In 1947 Tilly's grandmother bought an island. Its name is Småhølmene and it sits just off the coast of Norway. At first sight, the island seems bare, hardly more than a collection of rocks rising determinedly out of the water. But Mor-mor, as she was known, could see that Småhølmene was more than that when she purchased it in exchange for a mink coat. She built a two-storeyed wooden cabin on the island, an enclave against the sea water that would dash against the outlying rocks, galloping up the lagoon to slap against the moored boats. This is where Mor-mor and her young family would come every summer, escaping their mollycoddled life in the English countryside to run wild, get burnt, forage for juniper berries, thieve for gull eggs and swim in the shining sea. Lean and chic, Mor-mor smoked voraciously and scandalised the local villagers by cycling to the shops in nothing but a healthy tan. She loved the island fiercely; in her otherwise turbulent life, its rugged outcrops, messy abundance and promise of absolute solitude were constants that lasted throughout the years. This is the inheritance that Tilly embraced many years later when her own mother brought her family to Småhølmene. And when the island was in danger of being sold, she was spurred to do something that no one else had done before – she decided to spend a winter there, alone with her boyfriend. Fending for themselves, they were utterly cut off from outside help. But, in the silence of the cold, they gradually discovered that even in the bleakest of times, the island could take on new life. Glittering and bittersweet, Island Summers lovingly portrays three generations of women and the island that became so irrevocably part of their lives. Now Mor-mor's great-grandchildren are taking their turn, enjoying endless summers on Småhølmene, continuing the story that was begun over fifty years ago.
Charming story, but a lot of misspellings of Norwegian locations and dishes! "Bøller" means thugs in Norwegian, not buns, there is no r-sound in bløtkake and Småhølmene. Riksmålforbundets periodical is called Frisprog not Fri Sprowg, and so on. The third part of the book is called Winter, but the author and her boyfriend arrives in late March and stays untill June, even in Norway March is regarded as a (sort of) spring month.
Interesting read initially but the, fortunately, short third part about the author’s overwintering on the island was more poetic writing than actual story. As another reviewer pointed out: the author and her boyfriend arrives in late March and stays until June, even in Norway March is regarded as a (sort of) spring month.
Also (a pet hate): Why the need to use the Norwegian word brygge instead of the English one jetty? And other Norwegian words when there is an adequate English one. What was gained by this? I’ve had a problem with this type of thing before, in other languages. Authors, stop doing it!
Maybe it’s the summer light or bounty of summer veggies but I really enjoyed this book and felt transported. Loved the summers the family members made on the island.
Charming family memoir centred around the island of Småholmene in southern Norway, bought by the author's Norwegian grandmother (Mor-mor)in 1947 and used as a summer holiday retreat by the family ever since. The author did not really know her grandmother, who died when she was a little girl, but she has had access to diaries and letters and of course the house itself and the collective family memories. This is very much how the other half lives (for me, at any rate) - homes in England include an Elizabethan house near Great Missenden and grand town houses in Kensington, and the grandmother was one of the grandchildren of the original Fred. Olsen of shipping fame. It's a privileged background, which seems to come with quite a lot of practical knowledge about how to fend for oneself without all the trappings of modern privileged life while on the island. In some ways despite the family's Norwegian background they seem a bit cut off from the local life around them (e.g. her mother seems not to have passed the language to her children). The women emerge from the story as strong characters who seem to have a habit of shrugging off their menfolk (it must have been a wrench for the various husbands and partners to lose the island life, especially after years of coming, but once gone of course they are simply out of the picture and we don't know how they reacted). There must be thousands of little islands off the Norwegian coast, many of them with summer houses like this one, and it's interesting to glimpse what summer life is like on one. Towards the end of the book Tilly visits with her boyfriend for an extended stay before the summer season begins, which almost spoils it for her in years to come. (Cold and isolated as it clearly was I am not sure that arriving in March could really be called over-wintering!) The food and cookery is obviously a subject close to the author's heart, and her descriptions of the landscape are evocative and nostalgic. Highly recommended despite the odd quibble!
A tale of three generations of women and their ownership of and summer holidays on a tiny island in the Norwegian archipelago. The first 90 pages or so are quite interesting and I would have given that 3 stars. After that it is an ambling, rambling account of nothingness that kind of just ends. It feels as though our third generation, Tilly, who must have written this St about age 30 really hadn't figured herself out or what she is going to do with her life, which makes for an odd biography when she takes up the bulk of hgd book. Personally I struggle reading the vague stories of the privileged rich - these are kids raised in rich London and boarding schools who have summer holidays on a private island. After uni she does go and live on the island for 3 months with grr then Irish boyfriend during late winter - spring, March to May. It will have been bloody cold but she will have skipped the worst in Jan and Feb. I don't know... I have lived in Scandinavia and I don't have the current trendy rose-tinted view that everything is better when it's Scandi and this book left me cold. I think if you want to read a good book about a Scandi rocky island summer, you would be better off with Tove Janssons Summer Book.
The interesting part is the start when she accounts the life of her grandmother, Mormon, who originally bought the island and started off the entire family tradition. She had a tough start in that her mother freaked out when she was a baby and ran off (only to die a few years later) and her father, so saddened moved off to the States without his daughter! So she was effectively an orphan with two living parents, raised by good relatives. So although she was raised with wealth and privilege, she did miss out. And seemed to be rather scatterbrained shall we say with her own later family.
If you enjoy that first part and then find it rapidly running out of puff and substance but keep going, as I did, in the hope that it will pick up.... I am afraid it stays in that same tone for the rest of the book.
There were moments of genius, particularly as she got into her own experiences, but I was never really captivated. She writes like a poet--her sentences were often hard to dissect as prose--which meant I had to "come out" of the story to figure out exactly what she was trying to say. Valiant effort, but this book won't earn a spot in my permanent collection.
Evocative , idyllic, heart warming recollections of generations of a family spending time on their island of Smaholme … the descriptions of island life , weather, flora and fauna ,wildlife, fishing and above all the wonderful foraging and cooking up of the Norwegian meals , made me want to run away to my own ‘ Smaholme’. A beautiful escape from ordinary life.
This was an interesting memoir telling of the lives of the author's eccentric grandmother, her mother and the rest of the family with the island in southern Norway being the focal point of the story. This is a privileged family who lived far simpler ways when spending their summer on the island. As another reader brought up, the author has been raised in Great Britain and I doubt she understands harsh northern winters and referred to time spent on the island from March through May as winter. However, it was a good, easy, and entertaining book to read.