At the craft day in Gammelgården on Majberget in Bengtsfors, there was more to discover than just traditional techniques. I also bumped into a few people I know from completely different contexts. Amidst the shingle-making machine, timber transport and cooking over an open fire, it became clear to me just how closely craft, local history and modern-day life can be intertwined.
At the shingle machine, I bumped into my digger operator. He’d dug the trench for the sewer pipe on my property and removed the large stones from the ground. Now I’d met him again in a completely different work context.
Another singer from my choir, ‘Song of Joy’, was there too. He’s on the board of Gammelgården here. And a board member of Mustadfors Folkets Hus was standing by the rotisserie, cooking pancakes with bacon. I love encounters like this: people I know from the choir, a building site or the cultural scene suddenly reveal another side to themselves.
A roof is made from a piece of wood
At the shingle-making machine, I could see how thin strips of wood are produced for roofing. With shingles like these, the choice of material is crucial: straight-grained wood and a suitable grain direction make production easier. The woods used included pine, spruce and aspen.
The machine planes thin shingles from prepared pieces of timber. This is quicker than splitting by hand, but it also alters the material: during planing, the wood fibres are cut through. Heritage conservation therefore distinguishes between planed, split and sawn shingles – not only based on their appearance, but also on their method of production and durability.
What ultimately appears as a finished roof thus begins with many individual decisions and stages of work.
Tar from wood
I also saw how tar is extracted from wood. This involves heating resin-rich wood – traditionally mainly pine – under limited oxygen supply. In a traditional tar pit, a ‘tjärdal’, small pieces of wood are stacked tightly and covered with turf so that the air supply can be regulated. The heat releases the tar, which flows downwards and is collected.
Tar production therefore did not simply involve lighting a fire: The right wood had to be sourced, chopped up and carefully arranged; the process then had to be monitored.
I was particularly interested in the link to shingle production. Wood not only provides the material for the roof, but also a means of maintaining it: wood tar can be used to treat roof shingles. Two demonstrations, which at first appear unrelated, are thus part of a shared history of building and preservation.
Timber from the forest – using horses instead of forestry machinery
Another demonstration showed how timber was brought out of the forest using horses. This gave me an impression of just how laborious the transport must have been before modern machinery took over this work.
Horses continued to play an important role in Swedish forestry well into the 20th century. Particularly in winter, they hauled timber on sledge to storage sites or to watercourses. From there, it could be transported further afield with the spring floods. It was not until the 1950s and 1960s that chainsaws, tractors and forestry machinery fundamentally changed the way the work was carried out.
Hearty food for long days in the forest
On the rotisserie, Roger, a board member of Mustadfors Folkets Hus, prepared ‘Kolbulle’, a traditional forest worker’s meal: a simple batter made from water, flour and salt, fried with salted pork in a pan over an open fire. Unlike many other pancakes, it contains no eggs or milk.
It was precisely this that made this dish suitable for people who lived in forest huts for long periods and had no access to fresh ingredients. Flour, salt and preserved meat could be carried along and stored. At the same time, the high-fat meal provided energy for the hard work of foresters and charcoal burners.
So the meal on this day also took on a historical context. It was not merely a snack between demonstrations, but led to the question of how people organised their daily lives under these working conditions.
Where the Swedish red comes from
I also saw how the red colour we know as ‘Falu Rödfärg’ – the distinctive red that dominates the scenery here – was produced. During the demonstration, this became something very tangible: paint isn’t simply ready-made in a bucket, but is created from raw materials and a specific process.
The pigment in the original Falu Rödfärg comes from weathered, low-copper ore from the mine in Falun. The fine material is washed out, settled, dried and fired. This produces the characteristic red colour of iron oxide; the firing temperature influences the shade.
To make the traditional paint, the pigment is mixed with other ingredients such as water, flour and linseed oil. The history of this red paint dates back to the 16th century; actual pigment production in Falun began in 1764.
The demonstration at Gammelgården thus also showed me a connection between mining and timber construction. Behind the familiar red of Swedish houses lies a history of materials that goes far beyond simply painting a façade.
History that carries people forward
What particularly stayed with me from this visit were the people I met between the demonstrations: my excavator operator at the shingle-making machine, my fellow singer on the Gammelgården committee, and the chair of Folkets Hus whilst he was cooking.
The old techniques weren’t just on display here in isolation. They were demonstrated by people who are also actively involved in the village’s present-day life. For me, that was precisely what made the day so interesting. History wasn’t just to be found in the buildings and tools, but also in the knowledge and skills of those who look after them.
I went home with a keener eye for things that otherwise seem almost taken for granted: a wooden roof, a red house, a pile of felled logs – and a hearty meal after a day’s work.
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