starting at the end of the world

New Year celebration with candles, friends, a French look, discussions on the war and the latest Jewish Messiah, bubbles, a strong wind and bad roads - on the Island at the end of the world.

the whitefish at world's end

On the Island, not much has changed. I've used the long drive to clear my head of summer confusion and sigh as I cross the tall bridge over an endless sea. 

Sunlight sparkles in the Baltic waves. I take detours into some of the small villages. Forests and fields, winding roads, a craft shop where I buy homemade bisquits. I'm in no hurry. It's the last day of my annual leave and still summer in my mind. I came alone because I needed to be alone.

At the farthest tip of the Island lies a small harbour, looking out towards open sea and the world heritage archipelago. The little restaurant at the end of the universe is getting ready to close for the season but still serves an delicious meal of whitefish and spicy potatoes. Dark coffee and a pink cupcake for dessert. 

The wind from the sea is chilly but I sit in the sun on the open patio to watch boats come and go, carefully navigating between thousands of islets and reefs. I wrap up in a cardigan and warm my cold fingers on the coffee mug. Before the long winter I have to soak up every sunray, every scent of saltwater and vibrant earth.

A hike along one of the trails takes me past birch forests, inlets and fishing spots, old cottages and ancient rock formations. Even some highland cattle grazing on what used to be seabed.

The Island wraps me in its mystical air.

silver sequins in a nightless night

Yet another Midsummer was spent in the white kitchen on the Island, celebrating the summer solstice and the season of strawberries, tiny potatoes and the smell of meat sizzling over hot coals.

Friends not seen for a year hugged each other and immediately started sharing: food, ancient memories, roars of laughter, painful tales of death and suffering. This is how friendship always should be. But if I only experience it once a year, under the mild light of the midnight sun, I still count myself lucky.

There was unmerciful teasing about a silver-sequined beanie someone wore with a lacy dress. I choked on my food as someone brought up a story from my indiscriminate youth that involved heated kisses behind a refrigerator. In the middle of the meal, we called the ambulance for a neighbour with a broken leg. The kids, unsupervised, gobbled down corn on the cob and infinite amounts of chocolate while the adults laughed until we cried over stories involving tofu and showers with strangers.

After endless cups of coffee and big bowls of strawberries and icecream, we took a late-night stroll to see the sun glide along the northern horizon. It is easy to be happy in the season of the yötön yö - the nightless night.

in a rain of slush, gravel and sparks

Do you remember that March day when we hitched a sleigh to a snowmobile?

You drove, one of my best friends sat behind you, and two of us rode in the sleigh. There wasn't really enough snow left so when we went along the forest road, the snowmobile pelted the sleigh with gravel and slushy snow. My friend and I shrieked and laughed at this torture. The metal runners occasionally hit a gravel patch and sparks flew.

Then we went onto the ice, staying close to the shore just in case. We stopped and had a lovely picnic on a little islet, turning our faces towards the sun. On the way back, there was so much melted water on the surface of the thinning ice that it completely drenched the two of us who sat in the sleigh.

I remember being scared that the ice wouldn't hold us. By the way you drove, occasionally changing course to get closer to the shore and making sure to keep up the speed, I could tell that you were worried too. But at that point in my life, I was used to danger. I had learned to let go of my fear, think "when your time is up, it's up" and feel the thrill in my every cell. That's what I did that day, too.

We came back as soaked as if we had actually gone through the ice, and  my toes were frozen. We dried ourselves and changed clothes in an ancient cottage on the Island and you told me the history of the place in a solemn voice. Your life had such a long history. I envied and admired you for that.

But that day, I was back together with friends I had not seen for a long time. There was history in our relationships. There was adventure, too. That was a very good day. I have a picture of us all there on the islet, grinning.

Do you remember it?

meet Robinson and Friday

Another random picture from the ancient archives:

We made landfall on a deserted island one autumn afternoon, my friend and I. At least we thought it was deserted. Two sheep showed up and tried to force themselves aboard as we were setting out again.

Some Islanders take herds of sheep out to small islets over the summer to let them roam free. These two had apparently been left behind when the rest were collected in the autumn and were feeling rather put out. We informed the sheepfarmer about this. So I can kind of take the credit for saving two lives that grey afternoon.

by the seaside with strawberries

Coffee, wild strawberries, waffles with jam and cream, a cheeseburger.

The day in a menu, on  the Island.

