tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-62986242261270511732024-03-13T06:21:37.817+01:0069 point 23 degreesVince Stephenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11574536147135909914noreply@blogger.comBlogger48125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6298624226127051173.post-60011973391862076862013-06-23T14:12:00.002+02:002013-06-23T14:34:07.648+02:00Borderlands II - Kirkenes <style>
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</style><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-GB">Kirkenes as a town doesn't have all that
much to recommend it. In many ways it's a simple industrial town in the far
North. But because it is placed at the point where Northern Norway touches
Russia, it has an interesting history. Up on the hill nearby you can find the <a href="http://www.kirkenesinfo.no/hXGXzngJjO2v.9.idium">Borderland Museum</a>,
which deals mostly with the situation of Kirkenes during the Second World War
and the Cold War. The museum building was constructed around a WWII aircraft,
which sits in the centre of an impressionistic exhibition on the ground floor.
The writing for the exhibition has been done in verse and includes the texts of
poems and hymns. On one wall there is a swastika made from Nazi propaganda
posters, selling the Reich to the Norwegian people and denigrating the USSR and
the allies. Many are still quite effective today, especially one showing a
monstrous figure representing US cultural imperialism; its head is a Klu Klux Klan hood,
its Kali-like arms carry vinyl records, a monkey in a cage and a <i>Miss
America</i> contest winner. One of the monster's legs is made of bolted metal
and has a ribbon wrapped around it which reads, "World's Greatest
Leg." At the bottom of the frame is a small sign with the message,
"The USA wants to rescue Europe from cultural apocalypse." Of course,
if the Nazis hadn't been racial supremacists who destroyed literature they
disapproved of it would have strengthened their case somewhat.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-GB">It must have been weird for the people of
Kirkenes and the surrounding area. The Nazis left, but the Soviet Union
remained on their doorstep. There was a short-term agreement for a time that
locals could travel across the border to the nearest Russian town for trade and
a party once a month, but when the Russians offered to extend the agreement,
the Norwegian government declined, concerned about the fostering of Soviet
sympathies and the opportunities for spying and recruitment. Today the people
of Kirkenes have a special visa agreement with Russia and you hear a lot of
Russian being spoken in the town centre.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-GB">We stayed a little out of town in a cabin
on a husky farm right by the border. The hotel is called <a href="http://www.storskog.no/engelsk/index.html">Sollia Gjestegård</a>, and I
can recommend it to any visitors. From there we walked up into the hills to the
place where the border between Russia and Norway is marked. We followed little
white wooden markers through the undergrowth and up the mountainside. There was
still some snow lying on the ground, but it was spring, and though it was
almost midnight the sun was in the sky, reflecting in the small bodies of water
on the hilltops. First we saw the horizontally striped sticks which mark the border between countries. Then we climbed higher up and came to
one of the border-stones. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-GB">"You can go right up to the
border-stone, but you can't go past it or you'll get arrested," the
manager of our hotel had told us. "You don't need to wonder whether you'll
get arrested, because you will." So we stood on the top of the hill and
looked over into Russia, and back into Norway, and down at the place where the
river turns Russian. There didn't seem to be anyone around to arrest us, but we
didn't risk it. Marthe was convinced that there was a Russian border officer
crouching behind the stone, just waiting for us to take one step too many
towards his homeland. </span></span></div>
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Vince Stephenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11574536147135909914noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6298624226127051173.post-79986962798420726122013-06-22T20:22:00.000+02:002013-06-22T20:33:56.910+02:00Endtimes<div class="MsoNormal">
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-</style><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-GB">The first thing to say is that I think this
blog has been moving, like all things, slowly but inexorably towards its
natural end. I started writing here to record observations about my life in the
Arctic, to give myself a forum and so that my friends could follow my progress
(that way they needn't imagine me freezing in grim darkness beside an igloo).
But Marthe and I have now entered our last days of Arctic life. We left our
jobs for good yesterday. We are packing all we own into cardboard boxes. This
is not because we don't love it here, but simply because we are moving on. In a
few days we'll start the journey south to Trondheim and from there to
elsewhere. Some weeks from now we'll be starting a new life all over again,
this time in Bergen.</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-GB">Like many people who read too much fiction, I tend to view my life in chapters.
This new move should signal some kind of ending, moving as we are from the
country to the city. All being well, I'll also be moving from full time work
into full time education. It would be strange to carry on this same site after
such a complete upheaval so I think I'll soon stop posting here. Even the name
of this page is tied up with discussion of Nordreisa and the surrounding area.
Though I haven't always written as much as I'd like, I hope I've succeeded in
communicating something of this incredible place. I encourage anyone who hasn't
been to the north of Norway to come and experience it for themselves. Maybe
I'll feel compelled to write about Bergen once we're settled there, but if so I
think it would be better to start a new page than to do so here. Either way,
I'll leave this diary up as a souvenir, and for anyone who might happen by and
find themselves interested to hear about the time we have spent here.</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-GB">The story is not quite over yet though. The spring came here with an incredible
heatwave that saw us swimming in the sea a few weekends ago. Now the beginning
of summer is upon us, and like last year that has meant that the area we live
in has been characterised by low-lying cloud and legions of free range sheep,
as well as the migration of the reindeer. We've gone to places and seen things
I haven't had chance to write about or share pictures of here. So, over the
next few days and weeks I'll be posting a series of final updates, starting
with the post about Kirkenes and the Russian border that I originally intended
to put up some weeks back before I got caught up in work and exams. I also want
to write a little about the witch trials in North Norway, amongst other things.
I'll probably also want to share something of the trip from here southwards.
The chances are that I'll still be looking back at the time Marthe and I have
spent here in the far North while we're settling into our small flat in the
west country.</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-GB">So, I hope those people who read this blog will enjoy these final posts, and
I'd be happy to hear from anyone who's been reading regularly here over these
last 20 months (there are not hundreds of you, but I know there are a few). I'm
looking forward to putting these coming posts together, and I'm looking forward
to the future beyond that too. </span></span></div>
Vince Stephenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11574536147135909914noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6298624226127051173.post-83997021021117898882013-06-01T10:35:00.002+02:002013-06-01T17:44:03.003+02:00Coincidences - Two<style>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: small;">Last Saturday I was talking about Stockholm with Marthe and her friend Frøydis. We were standing in the kitchen, making coffee and discussing the Swedish capital. Of the three of us, I was the only one who had never
been there, but I was saying that for a long time it had been a city I'd
wanted to visit. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: small;">I've actually wanted to visit Stockholm since long before I
ever really thought about Norway, ever since hearing the album <a href="http://obscurealbums.com/2011/04/stina-nordenstam-dynamite-1996/" target="_blank">Dynamite</a> by
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5VGs_juLPcg" target="_blank">Stina Nordenstam</a> in the late 90s. (She made the record in her flat there). I thought aloud that I might travel to Stockholm alone when Marthe and Frøydis
are on their planned road trip across America next year. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: small;">At the same time as we were having this
conversation, someone I had never met was sitting in Stockholm and writing me an
email. I sat down with my coffee, opened up my computer and got a message from
Jonas Alexander David, telling me that he was going to play one of my songs on his
radio show at 6pm that day.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: small;">The show, which is called <i>Explorations</i>,
goes out every week on Stockholm College Radio. Each broadcast focuses on a
different area of the world. It's a kind of journey through music. Last week's
<i>Explorations </i>was about North Norway. I became the UK's unoffical musical representative in the far North!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: small;">You can listen to all Jonas' shows after broadcast <a href="http://journeysofdiscoveries.tumblr.com/" target="_blank">on his blog</a>.</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: small;"> </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: small;">The North Norway show you can hear below.
It's in Swedish, obviously, but if you don't understand the language you could
still enjoy the music. It's a selection of pop, modern folk and electronic music from Bodø, Tromsø, Nordreisa and beyond. My song appears around the 20 minute mark.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: small;">Sometimes the internet seems like a tyrannical force in my life—some kind of time-sucking black hole that I can't escape. But then something like this happens: Just when I'm thinking of a city I'd love to visit, someone in that city is thinking of me. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></span>
</div>
<iframe frameborder="no" height="166" scrolling="no" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=http%3A%2F%2Fapi.soundcloud.com%2Ftracks%2F94000307&color=0059ff&auto_play=false&show_artwork=true" width="100%"></iframe>Vince Stephenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11574536147135909914noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6298624226127051173.post-21028857974176146962013-05-26T18:45:00.000+02:002013-05-26T21:49:34.577+02:00Coincidences - One<style>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">We
spotted Todd and Gerry in their garden, taking advantage of the sunshine to
plant flowers and dig the soil, so we pulled in for a cup of coffee. First we
went out on their veranda, but the view across the fjord to mountains opposite
Djupvik was so gorgeous, and the water so still, that Todd soon suggested we go
out on their boat. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The boat
is old and noisy, but reliable and comfy. It has room inside for two people to
sleep. We sat out on the back deck and Todd killed the engine. We floated in
the fjord and watched the light on the water. Behind the boat floated a group
of translucent blue jellyfish. Each of them was a dimly perceptible blue
outline with what looked to be a kind of nervous system in the centre. Todd
told me they were made of of groups of cells which come together and coexist in
a single organism, but which can be separated and continue to live. The light
refracted inside them so that it looked like sparks of electricity. </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijNAscN0nczlC82z1gAflvkJLmp0yr4QZi5mp_ej3jYdPdVwzK8z7QTD92Q42MlompA2T-xiugUIn3gP4UxsKt8QI8z5BshzXKgHNhXiM-9yK-dhulekokqqZMvzuMUYP7bkGc_eHL8u5d/s1600/DSC06299.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijNAscN0nczlC82z1gAflvkJLmp0yr4QZi5mp_ej3jYdPdVwzK8z7QTD92Q42MlompA2T-xiugUIn3gP4UxsKt8QI8z5BshzXKgHNhXiM-9yK-dhulekokqqZMvzuMUYP7bkGc_eHL8u5d/s320/DSC06299.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From whence we came</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-GB">Todd asked if we wanted to have some
chicken soup later, and I reminded him that I haven't eaten meat in 16 years. I
do eat fish though, so he ducked inside and got me a fishing rod.</span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-GB">I'd never been fishing before, but ever
since I started eating fish some six or seven years ago, I've been thinking
that I really need to kill a fish in order to justify the whole thing to
myself. In North Norway, even more than in some other places, vegetarianism is
something you are often called on to explain. I had a lot of very thorough
moral reasons when I became a vegetarian, but for me today it's mostly
intuitive. I can argue a case about the lack of higher consciousness in fish as
opposed to mammals, but in truth I think my eating habits are all caught up
with the way I feel about death and suffering. I want to be connected to as
little of it as possible. I don't really have a defence for singling out fish
over birds as the exception to the rule, but I do believe it's best not to eat
something you couldn't comfortably kill.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-GB">Todd put the bate on the line. It was just
a green metal fish with four hooks at the base. He showed me how you lower it
to the bottom (about 30m in this case), then pull it up just a little and
jiggle it about to make it look like a distressed fish. "Then along comes
a bigger fish and says, 'I'll put him out of his misery.' And that's when you
use this here to wind them in." I did as I was instructed.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-GB"></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn0apBn7SojyVbS-dF6yTTNkfhPx-LeupoTB9HaiqXu2Qwdu-zcDh227mlAZMLP5wyRjlcsVDKeDbhXqZjSyzJBdKzQ5ib5cwnUWonOJa_5DvwsU6cKhFzbZ6mIM8-kj7mX_fBXR5OWTnr/s1600/DSC06313.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn0apBn7SojyVbS-dF6yTTNkfhPx-LeupoTB9HaiqXu2Qwdu-zcDh227mlAZMLP5wyRjlcsVDKeDbhXqZjSyzJBdKzQ5ib5cwnUWonOJa_5DvwsU6cKhFzbZ6mIM8-kj7mX_fBXR5OWTnr/s320/DSC06313.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-GB">For quite some time I didn't have a great
deal of luck—though since I was not entirely eager to catch anything, the truth
of that statement might be a little questionable. In any case, my line stayed
empty while Gerry got another rod, sank her line into the water and immediately
caught a small haddock. I lent my line to Marthe and ended up using an old
wooden rod so thin that it bent just under the weight of the bait. When my line
eventually hooked something, the rod bent over into a u-shape.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-GB">I couldn't reel it in. Todd was driving the
boat again by this time and I focused mainly on holding on to the rod. Every
now and again I forced the reel around. Even as I
thought about <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Old_Man_and_the_Sea">The Old Man and The Sea</a>, I worried that when the fish finally
appeared it would be humiliatingly small. I might be battling a minnow. I
carried on the fight and eventually saw a flash of sliver down in the darkness.
