29 October, 2006
It’s about thirty minutes by bus from Gävle to Forsbacka. I got off the bus at the Forsbacka Konsum and went inside to ask for directions. In spite of an impressive command of English the two women I spoke to inside had great difficulty explaining how to get to the cemetery. They pointed me in the right direction and said that maybe I could find someone further up the road to ask again. So, with very vague instructions to “Stay right.” and “Cross the water.” I headed up Gavlegårdna. After a few blocks of residential flats set in large lawn-covered gardens the road dog-legs to the left. I kept to the right of the most curious and beautiful building that looked like and old brickworks. This building had at least six cone shaped chimneys and three detached smoke stacks, all heavily ringed with iron bands. There was an amazingly still lake on my right that doubled everything on its shores in a perfect mirror image. As I rounded the factory, the cone-shaped chimneys opened up. Each one had a magnificent cast iron pulley system inside of it. The road curved to the left behind the factory and then wound back to the right and led to a bridge spanning a narrow spot of the lake. Past the bridge to the left, water was rushing over and under a small footbridge. It was muddy and violent and as I approached I could see that the large bridge was actually a dam and the glassy lake was being sucked under it and shot back out toward the footbridge and on into another lake. I passed over the bridge with a quickened step assisted by a shot of adrenaline from the rushing water.
On the other side, a big white three-story manor sat directly ahead with a footpath leading into the woods to the left and a road that continued beyond it on the right. Remembering the instructions I’d been given, I stayed to the right and on the road. There were several beautiful homes next to the lake and a man in front of one of them raking a long gravel path. I wondered if he spoke English so that I might ask again about the cemetery and before I could decide whether or not to bother him he waved and shouted “Hej!” I said hello back and turned down his path. He said he only spoke a little English but gave me two sets of directions to the cemetery and asked where I was from. I thanked him, he told me (curiously) to “Have fun!” and I walked back to the path that led through the woods behind the big white house.
The path forked into an upper and lower way, the upper leading to two yellow houses on a ridge, the lower through a narrow path of birches growing out of a swampy wetland. There were two stone buildings dug into the ridge that looked like tombs, faced with black stones and matching underscaled green doors. I followed the lower path past the swamp and a little stream, up a steep hill to Forsbacka Wärdshus. Four yellow buildings were gathered around an open court with a hotel and restaurant inside. Just past the Wärdshus I caught my first glimpse of the tiny chapel. It sat at the end of a lane lined with white birches still clinging to the last of their yellow leaves. It was square instead of round or hexagonal as I’d expected. I took several photographs and walked toward the chapel.
The lane opened up with room to park six or eight cars on either side of the road. It was just after 1:00 pm and the sun was as high as it was going to get. The shadows were long and stretched northeast. I followed the stone cemetery wall on my left to where it opened before terminating in the circular enclosure that reached out from the chapel. The wall was made of flat wide black stones and had a mature layer of sod on top. The chapel sat high and right, the bell tower to the extreme right, off-site really, next to the caretaker’s quarters. It was simple and spare, but beautiful; a place for solemn repose. The low path, to the left of the chapel led down the hill to a stairway. The stairway, outside the kyrkogården wall, led right down to the water. The cemetery seemed to reach from the edge of town all the way to this quiet lake and I finally understood why the women I asked had had such difficulty explaining how to get there.
The square chapel sat about a meter above the highest point of the cemetery and its circular stone wall enclosed a flat lawn crossed by two perpendicular paths. Sixteen benches sat inside the circle, facing into the center. The chapel was nearly three times as tall as it was wide and almost completely solid except for a small window over the door and another larger window in the southwestern wall that rose high over the arched door of the cellar, a story below. The cemetery was well kept, with a steady stream of people coming to tend to the graves, bringing flowers and lighting fresh candles. It was surrounded by cheerful yellow houses and there were men fishing on the lake. I made several photographs in the warm light and sketched until my hands were too cold to hold my pencil. Reluctantly, I walked back toward the Wärdshus to warm up.
I entered the quiet courtyard and walked up the steps to the restaurant. I poked my head in and asked a small grey-haired woman if it was possible to get coffee and warm up for a bit. She said of course it was and told me to go upstairs. The creaky wooden building was filled with warm smells of cooking and at the top of the stairs I found a beautiful large wooden room, with a painted ceiling, several Victorian sofas and tea tables, a row of windows that looked out over the cemetery and a huge table filled with coffee cups, saucers and gingerbread biscuits. I giggled with delight at having found myself in such a place, decided that a lovely olive velvet couch was my favorite and sat down to sketch. After a few minutes the little woman appeared with a hot pot of coffee and we began to chat. She asked where I was from and why I’d come to Forsbacka and I explained that I was there to see Lewerentz’s work and told her how stunning I found Forsbacka to be. She told me that the next town over, Sandviken had a rival factory, Sandvikens Järnverk, that had always been in lively competition with Forsbacka bruk. She said they used to say that birds fly upside-down over Forsbacka to avoid looking down, as it was so ugly. We had a nice chuckle over her story and she left me to my pencils and coffee.
When I was warm and full of coffee I paid her a tiny sum and went back to the cemetery to soak up the last few minutes of full daylight. When the sun began to set I gathered my things and walked back along that lyrical path that had led to this quiet but remarkable corner of Sweden.
For more pictures and information about Forsbacka bruk visit: http://www.forsbackabruk.com/
