How to run a farm – And how NOT to run a blog

From the little I know about blogs: This is not how you do it. You are supposed to be consistent, grammatically correct and have a nice layout and pedagical posts. You are supposed to read other blogs, and comment them, and have advertisement and update often. Well. I will probably keep breaking the rules. Please bear with me.

The Pearl is rolling south, staying at a fraction of all the places I want to explore, but still seem to get stuck (in a muddy sea of fascination, love and dreams) with each one I visit. Ridgedale Permaculture is a little universe of itself. A bubble of proactivity, powered by the most beautiful and humble of souls, something that you don’t fully appreciate or grasp until you step out of it. I was back in the renovated kitchen for the first PDC of the second season, stepping into a pair of very familiar shoes. So excited to meet the new core team that will run the farm for another epic step against a dream, green as the greenest of grasses. Each one of them who succeded to inspire me in their own unique way. And especially Clara Cortadelles, the “graphic manager”, who lucky enough took my camera (collecting dust in the passenger-seat) into her magic hands to capture a glimpse of the different life-forms that run this wonderful farm.

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Things change here, they change fast. And take your association of fast in your head and speed it up twice and there you have it: Ridgedale. After almost to weeks of intense culinary adventure, I threw myself into the garden to explore my lack of experience and to get dirty. So many possibilities in such a small place. Even my book-project, another dream kept on ice, melted and started growing again. I ran in the forest that I know better than the back of my hand, ate blueberry-flowers as I could not wait for the berries. And all the birds of spring told me, that I will be back soon.

As the rain was a daily visiter for most of May, I left only as the run came out and brough the storm with her: I almost blew off the highway, and one of the yurts on the farm almost turned into an airship.

DSC_1296I have happily dozed off from social media for some time, high on life but stunned by my increasing intolerance towards cities and all that they involve. A frustrating feeling as been lurking in my cluttered mind, un-motivation to work on the van. You know that feeling, when you work really hard for something, and then you have it and your passion and grit goes “… Now what?” I had many small projects, things to fix, repair, sell, buy, build, but it was not until a few days ago that I did it: All in one night. After an intense water-fast and a few dark zombie days, letting body and mind through the garbage out the window, in my head cleared up. Things fell on the right place in the matter of 24 sleepless hours, and a buzz that kept me going like a locomotive until I stepped back with a smile on my face. It is now a home, not because it has a floor, or a bed, or a kitchen. but because it has a soul. And the good thing is that it is not even finished.

From Jönköping to Kramfors

First roadtrip was launched in the most wonderful spring weather. Egg-sandwiches by a lake, trying out the casett-player with an old recorded band from when my mother was sailing the mediterranean, visit old villages and spooky campingsites. Engine was loud due to lack of inslation and the window slide down every now and then, but she carried me all the 75 miles up north without a doubt. Thursday I arrive to Kramfors, a small odd little town, were I will stay with my dear friend Carl that studies furniture carpentry at the wood academy. I introduced myself to my home for the future weeks with the usual rituals. Spouts are set to soak, sourdough started, bread baked, eggs boiled. Finally time to start building.

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