TRAVELINGS IN RUBY

Traveling up and down the Norwegian coast means crossing over bridges, through tunnels and ferries. Tunnels running 300 meters under the water. Suspension bridges with wind balloons, clearly indicating the danger of being blown at the sea. ..
It takes 12 hours driving up to our daughter.Stop at art galleries not included. Ruby? Watch the flagpole.
Self portraits by recently passed Eikaas. "I have won over the negative. That is well done," he states down right in the picture. .
The roads are curvy and narrow. The truckers are a menace to all roadfarers.This one, carrying high explosive liquid gas, here threatens three other vehicles, to make a bypass on the slippery road.Not good for fringed nerves.
We made a stop in the town where my Dad went to gymnasium. Mark the cock at the top of the church tower. It's said to symbolize the incident in Gethsemane; Peter's denial. The black Uno belonged to my beloved Dad. Gunnar spent some months restoring it.Here it's to be deliverd to our daughter.
Serina preparing to conquer the town from the room of "our" ruby room at the beach hotel.
I do not ask more of Heaven than staying in a place like this.Driving southwards in my Mom's footpaths.

Ruby red traal boats. Here's the place to buy freshly boiled shrimps to color a gray Sunday morning,--red.

MY 'LONGSHORE LASS

FAR in the mellow western sky,
Above the restless harbor bar,
A beacon on the coast of night,
Shines out a calm, white evening star;
But your deep eyes, my 'longshore lass,
Are brighter, clearer far.

The glory of the sunset past
Still gleams upon the water there,
But all its splendor cannot match
The wind-blown brightness of your hair;
Not any sea-maid's floating locks
Of gold are half so fair.

The waves are whispering to the sands
With murmurs as of elfin glee;
But your low laughter, 'longshore lass,
Is like a sea-harp's melody,
And the vibrant tones of your tender voice.
L. M. Montgomery
Originated by MaryT, check hers for today.

ALL RUBY SOULS' DAY

Originated by MaryT, check hers for today
Happy Halloween, with red points.
The teach is right; Halloween is a strange cult in Norway.
The closest we get is "All Souls' Day", which is an ancient celebration of the dead, held November 2nd.
That day we cherish and honor our dead, preferably in church. No monster pumpkin, no threatening "trick or treat",no scary masks.
Last Sunday hubby Gunnar and I were at an exhibition at the old Vicarage. These knitted vegetables in a knitted kitchen shall be my treat for Ruby Halloween.
We don't celebrate thanksgiving either, except for children placing neatly washed crops from the fields on the altar of the church, one Sunday in September.
If I've got you right, the second most important about thanksgiving, is families being gathered. Our single child, Serina, here pictured in a restaurant up north near by her college; well, she's coming home THIS VERY WEEK-END!!
Thanks, Lord.

THE TILLY SEPTEMBER HIKE

Last Tuesday in September started sunny and promising.The girls were headed 80 kilometer eastwards. A meeting with Tilly's paradise from the seventies The place where she and her children spent their summer for eight consecutive years, in a camping wagon. Her husband was busy working in the town, and would only come out for the occasional week-end.
The lake was made for swimming, and the long, quit valley with its river of swirling trouts, a gift for young and old fishermen. Playgrounds for active children an oasis for mom. As the children grew elder, they would also tag along for hikes to the mountain peaks.

We drove as long as the bumpy roads allowed.
Then; across the river and into the trees.
Small shackles along the paths, open to everyone, but foremost to the hunters.
Ops! We had forgotten hunting season had just begun. We laughed and scrambled, scaring both deer and fusiliers away..


We went along enjoying the song of the river and the sweet smell of decaying leaves.


Tilly told us that the water here was said to be the cleanest in Norway. We filled our bottles and drank the crystal clear, gravel filtered champagne of the mountains.
The five of us are all stone mad. We sat down and started gathering rare stones almost before lunch.
The trick is emptying our rucksacks of food and coffee, and then fill up with whatever nature gives.


On our way down Tilly wanted to say hello to the owner of the camping site. Old grandma remembered Tilly and all the members of the family, except for the grandchildren, who she had not met. We were welcomed like long lost family, though four of us had never met the Granny and her daughter before. This is how people used to be in the country side. Not many left these days.


On the opposite side of the valley is a rare view over the lake, Tilly remembered. We huddled in Turid's mini van and set off.
There were S curves all the way to the top, no point of return. The view was amazing so were the curious sheep.


How were we to come down without burning the brakes? Liv, Tilly and Elbjoerg took their walking sticks and stone-heavy backpacks and went.
While Yours Truly climbed into the map-reader front seat and prayed God's angles help us make it safely downhills.
Of course they could be trusted to make their job.
The smell of burned rubber stayed with us all the way home, though.

RUBY JAEREN WEEKEND

Originated by MaryT, check hers for today
My hubby and I were guests in the realm of my Mom this week end. 60 kilometers of beach and good farming soil. The inland still is covered with stones brought here 10 000 years ago at the end of ice age. By the beach the farmers have cultivated the land by hand and later with heavy machinery. This last remaining primeval scenery is protected for the generations to come.


My mom still remembers that they had to cut turf for the fireplaces. The men cut, the women loaded the turf in stacks for drying. There are even yet hardly any woodland on Jaeren.
The farms by the sea have always been rich. This is Haa old vicarage. Now an art museum, but with sheep and cattle on pastures all around. The earth here is sandy, not far away there are great clay sources and a great , old factory. Hence the red roof stones .