The entertainment consisted of a vintage boat race of the type that is popular around here, with traditional old fishing boats being sailed or rowed, the crews dressed in vintage fishing garb. We only witnessed the start of the race, as the finishing line is across the pond, in Sweden.

 But the sight of twenty-odd wooden boats setting sail towards the horizon is awe-inspiring. Even when the day is grey and overcast.

The company consisted of a pathologist who handles corpses for a living ( no pun intended ), a politician on his way to Brussels to do some lobbying in EU headquarters, and true Islanders: chatty, motherly women who always try to feed you and men of the strong and silent type.

dachshunds, perch and other wildlife

1st of May, and the almost-traditional hike on the Island.

Meaning bright sunshine and icy winds, and the bliss of finding a picnic spot in a sheltered, sunny spot. Add to that the excitement of going to that little creek to watch the spectacle of spawning perch, and the magnificent views from the lookout tower.

The company: a good friend, a guy who dumped me, his new girlfriend, a pregnant Chinese woman, a couple I have never met before, a slightly mad man, a true Islander (strong, silent) and a fat Dachshund.

kicksleds and monsters

Normally somewhat pessimistic, I knew it was going to be a perfect day from the minute I picked up some fresh donuts from the supermarket and drove out to the Island. Maybe it was because of the brilliant sunshine over white snow and the ideal winter temperature, just below freezing.

The Island has an ancient mummers tradition of sorts on Shrove Tuesday. It's mad, bad and dangerous to know... Young people get dressed up as monsters and walk around the village, making noise and entering a few houses. The general idea is to attack random people on the way, drag them into the ditch and "wash" them with snow, a cold and rather unpleasant experience for the victim. A crowd of children of all ages and some adults follow them around, drawn by morbid curiosity, and every now and then the mummers turn around and attack their followers. It's not exactly safe - I saw and heard complaints of scrapes and bruises, ruined cellphones, and witnessed children shaking with terror or cold or both. At one point I was trying to comfort my friend's toddler who cried as he saw his mother dragged off by two monsters while another approached him to rub some snow into his face.

And still, all the children were completely exhilarated afterwards. The adults bought hot dogs at an improvised concession stand and muttered about things getting way out of hand, but the same was muttered last year and the year before that and still everyone is eager to keep this tradition going exactly as it is.

I was trailing after the monsters like the others but was spared any attacks. Maybe because I am a stranger in this village where everyone knows everyone. But I was as exhilarated as the rest. It's a strangely scary feeling, standing passively still and avoiding eye contact as gangs of masked monsters - who never utter a sound - advance on you, while children run away and adults shift nervously but never resist as they are randomly and rather violently dragged off the road for punishment.

And the rest of it - moving around the snowy village roads on a kicksled with a toddler bedded down in sheepskins and wool blankets, passing ancient cottages and sleeping fields, golden sunshine giving way to blueish dusk and starry skies, hearing the locals chatter around me, warming myself by a gas barbecue outside the community hall, going home to hot chocolate and traditional Shrove Tuesday "klimp" soup and pastries with the Warrior Princess and her elderly aunt - it was all just perfect. As I knew it would be.

gonna have a riot

Heading out to the Island, where they apparently have their own quirky take on Shrove Tuesday celebrations. My friend's only clues were a vague "well, they hit people on the head" and a worried "I really can't guarantee that you won't break any bones".

But there is actual sunshine today, the bright "promise of spring" kind, and a dripping sound of melting snow on the windowsill. So I go bravely.

saturday night on the Island

Driving the long, dark road to the Island. The car skidding in every curve on the wintry road. Having to dip my headlights and slow down every time I meet another car (which is not very often). Keeping my eye out for elks and hoping the road won't get snowed in before it's time to go back home.

It's tough driving. But I'm experimenting with some new music on the stereo. And when I reach my destination at last, 40 kilometres later, lights are welcoming me from every window of the picturesque cottage. The candles are lit, the table is set and the guests are mingling. The Warrior Princess, dressed in pink silk, is smiling at me. It's the end of the world and the party is on.

the juniper beach at the end of the world

A forest wild and ancient, untouched by man. A well-worn path where the sun glints through the branches overhead.

It is spring: the temperature mild in the shade, warm in the sun - and when the path veers within sight of the sea, a blast of chilling winter hits my cheeks. The sea open, endless in almost every direction - we are on The Island after all - and wide stretches of impossibly white ice still floating in the clear blue water. I could go mad trying to describe the beauty.