It looked pretty large. And then I got the fish up to the surface. It was a cod
about the length of my inner arm.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-GB">Marthe got a net and helped me get the fish
into the boat, where it thrashed around in a plastic container while Gerry
hunted for a hammer. Then she gave it to me—a ball-peen hammer—and Todd told me
to hit the creature behind the eye. So I did. Twice. Three times. I really
wanted to make sure it was dead. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy_eIeP2OrLC_FldxEpWTOGgM9xWVxaL_BwkD8QIKE3Xz7_FHbxKcfN6-MWZV2wKY8bwzurxAkRmdCUqC2mXmH8o6OnIxdV-E6FfX04q1DVqa8pjIW5X30iDu6Dp3kxSNqGAPfHaY2T8bW/s1600/DSC06322.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy_eIeP2OrLC_FldxEpWTOGgM9xWVxaL_BwkD8QIKE3Xz7_FHbxKcfN6-MWZV2wKY8bwzurxAkRmdCUqC2mXmH8o6OnIxdV-E6FfX04q1DVqa8pjIW5X30iDu6Dp3kxSNqGAPfHaY2T8bW/s320/DSC06322.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij7eOeHn4QeEhi9TZXcqNpn2q9ztIMgfkru55BDdO_ApJ3XbOeGme-cC9s35NzNznp59xB5FqkviGW9pmL6o_q6MiGV7-mEpNGkxWh_RuDG-42LeZ0qsRoJsLNbBjiIbKGPVhf6eP4Z7UP/s1600/Fish+in+Net.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij7eOeHn4QeEhi9TZXcqNpn2q9ztIMgfkru55BDdO_ApJ3XbOeGme-cC9s35NzNznp59xB5FqkviGW9pmL6o_q6MiGV7-mEpNGkxWh_RuDG-42LeZ0qsRoJsLNbBjiIbKGPVhf6eP4Z7UP/s320/Fish+in+Net.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
</div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-GB">I stood there and thought about what I had
just done while Marthe caught more fish. I didn't feel much triumph, but I
didn't feel like I'd done anything terrible. One minute the fish had been
there, the next minute I had dispatched it elsewhere. Or snuffed it out like a
flame. Marthe caught a haddock and I had to kill that too. "Sorry," I
said while I hit it in the head with the pliers we used to get the hook out of
its lip. Then Marthe caught a smaller cod, so small we put it back. We fought
to unhook it and then dropped it into the water. It seemed to freeze for a moment
in shock, but then flicked itself calmly down into the darkness. I felt a
little better. I know that many Inuit tribes believe that whenever you take a
catch from nature you must give a small piece back.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-GB">We sailed back in towards the harbour and
Todd started gutting the fish into the water. I though it was around 4.30
because the sun was still hanging above the mountains, but it was actually gone
10pm. When Todd disemboweled my cod and dropped the head and guts into the
water, a dolphin broke the surface on the port side of the boat. Then another
came up on the starboard. Gerry was pointing to where the first one had
appeared, all of us were laughing and looking wildly around, and two more
dolphins surfaced further out in the fjord. I saw another swim underneath us.
Who knows how it is that dolphins bring so much joy with them? We decided in
the end there were between eight and ten of them in the pod, glittering as they
broke the surface, gliding by.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-GB">Gerry and Todd said that in all the years
they've been going out on their boat, this was only the third time they had
seen dolphins. Marthe and I had just happened by one day and gone fishing on a
whim, and suddenly there they were. Up to ten of them. Gerry and Todd are both members of the
<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bah%C3%A1%27%C3%AD_Faith">Baha'i</a> faith. Their lives are characterised by symbols and signs. For them, this was
no coincidence. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
Vince Stephenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11574536147135909914noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6298624226127051173.post-65754068163523439372013-05-16T11:42:00.000+02:002013-05-16T14:05:27.557+02:00Finland<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="NO-BOK" style="font-size: small;">Once you get past the borderlands, Arctic
Finland is how you might expect. Unlike North Norway, the lanscape is flat,
and it's covered in forest which stretches on endlessly, <span style="font-size: small;">interrupted</span> only by
expanses of water, all minor relations of a great lake called Inari. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="NO-BOK" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizKhBNdkjj2vDhP6va635isWl1GcV9uwYP0UDBX8VVpEYwwwWih-u1IvL4x2vtgncZs3ONtivsihDeuNNHLry2Rv1ARMjilBW4sbMz2S53mDqM3-YMmNif8NnRkhyopWQFvde0AzCI6qx6/s1600/DSC06165.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizKhBNdkjj2vDhP6va635isWl1GcV9uwYP0UDBX8VVpEYwwwWih-u1IvL4x2vtgncZs3ONtivsihDeuNNHLry2Rv1ARMjilBW4sbMz2S53mDqM3-YMmNif8NnRkhyopWQFvde0AzCI6qx6/s1600/DSC06165.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="NO-BOK" style="font-size: small;"> </span><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="NO-BOK" style="font-size: small;">You can drive for miles without seeing
anyone, perhaps only two white reindeer in the middle of the road, who will
watch you approach at speed, as if they would welcome their own death. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEineDtxUEfOrLa4ZGXS8qo9pSYNJ6wiLPg9kLO2Rvyu120MwLLRFDAKb7S64GBShyphenhyphenv518ngvZf4Pfl4axQluz7Pi1vyFNMajEanmmTgNTvOgStnoEesxFwmRawqADedRZ6HiEbDTKiawvui/s1600/Finland+Trees.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEineDtxUEfOrLa4ZGXS8qo9pSYNJ6wiLPg9kLO2Rvyu120MwLLRFDAKb7S64GBShyphenhyphenv518ngvZf4Pfl4axQluz7Pi1vyFNMajEanmmTgNTvOgStnoEesxFwmRawqADedRZ6HiEbDTKiawvui/s1600/Finland+Trees.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQla9vmTc0PH04g1YJbAMiwf3dy7qrKtVvPrZr8U9cC7NmRNzYlNemflb7kfEiGvtY4T9gDcMyaKVTuPRo8WKavw3tXe8ubzGTeFkKZSd3dyxCrDmaNbeTHaV1oFFYP5_DN_IEpTpdzI83/s1600/Finland+Marsh.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQla9vmTc0PH04g1YJbAMiwf3dy7qrKtVvPrZr8U9cC7NmRNzYlNemflb7kfEiGvtY4T9gDcMyaKVTuPRo8WKavw3tXe8ubzGTeFkKZSd3dyxCrDmaNbeTHaV1oFFYP5_DN_IEpTpdzI83/s1600/Finland+Marsh.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="NO-BOK" style="font-size: small;"> </span><span lang="NO-BOK" style="font-size: small;"> </span><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="NO-BOK" style="font-size: small;">My friend who used to live in this area
tells me that, despite appearances, there are people living in the forest. The
population is made up mostly of Sami people who moved a little south when
Russia annexed their previous region. You can tell they are there from the
large wooden boxes which stand on stilts at <span style="font-size: small;">intervals</span> along the roadside. These
are their post boxes, and they need to be so large because there is no post
office from which you can collect your parcels. The nearest shop is hours away,
but if you live in the region you can call them with an order and they'll
deliver to your post box.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="NO-BOK" style="font-size: small;">At the Eastern tip of the nation we
crossed back into Noway and headed towards Kirkenes and the Russian border.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho4jdAya7bRpikZuiJbQn0m_f7I6d6ijFH1T1ArDPZsVOyyUc1WrKAHB7GXBoBO77H6wkaTvw8vUmKpDp6y6qEgCsd5K4BmXZxC0SbXU0KCXVXId8qwVjywNzR8HKyNrGyk260eJhfFzTO/s1600/DSC06179.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho4jdAya7bRpikZuiJbQn0m_f7I6d6ijFH1T1ArDPZsVOyyUc1WrKAHB7GXBoBO77H6wkaTvw8vUmKpDp6y6qEgCsd5K4BmXZxC0SbXU0KCXVXId8qwVjywNzR8HKyNrGyk260eJhfFzTO/s1600/DSC06179.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Vince Stephenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11574536147135909914noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6298624226127051173.post-13460924982278818132013-05-01T14:57:00.000+02:002013-05-01T15:17:21.437+02:00The Sound of Ice Melting in the Arctic<style>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: small;">The snow and the ice are melting. Blue
skies have come to the arctic, the days are crisp and bright, and there is no real
darkness anymore, only a navy-blue submarine midnight. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: small;">Last week I walked along the edge of the
fjord with an audio recorder, to capture some of the sounds of the thaw. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: small;">I stood between two small streams of water
flowing over rocks and pebbles into the fjord. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: small;">
<iframe frameborder="no" height="166" scrolling="no" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=http%3A%2F%2Fapi.soundcloud.com%2Ftracks%2F90285014&color=0059ff&auto_play=false&show_artwork=false" width="100%"></iframe>
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: small;">
<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: small;">I lay on a flat slate-like rock, so smooth it almost felt soft, and recorded the melting of a large slab of ice. The sound is very musical. There was some water dripping into the cavity between the ice and the rock, but most of these sounds were coming from inside the ice itself: an invisible polyphonic thawing process.</span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: small;">
<iframe frameborder="no" height="166" scrolling="no" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=http%3A%2F%2Fapi.soundcloud.com%2Ftracks%2F90289401&color=0001ff&auto_play=false&show_artwork=false" width="100%"></iframe>
</span></div>
Vince Stephenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11574536147135909914noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6298624226127051173.post-50134560716663728982013-04-20T19:03:00.001+02:002013-04-21T09:04:56.716+02:00Borderlands<style>
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</style><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-GB">On the road to Tromsø it is possible to
take a left and drive instead to Finland. That's what we did last Monday. On
the way, I bought two CDs from a petrol station: A Rock n Roll box-set and the
second album by Norwegian band <a href="http://youtu.be/L_7rVoUUbeQ">Harrys Gym</a>. I had never before noticed how unbelievably middle aged and straight Bill Haley sounds on <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ud_JZcC0tHI">Rock Around the Clock</a>. You can virtually
hear the cardigan the man is wearing. Harrys Gym on the other hand, I recommend
for any time you might be crossing a Nordic border. </span></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIlDZL1p_dIQBtpkxMwXSM6udUBfPzD1RG9kwIsc1PAiJM0DPZzCJWeaD_RK4ahr1wrYttXyUsEbDfNKS-v6bCwe1rW-nRkN0r9cTOArQ1pcbd3GVFuq3DlrPcZhMFXaKYl_GhJrTHs4t9/s1600/Finland.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIlDZL1p_dIQBtpkxMwXSM6udUBfPzD1RG9kwIsc1PAiJM0DPZzCJWeaD_RK4ahr1wrYttXyUsEbDfNKS-v6bCwe1rW-nRkN0r9cTOArQ1pcbd3GVFuq3DlrPcZhMFXaKYl_GhJrTHs4t9/s320/Finland.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-GB">Driving into Finland really demonstrates
the essential weirdness of national boarders. The road is long, the landscape
doesn't change, but you drive past a large sign and a small cabin and suddenly
the language on the signs is totally unintelligible and the notes and coins in
your wallet are of no use to you. The speed limit suddenly goes up to 100,
