Perhaps this place is a little like the graveyard of ambition. And a breeder of sloth. Without anything to rail against i find myself with little to say. Stuffy house stuffy brain. i constantly open windows only for them to be closed again.
I spend my day wandering, taking photos of strangers, buying rhubarb lemonade, chocolate cake, perusing the tiny handicrafts shop, calculating swim lengths, cooking pasta and boiling eggs. Somehow i dont fetch my felt roll out. I may not swim this evening. Ten pm feels rather late. I have been invited to the womens choir rehearsal but think I will not go. The pickled rhubarb and angelica jam i hoped to find is not for sale.
Every garden has a trampoline for those dark winter days when going out is not so attractive to children. My chocolate cake comes with candied rhubarb on the top and garnished with purple vetch. I watch the ferry deposit passengers, many with ballons and suitcases and wonder what the celebration.
I savour my last day on Nolsoy and find nothing here i want, nothing I regret not having done. Except perhaps the nighttime storm petrol walk. And pickling rhubarb. I think that if i returned i might pickle rhubarb and angelica jam to sell.
Tomorrow i return to Marit and Midvagur, to help with a wedding party. Perhaps at last i will see a chain dance, just in time to go home.
