People are beginning to arrive from Oslo to begin their long month of July holiday. Soon the island with expand from less than 5,000 in the winter to more than 50,000 in its summer months. Nobody used to live here but fisherman, my mother tells me, in the old days. But it has been a summer destination for Norwegians from the beginning of the last century. My great grandparents came here in 1905. The bridge opened in 1933 but before that, a ferry brought families across to their wooden huts. As a child, my mother spent 2 months every summer here.
I am thinking of tomatoes on a a piece of bread smeared with mayonnaise, a sprinkle of salt on top, for lunch.
I must mourn my Whipple, throw myself into Mollie Keen, and steel myself for a long walk through the pine woods at tea time. I should like to be wearing a long white linen dress and a crumpled hat, but I have my inappropriately ripped jeans and my red Birkenstocks on instead. I am waiting for my mother to pull off her t-shirt and sit in the sun in her bra, and I will do the same, as my grandmother used to do. ("She dressed so elegantly in Oslo and so eccentrically in Tjøme" my mother said.)