which is exciting for those of us who live in Norway and are usually
supposed to drive at 80kmph. I put my foot down immediately. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhhJzhrqZ3NTWHxwZ63FJEEP9zcRSQKdZgIxPOgq5yhSk27WCvO8AvKQoNiOM-mH9HWIRBnW5mfyRJSoSypDnJJhpoSYlO6OXPDgDA-YAk4ePPLMJOxsPRhd-Pru-OAYc43foAGY9onXaA/s1600/Speed+Limit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhhJzhrqZ3NTWHxwZ63FJEEP9zcRSQKdZgIxPOgq5yhSk27WCvO8AvKQoNiOM-mH9HWIRBnW5mfyRJSoSypDnJJhpoSYlO6OXPDgDA-YAk4ePPLMJOxsPRhd-Pru-OAYc43foAGY9onXaA/s320/Speed+Limit.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-GB">To the right of the road there is a large,
frozen lake and a flat expanse of snow. People ski across it to get to the
point where three countries, Sweden, Norway and Finland, all meet. This meeting
point is marked by a raised concrete circle which has been photographed many
times for use on postcards. </span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-GB">A little way into Finland there is a
tourist centre where they sell burgers, souvenirs and postcards. No such thing
on the Norwegian side, I noticed. I think they make their money partly from the
fact that snow-scooter regulation is much less strict on that side of the
border, so people travel there to ride around in the mountains. It's also a
good area for skiing and snowboarding. The man behind the counter spoke Finnish
and English, but not Norwegian. </span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-GB">Outside, people took off </span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-GB"> in
hang gliders </span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-GB">from the frozen surface of the lake and flew off into the distance. We travelled further up the road to
where there is a supermarket which is much cheaper than the ones in Norway,
though I'm reliably informed that it is way more expensive than anywhere else
in the country. We stocked up on a lot of frozen food and I bought Finnish
chocolate and some mustard, which I hope is hotter than the stuff we get here. I
also bought a <a href="http://youtu.be/edPEBB6VjRQ">Led Zeppelin</a> CD for the journey home. </span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8oBX8-7k8n_RUOQN1jnfyKMCQgGmoOdSAi-RpehJN6fLKvBti39uQUYmUQ3w9yKPS4FrRLwZfAAFmfpfxrynH-oggdyEW3NFuykMUGtOfmBTRKTupH4QTv53I81ZY59BvD-_ZrsmmsnyM/s1600/Finnish+Chocolate.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8oBX8-7k8n_RUOQN1jnfyKMCQgGmoOdSAi-RpehJN6fLKvBti39uQUYmUQ3w9yKPS4FrRLwZfAAFmfpfxrynH-oggdyEW3NFuykMUGtOfmBTRKTupH4QTv53I81ZY59BvD-_ZrsmmsnyM/s320/Finnish+Chocolate.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-GB">And then that was it. There was nothing
more to do in Finland that day. We got back in the car and drove a few minutes
until the ice, snow, rocks and trees around us were once again Norwegian ice,
snow, rocks and trees, and the signs said we had to slow our speed right down
to 50kmph. </span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-GB">All this just brings home to me the
imaginary status of countries. How is it that I walk or drive past this little
roadside house, and suddenly I'm in a completely different place? What about a
fox crossing through the snow, or a bird flying overhead? Does this madness
apply to them too? </span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6euE5B6uc1c4HnVgniJ_COLKdDaPGLYyAtgdmcNKrZjvRj-5-NQj51XWiYwBBmymwkvuplW_UxmR3g99CpsKrXBNqGRNWDjCNd42yrm5D6liQjHwFcyvZsDIAeNkVd4N7kLzPuw0NQ5fc/s1600/Vince+Stephen+in+Finland.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6euE5B6uc1c4HnVgniJ_COLKdDaPGLYyAtgdmcNKrZjvRj-5-NQj51XWiYwBBmymwkvuplW_UxmR3g99CpsKrXBNqGRNWDjCNd42yrm5D6liQjHwFcyvZsDIAeNkVd4N7kLzPuw0NQ5fc/s320/Vince+Stephen+in+Finland.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Vince Stephenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11574536147135909914noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6298624226127051173.post-78295122952033115112013-04-14T18:21:00.004+02:002013-04-15T19:03:31.469+02:00Arctic Safari<style>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-GB">Last Thursday some friends arrived on the
<a href="http://69point23degrees.blogspot.no/2011/11/hutigruten.html">Hu<span style="font-size: small;">r</span>tigruten</a> from Trondheim. We met them when the boat came into the harbour in
Skjervøy at about 11pm. Skjervøy is an island town, and connecting it to the
mainland is a bridge with a long single-lane road across it. I remember being
in the passenger seat across that bridge in high winds on the day we first set
out to find our new home in North Norway. That day it seemed we were driving insanely
high up. This time I was driving, and though the bridge isn't quite as
altitudinous as I recalled, you certainly wouldn't want to fall from it. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: small;">The weather is getting warmer now. The road surface
is turning from a layer of ice to a blanket of slush, so careful driving is
required. The sun sets late, but by the time we left Skjervøy it was dark out.
A little after the bridge, I was rounding a corner when I sensed some movement out
of the corner of my eye. To the right of the road, on a snow-covered slope,
some dark shape was heading downwards. I slowed the car as a massive animal
loped into the road just metres ahead of us. It's difficult to be objective,
but this thing seemed bigger than the car (and we drive a Chrysler). Its head
was enormous. Where antlers would normally be it had a pair of stumpy horns. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: small;">This was the first moose I've seen since I
moved here a year and a half ago. Marthe reckons it was a young male. I've been
waiting impatiently to see a moose for some time now, so any shock I might have
felt evaporated with gladness. There are loads of them up here. 16 have died in
car accidents on one local stretch of road alone since the start of this
year. Yet somehow, until last week, they had always avoided me among the trees
and out in the darkness. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: small;">The moose turned away from us and looked
around. It seemed confused to be in the middle of a road. It was perhaps a
little lost. Then, clumsily, it clambered off the other side of the road and
disappeared into the night. I drove on, unsure if the moose's mother, brother
or friend might suddenly throw itself in front of the car. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: small;">Another 20 minutes down the road and we saw
two more! One moose was waiting for the other to climb out of the road and join
it in someone's garden. Then the northern lights grew visible in a patch of sky
beyond us, and the closer we got to home, the larger they grew. On the long
road to our house, I pulled the car over and we got out. Two shifting pools of
green light were visible above us. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: small;">On the final stretch of road, a bright
white arctic hare jumped out and ran thr<span style="font-size: small;">ough the light cast by the car</span>. It was close enough to
clearly see, but far enough away that we were in no danger of hitting it. I
have been wondering recently when the hare would come back. He used to visit
our garden last spring, and turned from white to brown to suit the summer when the snow was gone. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: small;">If I hadn't been there to experience it
with them, I could almost have been jealous of our two visiting friends. It was
as if this whole place woke that night to welcome them. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Vince Stephenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11574536147135909914noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6298624226127051173.post-52261693794004419732013-03-17T20:23:00.001+01:002013-03-18T15:55:05.358+01:00From Sun-up to White-out<style>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-GB">People in the arctic spend a lot of time
looking forward to the midnight sun, so it can be tough when for half the
summer it is obscured by clouds<span style="font-size: small;">.</span> The end of the dark time was an eagerly
anticipated event this year. But when the sun first returned, back in February,
it did so under cover of a snowstorm, and it stayed there for several days. When
the weekend came, Marthe and I went out for a walk on the mountainside and
finally saw the light return. I got my shadow back and the world went
technicolour once more. Now the days <span style="font-size: small;">are</span> only a little shorter than the <span style="font-size: small;">nights</span>.
It's incredible, how fast it turns around.</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHGrsWZBgain_FH8lueln1DsOsw3K-Q_yMYE3ETM9UZsUd7KMmSo5-LplpH16zDKjuLbqGcdaWdibSMi4MrPjv6c9Dvp7cjCKGYntfVKZNzqsvRaBfSaZiVvSDXzvgwPWhpdqVc_giV9Ci/s1600/Sunrise.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHGrsWZBgain_FH8lueln1DsOsw3K-Q_yMYE3ETM9UZsUd7KMmSo5-LplpH16zDKjuLbqGcdaWdibSMi4MrPjv6c9Dvp7cjCKGYntfVKZNzqsvRaBfSaZiVvSDXzvgwPWhpdqVc_giV9Ci/s320/Sunrise.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl6ZkMQWf-sOaJwJsa4PEODY9m0_jEOYrDZneYnfwYmAd8nxa3IBixzsbTJrKYCaT6tsFG4l1OFWRnvtn5_ieftOcbVmeADI28nYQBapCRv1D1bD3vRboIqk6f0yDtMn-uXbyxNFN9f507/s1600/Sunshine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl6ZkMQWf-sOaJwJsa4PEODY9m0_jEOYrDZneYnfwYmAd8nxa3IBixzsbTJrKYCaT6tsFG4l1OFWRnvtn5_ieftOcbVmeADI28nYQBapCRv1D1bD3vRboIqk6f0yDtMn-uXbyxNFN9f507/s320/Sunshine.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0_m5lgrG1520ZL4x0W6vL-Pm-S2Bsdz9cVe5jpM-BhItyS2j0o3NdImVBZ5rl7SsH3RZ38mSiuBnySrqkFHkxO_Dl3ypQtNYr-NleAc6uKRK-rF5jvpBrrdgyz4zoAT_LavbGNZcZQAAo/s1600/technicolour+landscape.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0_m5lgrG1520ZL4x0W6vL-Pm-S2Bsdz9cVe5jpM-BhItyS2j0o3NdImVBZ5rl7SsH3RZ38mSiuBnySrqkFHkxO_Dl3ypQtNYr-NleAc6uKRK-rF5jvpBrrdgyz4zoAT_LavbGNZcZQAAo/s320/technicolour+landscape.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-GB">The weather has been serious <span style="font-size: small;">o</span>f late. Whole
weeks of near constant snowfall, broken up by wonderfully clear, cloudless
days. Sometimes the wind and the snow together contrive to blot out the whole
world. Last weekend we were driving home and the road disappeared completely. You
were lucky if you could see as far ahead as the next roadside visibility
marker. We drove into a couple of snow banks, but managed to make it home,
unlike one unfortunate soul who had abandoned a car at the edge of the road.
When we passed it, it was already half buried. </span></span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiApRPByAJc2VFzdQL8-LdQhnqSVxTKR7QbMqYYMndbAHFfQWM5RWAqly4POhmAjV0JOMJpxrwLst3a1OpmAVAJGp2kqbyFv100PvOItgYPSwK882O5B7IJGoe5DpJNGp3iLQbS-jxGlQz0/s1600/White+Road.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiApRPByAJc2VFzdQL8-LdQhnqSVxTKR7QbMqYYMndbAHFfQWM5RWAqly4POhmAjV0JOMJpxrwLst3a1OpmAVAJGp2kqbyFv100PvOItgYPSwK882O5B7IJGoe5DpJNGp3iLQbS-jxGlQz0/s320/White+Road.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The road on a good day.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-GB">One side of our house is now mostly hidden.
