Midsommar, cont'd.

Saturday was spent sleeping in, eating, and taking a nice walk to see another Midsommar pole raised and visit friends.

Most importantly, the newcomers to the sommarstuga (summerhouse)--such as myself--were given a tour of the little compound.  There are three main structures, arranged in a sort of horseshoe shape.  If one is looking at the front door of the main house, there is a long, low barn on the left. 
This houses building materials, mechanical tools and a beautiful bright orange 1960s Renault 16TL. 

The main house is being completely redone by Eriks pappa, in a mix of old and new techniques and materials, but with great respect for historic Swedish design.

While gutting and acquainting themselves with the place, they found lots of tiny shoes stuffed in the space between the floorboards of the second floor and the ceiling of the first.  This is not as creepy as it sounds, as a shoemaker lived in this house, and I am told that using old clothing as insulation in a house was not uncommon.  Look at the adorable little things!  I mean...uh...these are important Dalarna artifacts which should be carefully examined and preserved.....but how LITTLE!  They each have a little baby insole made of näver, or birch bark.  The same material was used to make the insoles of Eriks mamma's folkdräkt footwear some seventy-five or hundred years later.  I wonder if these were meant to be sold, or were old?  Or possibly were samples?  I didn't check to see if there were pairs.






While the renovations are underway, the family stays in a rather cozy sleeping loft in the structure to the right of the main house, with even more barn space.  This is his pappa's workshop, lumber storage, a treehouse built many years ago, and, on the far side, the four-person outhouse. 









There is, of course, also a woodfired sauna that pappa built and a woodfired water heater for bathing after the sauna or when absolutely necessary.  There is a cellar between the sleeping loft and the main house, underground but with its own small hut for an entrance.

Best of all, we slept in a darling little structure called the bagarstuga, or the bake house.  It's where they bake Christmas bread in December (when it's not 25 below, like last year), and has beautiful wooden racks hanging from the ceiling.  It does have a bit of electricity tucked into the corner for a small refrigerator-slash-stove, but all the washing is done with a three-tub system and there is a great little fireplace to be lit for warmth and company.

We mostly hung around and enjoyed the grey but pleasant weather, admiring the gardens, watching the family work on the houses, reading and finally going in the sauna.  It was exhausting! Neither of us has had much practice recently, and although it was only 52 or so degrees, that was more than enough to wipe us out.  I had to pour a bit of cold water over my head every now and then.  But it hurts so good!  When I was in I wanted to be out, but when I was out I wanted to be in....terrible stuff.

                                 monster rhubarb!  and love yellow and white windows...

                                           a Dalarna-specific fencing technique

Erik ended up falling asleep almost directly, but I lit a little fire, had a glass of wine, and read the rest of Slaughterhouse Five.  I really had thought it was much more...sci-fi?  Anyways, check that off the 1001 books to read before you die.  Enough light was coming through the windows that I could read just by that and by firelight, although everyone who came in to get a snack generously tried to turn the lights on for me.  But I was enjoying my tenuous memories of the houses at Plimoth, politely ignoring the coffemaker and seeing only a small bed(stead?), tiny fireplace, table and cupboard.  Of course, it's at least two centuries too young, but it was a pleasant evocation.  Looking out the window at the meadows from the tiny house I also couldn't suppress a desire to sew some turn-of-the-19th-century dress and lie around with leather-bound books and write a letter inviting the interpreters from Coggeshall Farm to come visit.  I put more logs on the fire (I have a problem with quitting fires), climbed into the warm bed, and watched it burn down as I fell asleep, dreaming of the Janet Arnold patterns I was going to scale up when I got home...