Sometimes we travel because we have to. Sometimes we travel because we want to. Sometimes we travel because it’s just the right thing to do. That’s what happened in July, 2006 when I ventured to Norway… The land of my kin.
A year earlier, in May of 2005, my Father started to display the first signs of what would become a rather hideous form of Parkinson’s disease. My Dad and Step-Mom loved to travel. When it became obvious that he would not be able to travel much in the future, we decided that he needed to take the trip he always wanted to take but kept on the back burner while more alluring destinations kept his attention. This trip was to see, with his own eyes, the ancestral family farm outside of Lyngholm, Norway: the birthplace of his Great-Grandfather.
As the family legend goes, Hans Rygmyr emigrated to the United States in 1849. He departed the port of Stavanger and landed in New York. Soon after, he ventured to the one place in the U.S. that was equally as miserable as the place he left… Minnesota. I still don’t understand that. Sure, they knew how to farm in that climate, and the soil was good, but what would have been wrong with South Florida? If the early immigrants from Norway had taken the wagon train SOUTH instead of northwest, who knows… Miami Beach would be known as Oslo Beach and it would be the Norwegians that have the great tans.
The ancestral vessel... per family legend
The grand scheme came together in one of those good-Karma-stars-aligning ways that seem unbelievable. My Dad and Step-Mom would take a cruise through Scandinavia with stops in Copenhagen, Bergen, Oslo, Stockholm, and Helsinki. The ingenious plan would have my Dad and Mom get off the ship in Bergen, Norway, to link up with me. We would drive south to the County of Sveio, visit the family farm, then head back to Bergen. They would catch a flight to Oslo and meet back up with their cruise, and I would fly back home. Perfect. As the good travel Karma continued, I was able to get a frequent flyer ticket from Atlanta to Gatwick, then bought a round trip hop on Lufthansa to Bergen.
Hilltop view of Bergen, Norway
I have a distant cousin who had actually visited the farm and had contact information for the woman and her family that lived there. Although no longer in the family, the farm still had the crumbled remains of the house where my Great-Great-Grandfather was born. I traded emails with her and she graciously agreed to host us on the farm and take us out to the site of the old house. We were all set.
After two flights that included a 10 hour layover in Gatwick and a diverted flight to Stavanger, I arrived in Bergen early in the morning tired and aggravated. Two ingredients that usually don’t bode well when traveling with retired parents. I rented a car and went to meet them at the hotel. While they were still out touring the city, I took a short, but much-needed, Lufthansa-induced nap. We finally met up, had lunch, and did some sightseeing. The lunch, which consisted of two club sandwiches, a salad, two beers and a tea came in at about $110. Before tip. Later that night, I found the local Irish Pub and drank a couple Norwegian brews while watching the World Cup. $11 apiece. No wonder my Great-Great-Grandfather left. He couldn’t afford the beer.
A traditional Irish pub... in Norway
The next morning was the start of what would be a great day. We headed out with a Norwegian road map and a tank full of diesel. Other than taking thirty minutes to find our way out of Bergen, the trip was pretty easy. Two ferry boat rides and a long tunnel later we were in Sveio. We found the farm and drove up the long driveway to the main house. Our host, Linda, met us and we were all very excited to be on the Rygmyr version of ‘Hallowed Ground’.
Mom and Dad at the Rygmyr Farm
The long walk took us through a couple small pastures and over a barbed wire fence. Finally, about 50 yards short of the old home site deeper into the woods, my Dad gave out. His legs now numb, he took a seat on a rock near an old well house and the rest of us continued on to take some photos and try to get back to him as soon as possible. It was heartbreaking that his ailment would keep him from seeing the one thing he always wanted to see. A whole lifetime of traveling around the world only to end up 50 yards short.
Linda and I at the Rygmyr Ruins
After some quick photos of the Rygmyr ruins, we met back up with my Dad and headed back to the main house. Linda brought out some homemade strawberry sherbet and we sat on the deck and talked about the land, the farm and the history. Before long, my Dad had to ask the big question. The question that up until now had an undeniably quixotic answer… “So, what does ‘Rygmyr’ really mean in Norwegian?” my Dad asked. Before Linda could answer, he piped in “I believe it is the name of a little yellow flower that grows out of the rocky crags in the fjords and when it blooms, the fishermen know it’s time to head out to sea!”
To that, Linda answered swiftly and sternly “NO! Rygmyr… Ryg… Myr! RED… SWAMP!” My Father's face sunk. He protested “What? That can’t be right!” Linda assured him that her Norwegian was intact and that she certainly knew what the name meant in her native tongue.
After a little more sherbet and some calming conversation, we thanked Linda profusely for her hospitality, said our goodbyes, and started driving down the long dirt driveway to the main road. My Dad just couldn’t let go. He said “You know, I’m still not sure she was right about the real meaning of our name…” To that, I couldn’t resist and said “Hey Dad! Look out the window! I see a cow stuck in the Rygmyr!”
Stuck in the Rygmyr... Again!
I was honored to tell that story at my Dads funeral. It got a good laugh, but more importantly it paid tribute to the fact that no matter how old we are, or what experiences we have, there is always more to learn about ourselves and the world around us. I believe that the best way to do that is to travel. No matter whether we need to or want to, sometimes it’s just the right thing to do.
I love that story!
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