The view from our kitchen window is a wall of snow that reaches up to meet the
stuff sliding down from the roof. From above the porch hang icicles the length
of swords. When the wind gets up it sometimes throws things at our metal roof,
and they clatter across into the trees behind us.</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYxWT5hd-Xgn23caqzx_bjBa1SrnPFlrlSs56eZaMGGtR9hm7pHygdKBgMnmR2bSh-OMMR8pQwHczj-6iByyvf6CLDXdhcRengU3RFzGOt9GmYK6eFmZJeVWdogmyL19CC2374NoK39UVg/s1600/House+Snow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYxWT5hd-Xgn23caqzx_bjBa1SrnPFlrlSs56eZaMGGtR9hm7pHygdKBgMnmR2bSh-OMMR8pQwHczj-6iByyvf6CLDXdhcRengU3RFzGOt9GmYK6eFmZJeVWdogmyL19CC2374NoK39UVg/s320/House+Snow.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Note: Since these images were taken, it has snowed a lot more.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAuZMrZpjiMKiXXR8QggKQEkaZBq1pdyPfdSxMIuE-sK9l-Pv55dOFA-hcHjE2E5jkHjJgEaP0qJpBmgtb9S0DLYSf-7kw29bA-X4jhiylEk7O519YAbo7emSNfKGo3cCnJ8Csb9RwZ_0m/s1600/Window.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAuZMrZpjiMKiXXR8QggKQEkaZBq1pdyPfdSxMIuE-sK9l-Pv55dOFA-hcHjE2E5jkHjJgEaP0qJpBmgtb9S0DLYSf-7kw29bA-X4jhiylEk7O519YAbo7emSNfKGo3cCnJ8Csb9RwZ_0m/s320/Window.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-GB">My friend <a href="https://soundcloud.com/williamkenny">Bill</a> came to visit recently, and
I was hoping he would get to see the aurora borealis, but he mostly saw vast
amounts of sleet, rain and snow. I haven't seen so much of the Northern Lights
this year in general. This is partly because our house doesn't look out into an
expanse of sky like the old one did. I've recently realised that on clear
nights they are often directly above our house, so I need to go out and check
more often. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">
</span>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXWZXXtDLefzVursvpek7pv8qP8KLhzAs_HD8i9TlTWy0PV19ECG7WvNKoZEQg1bRYvCc6nEnaEEKWeJKiO3_-n7q5i811Rb5h2lefT598HYnFAOYNyeQ5FyFYUTCZz6JTWlmvdGHVLIRs/s1600/DSC06012.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXWZXXtDLefzVursvpek7pv8qP8KLhzAs_HD8i9TlTWy0PV19ECG7WvNKoZEQg1bRYvCc6nEnaEEKWeJKiO3_-n7q5i811Rb5h2lefT598HYnFAOYNyeQ5FyFYUTCZz6JTWlmvdGHVLIRs/s320/DSC06012.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bill Kenny and me cooking lunch with petrol.
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-GB">I just finished a long Norwegian
project on Knut Hamsun. Everyone has to do some self-directed coursework in the
third year and I chose to write about three of Hamsun's early books: Hunger,
Pan and Victoria. Although Hunger is the most famous one with English speaking
audiences, and is an excellent book, I really recommend Pan. It's quite unlike
any other book I've read, especially from that period. It was interesting
writing at length about literature in another language. I'm hoping now that
I've got that out of the way, I can update here more than once a month. <br />
<br />
In other news, young goats are being born! Marthe doesn't work in the barn in
the winter, but she went to visit the little ones. I suppose this means that
spring is close at hand.</span></span><span lang="EN-GB"></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></span></div>
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Vince Stephenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11574536147135909914noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6298624226127051173.post-5000827795870269782013-03-13T21:46:00.001+01:002013-03-13T21:55:50.772+01:00An update of sorts<iframe width="480" height="360" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/nVDCLVVFOas?rel=0" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>
<br />
Sorry I've been away so long. Vince Stephenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11574536147135909914noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6298624226127051173.post-49829732840484118512013-01-12T13:09:00.002+01:002013-03-18T14:26:46.357+01:00January - to the sun and back<style>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: small;">I think we can all agree that T.S. Eliot
was talking out of his neck when he said that April was the cruelest month.
Every year, no matter where I am, January is a slow-moving, washed-out
nightmare of a month. It's been a little better since I stopped treating
Christmas as a 14 day drinking marathon, but I still feel like I carry this
month around in my chest as a solid and unwelcome sphere of blue. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: small;">Still, the days are already getting lighter
here in the far North. The horizonal light appears some time around 10.20 and by
lunch time the mountains and fjord are washed in silver. There are touches of
pink in the sky and the snow is a cold, cold shade of blue. There's a platform of crystaline ice by the waterside. I know I'd rather
be dealing with the year's awkward birth here than sitting on the platform at
Streatham Hill station. </span><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-Jnn-aJrMR5AybGhyphenhyphen-FiYw5SJYvKJT0QPxp3BVqbUyuAjyAudpzJHIsabDvtEZO9pEoC8qR1ab3GYGy3mYn90mss7dLXydn5ghf3Eb0ABEkW3ytJ1LzrC-EnPkhws-2viEO2WMTlzyRlF/s1600/ice+house.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-Jnn-aJrMR5AybGhyphenhyphen-FiYw5SJYvKJT0QPxp3BVqbUyuAjyAudpzJHIsabDvtEZO9pEoC8qR1ab3GYGy3mYn90mss7dLXydn5ghf3Eb0ABEkW3ytJ1LzrC-EnPkhws-2viEO2WMTlzyRlF/s320/ice+house.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: small;">We went away for Christmas this year. We
spent it in the sunshine (or at least the daylight) of Madeira, 700km from the
coast of Africa, 900 from Portugal. It was a surreal experience to see large
butterflies dancing through the air on Christmas Eve. Madeira is a place that
takes the season seriously, with illuminations, decorations and music, and the
Funchal authorities had organised a lot of street performances by dancers and
musicians. The programme was a mixture of local folk styles and Christmas
standards. Having these performers playing in the background whenever we passed
through town was a real highlight, although I wonder why the warmer countries
don't write some alternative Christmas songs. It seems a little weird to sing
"May all your Christmases be white," to an audience of people who are
hoping the temperature won't drop below 20 degrees centigrade.</span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheCoD5AokwpY94r5NI5Al_F-v-tLqWDf1-pDXxMSfpCZgonqLCyAcLhYMpZFT5gQYM5CDQzXIHAyuxSmzuLWe0k5sJ7KlFQf3973AZjJ8IMl4gvVyTMtwxEyARAJaKjty_mHRHYOc3svS9/s1600/lizard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheCoD5AokwpY94r5NI5Al_F-v-tLqWDf1-pDXxMSfpCZgonqLCyAcLhYMpZFT5gQYM5CDQzXIHAyuxSmzuLWe0k5sJ7KlFQf3973AZjJ8IMl4gvVyTMtwxEyARAJaKjty_mHRHYOc3svS9/s320/lizard.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: small;">The landscape of Madeira is unlike any
other I know. It's a volcanic Island and in places it shows. The rocks jut out
at the coastal edge as if they were frozen in the act of self-creation, and you
can clearly see the different layers of lava. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigGoaHupMpSCN9flObiVPRNXuEb0PYHOaT3YMJy3RAdBU_xWHMRjRWZgK_HHmE_uWJ7KceRXJzSLBQ4qD43o_Pthtx2cv6CIHqBjiJxRfT1efuu-5kQPY4m22L9F66QWgG7zGfMPZ8AIKh/s1600/volcanic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigGoaHupMpSCN9flObiVPRNXuEb0PYHOaT3YMJy3RAdBU_xWHMRjRWZgK_HHmE_uWJ7KceRXJzSLBQ4qD43o_Pthtx2cv6CIHqBjiJxRfT1efuu-5kQPY4m22L9F66QWgG7zGfMPZ8AIKh/s320/volcanic.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheb7QhTs4SkoecBqojT84vp-zCeRHQi3Bo605ToeTnRehLxqRqKFcqorpVSgFC0dhPP2-_o7v6KeqZfwUQ9rorW_HMHy_RctBfoiUvYpY6jPHDbAOnMKR_G-kNpbMvOuJBJvcosc2S9MXL/s1600/coast.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheb7QhTs4SkoecBqojT84vp-zCeRHQi3Bo605ToeTnRehLxqRqKFcqorpVSgFC0dhPP2-_o7v6KeqZfwUQ9rorW_HMHy_RctBfoiUvYpY6jPHDbAOnMKR_G-kNpbMvOuJBJvcosc2S9MXL/s320/coast.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: small;">And yet it's a lush, green, verdant
place. The two botanical gardens above Funchal are both, in their very
different ways, spectacular. When you follow the levadas (the man-made
irrigation channels) through the valleys between villages you find farms set
into mountain sides, the fields staggered in a series of steep steps. Dense
masses of banana trees can be seen everywhere. </span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8StwVH2c1FQXOCiFETD3y-F9RQPACk8bS7Fw1pWyQ5-LXygL5ITu2Rp9LDokpIhCqVioOE8RKl647dT2Ztii-uT_exqToNg1vuq2OaamHL2hFU3BjhJ2GQnMoBDFgLHxZeTgUB5U1yKeN/s1600/levada+close.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8StwVH2c1FQXOCiFETD3y-F9RQPACk8bS7Fw1pWyQ5-LXygL5ITu2Rp9LDokpIhCqVioOE8RKl647dT2Ztii-uT_exqToNg1vuq2OaamHL2hFU3BjhJ2GQnMoBDFgLHxZeTgUB5U1yKeN/s320/levada+close.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lavadas are often cut into the cliff-face and have a sheer drop on one side. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl8prZL_gezw64YykJmaG8KpNezHYEOtwVdG47WQMBPHGnsra9FY_03oSp9L5RT5SJh3PKZqXYI8J3etwwzWSR0jYld0ZW1QZGfG3Zdr2lGJuMo19ymazW6P_znWqj63IjNvlVSXuRq2zo/s1600/hillside.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl8prZL_gezw64YykJmaG8KpNezHYEOtwVdG47WQMBPHGnsra9FY_03oSp9L5RT5SJh3PKZqXYI8J3etwwzWSR0jYld0ZW1QZGfG3Zdr2lGJuMo19ymazW6P_znWqj63IjNvlVSXuRq2zo/s320/hillside.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8TYHREdMOimlO_6X7LakL_gArc9w9XKgmHIwpylSFULAVWLCOW-66LtWHyL-zUVWi0zyT3PSCEqjWXUluV2ZMudv2dulOl4wslPY2Km9qdtz2ffEn-g7mhSlxw5iRMGMkSwsG65n0Nf3q/s1600/botanical+garden+madeira.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8TYHREdMOimlO_6X7LakL_gArc9w9XKgmHIwpylSFULAVWLCOW-66LtWHyL-zUVWi0zyT3PSCEqjWXUluV2ZMudv2dulOl4wslPY2Km9qdtz2ffEn-g7mhSlxw5iRMGMkSwsG65n0Nf3q/s320/botanical+garden+madeira.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Botanic gardens</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-size: small;"></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVIte4v_UHtcNIyLXfmfl7b9mTwXc2i44TUKyQa_-zwRThHkkKyHz9S-G0AUvUYctCXFX9JllcQZ8w_m0X9y1Qtli23dckwtz2nA7hv-VZszcsxeBfFJrnhC0bIqWPQVlTUctVPRt07m55/s1600/madeira+flower.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVIte4v_UHtcNIyLXfmfl7b9mTwXc2i44TUKyQa_-zwRThHkkKyHz9S-G0AUvUYctCXFX9JllcQZ8w_m0X9y1Qtli23dckwtz2nA7hv-VZszcsxeBfFJrnhC0bIqWPQVlTUctVPRt07m55/s320/madeira+flower.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: small;">In Funchal there is a yellow coastal fort
which is open to the public and part of which has been turned into a
contemporary art museum. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGtljabSLytXVa9LwQ4KhacDNxY9Cpno6PsTZL4QIx7UiMHZUC-hSBFU2wfj0u-zKiosGkgLCVReK2hIg6h8v_tJAy5WQhEQK0wWeBt1nEQfs4ueSvlS6f0VJRtkE1yTXG4aLcytkDtdYH/s1600/art+gallery+distance.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGtljabSLytXVa9LwQ4KhacDNxY9Cpno6PsTZL4QIx7UiMHZUC-hSBFU2wfj0u-zKiosGkgLCVReK2hIg6h8v_tJAy5WQhEQK0wWeBt1nEQfs4ueSvlS6f0VJRtkE1yTXG4aLcytkDtdYH/s320/art+gallery+distance.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd6YtY6Kavz47oHkw-gq8yVndW5zXMYoxJ7fJOw9R9U7USeFibim0ZuR899vTypMoKqH7e26XK8wLAbbtlFNcuNPMg6m9aibIESqVmCYHPHFNaqurK0Ip4USeKn45K1vSD-JnTKLjLQGno/s1600/art+gallery+detail.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd6YtY6Kavz47oHkw-gq8yVndW5zXMYoxJ7fJOw9R9U7USeFibim0ZuR899vTypMoKqH7e26XK8wLAbbtlFNcuNPMg6m9aibIESqVmCYHPHFNaqurK0Ip4USeKn45K1vSD-JnTKLjLQGno/s320/art+gallery+detail.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: small;">While we were there the museum had a retrospective of
prints by Ilda Reis. Reis is dead now, but she had a 30 year career in the late
20th century using a variety of different engraving and printing techniques to
make complex, abstract, ink-based print works, many of which take a lot of
studying before they open up to the viewer. They are often less abstract than
they first seem and they have a broad visual vocabulary. Some seem to reference
