As they left the church on the bitter January morning of the funeral, they walked silently together across the old cemetery, wrapping their coats tighter to fight the biting wind. As they slowly made their way up the embedded steps in the mountain she felt the summer memories of climbing islands come flooding back – as a child she had always wanted to climb to the highest point of whatever island she was on, trying to identify the different lookouts and lighthouses in the archipelago.
As they reached the new lookout they paused to catch their breath. In the summer a crowd of tourists would always be waiting to climb up its stairs, which reminded of Badholmen’s diving tower, but today they were alone. As they entered the warm timber enclosure they were met by the stunning, frozen view. Directly ahead of them across the thick ice they could see the lookout on the island of Kråkholmen.
They descended the mountain and entered the granite enclosure of the Folkets Hus. She could still remember the time before Badis was demolished – everyone could. The building’s footprint could still be made out between the drystone walls now, its distinctive curve cutting through the rock. It had taken the local stonecutters weeks to pave and wall the granite garden, and their craftsmanship had resulted in an array of granite forms and strata, from boulders to cobbles. In spring the regional stonecutting cooperative always brought their trainees here, and new granite sculptures and benches seemed to emerge every year.
They entered the building through a narrow wooden enclosure, and after hanging their coats up and taking their shoes off, arrived at the main volume against the back of the granite fireplace. The low winter light entered the smaller meeting area – it looked so different from the summer, when it served as a café, always full of sailing tourists browsing the Internet on their laptops. As they passed the kitchen they heard the sound of plates, and she remembered that the book club had their meeting here today.
They slowed down as they entered the main space and were met by the steep rock suggesting its presence behind the deep walls. Last week she had watched the snow build and melt away down the carved channels outside, but today the low winter light bathed the roof and floor inside, and she felt the cold leaving her body. They paused to admire the archipelago horizon beyond the heavy granite stage – she personally preferred this view to that of summer, when the stage faced the outside and the local performers got to enjoy the stunning view.
Her father had particularly enjoyed extending his evening walks past the building, as the light from within played on the rock. But she preferred her morning walks, and often came here with a book early on Saturdays, when the sun would highlight the colours of the granite outside – if she was early enough, she could catch the first rays trickling into the space. She found comfort in the constant connection to the landscape outside, and the deep wall strangely reminded her of her summer morning dips, when she would sit on a bench and lean against the uneven timber wall in her bathrobe.
They turned and made their way back out into the cold. She stopped at the door to look out – through the window in the drystone wall she could see the lookout on Kråkholmen. She stepped out of the light, timber building and back onto the hard granite paving. It always amazed her how many people fit in this walled space during the summer auctions, dances and exhibitions. Now they were alone.
They turned around one of the walls and descended through the narrow stair to the waterfront. In the summer it was a cool, shady transition between the mountain and the open, glittering water, but now the steep walls protected her from the chilling wind. Straight ahead, in the distance, she could see the overwhelmingly steep walls of Kungsklyftan – the King’s Cleft.
As they emerged by the water, they saw the boathouses. Their charred wood façades reminded her of the fire that destroyed Fjällbacka’s waterfront in 1928. Inside one of them, the lights were on – it was probably one of the local artists who she knew used it as studio space. She looked back at the open stage and briefly remembered watching Casablanca here on a balmy summer evening. She then glanced at the ice she was about to walk on, and couldn’t believe it was the same water she had bathed in only a few months ago.
They stepped off the pier and onto the ice, and walked towards the cemetery on Kråkholmen. She always enjoyed the feeling that the islands were secretly accessible to them during exceptionally cold winters like this one, and today was no exception. The funeral had been stirring, but the walk through the granite landscape and out to the cemetery was refreshing. As they reached the island she couldn’t fight the usual urge to climb to the highest point, and soon found the lookout. She climbed up its familiar rhythm of steps and paused to looked back the way she’d come from.
Fjällbacka looked quiet, peaceful and bathed in a cold light – drastically different from the summer sounds of seagulls, sailing masts and swarms of people soaking up the evening sun. She couldn’t decide which view she liked best.
