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ruutcast 15.11

Lämmin kiitos muille residenssikollegoille, Kuurina Teatterille, Sysmän kunnan kirjaston väelle ja jokaiselle kohtaamalleni sysmäläisille. Sydän-Hämeessä on toden totta sydän.

Ruut Luoto


Four Stories of Sysmä


Three weeks ago, I had never been to Finland before. I have a dear friend, a Finn-turned-American and writer. When I read her stories about her homeland, I imagined a place full of ancient smells —gingerbread, berries, also dark corners, old places, history. But it was still elusive (as she was, too). What better way to get to know a new place, I thought, than trying to understand more about a mysterious friend. 

My three weeks here have been quiet, productive, dreamy, cosy, and wonderful. I’d like to thank the city of Sysmä, the wonderful women of the library, Nuoren Voiman Liitto, and especially my fellow writers — Maria, Ruut, Ola, and Alejandro — for all this lovely time. 

Here are my field notes:


One version of the story of Finland is all about light. 

When the snow arrives, the sky lifts to make room. A gift — the snow gives light to the town just when the days are shortening.  

When the snow leaves — sun burning off the stripes on the roof opposite my window — it reveals the earth again, but brighter, burnished green and brown, as if lit from within.

Finns must be finely attuned to light, I think. You can see it in the colours they choose. Our garden gate is old peach brown. The roof over there is pale, marshmallow green. The houses are lavender, paper yellow, purple — the window ledges dark as damson jam. They’re familiar, pestled out of nature’s colours.

When the misty days arrive, Sysmä is grey but glowing. 

Lately, the days have been drizzly and clouded-over. Now the sun sets behind the mist at ten minutes to four. The streetlamps blink on and glow wetly through the night, turning the lake festive. 

A neighbour hangs candles in the vestibule. The light bounces generously. 

On All Saints night, people light candles and fill the graveyard, giving their flickering loves to the dark.

On the night of the new moon, Ola and I light a candle and write down our intentions. We feast on soup and stew. I like the idea of us seen from the town, just another glowing window. 


The plots of Sysmä sprawl and weave around the houses. The boundaries marked — barely or not at all — by autumn shrubs that have grown to purple gum. We foreigners accidently stride through our neighbours’ gardens to reach the supermarket. The gardens are different to the ones at home. Here, objects are placed like scenes in a story. A miniature house, a chair, a stuffed bear, a bush with white berries I think might be mistletoe.  

With each other, the neighbours are familial. A lady grabs the elbow of her neighbour in the S-Market and tells her a tale. There’s no word for “please” here, my housemate tells me, beaming, which tells you a lot. It’s true, the rhythm of neighbours here is different. They don’t excuse themselves — either they talk or they don’t. But the lack of ceremony doesn’t mean they don’t appreciate each other. The word “thank you” becomes more important. You can see it as they walk away, moved by one another, grateful. 

To us, as foreigners, the people are secretive. Walking in their private scenes with quiet, watching faces. It makes me ache for drama. A declaration, a kiss, a fight. But these are always happening offstage. 

The high school kids, who are also neighbours, find each other across the street and go off towards one of their houses. I watch after them. The boys’ newly-broken voices are like bells in the mist.


While the villagers light candles in the graveyard, the women of Villa Sarkia take their saturday sauna.

My first ever sauna. It’s been heating up all evening. Now Ruut has taken hers, Ola has taken hers, each emerging calm, skin baby-plump. I take my turn. 

At first, it’s just hot. Baking. Breathing up into the steam tastes like salt. Hot sand on a beach. Then, without any exertion, a single bead of sweat plinks to the surface of my skin, rolls over my ribs, to the wooden bench. 

The thing about the sauna is that it happens to you. All you have to do is decide to go in, heat the stones, lay down… and if you just stay there, the heat will happen to you, your skin will bounce like rubber, the sweat will come pouring. This feels like a lesson, and I close my eyes to try and learn it.

Afterwards, padding back to my room, I feel sleepy in a way I haven’t for years. Pure sleepy. We stay up a while, quietly drinking Christmas beer and eating our roasted vegetables. I decide to take as many saunas as I possibly can before I leave. 


When I looked at Sysmä on the map while completing my application for the residency, I imagined a land like lace. Porous and movable.

On the bus from Lahti, we cross the lake Paijanne in the dark. At first the thin trunks of the silver birches hide the water, but then two horizons of blue appear beside us. Our journey becomes mystical. We are half bus, half boat, half asleep, half awake. 