images taken from microscopes—<span style="font-size: small;">images <span style="font-size: small;">o<span style="font-size: small;">f </span></span></span>cells, small organisms and the
building-blocks of life. Looking at her work is a contemplative and personal
experience, like reading poetry. It seemed so far removed from most of the
contemporary art I'm accustomed to seeing in London galleries, and it struck me
as a different path art could have taken— less to do with
performative posturing<span style="font-size: small;">,</span> more quietly musical. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: small;">Coming back from Madeira, we discovered
that a storm had torn through Nordreisa and ripped our chimney from the roof of
our house, so we can't use our fireplace. To take an optimistic view of this, losing
our fireplace has given us cause to be glad about what would otherwise be
terrifyingly warm weather for the arctic in deepest winter. It's hardly dropped
below minus 4 these last two weeks, so we're in no danger of freezing as yet. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxPlVzRikPPOazfk19AFXeRQZ2W1MfwBE2oJpogk0dIovB1dWmnx2LgNuaHA8wnhOyimBLUyFj0S6twHw2eD-I2yUlqW8Ff76795GEaf0JrA_Y5-4PMDX-p0aE24YbunEdiH6WiTkbTI-B/s1600/lost+chimney.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxPlVzRikPPOazfk19AFXeRQZ2W1MfwBE2oJpogk0dIovB1dWmnx2LgNuaHA8wnhOyimBLUyFj0S6twHw2eD-I2yUlqW8Ff76795GEaf0JrA_Y5-4PMDX-p0aE24YbunEdiH6WiTkbTI-B/s320/lost+chimney.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spot the chimney. Clue: It's not on the roof.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"></span></div>
</div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: small;">On returning we also discovered that I had
managed to disconnect the freezer before leaving for our holiday. We came back
to a metal box full of rotten food. The saddest thing about this was that
Marthe spent a lot of time in the autumn picking berries to cook with, and now
they are all lost, along with enough food to last several weeks. Bagging up
endless amounts of nauseatingly rancid mulch is as dispiriting a start to the
year as any, but I thought to myself while we were doing it that ultimately I
was obscenely fortunate to be able to lose so much food without fear of
starving to death. </span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: small;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: small;">Arctic night is more severe when you drop
yourself into it suddenly. When it comes on gradually it feels natural, but
after 10 days in the sun, coming back to near constant lightlessness was like
walking into a wall. I can feel it getting easier already though, as January
always does. The fjord is calm outside the cabin window. The sun is close
enough that the most distant patch of sky is the colour of day. Though I have
work to do, my time is my own. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: small;">Here's wishing you a gentle start to the
year. There's no reason 2013 can't be a good one. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjX6V8dfadWHEodY7qnom4NE5CDaUZyQy5jRl_FHPZj2klcpAumMV9CkWTxusDj36m4zKlqZqIG4EpOU8qSO-VlsDM9tBcM_ezT05CQBWfu2Z9iIB0XQs3VDfbGzlJ-QBIy_qEAelnRy4o/s1600/me+in+the+landscape.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjX6V8dfadWHEodY7qnom4NE5CDaUZyQy5jRl_FHPZj2klcpAumMV9CkWTxusDj36m4zKlqZqIG4EpOU8qSO-VlsDM9tBcM_ezT05CQBWfu2Z9iIB0XQs3VDfbGzlJ-QBIy_qEAelnRy4o/s320/me+in+the+landscape.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With love, Vince.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
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Vince Stephenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11574536147135909914noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6298624226127051173.post-64132028125079178732012-12-21T12:53:00.001+01:002012-12-21T12:54:42.002+01:00Happy Christmas<style>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span lang="NO-BOK">This is just a very quick post to say
Happy Christmas or Winter Solstice to readers of this blog. Thanks for a good
year. I hope 2013 brings you new experiences, interesting discoveries and
wonderful events. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span lang="NO-BOK">I'll be back in January. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span lang="NO-BOK">V.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span lang="NO-BOK">x</span></span></span></div>
Vince Stephenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11574536147135909914noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6298624226127051173.post-58600224908152555382012-11-27T23:24:00.001+01:002012-11-28T11:57:20.103+01:00Arctic Dusk<style>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span lang="NO-BOK">This is proper winter now. The sun has
gone. No more sun this year. We still have some hours of light each day, but
the sunrise bleeds into sunset which fades into darkness. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span lang="NO-BOK">I was driving home at 11.30 and looking at
the unreal light-blue of the fjord and pink wash of the sky. I thought to myself
that these were colours which ought really to have their own names. I never saw
them before I moved here. I went outside with a camera to photograph what I
could, slipping twice on the ice at the edge of the fjord. From next week until
spring all pictures will come out in shades of blue.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span lang="NO-BOK">By two o'clock the moon was high in the sky<span style="font-size: small;">,</span>
reflecting in the fjord<span style="font-size: small;"> and</span> lighting up the snow. Streetlights reflect in the
water opposite us, making our cabin feel a little less remote. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span lang="NO-BOK">We've been burning up a good deal of our
wood supply<span style="font-size: small;">.</span> Last night we lay in bed with the door open, watching shapes
from the flames in the living room dancing on the bedroom ceiling. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span lang="NO-BOK">When most of the day is dark it often feels
much later than it is. You keep thinking it must soon be time to go to bed, but
then you look up at the clock and discover it's 6.30 in the afternoon. Still,
you get very little done. People go into semi-hibernation at this time of year.
Life gets quieter. Sleep is your friend. </span></span></span></div>
Vince Stephenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11574536147135909914noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6298624226127051173.post-50189731788782300042012-11-27T23:18:00.000+01:002012-11-27T23:39:55.822+01:00Dying For Bad Music<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span lang="NO-BOK" style="font-size: small;">Today Marcus, who runs Dying For Bad Music,
wrote a very nice piece about an album I recorded last winter a<span style="font-size: small;">n<span style="font-size: small;">d sprin<span style="font-size: small;">g</span></span></span> in my house in Storvik and which I put out online recently. This man deserves a
great deal of respect for dedicating time and energy to finding and writing
about obscure and interesting music. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span lang="NO-BOK" style="font-size: small;">His site and label are both full of wonderful
and challenging discoveries. I sent him a link to my record and he was generous
enough to listen to it, to understand it on its own terms and even do some
research on me. You can listen to the record and can read his review <a href="http://dyingforbadmusic.com/blog/post/2012/11/vince-stephen-where-no-birds-sing-2012.html">here</a>. You'll
also find a lot of other music which is available for free, alongside all the
label's releases. I recommend taking a look around the site. </span></span><br />
<span lang="NO-BOK" style="font-size: small;"> <span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Cambria;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span></span></span></span></span></span> </div>
Vince Stephenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11574536147135909914noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6298624226127051173.post-73560378488383035822012-10-31T21:02:00.001+01:002012-11-01T16:35:29.861+01:00Snow and TimeIt started to snow over a week ago. First there was a thin layer over everything and everyone said it would soon melt, but then there came snow storms so heavy I couldn't see a thing when driving home in the dark. Pretty soon everything was covered, the car was frozen shut and difficult to extricate from the driveway, we saw other people's cars in the ditches on the way to work and everybody started wearing their winter boots again.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-3OHkO4BZpsc1oeslduwOfwhxVhUVsjritkGHEDNZQXMUGRHkwOLvCJBzHqkwZMaK7Q64VfXKosKnQ4kCl8WxI8dZNZDCzK-DRU9_PWPzm-uXRTWYLMU5ri01duskKaJvDmSMzk_s74Uw/s1600/fjord+in+winter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-3OHkO4BZpsc1oeslduwOfwhxVhUVsjritkGHEDNZQXMUGRHkwOLvCJBzHqkwZMaK7Q64VfXKosKnQ4kCl8WxI8dZNZDCzK-DRU9_PWPzm-uXRTWYLMU5ri01duskKaJvDmSMzk_s74Uw/s320/fjord+in+winter.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The view from our porch now</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After the first batch of snow</td></tr>
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In this part of the world my relationship with the seasons is turned on its head. In England I love the autumn but fear the winter. Here the winter seems like the natural state of things and the summer a weird hiatus. Already the moon is massive in the sky, even in the daytime, and the landscape glows in a dark blue colour all night. As many challenges as the ice and frost bring, I'm glad that I'll be here for another winter cycle.<br />
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There are no street lights where we live now. To get to our house you have to leave the road and walk down a small hill to the waterside. If we don't leave the lights on it can be difficult spot our home in amongst the trees.<br />
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In other news, today is my birthday. That means it's one year since the <a href="http://69point23degrees.blogspot.com/2011/11/turning-30-leaving-england.html" target="_blank">events I talked about in the first post here on this blog</a>, and very soon it will be a year since we moved here. If I think back to those days before we set off on this trip it feels like a lifetime ago. I think one way to make life seem a little less short is to make sure a lot happens between one birthday and the next.<br />
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<br />Vince Stephenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11574536147135909914noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6298624226127051173.post-42940061506128280472012-10-15T22:36:00.000+02:002012-10-18T22:11:17.465+02:00Lofoten<br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">From the Hamsun centre we drove a little further South and
boarded a ferry towards an archipelago named Lofoten. A couple of hours later we
arrived in <span class="st">Svolvær, where the ferry's lights
picked out circles of rock in the darkness. Just over a year ago we came
through </span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span class="st"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span class="st">Svolvær</span></span></span> on our boat trip North and had an hour or so to walk around the
