My home in Norway
He was born in the tiny village of Todalen, located on the country's West Coast, at the end of a long fjord.
A two-hour drive south of Trondheim, the place is stunning and one that holds a thousand memories for me.
Memories of being a little girl in a foreign country, of seeing and hearing my dad speak Norwegian with his brothers and sisters, cousins and aunts, parents and nieces and nephews. Of cutting down Xmas trees in the cold snowy forests. Of riding a sleigh at a 2PM sunset. Of hearing stories of trolls under bridges and neighbourhood gossip (guess who's sheep gave birth?). Of feeling like though it was all so unreal to my young head, I knew in my heart I was of this land.
I went back to Norway two years ago. I spent two glorious weeks in Oslo, Trondheim, Bergen and Floro. And, of couse, Todalen. Sleeping by myself in the family houe that my dad gew up in, loitering in the empty kitchen that still smelt like the waffles my then 96-year old, non-English speaking Grandma would make me. Freaking out at the sounds the old house made in the night. And poking around forgotten corridors, drinking expensive Norwegian beer and perusing old photo albulms.
Photos of the house...