It's foggy out, as so often in the spring before the sea has warmed up. The eldest son is left at the nursery.
At 9:02, I take the blue cable ferry to the island of Marstrand, running along the quay, folds of Queen Street up against the white medieval church. Rooting for Danny to load the mop. The sound attenuated by fog which swept all the streets in a white haze. Imagination is the ease of movement and I am in a particularly hard time in the stroller with one-year old son is sitting, not to be sucked in into the past.
Imagine all the people who trampled on the slate tiles and cobblestones before me! Bath attendants, waiters and errand boys. Cuts Captains and Kings.
Carlsten fortress on top of the island houses no longer prisoners but still keeps watch over the wooden town below. Like a fairytale castle located Society House with its graceful porches at the northern entrance. Along Long Street, every generation had their stocks with the color of the carpenter's joy. Everywhere you turn there is history, and stories.
Although I always loved to write I trained in IT & Business Administration and set to end with two bachelor of science, one in each subject. I started working as an IT consultant with business systems. That could be a writer, I thought not even on. Said I did, however. Log gböcker over long-distance sailing to Scotland, Shetland, Orkney, Northern Ireland and St Kilda off the Outer Hebrides, and several kilos of resebrev. When the sailboat was replaced with a "house renovation" in Marstrand, I saw new opportunities.
There, amidst the salty sea on the west Hamneskär west of Marstrand, stands the lighthouse Paternoster. A rödlackad krinolinfyr, a Heidenstam Mare from the 1868th The company that I worked for decided to sponsor the renovation of the lighthouse and I became involved. There are also beginning to my story. Since no one lived in the inaccessible island fyrmästarbostad in many years, it would very well be a body walled up in storeroom. And the wall would certainly be able to collapse when you put the finishing touches on the renovation before re-opening, which actually occurred in real life in 2007. The title of my story became a four-masted daughter.
While the sun sets in the west, turning the sea into liquid gold, I write on. Among baby formula bottles and unfolded laundry, where the red-striped cat McRill lies curled up, I sit with the computer. Old stories - true or not. The improbable reality that is constantly ongoing. Love, work, desire and dreams.