In my first few days at Villa Sarkia, I realise the role the lake plays here. In summer, it is a livelihood. A pleasure boat parked up beside a grill restaurant, picnic benches. In winter, the lake is a constant friend. Multiplying the light, trying to spread it wider. 

The lake is not like the sea. When you come upon it, it doesn’t knock your breath away, or remind you suddenly of the size of the world. The lake appears quietly at your feet. But the more you look, the more it shifts and grows and deepens, source of myths, ghosts, hallucinations. 

As I take my last walk around the island Ohraseerie and back along the lake, I try to take something of it back with me— some daydream stuff I can use later. 

When I get to the house, something’s cooking. In the kitchen, I find Alejandro dressing a fish. He’s been fishing the last few days, but hasn’t caught anything till tonight. The fish is large, upside-down, splayed in two, its grey lip curling like a blade. Alejandro has gutted and cleaned it. Its flesh is shocking white — strange treasure, gift from the lake.

Days and Nights in the Villa Sarkia

by Maria Rybakova

My stay in the Villa Sarkia was also my very first time in Finland. I always imagined it as a land of snow. But when I arrived it was late August. It was, instead, a land of skies reflected in a lake.SysmaWhen I walked past it, it made me think about the nature of art. Art is imitation, said the ancients. One could say that art is a reflection of reality, or its shadow. Does this sky create art when it looks down into the lake? Does the lake create art when it reflects the sky? Or is all art just in the eye of the beholder – and when I see the sky reflected in the water, I see and therefore create a water-painting of the sky?

There is the stillness of happiness and there is the stillness of death. The stillness of happiness always has an underlying movement ready to break through: a wave that can arise, a boat that can become unmoored and glide away from the shore, a petal that is about to tremble. The stillness of happiness is a man sleeping, a man who can be awakened. In the stillness of death no change is possible.Sysma2.jpgOn my way to the Villa Sarkia I read an article about the woman who, jilted at the altar, decided to marry herself and go on a honeymoon by herself. I imagine this woman traveling to the most beautiful place possible – for example, a village in Finland with its lake, its blue sky, its long walks in the forest – and suddenly catching a glimpse of her double who followed (she had married herself, after all). From the bedroom window, she sees herself walking on the street, stepping on the rustling autumn leaves. When, in the evening, she goes to eat something at the grill, she recognizes herself in a customer who quickly steps out. In the house – her holiday home – she hears somebody’s steps in the hall, and goes down there, half-expecting to meet herself. (Maybe she should have gone easy on that brandy, she thinks; or maybe this symbolic marriage was a very, very bad idea). Yet, a part of her hopes that she will be loved by that stranger – her own self, her doppelganger, her soul – in this territory of yellow leaves, of the bluest sky and of the stillest water.Sysma3.jpg

Syksyinen Sysmä ja ensimmäisen version arvoitus


Päivää ennen residenssiä näin elokuvan nimeltä Tyhjiö (Aleksi Salmenperä, 2018), jossa kirjailija Eero Kaila (Tommi Korpela) potee writer’s blockia eikä saa romaaniaan kirjoitettua. Ei varsin ihanteelliset saateajatukset residenssiajalle, jolloin tarkoitukseni oli saada käsikirjoitukseni ensimmäinen versio valmiiksi.

Syksyinen Sysmä vastaanotti minut valollaan ja väreillään. Miellyttävä hiljaisuus ja rauhallisuus ympäröi kylää sekä sen ihmisiä. Kiireettömyys katosi Koiviston Auton kaartaessa matkahuollon pihalta.

Huoli aivojumista osottautui kuitenkin turhaksi. Kailan sijaan oma käsikirjoitukseni sai residenssiaikana lihaa luiden ympärille ja oma kertojaääneni vahvistui. Tarina alkoi muotoutua ja löytää uomansa niin kerronnalisesti kuin temaattisestikin.

Villa Sarkian kirjahyllyistä löytyi ajatuksia muilta upeilta kirjoittajilta. Mm. Aila Meriluoto, Heli Laaksonen ja Mirkka Rekola tarjosivat säkeisiin puettuja ajatuksia ja mielikuvia, joista ammentaa omaan tekstiini.


