Oerahouse in London, Wien Staats Oper in Vienna and also in a faroff corner of little Norway.
The audience were alll enthusiastic.

Here she is, caught on my cellphone, pure art and spirit.
I'm taking the liberty of adding her own version of De Profundis.

Out Of The Depths

Out of the depths I cry to you oh lord
don't let my cries for mercy be ignored
If you keep account of sins oh who would stand?
But you have forgiveness in your hands

And I've heard religion say you're to be feared
But I don't buy into everything I hear
And it seems to me you're hostage to those rules
That were made by religion and not by you

And I'm wondering will u ever get yourself free
Is it bad to think you might like help from me?
Is there anything my little heart can do
To help religion share us with you?

For oh you're like a ghost in your own home
Nobody hears you crying all alone
Oh you are the one true really voiceless one
They have their backs turned to you for worship of gold and stone

And to see you prisoner oh makes me weep
Nobody hears you screaming in the streets
And it's sad but true how the old saying goes
If God lived on earth people would break his windows

I long for you as watchmen long for the end of night

Memories from a walk in the forest close by our home.
My summer girl has been admitted to the most prestigious college for journalists, and she now quite doesn't know what to choose.

Flowers and herbs from my garden (thyme and sage, smelling like...summer.)
Yesterday the rain was pouring from an endless gray sy.
I put on my new scoop, a robe made of the fabric "Liberty of London" , cotton and laces. To avoid icing down I had to add my garden gnome jacket. As an honor to the sun above I wore my straw hat while tending my Indian Cress.
Rainy Summer's day feet .

Stones are gaining color when wet.My angle is looing a bit under the weather.I spraypainted the plastic chairs providing shelter under the wide Swedeapletree.
A bad year for the roses.
Gunnar hammocking. Life is not bad at all.