Home of my childhood

I`m home on the island Halsnøy. This is where I was raised as a child.
It`s so different from where I live now, in Arctic Norway. Being at this latitude, in south, western Norway, you see how different it is. The island is all green. Everything grows. All the time.
It`s a small island. With no police. When the police comes over on a seldom occasion on the ferry, there`s a big alarm.
A note might hang on a wall, saying;
-Cops on the island. Park your car!

This is the farm where I grew up. Where I could run inbetween the threes, playing cowboy and indian. Or working at the farm. Or run down to the beach to swim.
I was the oldest son on the farm. Had the right to inherit it all. But I didnt want to.
Maybe it was because all the grass gave me hay-fever.
Maybe I wanted to do something else than cutting grass and feeding cows for the rest of my life.

Now it feels strange to be here. I start to sneeze at once. And I meet old friends. Who pronounce my name in a way that only people here do.
I feel like a stranger. And I feel like a stranger wherever I am. Having moved around, I don`t belong anywhere.

I brought with me some children on this trip. And they are very happy. They run around in the high grass. Between the threes. Down to the beach. They jump out in the water, which feels warm for Arctic kids.
Their joy reaches me; A melancholic and sneezy adult.