I’ve begun to sense late summer in the air. Summer is still here, but it no longer feels fresh and new. Now it lingers and puts me in a reflective mood. Every year, this is when I start longing desperately for the countryside: traditions that have all but disappeared, slow tractors on gravel roads, the edges of fields and bright, crisp mornings in the meadow.
I regret never asking my aunt to teach me how to weave rag rugs on a loom. Now she lies in the cemetery, and the loom may well have been sold to someone else. Every autumn, I try to preserve courgettes and mushrooms in the tiny kitchen of my flat. Once again, it has started to feel like it isn’t enough. The kitchen isn’t big enough, and neither is this city-dweller’s feeble attempt to keep alive the customs passed down through generations. I don’t even have a root cellar for storing larger quantities. What if I moved to the country? I always begin to wonder.
For someone who grew up in a city flat, the dream would be quite a leap into the unknown. But really, how difficult could it be? And could someone please explain why I have felt this pull towards the countryside in late summer since I was at least five years old?
Crouching in the bilberry forest, I wonder whether I should trade my allotment-garden life for a farm in Pielavesi after all. The estate agent is trying to sell it for a few tens of thousands of euros, no doubt through gritted teeth, after its hundred-year-old owner finally died with his boots on. His heirs live in southern Finland, and neither their childhood memories nor the dwindling local services are enough to tempt them back. In fact, they cannot imagine who would be drawn to such a remote place anymore. Well, there’s always me!
> Laughter rang out, and whenever the stories became too outrageous, we little ones were sent to the crossroads to wait for the mobile shop.
I tie a scarf around my head and imagine myself in my great-aunt’s farmhouse in Alapitkä, helping to bake bread. I remember the flour billowing through the air as my brisk, strong-armed aunts set to work on the rye dough. Laughter rang out, and whenever the stories became too outrageous, we little ones were sent to the crossroads to wait for the mobile shop. The visiting city cousins could buy lollipops and ice creams there, and every visit felt like a grand occasion.
At Christmas, we made Karelian pasties and liver casserole. I won’t forget the smell of liver in a hurry, but by the time we sat down at the festive table, the taste more than made up for the ordeal.
I miss the days of small neighbourhood shops, where I could stop on my way past to buy bread and fresh buns. Kukkonen brothers, never forget. While people my age are still looking fabulous in their rain ponchos at festivals, dancing to their favourite bands and paying for everything with their phones, I dream of a sheep pasture. I have just bought a new purse with the perfect compartment for my Kunttari smoke sauna stamp card. While others travel around Europe by train and eat out with a glass of wine several times a month, I want to visit the summer café at Pöljä railway station, where last year my waffle came with a whipped-cream heart.
I know I am a romantic fool, and I understand that the days of mobile shops and vigorous old ladies in headscarves are over. But my longing for the countryside – and my desire to help breathe new life into the region – is real. And where better than here to do just that? A farm in Pielavesi would have room for a loom, apple trees and firewood. Perhaps one day I’ll surprise you all! What harm could a little daydreaming possibly do?
The writer is a city-dwelling dreamer who will move to the countryside one day and get a pony and a sheep.