Watershed 2

There are a few days in the Norwegian calendar, in Spring, which are looked forward to by Norwegians in Oslo at least, and, like my last post, as a little like another watershed.

The days feel as if they are another marker of time, of seasons change, of new beginnings, a baptism if you will.

And in a sense there is a baptism, a baptism of the streets as the streets are literally washed clean and clear of all the grit that has been laid down over the last 6 months.

Unlike in England where rock salt is used (and then what?), in Norway the streets gather so much grit over this period that you can be floating on an inch of the stuff as the snow and ice melts away. Paths are blurred into the grass as new tracks are made, ruts form on the roads as cars, busses and lorries groove their way.

It's serious business; woe betide any resident who happens to violate the mandate to not park in the vicinity of their house or apartment at the appointed time, hefty fines are applied.

Grit?
Be gone!

Today a number of large Tonka truck like vehicles are worming their way around the streets near me. This is nothing like the road sweepers that tickle the curb-sides on that little island out to the west. This is heavy duty road sweeping and washing, like quarry vehicles to a child's matchbox toy. Huge flat bed containers are cast into the middle of road junctions to receive their collections, tractors with washer attachments and massive water tanks move up and down, washing the mud, grit, detritus of winter. The world here, like Spring, is reborn.

Watershed

It's rare these days, that I feel inspired to write something for my blog, but today, or more precisely, yesterday, I had that moment.

Because it rained.

Oh, big deal? Maybe to people back in the motherland (England) where it rains throughout the year, but here in Norway it's been something like five or six months since it rained. Yes, since November!
It's curious the feelings the rain has evoked. Laying in bed this morning it was of hiking, hearing the wind and the rain in the trees, the sound of power, nature, elements. The returning grey rather than pretty whiteness, reminding me of walking to school on wet September mornings. The cool, reaching fingertips prompting me to rushing to bring the washing in out of their reach.

From the cold numbness of stable weather systems, constantly producing less than zero degree weather, allowing kids to play outside but remaining pretty dry through winter, today they are scurrying off to school with their rain jackets and pants on, parents hurriedly herding behind them. The trees carry the birdsong from the tops, as if a jungle has suddenly become rampant. The rain washes snow away, leaving contrails of ice and compacted snow where people have made their paths, ochre grass weakly bordering the waving banners and waking up. The strange, new, rancid smell of earth, hidden for so long, builds and is rinsed clean again. A svartetrøst sings. A blackbird, reminding me of England, like the rain, it feels home.