I’m not in the habit of indulging in personal matters, not in this blog anyway, but will make a rare exception, as a novelty, if you will, pertaining to my family’s life in the wastelands – or rather; on a semi-desert island, as it were.
You may, upon reading this account, find it hard to believe the likeliness of people living here at all, given the circumstances I’m about to share. Nevertheless, some really do. In our case some 2800 individuals, spread across a 255 km² area, making up the group of islands that is Tysnes, including our very own small community, shown in this Google Street view reproduction:
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A community made up by some 400 widely spread inhabitants, supposed to maintain the future existence of a supermarket, a post office and a bank outlet. As you will know, such ambitions are futile, as their basis for a sound business would require twice that number, at least – or so one would think.
Then of course, they dismantled the post office almost a decade ago (admittedly: as they’ve done all over the country), to resurface as a reduced service, ran by the supermarket. The bank outlet was abandoned by the local bank at this year’s beginning and, to top it all, last Saturday saw the dismantling of our local supermarket, which insides looked something like this on Monday:
As luck would have it, though, another supermarket chain decided to have a go at our 400-people customer basis, reopening on 1 July, which is all pretty fine and dandy – if, in the meantime, you have alternate sources for groceries, mail, pharmaceutical products and so on. Which, in our case, sadly isn’t so.
Meanwhile we shall have to commute to the community’s commercial centre, some 11 kilometres away, by an infrequent bus or by tagging along whenever my in-laws decide to make the trip – as we’re environmentally sustainable, insofar that we’re car-free (which, under the circumstances, is a long way from being carefree).
In all honesty, I thought the place the proverbial ghost town (provided you keep the term “town” out of the equation) prior to the mercantile discontinuations. Clearly, I had seen nothing yet. The now absent supermarket served as the community’s life nerve, offering a place to chat over a cup of coffee and the gathering of vital information on local goings on, by way of rural gossip and the notices pinned to the bulletin board. We do however still have the local community portal Lundegrend.no, ran by yours truly, by the way. If it hadn’t been for the fact that the website relies on said notices and gossip, it could very well serve as an alternative, indeed.
I know… If it’s all half as bad as I would have you believe, then why oh why do I live here?
I can see why you ask, really I do. The answer isn’t as straight forward as you might think, but in order to keep it short and sweet, this is where my wife is born and bred. As her homesickness grew to intolerable proportions, I decided that I was prepared to be unhappy in order for her to be happy, in repayment of same service rendered – so far a partial success, to the extent that I’ve only succeeded with the former, not the latter. I suspect it’s all to do with the lacking appreciation of the mere fact that it’s even remotely possible to be unhappy in such a place. The very thought, I think, strikes the local population (among whom I count my wife) not only as unthinkable, but highly offending – as if nearly half a century’s urban life is instantly convertible to an event-less rural existence. Whereas urban dissatisfaction is self-evident (yeah, I know…).
I think it’s safe to say that it does take a little getting used to. Certainly more than merely ten months, and yes, it has rendered me profoundly unhappy, which is no big deal, really, as it is something I’m prepared to embrace, if the effect on my spouse is the opposite one – which, after ten months, it remains to see.
Besides: In truth, most people are deeply unhappy, aren’t they? And please, do not read this as an invitation to introduce me to Mister Christ.
On the upside, on the other hand, the sceneries around here are absolutely breathtaking, if you, unlike me, are into that sort of thing – as shown in a video I edited for the local authorities a couple of weeks ago, based on a number of stills:
I am happy(?) to add that I am not the only one to suffer a severe case of cabin fever. My better half uses every opportunity to flea flee the place, as is the case even as I write this.
Surprisingly, I find that the propensity to roam the neighbourhood, axe-in-hand (hence the Jack Torrance photo from The Shining), seems remarkably absent, though – mostly ascribed to an all-too busy schedule. Work-wise, that is. Then again, you know how it goes >
Come to think of it, I’m beginning to feel a bit like “Number six”:
I usually only comment when I’m in a petty mood and feel like correcting insignificant mistakes. I was about to do the same now, when I suddenly realised that “flea the place” might very well be a pun (in which case I shall act like a true member of the local population and take offence). Either way, you lose.
A not so insignificant mistake, it would appear, but a rather decisive typo, nay, a thoughtlessness, replacing the correct fleeing with fleaing – which, in the Norwegian meaning of the word sounds more than just a little interesting. At any rate I stand corrected. Mistake duly corrected, too, with its record retained.