harbour. At the time I was really impressed by the look of the <a href="http://www.lofoten-suitehotel.com/" target="_blank">Lofoten Suite Hotel</a>, and a year later this was where we stayed the night. Checking in, I thought I must be exhausted, because I found the receptionist helpful but very difficult to understand. Marthe explained afterwards that this was because she was speaking Swedish.</span></span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixX0CiQVSI9KyX7wdFYFcyTPUXKbQ5urzZbXaQLUkT4D-LnSCACaqgUcrq8A1x7gEfYPJzzfBN_Xr63-IHWyG65-hCFV5HSzfedwFp0yGKR2ggKuplMoXVaHcE8hvVgs3sfV1B1KlWBGMG/s1600/Lofoten+Suit+Hotel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixX0CiQVSI9KyX7wdFYFcyTPUXKbQ5urzZbXaQLUkT4D-LnSCACaqgUcrq8A1x7gEfYPJzzfBN_Xr63-IHWyG65-hCFV5HSzfedwFp0yGKR2ggKuplMoXVaHcE8hvVgs3sfV1B1KlWBGMG/s320/Lofoten+Suit+Hotel.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Lofoten Suite Hotel is the one in the middle.</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span class="st">A red-brown cylindrical
building studded with massive windows, sitting above two restaurants right by
the waterside, t</span><span class="st">he Lofoten Suite Hotel is weird. The
rooms have their own bathroom but they share a living room and kitchen with
another hotel room. This wouldn't be so strange were it not for the fact that a
lot of the walls are made of glass (one of the main views from the balcony was
the interior of our bedroom.) It's a bit like <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/We_%28novel%29" target="_blank"><i>We</i> by Yevgeny Zamyatin</a>, except you don't need special permission to
draw the curtains. It was the off-season so we had the whole suite to ourselves,
which was unbelievably luxurious, but if I ever stayed there again I'd want to
be in a group of four so that I would at least know the people in the adjoining room. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span class="st">All the towns in Lofoten were or are
fishing towns and </span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span class="st"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span class="st">Svolvær</span></span></span> is a mix of a modern port and a National Romantic
painting. It's so much a place of water and boats that it made me wish my Dad
was there, since he has more of a connection with the ocean.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span class="st">On Saturday we drove through the middle
of an enormous mountain and on to another fishing village called <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henningsv%C3%A6r" target="_blank">Henningvær</a>,
which sits on a c<span style="font-size: small;">onstellation</span> </span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span class="st">of small islands at the end of a long winding road
and over a long narrow bridge. When local guidebooks compare it to Venice what
they mean is that there's far more water than land. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span class="st">Driving back we kept stopping to try to
take photographs, but the scale of the landscape in Lofoten really defeats amature
photography. Even the sky seems bigger. </span></span></span></div>
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Vince Stephenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11574536147135909914noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6298624226127051173.post-57167802093578401352012-10-07T00:01:00.001+02:002012-10-07T15:41:11.073+02:00Hamsun<style>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Last weekend we drove South to an area called <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nordland" target="_blank">Nordland</a>, where
one of Norway's most famous writers, Knut Hamsun, grew up. Since 2009 there has
been a Hamsun Centre in his home town of Hamarøy. I remember reading about it
at the time it opened: this architecturally unique tribute to a writer, lying
in a small village in the far North, where even most Norwegians never travel. I've
wanted to go there ever since. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I seem to remember reading that <a href="http://www.stevenholl.com/" target="_blank">the architect</a>
wanted the experience of moving through the five floors of the building to echo that of reading the writer's
prose in some way. The structure is an asymmetric box with a staircase climbing
through it at strange angles to platforms which are partly open. There is a
small library, and each of the other floors is a multimedia installation dedicated
to a different theme in Hamsun’s life and work, so you piece together some kind
of picture through a series of fragments. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Nature was profoundly important to Hamsun and one thing that
definitely works in the centre's favour is the the way the outside landscape is
incorporated into the experience of walking through the building. There is a roof
terrace which gives a kind of overview of the region, though a clear view is
deliberately obscured by a perimeter wall of tall cane. Then on each floor
there are carefully placed windows and different types of terrace from which
you get a "framed" view of an aspect of Hamarøy. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Because the doors to these outside areas are open, cold
gusts of air blow through the rooms in certain places. This slight element of
discomfort sits quite well with Hamsun's history. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Until a few years ago Hamsun was relatively obscure outside
Norway but he influenced a lot of 20th Century novelists. His first book,
Hunger, foreshadows much of what Beckett and Auster would write and, published
in 1890, is considered by some to be one of the first Modern novels. He would
be a national hero, were it not for the fact that he collaborated with the
German occupation. Although, unlike some other writers around this time (I'm thinking of Celine
and Pound, maybe Eliot too), he claimed never to have been anti-Semitic, he
was very pro Nazi. He went so far as to encourage Norwegian soldiers to desert.
Even when the writing was quite clearly on the wall for the German war effort, Hamsun wrote and published a
glowing eulogy for Hitler. The top floor of the centre is dedicated to a
discussion of how one might reconcile Hamsun's work with his political affiliations. Projected onto two walls is a fascinating film featuring a series of Norwegian intellectuals taking a
range of positions on both Hamsun's literary worth and his legacy. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">What's most interesting to me about Hamsun's collaboration
is how he got there, especially given that his early books were initially
classed by the Nazis as degenerative literature. In the 19th Century he was in
many ways radically left wing. Yet Hamsun didn't exactly become a collaborator
through the proverbial reactionary drift. Like many European artists and
radicals of the 19th Century, he detested Britain and its Empire. He looked instead to Germany as a
country in touch with the traditions of the soil and as the home of the
Peasant's Rebellion. Germany was the great European alternative.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">By the time of the Second World War Hamsun was an old man,
but he held on fiercely to the ideas of his youth. For him, his enemy's enemy
would always be his friend. The rise of Germany had been his life long dream. </span></span></div>
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Vince Stephenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11574536147135909914noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6298624226127051173.post-82632625764454930002012-09-22T15:01:00.000+02:002012-09-23T07:47:03.733+02:00Autumn (Høst)<br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Spring came late and it lasted a week. Some time in June
the whole landscape here turned green in a matter of days. Then fog hung heavy over
the fjord for a lot of the summer until three or four months later the
seasonal tide began to shift again. Patches of red and yellow broke through the green.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">As amazing as all of this can look on a sunny day, it was the first time the seasons here felt harsh to me. The plants have hardly
started to grow before they have to start dying all over again. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Autumn seems a good deal longer than the spring, but each
day there are fewer leaves on the trees. The streams in front of and behind our house have returned. Night falls earlier every evening. Moths appear out of the darkness and alight
on our windows, drawn by our electric light.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I've started night classes for the equivalent of Norwegian A
level. Unbelievably, I also passed my driving test, so I drive myself home in
the dark listening to <i>The Knife</i>, judging my position on the road by the
high-visibility markers the council put out. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The sheep have been herded home and most of the birds have disappeared from the water. Across the fjord, snow has started to fall on the tops of the
mountains. It won't be too long before it comes down to ground level. Last week our winter firewood arrived and we stacked it up outside the house. It will be a shame to lose the sun, but in many
ways I'm looking forward to the winter. </span></span></div>
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Vince Stephenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11574536147135909914noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6298624226127051173.post-90850077931175789512012-09-01T11:25:00.000+02:002012-09-01T18:15:57.570+02:00AncestorsAround 60 years ago, a man was out ploughing his field in Alta when he found a large rock with an ornate carving of a human female on it. Over the course of the next few years people discovered a massive amount of local rock art dating from between 7000 and 2000 years ago. Much of it is concentrated in a place called Hjemmeluft, right at the edge of the Fjord, where the creators congregated for thousands of years. There's a museum there, where you can walk out along a raised wooden causeway and see for yourself.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4xAwag3aMjfdmIwP77siHM01ZO-A0H6DpvW5UK-fFSjVxxafxES14dyfIprXTC8mqxolUWKtDoB-32dq7dbUkXLeQ-qYxPTtdRRlgX1_-mPIr9gYyCpeqZ_vxepsmtUVK3oO0sEtaiP4O/s1600/Alta+Museum.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4xAwag3aMjfdmIwP77siHM01ZO-A0H6DpvW5UK-fFSjVxxafxES14dyfIprXTC8mqxolUWKtDoB-32dq7dbUkXLeQ-qYxPTtdRRlgX1_-mPIr9gYyCpeqZ_vxepsmtUVK3oO0sEtaiP4O/s320/Alta+Museum.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeFw7CCx5lmGQF9XdhKji3MOjy8FpeQfNBN2Ow1_dnq0ssCzWTkLlaivZQJYsz-8EORtQbxH5pIynO2KaKSCLQ9CSmZIlIONexkAVajnnMPEiOLjkup2Pm8OIzNUlUhEoivj8Tr2mjJQVG/s1600/Man+and+Beast.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeFw7CCx5lmGQF9XdhKji3MOjy8FpeQfNBN2Ow1_dnq0ssCzWTkLlaivZQJYsz-8EORtQbxH5pIynO2KaKSCLQ9CSmZIlIONexkAVajnnMPEiOLjkup2Pm8OIzNUlUhEoivj8Tr2mjJQVG/s320/Man+and+Beast.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY4Cj7Yd8oaz0Dx4IUyNnKB1lXwiAOAEnhqvs2X5pjCuS5J-orj1bwx-k8xEeHw3Cy5QAwwZQPfZ7v5N8G3LWGyFYdmQwGNB4cANECm9KHAngisiNWfyO-rMrcRlMo0yPUg6O99W_Bu4ww/s1600/Rock+with+Carving+and+Hole.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY4Cj7Yd8oaz0Dx4IUyNnKB1lXwiAOAEnhqvs2X5pjCuS5J-orj1bwx-k8xEeHw3Cy5QAwwZQPfZ7v5N8G3LWGyFYdmQwGNB4cANECm9KHAngisiNWfyO-rMrcRlMo0yPUg6O99W_Bu4ww/s320/Rock+with+Carving+and+Hole.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">As ever, you can click on these images to enlarge them.</td></tr>
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Up until quite recently the carvings were painted red to make them more visible. Now this is considered bad form, so any newly found carvings are being left untouched and there is a project underway to remove the paint on the others. Without the paint they look like this:<br />
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Many of the images depict animals, people and boats. Although some seem a little cryptic, it's amazing how easy it is to recognise many of the motifs.
