lproven | Norwegian Wood 2

I've visited Stathelle three times now: in early spring last year - an unexpected visit when Kjersti's mother died - and at Christmas.

The Scandinavians celebrate Yule on December 24th; the day before, after a large meal, I went for a quiet walk in the chill moonlight. On my I had been disappointed by the total absence of snow: if you don't get a white Christmas in Norway, where will you? But in the evening of December 23rd, as night started to fall, so did thick white flakes, piling up with terrifying rapidity: I began to realise how what had always been a near-fictional form of decoration - ah, the joys of an African childhood - could actually become a hazard.

It was magical. Stathelle is quiet anyway, but the snow muted all sound, and I was the first one out. I walked down empty roads, my way lit by the light from warm-looking houses snuggled under thick white blankets. The air was so full of falling flakes that I couldn't see far, but when I looked up, every streetlight was surrounded by a halo, a corona of airborne ice. My feet crunched on the virgin snow - I'm sure the Inuit and snowboarders have a special word for this light crisp fresh snow, just fallen and not even starting to settle yet. When I eventually returned to the house, I spent an inordinately pleasurable half an hour or so gathering the powdery snow and trying to build a small snowman. I've seen snow before, of course; I spent the Christmas of '94 in Voss in the Norwegian midlands, but that year's fall was old and rancid by then, and as I was still walking awkwardly on a stick after my bike crash that year, spending much time outside in the cold and wet was out of the question - as was kneeling and playing around. Well, except in a warm bed, but that's another story altogether.

My friend Meike and I managed to create a tiny, 5" tall snowman outside long-haired Fishlifter's house some years ago after one of London's rare snowfalls. We scoured a dozen cars for our materiel, although I confess much was wasted as impromptu weaponry. Now, I had as much fresh sculpture material as I could wish.

And actually, it's quite difficult. Most of what I know about snowmen I learned from Calvin and Hobbes, and it's an unreliable tutor. The stuff didn't want to stick together, and every time I built a ball or cone of more than 20cm or so it crumbled. So the job took a lot longer than I expected, watched from above by bemused Norwegians wondering why in hell a 34-year-old is doing this at midnight when it's well below 0°C - and why he appears to be quite so happy. And probably why he's doing such a bad job of it, too.

The rest of Christmas passed more normally. They don't do turkey, stuffing or any of that stuff - but that's OK, as I'm a vegetarian and I don't either. The Thunems do enjoy Christmas pudding, but trying to make one without suet and marrow was problematic and the result was rather... viscous. Norway is a hotpotch aggregate of a nation; different regions have their own dialects and varying traditions. Kjersti's family come from separate areas, so Christmas dinner is a hybrid affair: there's roast pork with a strange coffee-based gravy (an inland favourite) as well as boiled cod (a coastal delicacy). It's all a bit academic to me anyway: I made a nutroast. We all shared in some family rituals, though: polishing the silverware and making a profusion of little traditional cakes - "poor men", "antlers", a sort of almond biscuit and others, some baked, some fried like doughnuts. They're not very sweet, and I once again scandalised the locals by finding that some of them go very well with cheese.