My grandma came from a sea farm. My granddad from high Jaeren, just a few kilometers from this red house.
Its characteristic side shelters show the shape of a Jaerhouse. Shelters used for storage of turf and vegetables also helped protect the people from the howling wind .
The great poet of Jaeren lived his last years here and he and his wife are also buried at this land. A special honor from the government.
Arne Garborg was eldest son of a farm not far away. He denied his allodial possessions and left for our capital, "to study or to die". His father found this so hard, he committed suicide. Garborg was gifted indeed, but he chose to become an author and a poet. His whole life he wrote about the landscape and the people he had left. He gave Jaeren a voice, and a soul.The people of his homeland took him to their bosom, even when he was alive. Grieg composed music to his masterpiece about the Little Maiden of the Mountains. His plays are seldom played nowadays, but his songs are being song wherever people of Jaeren, or for that sake Norwegians, are gathered."Here and there on the hills and ridges low houses seek the shelter of each other in little clusters. In the dense air they almost hover away, swept in the peat smoke and sea mist like in a dream; secluded and still they lie on the moors like homes of trolls. Around the houses are bleak , green patches of field and pasture, like islands in the moorland; every patch and spot surrounded by stone fences in piles …."
From chapter 1 Peace By Arne Garborg'


The little maid
She is small and dark and slender
with dusky,
pure features and deep gray
eyes and a soft and dreamy manner.
It is almost as though a spell lay over her.
In her movements,
in her speech there is this muted calm.
Beneath her forehead,
lovely but low,
her eyes shine as if through a mist.
They seem to be staring
deep into another world.
Only her breast is tight and heavy,
and there is a quiver about her pale mouth.
She is tremblingly frail and delicate,
and at the same time,
charming and young.
The Little Maid of the Moutains By Arne Garborg

FLOWERED FLOWING BEACH

Liv, Torhild, Turid, Tilly, Elbjoerg and I went to revisit the garden of our dreams last opening day of this season September 23rd .
On the north peak of an island, surrounded by the Golf Stream, two hours south of Haugesund a gardener fought all odds and founded the only palm island of Norway.
The gardener was struck by a terminal cancer, left his family in the city and moved to the the little family hut on the barren island, to die without burdening his near and dear ones.
He had bought the 25 acres of stones and cliffs far out in the sea for a small penny in the mid sixties. Planted pines and furs to create shelter from the howling Atlantic storms.
Now he started freighting soil, manure, seeds and cuttings while waiting for the great harvester to take his course.
He had nothing to loose, challenging nature to its utmost, with a surprising siege.
His wife came to live with and stand by him, in this peculiar, creative struggle. His children went on growing flowers, plants and rare imports in the greenhouses in the city.
Seasons came and went. The gardener was still alive and planning new projects. People became famous, wanted to see the green wonderland
The whole family decided to invest in buildings to house the visitors, later on also their own boat to bring the spectators to and fro.
In -87 the opened the place for the public.
600 visitors. Far beyond their estimates.
The built a restaurant, hired a gourmet chef who could make a menu from scratch. There are no shops at the island.
Last summer queen Sonia celebrated her 75th birthday at the island with royalties from all over Europe.

They searched and found living quells of water deep under the earth.
We were there on a rather cold and rainy day. The pictures does not at all give fairness to the color splendor of the flowers.
I will not even try to list the variety of the flower species. They come from all over the world.
34 000 guests have this summer greeted the gardener, still alive, though in an electric cart, and testified that the miracles of belief, hard work and love is stronger than any medical or metherological prognoses.

THE PINK TOWNHALL OF HAUGESUND

Originated by MaryT, check hers for today.

Once upon a time there was a town, built by barrack barons on viking sites. Herring bones was the turf of the new town. Its inhabitants were proud of that. Fish gave work to fishermen, barrel makers, salters, layers, carpenters, rope makers, skippers, seamen, school for seamen, cooks, navigators, the lots. On the top of the pyramid throned the shipowners. They became rich, fast and stinking rich. Especially was World War 1 good for the trade. Huge assurance sums for the ships sunk by the new German u boats. Equal high prizes for the valuable cargo; fish and fish oil for a Europe at war.


Now; what I tell here is only hearsay and old rumors.
The biggest and richest of the shipowners was claimed for owing a lot of tax. An income he denied for and could not either be persuaded to pay for.


"I'll do something better," he said, "I'll grant the town a new and mighty town hall as a gift from me on my fiftieth birthday." The year was 1920.The fathers of the city coucil could nothing but accept.
A competition was held among the foremost architects of the nation. The two young men who won, had chosen a neo classicistic, rather pompous style.
To study at the well they afterward went to Italy for a year and a half. Some say they hardly made it home to Norway again.They pored on, inspired from the antique and renaissance; columns, arches, tempel like gables ,architrave, geometric forms and consoles. Created in euphoric, youthful intoxication.

One setback as they came home. The land was a sloopy hilltop, too short for a classic, symmetric building. No problemo. They just broke the east wing and bent it backwards. The inhabitants of Haugesund are so used to the sight, that they hardly ever reflect over the fact that their town hall has but a half facade..
Two years ago it was voted the prettiest building of the town. The autumn red Virginia Creeper on the raw, reddish granite floor groud is a sight for sore eyes.So is the mighty eagle sculptured by Norway's # one animal sculpturer, Dyre Vaa.
The ship owner?
He and his wife continued to bulid, educate and donate for the rest of their lives.
The citizen still honor their pink hall, with a feeling; "Maybe he was no scholar, maybe he was a bit pompous, but he had a wide open heart, he knew how to throw a party. If the town belonged to him, he also belonged to us ".

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