These people could communicate a lot of information with only a few
lines.<br />
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My favourite was this image of a man catching a fish (below). It has been suggested that the bear and the fish are meeting in another world, to which the water is the gateway.<br />
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When you think about how long this style of art was practiced in comparison to the later more "realistic" European style of painting and drawing, the latter seems like a tiny anomaly. Especially when you consider the return to abstraction in the 20th Century. That people were meeting up here in the same small area of the arctic and practicing this tradition right through from the late Neolithic period to the start of the Christian calender is mind-blowing.<br />
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Even weirder is that I drew those same stick-men when I was a child. You probably did too.<br />
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<br />Vince Stephenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11574536147135909914noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6298624226127051173.post-37342174287798146332012-07-30T16:41:00.001+02:002012-07-31T23:20:16.939+02:00Spildra<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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From the island port,</div>
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The gravel road curves</div>
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In the cliff's embrace</div>
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To where the clouds kiss the mountains</div>
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In a Conan Doyle world</div>
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And three birds swim silent</div>
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On a hidden lake. </div>
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Through brush and tree branches </div>
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We choose to fall</div>
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And fight our way downwards</div>
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In an endless dusk.</div>
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The beach is empty </div>
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Save for us.</div>
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Crows cry our coordinates from above.</div>
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<br />Vince Stephenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11574536147135909914noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6298624226127051173.post-76256927172558489672012-07-24T15:03:00.002+02:002012-07-24T15:51:11.164+02:00On Goats (An Interview)<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i><b><span lang="EN-US">Marthe has a full time job as a photo-curator, but has started working part-time on a remote farm looking after goats. I decided to find out more about why she wanted to do this and what it is like. </span></b></i></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw7ADnkDqklVMOHaew3wOl3eGjHpwifTJP9Ddx4RO9MFHyWNlEp59-9q4bkBWnV-2RhFJUwxO-i2-A76S9VsLvRNh_90S4SdemQzkH_CxZfTNoZxDmCdjcZ4Z9ey8A6k-cj5AXyNVcUi7_/s1600/Goat+Face.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw7ADnkDqklVMOHaew3wOl3eGjHpwifTJP9Ddx4RO9MFHyWNlEp59-9q4bkBWnV-2RhFJUwxO-i2-A76S9VsLvRNh_90S4SdemQzkH_CxZfTNoZxDmCdjcZ4Z9ey8A6k-cj5AXyNVcUi7_/s320/Goat+Face.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><b><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b><span lang="EN-US">You already had a full time job, so what made you want to start working with goats in a barn?</span></b></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: small;">I
think there are two reasons. The first one is that although I like my
job and I enjoy what I'm doing, it's quite nice to do something
completely different. With the goats, I go in there and I'm working 100%
the whole time. It's very physical. I have to constantly make sure that
all the goats are alright.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: small;">Apart
from wanting a job that was more active, I remembered that a few years
back I actually applied to become a <i>budeie</i> for a summer job.
Traditionally, a <i>budeie</i> used to be a young girl working up in the
mountains for the summer, living alone and taking care of the cows or
goats on summer pastures. I went abroad that summer instead, but there's
obviously been some interest in me to work with animals.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b><span lang="EN-US">Can you give a quick description of what the job involves?</span></b></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: small;">In
the summer, when the weather is good, I come to the barn and the goats are all outside. So I go
up in the mountains where they're roaming around, and I've got a bell I
can ring so they can hear my bell if I can't see them. I also yell for
them to come. Sometimes there can be a bit of walking involved, but so
far, this early in the summer, they haven't been walking so far away
from their house. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxcNuTKiraa857kFexejxkCvsjccwCgUgYuOok_aMznKgS3elCULPFN3cPL99cQkzsObfvixvB5BnPbK8Z-1P8ROMbvysCiwn-AXqmC9GQM66FNzZ8_9scO8AtUJOoeRaamv1s4SKxu-1U/s1600/Bell.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxcNuTKiraa857kFexejxkCvsjccwCgUgYuOok_aMznKgS3elCULPFN3cPL99cQkzsObfvixvB5BnPbK8Z-1P8ROMbvysCiwn-AXqmC9GQM66FNzZ8_9scO8AtUJOoeRaamv1s4SKxu-1U/s320/Bell.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: small;">It's
a really gorgeous feeling when I spot the goats and they start running
towards me with their "baaah"s and the bell going
"ding-ding-ding-ding-ding." We're both really happy to see each other.
I'm happy to see the goats, that I don't have to go trekking to find
them, and they're ecstatic that someone has come to collect them.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv9Ip4NMyZ5ss9qZ0RY93Vs2HWcmhwZ5Q6AbpwdDPtFIq4fQgSIRxn9PY9KlHQhyphenhyphenTO9j7jnl8epRKsH9nc-kICnkSNQ6rCMvR9pG9mAyHQZ5XMjtvDYSXSB88tFpWciWzYjvNnuAtCGaY5/s1600/Goats+in+the+Distance.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv9Ip4NMyZ5ss9qZ0RY93Vs2HWcmhwZ5Q6AbpwdDPtFIq4fQgSIRxn9PY9KlHQhyphenhyphenTO9j7jnl8epRKsH9nc-kICnkSNQ6rCMvR9pG9mAyHQZ5XMjtvDYSXSB88tFpWciWzYjvNnuAtCGaY5/s320/Goats+in+the+Distance.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: small;">Then
we go back to the barn and it's the milking with an automatic milking
machine. I get 12 and 12 goats up to be milked. I have to make sure I
don't milk any goats that are ill. If they're on medication I can't mix
their milk in with the others', and I also have to make sure that none
of the goats have become ill or got hurt whilst they were out. I give them
some "power food" whilst they're being milked. It takes quite a long
time because I've got 87 goats that I milk. Obviously, there's that
little bit of excitement when I get to the end of the shift and it's
like, "Have I got the right number of goats today, or did I leave some
in the field?"</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: small;">I also have to make sure that the barn is nice and clean. I feed the hens and rabbits, clean equipment and so on. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b><span lang="EN-US">How would you characterise goats as animals?</span></b></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: small;">Cute!
They're really trusting. They are possibly not the most clever animals
in the world, but they certainly know what's going on. They've got their
habits. When I milk, I know which goats come first and which are the
last ones, and it's always the same ones; my three last goats are always
the same three. There's one that likes to run up to the milking ramp
first, but then she gets really confused because she always stands there
second, so she has to run back and forth a bit so that she can be
second. So they're animals of habit, but they're also very trusting and
quite cuddly. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjILLVYy6Tpvk__pf64Q0V-ir7EbpJpfn0CcrcgZ7pjTMkKnit28mNisA7xH_ljsOCd284rSZ3AQOLCbPY9IQnwA52402lk5tEk72tC-wLfqqBFgLuBg0iKBep7CIoGvbBRg9xXxHRbBr84/s1600/Goats+running.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjILLVYy6Tpvk__pf64Q0V-ir7EbpJpfn0CcrcgZ7pjTMkKnit28mNisA7xH_ljsOCd284rSZ3AQOLCbPY9IQnwA52402lk5tEk72tC-wLfqqBFgLuBg0iKBep7CIoGvbBRg9xXxHRbBr84/s320/Goats+running.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b><span lang="EN-US">Has working with goats changed your relationship to this place or the animals around us here? </span></b></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: small;">I'm
not sure that it has. I guess I'm more conscious of how few people
there are left that keep farm animals. There used to be loads of barns
here where we live, but now there are only two that keep goats and a
couple of sheep farms. There's room for many more. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: small;">I
think the first time I went into the barn I was afraid that they might
bite me or run me down, because 80 animals: there's quite a lot of power
there. And they have sometimes crushed me a bit, but I'm not afraid of
them. I think in the beginning I was kind of nervous about how they
would treat me and how I would treat them, but not anymore. </span><span style="font-size: small;">They nibble a bit but they don't bite.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b><span lang="EN-US">What's your favourite thing about the job?</span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">My
favourite thing is when I see them coming towards me, running down the
mountainside, all happy. But also, just being physically active and
taking care of someone who's dependent on you for their wellbeing. <b><span lang="EN-US"> </span></b></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><b><span lang="EN-US">Anything else to say?</span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: small;">Only
that I would recommend to people to work on a farm for a summer if they
could. It's hard physical work, but you learn a lot that you never
thought you would learn about, and it's really fun. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><object height="360" width="640"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/LKwqCDXDe9Y?version=3&hl=en_US&rel=0"></param>
<param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param>
<param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param>
<embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/LKwqCDXDe9Y?version=3&hl=en_US&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="640" height="360" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true"></embed></object></span>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: small;"> <i><b>Many thanks to Marthe for the photos, video and interview. </b></i></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>Vince Stephenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11574536147135909914noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6298624226127051173.post-89996385525578709262012-07-17T21:10:00.000+02:002012-07-19T12:45:00.759+02:00Riddu Riddu<style>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOK2xHFeBBwFq2G9U5bdKhxk1Fa19QviQg0OKDeHimYnzw8nvymRJYRHTdFT6Gw0Il-UCW6JA_rzMo75q3tQpqzbgBJTfv1dZ8Yp5GZDH-zgQQTdT6PvVLy5CUebQqyZFW1z7ZPOQmJ-s4/s1600/Lavvo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOK2xHFeBBwFq2G9U5bdKhxk1Fa19QviQg0OKDeHimYnzw8nvymRJYRHTdFT6Gw0Il-UCW6JA_rzMo75q3tQpqzbgBJTfv1dZ8Yp5GZDH-zgQQTdT6PvVLy5CUebQqyZFW1z7ZPOQmJ-s4/s320/Lavvo.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Riddu Riddu takes place in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/G%C3%A1ivuotna%E2%80%93K%C3%A5fjord" target="_blank">Kåfjord</a>, in a valley between two mountains but well above sea level. It's a festival of Sami culture and
aboriginal art and music from around the world. This year it was 21 years old.
Riddu Riddu is small. It's one of the most important festivals of its kind, but
is spread out across only three fields and has just one stage. The main event
takes place at the weekend but throughout the preceding week
there are workshops, films and performances.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">In a money-raising exercise for the local choir, Marthe and
I agreed to volunteer as night security for the festival on Saturday. We started
work at 6pm and worked through until 10am. Everyone took turns doing different
jobs throughout the night, including watching a roundabout and providing
backstage security. Marthe and I were lucky enough to end up working together
in a group with one other person. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">The first band to play were a Chinese (I think) three-piece
who played an intense, repetitive gothy music in weird time signatures. I got
the chance to watch some of their set, which was performed to maybe 150 people.
They'd come a long way up into the Norwegian mountains for the show and there
was something quite wonderful about being one of the few people to see it. On
the whole their performance seemed to create quiet confusion, but I really
liked what they were doing. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihGJoJ7sLZbNt1ArCz8sCmZPFeiVWiITwC5qMw1FyyfX-3mugzJMshaJbvdSgOZcpW52_JYbMy3SVVyTbf1itpi35Azanee7lwXBKrq2MD0wjuT8Bntj6SGHV9BmXxJ4nVdPYpTyHskZQQ/s1600/First+Band.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihGJoJ7sLZbNt1ArCz8sCmZPFeiVWiITwC5qMw1FyyfX-3mugzJMshaJbvdSgOZcpW52_JYbMy3SVVyTbf1itpi35Azanee7lwXBKrq2MD0wjuT8Bntj6SGHV9BmXxJ4nVdPYpTyHskZQQ/s320/First+Band.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Harpal, Bill, if you're reading, I miss you gentlemen.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Later there were a group of rockers from Greenland, whose
vibe I couldn't get with, and a high-profile Sami band who mixed their folk
music with 80s romcom soundtrack stylings. These acts were followed by Narasirato,
a band from the Solomon Islands, whose instruments were all made of bamboo.
Wearing what looked like traditional tribal dress, they played a lively dance
music in which all the notes came from different sized panpipes and tuned
percussion. It rained while they played and at that point it was our job to
watch the VIP bar, where I was given a dressing down from one of the organisers for not recognising a
famous Sami singer who wanted to come in, but that job didn't require three people so I got to see
half of the Narasirato performance. They had the crowd with them all the way. I felt happy that I had earlier let one of their members into
the backstage area even though he'd forgotten his pass.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><object height="360" width="640"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Ca011IOhqNc?version=3&hl=en_US&rel=0"></param>
<param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Mist settled over the valley for the last act of the night, a group called Totalteatret.