Someone spots a snake, just out of its hibernation. Eagles patrol the blue skies. Near the shore we find a stone oven supposedly built by Russian sailors who passed by in the early 18th century. "Do you think they baked pizza in here?"

Some of my companions on this hike are experienced walkers who think nothing of walking for weeks up and down mountains with a backpack. Others have just stumbled out of bed this afternoon after a late night party. A few are obsessive-compulsive geocachers who have to make a couple of detours to find treasures along the way. Today, I love them all. Who wouldn't, when the sun is melting the ice after a cold winter and people are smiling at you?

We reach the end of the trail, a fishing cottage surrounded by the sea and the sky, and the map tells us we are almost in the middle of the Baltic Sea. A landscape of rocks, juniper and rowan. We unpack our picnic on a tiny beach where the cold wind can't reach us. Stretch out in the sun. Share sandwiches and sweets and coffee and jokes.

And a little flirting on the walk back. Yes, life is perfect.

study war no more

Went to the Island again. The road was terrible to drive, bumpy and icy. Every Islander seemed to be gathered at the community hall for the annual Elk Dinner Dance (elks not welcome, except as the main course).

Xena the Warrior Princess was the exception. She has settled down in her cute little cottage with her man (an insurance salesman), two energetic babies that she fusses a bit over, and a decorative white cat. It would seem like an anti-climax to her warrior life but I suspect this is the life towards which she was fighting all along. A life she could not have had without that fight.

We devour icecream and fudge and watch tv. The sweet rest after a life of war.

four cupcakes and an eagle

Potatoes, acupressure mats, tacky souvenirs, fertilizer.

The little grocery shop on the Island has it all. Even cupcakes with little hearts in the frosting. We eagerly pick them out and need help with the wrapping. The staff and the few customers eye us with interest as we breeze through, two women dressed in bleached jeans, lace, earrings and that unmistakable city air. "Perhaps the lasses are in a hurry?" An old man, barely able to stand, politely offers us his place in the short queue to the check-out. ("No, no, please, no hurry at all.")

An Islander cooks us lunch (seafood and mashed potatoes, cupcakes for dessert). As we go for a walk along the winding forest road towards the harbour, the neighbour's cat decides to follow us and loudly protests (but continues to follow) when he thinks we have gone far enough. In the shelter beneath the trees the mosquitoes make a meal out of us and the sea breeze is very welcome when we reach the harbour.

Heavy rain clouds gather around the boathouses and jetties. Seagulls are screeching angrily at an eagle riding the high winds and the Islander cannot decide if she is more worried about the cat being hit by a car on the road or taken by the bird of prey. Three elderly men are gathered around a quad bike. No hellos or small talk seem necessary but they eagerly point out to us a rare natural phenomenon: due to a mirage over the sea, you can see a reflection of the nearest island on the other side, normally not visible. Today, you can see Sweden from here. We would have taken the mirage for a cloud bank by the horizon but these experienced fishermen know what's what.

The new lookout tower looms black and forbidding. "Is that Mordor? Can you see a huge eye?" This overcast June day, fragrant with lush meadows, not many people are to be seen. Near the start of a popular hiking trail we find a stand selling necessities: a few water bottles, juice cartons and handcrafted souvenirs are on display. The man minding the stand also has canoes for hire and an impressive old-style wooden boat with its sails up. Not a good day for business, obviously, and he does not even bother to finish his phone call when we walk by.

From Mordor's top we admire the view of the archipelago. On our way home, the rain pours down on us. The poor wet cat's complaints can probably be heard all the way to the city. But the landscape is breathtaking and the friendship is warming and we giggle with rain dripping from our noses. It could be that this Island is the mirage.

into the future with sinusitis and soufflé

Year 2008 AD started on the Island, snow under my feet and Veuve Clicquot warming my stomach. The man who explains the stars to me wasn't there. But I had friends, cats, a victory in Trivial Pursuit and what more can one ask for than a long solitary drive back home through silent forests and across the magnificent bridge. Rihanna and Lauri Tähkä on the radio.

Later, sneezes and weariness and a cynical attitude. A dentist who praised my brushwork. My admirable father who took me to buy a camera so the sneaky salesmen couldn't make me cry. An adorable puppy who stayed a night in my flat and tried to find a way to kill and eat the newspaper delivery guy through the slot in the door.

