If the light after the long winter night returns on the Lofoten Islands, it is peak season for fishermen. With the first rays of the sun also comes the Skrei - cod. And this is how to Viking times of greatest abundance on the islands in the Arctic Ocean.
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Steinar Larsen was six years old when he first a mighty cod in the throat and attacked him with a single, clean cut the tongue separated. The ranked it on a steel mandrel to the other, with whom she later their journey to the Delikatessläden applies all over the world should be. He was nine when he began helping his father, the heavy, bloody plastic tubs from the boat on the hoist to investors, and not eleven, when he was on the slippery planks ausrutschte into four degrees and cold water of the harbor basin slipped.
At the age of 14 he knew all the nodes and could smell when the herring vorbeizogen. And with 18 Steinar Larsen knew his life would be one with fish. Only fishermen like his father he never wanted to be. "The sea," says Steinar, occurs by a rubber boot on the other, plucks the white beard and nods have come out to Vestfjord, where the foam crowns in the wind dancing. "I have too much respect for the sea." So he stayed on shore and there made of cod, the other outside began to crown.
"Goodbye, poverty", they say, on the Lofoten Islands, where the nets are full and when in March over the aroma of dried fish in the air: "That's the smell of money." The cod is the currency in Norway's North Atlantic coast, and he will give the year its structure.
The cod, and then there is the sun. On 6 January it rises again for the first time on the fjord, a milky-turbid disc, for a moment. "On the same day," says Steinar, "breaks the cod from the Barents here, for spawning." Skrei named him the Vikings, the traveling fish. And nobody had the Vikings in March fear, because they were then always in Vestfjord to Skrei ten thousand times from the water. The gutted fish tied it to the tail fin together in pairs and hievten him on wooden racks, where he remained until the summer.
Lofoten-Stockfish first quality for Milano
"We fly to the moon," says Steinar, "but the cod dry we still like the Vikings." In addition to his red-brown house at the port depends on the sky full of fish, heavy, wet and bloody, guarded by stuffed oilskins in Orange, which should scare cormorants. "The March", says Steinar, "is a good month to fish up. There is hardly any frost, but the flies are still asleep." In June, his goods from the racks fetch wood, then by four-fifths lighter, no longer pale blue, but bright yellow as tobacco, dry, leathery, with a pungent smell of ammonia and Tran.
And then send the Steinar Skrei again on the trip. Sorted by trade classes - Ragno, Westrem Magro, Grand Premier, Hollandese, brake - airtight wrapped verschnürt and go by air to the south. The Lofoten-Stockfish top quality, come to Palermo and Florence, Venice, Pisa, Genoa and Milan. "Milaaaano," says Steinar and Tscheeenova ", as it would be the language with which he has become great.
Italy. Never has it been since. Where's cod is eaten, he knows from the fish traders who annually arrive at the "stoccafisso" Born to be verified. Long he knows the recipe: In Umbria, basting with the watered-Skrei with dried prunes and raisins, in Friuli with pine nuts and olives, in the Veneto loves it alla vicentina with pesto and polenta.
Mediterranean meets the North Atlantic, where Steinar Stockfish in Italian cooking casseroles, encounter two worlds: one where the crickets sing, sonnensatt where it fennel, rosemary and smells dolce vita, and a like carved from hard rock full of blue, cold air, lapped by Tang and drift. Bar jeder loveliness these islands. The Lofoten Islands, an estimated 20,000 pieces stone, nine of them inhabited, soar 200 kilometers north of the Arctic Circle from the North Sea - they never have anyone made easy.
Never make compromises the sky
In winter and summer lichtlos without night, the weather is fickle and unpredictable, dangerous sea. In the morning it is clear and still in the fjord as a dark green jelly, it rages at noon in front of the harbor foamy. Know 16 different words for snow here, the times from the front, and like needles in his cheeks to drill, sometimes it is heavy and wet from the top. Never make compromises the sky, either, he is from a blue, which stings the eyes, or a cloud sea in anthracite, a leopard pattern, or a lilac-colored sunset.
Many are left in the last few years, as Steinar three daughters. "Study in Oslo now," says Steinar and: "You have to connect them." In Unstad, on the Atlantic coast are only 15 of 300 people because he says that the government and now a training ship from the island of Store Molla has set, after being Digermulen: "For two students. Just so the family stays. Kostet half million kronor in the year. " Steinar And the lips moved as if he Stockfish conversions.
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There are others. In summer, when the big cruise ships in Creating Sörvagen, Svolvaer Stamsund and have the students on some days. Because then, the coaches not to day visitors on the islands to drive. From June, the Lofoten Islands off north sea and the white-spotted konfettibunt beach towels and sun loungers. In winter, they were here that long, but it is over. In March, when days north of the Arctic Circle are already longer than in Oslo, Berlin or Paris, come with the cod is now also the tourists.
On snowshoes, visitors walk over frozen lakes, chop holes in the ice, can hook into the dark water. Stroll through the eggshell-colored sand on the beach of Crescent Utakleiv, salt air in the nose, put snails from houses Perlmutt a sword shells and drift wood pieces.
Seeing the sea eagles in the sky to the tangverhangenen seals on rocks in the surf. Get on up to the Touring Munkan summit. Past barren birches, to the very top where the view is on the Lofoten chain, like a huge sawtooth rises from the North Atlantic, wild jagged, freshly snow-covered. In the evening they sit in Sörvagen in Maren Anna, in a Polar beer, cod with beetroot and sometimes even at Wal-carpaccio.
Northern Lights, such as silk curtains
And after dinner, they are out in the polar night and waiting for the Northern Lights. It's like out of nowhere and dance at once over one like a silk curtain in the warm summer wind, almost like a strange being, a bright nebula. The northern flicker, shimmers, switches, Opal times, times such as burning magnesium, Unmatched and disturbing. "Who has seen it once," says Steinar, "come back safely."
Six small fishing huts he has in recent years expanded as vacation rentals for tourists, with heating in the bathrooms and porches, on the harbor view. The first floor of its old warehouse is now a museum dried fish, packed with nets, bone-hard Skrei tool bits and fishermen of all kinds, "Who knows," he says, "how many of cod still coming." Nor is the Atlantic stock - unlike in the North Sea - semi-stable. But the cod, it is too warm, the climate change it can only grow slowly. Steinar says: "A Skrei must freeze."
Outside, on the Vestfjord prefers the "Midnatsol 'past, a ship of the Hurtigruten, with course of Svolvaer and new guests. The sound of heavy equipment carries for miles, and over the water blowing a thin plume of diesel. Perhaps smells money soon no longer only after cod. Perhaps he should open a restaurant, perhaps on a ship.
On investor sits Steinar, plucks the white beard, it tastes of salt, and laughing gulls hears the signal from the "Midnatsol". His life of a fish? Let's see. Let's see what the cold, green sea them.