I get the impression that these guys played Riddu Riddu around 10 years ago and
this performance was something of a homecoming. They mixed storytelling with
punk, rap and agitprop, something like an arctic Chumbawamba. Some years ago
they had regional hit with a tune about people shooting holes in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sami_languages" target="_blank">Sami</a> street-signs. This reminded me of similar battles in Wales, so I guess street
signage is often a major issue in areas where a language has been suppressed.
The song shared its drum beat with <i>Walk
This Way</i> by Aerosmith and Run DMC, and the audience liked it so much that
the band played it twice. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGERVdKi9DE6HLgrDwS7nUzzuYYwGSHH3WFEIwuxrf3_LTODAsFtB1e863qcE4Z-kdM2V-HAnWQFLhd7RWrQXBZH1mEHFPuHh35OhQHgW3mLGlR19N-j0QyOig0AUI2j6bv8aDVG57Pld3/s1600/Totalteatret.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGERVdKi9DE6HLgrDwS7nUzzuYYwGSHH3WFEIwuxrf3_LTODAsFtB1e863qcE4Z-kdM2V-HAnWQFLhd7RWrQXBZH1mEHFPuHh35OhQHgW3mLGlR19N-j0QyOig0AUI2j6bv8aDVG57Pld3/s320/Totalteatret.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Totalteatret</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-size: small;">After Totalteatret were finished there was an exodus from
the main stage to the camping area and we were unlucky enough to be stuck on
the gate checking wristbands for entry. Marthe was good at this because she's
good at smiling, but I struggled somewhat. It's interesting to me that it was
mostly older drunks, those of my own age and beyond, who needed to make a
point of such mini acts of rebellion as refusing to show their pass and just scowling
at me while walking on into the camping area. It was past 2am and I was
beginning to get irritable. "Fine, ignore me," I shouted after one of
them. "I don't know what you're so proud of. I've been to better gigs on a
Tuesday."</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">But our night was still young and the sun doesn't set here,
as you know. We were yet to go litter picking in the camping field, where
people played drums and tried to make conversation. Later, around 5am, we were sent up the hill to check any coming cars for festival passes and
watch people wandering lost, one foot at a time, out of the gate and down
towards the village. Two people found themselves a car to make love in. One man
called a taxi and when it arrived he climbed into the front seat and just said,
"Drive me home." </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">By this point time was like syrup we were swimming through.
Minutes expanded while mosquitoes made endless attempts to suck our blood. The
end of the final shift found everyone gathered in or around the lavvo, a large
tent with a fire in the middle and smoke in the air. Marthe went to sleep and I
wandered round in circles.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">When it was all over I felt too tired to sleep. The music
and festivities seemed a long time ago. On the bus home I tried to jot down
a few images in my notebook, but the bus entered a tunnel, I lost my reading light, and that is as much
as I recall of the journey.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAXEDP2j5lQbMgxd-YiqGfC4JMLdh39lgt_brmTW0LeT1wVv7wV3uDp7YjhznBOqwWUcg_8yVYj6GYD1KiO-DFOw6MDieTuMENdOVF6F0M3JQgQ4dE5flwCOIbp2CYTbEpj90XZaYOAavN/s1600/Vakt.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAXEDP2j5lQbMgxd-YiqGfC4JMLdh39lgt_brmTW0LeT1wVv7wV3uDp7YjhznBOqwWUcg_8yVYj6GYD1KiO-DFOw6MDieTuMENdOVF6F0M3JQgQ4dE5flwCOIbp2CYTbEpj90XZaYOAavN/s320/Vakt.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Backstage Security</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>Vince Stephenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11574536147135909914noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6298624226127051173.post-13019203695429568672012-06-30T19:27:00.000+02:002012-07-01T16:53:03.535+02:00Lars<style>
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<span style="font-size: small;">My driving instructor has a moustache. His name is Lars. He
drives me out to the edge of town and then we get out and switch sides. I start
to drive a car for the first time in my life. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">How did I get to 30 without learning to drive? Something to
do with an accident I was in, a dislike of motor vehicles, a lack of cash or
time, a love of train travel, rather a lot of drinking, a lack of necessity, a
deep disinclination...</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Lars wants me to drive up into the valley. He says we don't
worry about what others are doing. He tells me I need to practice shifting
gears. He says I should take my foot off the break just before the car stops.
He seems surprised at the way I keep killing the engine. He doesn't enjoy it
when I start driving in the left lane.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Oh, you drivers. Are you aware how difficult it is, this
thing you do in open traffic?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Lars says I need to demonstrate independence. He wants me to
gear up and gear down of my own free will. I can't do it though. I don't like
it. I want to focus on keeping the car in the middle of the road. We are
driving through a cutting at 80 kilometers and hour. He tells me I'm too close
to the edge of the road, that my wheels are on the white lines. I look in the
wing mirror to try to straighten up, but instead I start swerving off to the
side. Lars grabs the steering wheel and gets us back on the road. He tells me
never to do that again.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">We drive across a small bridge and up some country roads. I
grip the wheel and look straight forwards. There are times when I seem to have
total control, then others when I suddenly start driving like a drunk. My driving
instructor is singing a song. He's building a cabin somewhere around here.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Lars has had many jobs in his life. He drove long distance
lorries, he's worked as a plumber and as a mechanic. He didn't learn much
English when he was at school. I doubt whether he knows much English at all, which is reassuring in some strange way.
He's nearing retirement and firmly believes that it is important to be happy in
the morning. He's talking on his mobile now and I shift gears carefully, as if
he might not notice. I still don't really understand what the point of it is, this shifting of gears. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Back at the driving school Lars asks me how I feel. We've
finished our sixth lesson and I'm still living in fear of the car. I talk for a
long time in my patchy Norwegian. I tell him I think I finally learnt how to
use a clutch. "You did do that," says Lars. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Lars says he has plenty of time, so long as I have plenty of
time. </span></div>
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<br /></div>Vince Stephenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11574536147135909914noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6298624226127051173.post-90695194076090005162012-06-10T12:19:00.000+02:002012-06-10T20:30:21.232+02:00Fragments<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5PQnFfHvHItxbLPj6fHuq4wcu4QBY3m6pGZLiovkoDXck7hx96xOZNC18If8siBy_bxv1FJQAl22UPjC7nBUhPvv1JRSBz_4zUAQJn23KZgIEfA4j3CAhTbasWETrvtmfd-pc81PSHYXQ/s1600/Rocks+Plants+Sea.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5PQnFfHvHItxbLPj6fHuq4wcu4QBY3m6pGZLiovkoDXck7hx96xOZNC18If8siBy_bxv1FJQAl22UPjC7nBUhPvv1JRSBz_4zUAQJn23KZgIEfA4j3CAhTbasWETrvtmfd-pc81PSHYXQ/s320/Rocks+Plants+Sea.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
In London, if I ever felt wound up by my lack of time, my lack of creativity or by my own apathy, I used to cross the street and wait for the first bus to Brixton. I might make my way into town and wander around, get lost in art galleries or browse bookshops or sit in the dark of the <a href="http://curzoncinemas.com/cinemas/renoir/" target="_blank">Renoir </a>and watch a film. <br />
<br />
But here the strategy has to be different. Here you focus on small moments and tiny changes. Taken together, they might start to build a picture of peace which you can wrap around you.<br />
<br />
You might focus on the way the seaweed seems to fling itself upwards inside the bulge of a wave, flailing wildly, as if to make itself known, then falling back and disappearing into the break. Or the small flowers, whose names you don't know, which have started growing from the soil and in the cracks in the rocks. Or the colour of the light through the trees' new leaves. Or the sheep and their lambs which congregate around your house some time after midnight and decide to sing you awake. They jump between the trees in the absurd late-light.<br />
<br />
In my case, it helps to write these things down. In some strange way, that's when they become real. This week I wanted to show you some of these details.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyCIL86mbsziu2l1L8ZjkH7aySBEpjqeVIf0fTi67PsaPrCULAzVG2nZCnTkgPPlcbKH1E6N2ZClq02YlxKg1EZ-6Hr-iCFDrQQRB2J7HtoENFyxUZREhbX_8loXXSpJ_tMDZPS7LFfl1y/s1600/Flowers+and+Shadows.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyCIL86mbsziu2l1L8ZjkH7aySBEpjqeVIf0fTi67PsaPrCULAzVG2nZCnTkgPPlcbKH1E6N2ZClq02YlxKg1EZ-6Hr-iCFDrQQRB2J7HtoENFyxUZREhbX_8loXXSpJ_tMDZPS7LFfl1y/s320/Flowers+and+Shadows.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfotQu_yx5qGvnt6woLlB1mCGnJvJI9J3polQpf9yfRz6PcaH_OUPU2kn0gmqiskpJr7MhRBWODAfuHnKdzfh3imdR3ISsvZHpX21HEUN9YmbKZIv16PwF9op2vm-4bHTfYVOD_SyFbv_M/s1600/Green+and+Grey.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfotQu_yx5qGvnt6woLlB1mCGnJvJI9J3polQpf9yfRz6PcaH_OUPU2kn0gmqiskpJr7MhRBWODAfuHnKdzfh3imdR3ISsvZHpX21HEUN9YmbKZIv16PwF9op2vm-4bHTfYVOD_SyFbv_M/s320/Green+and+Grey.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />Vince Stephenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11574536147135909914noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6298624226127051173.post-28785084399123240342012-05-29T21:24:00.000+02:002012-05-30T08:10:10.614+02:00The World Wakes Late<style>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Some weeks ago we moved to a new house. It sits between two
streams at the bottom of a slope. We used to have the evening sun, now we're on
the other side of the mountain and we get the morning sun. Not that it ever
gets dark anymore. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Our house sits in amongst some trees down near the edge of
the fjord. One wall of our livingroom is made almost entirely of windows.
Sometimes the water out there is calm and clear and gently rippling. It is as
if it could absorb your pain. The mountains opposite are almost perfectly
reflected in its surface. Later in the same day the water might be streaming
past the house until it seems for all the world as if you were standing on the
deck of a boat. Today the weather has jumped back a season. While I write
this the fjord stretches out like dull grey paint into a mist of snow.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I've starting getting up at 5am. Around that time, some days
ago, I watched a heron fly by just metres away. A few days later, while we were
getting ready for work, a massive white hare came loping down the hill and
around the outside of our house. There were flecks of brown across his back
where his fur was starting to catch up with the changing colour of the
landscape. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">The snow took a long time to melt. Even once it was gone the
earth took a long time to recover. It's only in this last week that the grass
has started to turn green again, and now suddenly everything seems to have come
alive in a matter of days. Rocks have changed colour with moss and lichen,
dandelions have appeared near our old house and reindeer have returned to the
area. For the moment they're grazing in a field nearby, but soon they will disappear up into the mountains. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">The trees are finally growing leaves, and soon our house
will be hidden from view. We'll still have a view of the water and the sky, but
no longer a view the mountains. We'll walk down to the water when we want to
see the landscape. We'll walk the stone beach when the tide is out. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvB9UPQ5JlYyotHp0j3J70bufi-G79NLhR4q5I4s9ED92Jbd8RStKgcMOWm1Ie9VH1VkXDbSsuv5h2LB2m3XXdEviNR1yZLL66pH_MyAnXteqdIruueGdUdoXPOInxmXRNslez0BpPTZPb/s1600/Distance.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvB9UPQ5JlYyotHp0j3J70bufi-G79NLhR4q5I4s9ED92Jbd8RStKgcMOWm1Ie9VH1VkXDbSsuv5h2LB2m3XXdEviNR1yZLL66pH_MyAnXteqdIruueGdUdoXPOInxmXRNslez0BpPTZPb/s320/Distance.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>Vince Stephenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11574536147135909914noreply@blogger.com5