I have already seen a good film and a bad film, been given chocolate by an (unwelcome) admirer, bought new (second-hand) clothes, missed the bus and had a fit of completely unreasonable rage, had sinusitis, had raspberry soufflé, held in my hand a splinter of the True Cross (stamped "souvenir from Jerusalem" on the back). Not a bad start to the new year after all. Bring on the rest of it!

in the company of the warrior princess

Visited the Island. Xena the Warrior Princess lives there nowadays. At least I think it's her, although she is blonde and wearing wellies instead of sandals.

When I arrive after the long drive through forest and across the shockingly tall bridge, spring has painted the sea in glorious colours. The Warrior Princess is changing the tyres on her car and tells me about her upcoming wedding, the wedding she doesn't have the time to plan because she is (more or less single-handedly) restoring the old cottage where she lives.

"The safe feeling of being loved by someone... that is all I really need." The adventurer who tells me this once travelled alone through the darkest parts of Africa and will let nothing stand between her and her dreams. Against everybody's advice, she has almost torn the cottage apart to restore it to its original, beautiful shape. It's still complete chaos, but this girl can make even chaos look welcoming. There are three beautiful cats in the middle of it. One of them is sitting on the laptop.

The car is left standing with only two tyres attached because Xena has spotted something in the attic of the old barn that she absolutely has to investigate right away. So we climb around the ancient attic where the floor threatens to fall apart beneath our feet at any moment. The interesting object turns out to be half an old table and we haul it downstairs at the peril of our own lives.

An elderly man, a genuine soft-spoken Islander and expert on hand-crafted doors, arrives to look at an old door that Xena has found and wants put into the cottage. These old Islanders must be quite shaken up by this blonde tornado that has swept into their little old-fashioned community. Despite this, I have a feeling they can't help but love her. At least they have something to talk about. She has already engaged dozens of them in helping her repair her boat, give advice on the restoration work and tell her all about the history of the Island.

We snack on sandwiches and cheese crisps among the sawdust in the cottage before Xena gets back to sandpapering the walls and trying to persuade me to buy the cottage next door. The idea is too much for me to contemplate.

Driving back across the bridge to the mainland, I'm exhausted as if I had lived a lifetime in one evening.

my ancient Sunday angel

I know an angel. She looks old, really old actually, probably has been around for a few tough millennia. Or maybe it's just her disguise. She lives by herself in an old fisherman's house on the Island, with a little mischievous cat for company, and can be seen slowly limping across the yard on weary old legs to dig up potatoes out of the little garden plot. She has a car which she drives around to visit her friends and to go to church in town every Sunday. The only time she actually misses church is when her cat has run away, because then she is too worried to leave the Island.

Whenever I come to church, she beams her smile at me and scurries over to say hello, leaving the elderly ladies behind. She asks me how I'm doing and holds my hand or strokes my arm affectionately while we chat. No words of deep wisdom are exchanged, just the usual "how are you?" and then I get to hear what her cat has been up to lately. But such a warm, comforting feeling it brings me.

I wonder why she was sent to earth. Maybe it was only for this.

visit your third place

Drove across the big bridge into the fairytale world of the Island and left the city behind me in another universe. Here, on the other side of the bridge, are the salty winds of the sea and quirky villagers who live in their hundred-year old cottages with broadband connections. They are sea-faring folk with an uncanny way of looking at me which makes me feel like my cityness is something to be pitied and that I am a lost soul if I can't tell the difference between a catamaran and a catboat. I feel a desperate need to be accepted, to be one of them, although I know it's impossible. I know my hippie ear-rings, my city accent and my uncertain smile stick out a mile.

I am lucky to have friends here though. I sit at an ancient plank table in one of these old cottages with the musty, vague smell of old wood and fish nets around me. There are flowers on the window sill and a white cat carefully inspects my laptop before I’m allowed to turn it on. I get to hear the latest gossip about the villagers and I listen eagerly, as if it’s important that I learn everything about the people in this little community. This time of the year, it’s all about setting the boats out to sea as the ice is finally gone.

This is the Islander: tall and proud, standing straight even when the storm sweeps in from the sea, smelling of salt, with bright eyes that see all the way to the horizon, knows that everything he can see is his. Not afraid of the deep of the sea, knows how to fix the engine and gut a fish, looks after his neighbour, talks without hesitation of his roots stretching back generations in this same place. It is the Islander or the Island I fell in love with. Not sure which one.

In comparison I have no roots, I just drift on the surface, envious. If I could choose a home, this would be it. But you can't choose. The Island chooses you.