Dining in the 18th century

Gotland Island.

Here the medieval walled city of Visby persists as a fragment from the 13th century, its narrow streets winding past half-timbered houses whose upper stories I could reach up and touch.

Along the streets we pass the skeletons of churches, St. Karin's, St. Lars, St. Per and St. Hans, St. Clement and more-- so many that we could not pass them all in our two days of wandering. The northern Gothic buildings, so much more austere than the more familiar churches of France and Italy that dominate our imagination, also beg the question: in this tightly packed town, what called for the preservation of these precincts, unused after the churches were burned in 1525 by Germans from Lübeck?

Clearly, Visby is a city that has prized the material traces of its own history long before the modern period of nostalgic longing for ruins that led to its designation as a World Heritage site.

This is what that the archaeology of "picture stones" on the island done by my friend Alexander tells us as well: erected from the 5th to 12th centuries, picture stones were marked points on the landscape of farmsteads. There a few remain today, while others were removed when the network of Christian parishes was established.

I am used to seeing layers of history on the landscape. Driving the southwest coast of the island, we marvel at stone foundations revealed at a medieval dig site, only inches below the surface of green fields encircled by still-visible traces of earthworks, and a "stone ship" setting from the Bronze Age conjures even deeper history.

So it is surprising to me that the experience that most imposed the sense of continuity and history on me during our visit to this dense knot of built time, was dinner in a countryside farmhouse preserved by Alexander's mother and step-father, in the process of restoration.

To say "in the process of restoration" brings up entirely the wrong kind of imagery: this was a building where university students exploring historical architecture had stripped away sections of wall board, where peeling strips of layers of hand-printed wall-paper were visible everywhere. A building where no water or electricity can be added, and where the boards on the stairs maintain an unevenness that speaks to country craftsmanship.

Dinner was served on the second floor of this ravished beauty, lit by the long northern summer evening light streaming through large mullioned windows located on three sides of the room. Candles on the table added a golden glow to a long table set with porcelain that suggested the luxury of a prosperous past.

At one end of the room, a built-in glazed tile stove that had been rebuilt was given its first trial for our dinner party. The small fire heated the tile surface so much that we could barely touch the surface, adding a warm glow on a summer evening, but making me wonder what winter would be like.

As conversation and wine flowed equally, despite the reality of dining in a restoration work-in-progress, I gradually felt the reality of past lives pressing in on me. This is the paradox of ruins and life: preserved in collapse, stone boats, medieval churches, and picture stone emplacements distance us, beckoning toward a past we cannot touch. But history is a work in process, connected to us by dwelling, restored by being in place.