It’s been snowing almost all day today. It comes down in cottonball-sized chunks and powders the landscape. Houses and roads are quickly covered, but the sea eats every drop and waits for more, limpid green and greedy. I try to enjoy it. I mostly succeed. On Sunday, I led a hike to the mountaintop. I took my three castmates (who were perfect company) and after a mountaintop lunch we abandoned the trail to wander through springy hills of sphagnum moss soft enough to sleep on. We lay down and stretched out, damo and cold and so, so happy. On our way back, we found an icy stream and drank in gulping palmfuls ‘til our hands ached from cold.
I walked this morning to a little island, connected to the mainland by a rocky manmade road. Looking into the water from the bridge you can see shoals of small black pollock, which for the past few nights I’ve caught and cleaned and taken home for dinner. The island was one great mossy rock covered in spruce trees, and the remains of an unfortunate seagull showed where a fox had had his dinner. Past the cliffs, there is the patient and restless ocean, always moving, always waiting.
Half an hour’s walk from Stamsund is a tiny fishing village with just a handful of people. The houses look empty but little boats nod in the water and the fish-racks are packed with enough drying cod to blot out the sun. The soil is right for trees there, and pretty yellow-breasted chickadees bounce through the branches, singing. It’s so quiet you can pick out every note. There are rooks and gulls, too, and oystercatchers and geese and egrets. It’s mating season, and they’re all building nests. I’m keeping an eye out for a nest I can reach. I’d like to see some seagull eggs before I go.
I’ve left this too late. It’s my bedtime and I’m tired straight through. I walked a couple hours in the endless evening and I aim to do the same tomorrow before rehearsal. It’s going to be so beautiful.