Have korvburk, will travel

“That’s it”, I said to myself as the last of the putrid, lukewarm office coffee etched its way down my throat, “I’m going to the woods or I’m going south”. There was a bitter irony in the “Going south”, since going south was what I most of all wished to do, though in the literal, geographical sense rather than in the metaphorical one.

Before the office fever could do me any definite harm I mustar’d the courage and sneaked out the back door, went straight home and

packed the bare essentials for a few days in the boonies; my chainsaw, my shaving sharp axe and my lumberjack-wannabe-buddy Rickard, and took off.

Two hours later, with Bob Dylan´s “Stuck Inside of Mobile With the Memphis Blues Again” blasting from the speakers and road dust in our faces, we skid to a halt outside the House on the Hill. Rickard threw his trunk inside, lit a fire in the stove and emptied a pack of varmkorvs in the frying pan.
“Want a couple”? he asked.
“Thou shalt not eat thy brother”, I replied.
“Suit yourself” he said, stirring his repulsive food, “We’ve got a lot of work to do tomorrow”.

I dozed off that night to the sound of korv being chewed, and woke up the next morning with the smell of burnt meat still in the stale cottage air. Out in the yard, Rickard was already gunning the tractor preparing for the day’s work.

Oh, words can’t even begin to describe how the day evolved. The pictures will have to speak for themselves.