Driving home, in a very still dusk; a Carter family CD in the car radio: Poor Orphan Child, Little Moses, … 1927's static crackling. Music usually disappears into the noise of the road, but their harmonies are clear, and the rhythm of the autoharp and the deep strings of the guitar. My son is beside me, content: chatting, practising whistling, then sleeping after nightfall, long after his usual bedtime.
Strong coffee in a thermos to keep me awake, kettle-boiled at dinner — a dinner overlooking Aure from high up, with a yellow-to-almost-black sunset amongst the island mountains; my son eating hot stew with a wooden spoon, and thin flatbread.
An elk. A pair of white and black-patterned stalks, close, in a field after Kyrksæterøra, with Hemnfjorden unmoving behind. A mountain-corner, rock bending right into the sea, on the other side of the water. An antlered deer.
An enlivened tiredness in the legs… Forest, bog, and stone… My son's excitement, his sense of mastery in making it up and down without being carried.
Neither of us wanting to descend from the mountain top in its insurpassable light, in its stooping on all four sides to the sea and up again to bridges and mountains; in our signing of its guestbook...
Meeting my colleague Trude and her partner on our way up, their way down, for a cheerful chat — the empathy of a shared endeavour...
Descending in the forest, the leaves glistened by the light of the sun, by now quite low sun...
My son leading the way, proudly pointing out loose stones for me to watch out for, seeking out the next red paint marker...
Navigating the car through cows and sheep, that had found their way out onto the narrow lane from the mountain to the road.
Written down on the 23rd of August, 2022. The trip was on the 20th.
Last updated: 15:12 (GMT+2), 4th August 2023