Vaikka Villa Sarkia sijaitsee Sysmän keskustassa, luonto on jatkuvasti läsnä. Aamuisilla kävelyillä sumu verhosi kuulaana metsäteitä, illalla pimeys laskeutui niin hienovaraisesti, että silmät ehtivät tottua valon puutteeseen.

Tutustuin residenssiaikana myös moniin lahjakkaisiin kirjoittajiin monelta eri alalta. Keskustelimme taiteesta, työstä ja elämästä yleensä. Hedelmälliset keskustelut saivat minut miettimään omaa ammatillista identiteettiäni uudella tavalla sekä pohtimaan enemmän taiteen ja viihteen rajapintaa.

Kliseisesti urheilutermein voisi sanoa, että sain sen, minkä tulin Villa Sarkiaan hakemaankin. Tarkoitukseni oli kirjoittaa ensimmäinen versio, ja myös sellaisen kanssa palaan Helsinkiin. Ensimmäinen versio on tässä ottelussa kultaa.

Teksti ja kuvat: Mariia Kukkakorpi

Golden time

I have never been to Finland before. Few hours in the airport don’t count, right? Before coming to Sysma I would locate it in the map and stare into s trange country dotted with large bodies of water and even larger forests. It looks remote in the most romantic sense – small town surrounded by lakes and vast expanses of forest with red and yellow leaves.

After an exhausting early flight, I land to Helsinki and grab a direct bus from a Kamppi station. It is a sunny warm day and sitting in front of the bus I am overwhelmed by the beauty of landscape slowly unfolding before me as we move north leaving behind Helsinki suburbs.

Nowhere have I seen a fall more intense and beautiful than here. Illuminated by sun and blue water trees sparkle like little golden bonfires. Each of Villa Sarkia windows open into a autumn wonderland that changes as the weeks go by. The Villa is has an air of a solid heritage house, but comfortable nonetheless.

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I do not bring a lot of luggage – few clothes, a laptop and gym shoes. Before coming, I have googled that there is a gym and a swimming pool few minutes walk. Miracle. There are no distractions here – most restaurants are closed once the season ends, no bars or shopping malls. Write in a morning, go for a swim, write some more after lunch and enjoy sauna after dinner. That would be ideal, I think, but what will I do if nothing comes? How do I deal with a dry spell when where is nothing much else to do except to write?

First day go by ticking off my long to do list of things I need to take care off before starting to write. I do grocery shopping. Once everything is done, I switch of wifi on my laptop and stare into a blank page. I came here to advance my third novel after an intense year of publishing my second novel, selling the rights for English translation, being shortlisted for a Book of the Year. It was a good year, but overwhelming and leaving no time to unwind and write down ideas for a next story.

So far I have three main characters that start to take shape, but quite a few things are yet unclear.

Frustrated I put on my coat and go out for a long walk. I explore the woods kicking piles of yellow leaves and suddenly remember that there has been one more reason I really wanted to come to Sysma. I have heard that Finland is a perfect place for mushroom picking and that Finns are obsessed with this activity.

I look around in the oak grove and yes, here it is! Few porcini mushrooms sticking their cute little heads out of the ground. I collect them and go back to Villa Sarkia really happy, google porcini mushroom recipes and enjoy a really luxurious dinner.

I became interested in mushroom picking as I was inspired to incorporate food and forest foraging into my novel. One of the characters becomes a chef and creates a menu based on Nordic local ingredients.

The story starts to come together while going for long walks.

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Afternoons I go mushroom picking and after a week or so I become really good at cooking elaborate dishes like tagliatele with porcini or wild mushroom shepard’s pie.

Autumn leaves are falling down and now some trees I see daily through the window stand naked. Mid-month I no longer find mushrooms on my daily outings to the forest and it has become, but I feel I have done a lot. Not something measured in thousands of words, but rather a direction. Sysma is a good place to wander and suddently find yourself again.

2018-10-07 15.27.14





Sysmän mielentilatutkimus


Elokuu vaihtuu pian syyskuuksi, mutta sillä ei oikeastaan ole väliä. Ajalla ei ole nyt merkitystä. Jo Sysmään saapuminen johdattaa erilaiseen tilaan. Kun auto kaartelee läpi aavojen järvimaisemien ja ihminen istuu bussinpenkissä ja ajattelee, että olenpa onnekas.

Hiljaiset aamut, kaste pihanurmella, omenoiden tuoksu kävelyretkillä peltoaukeille, metsään ja kylänraiteille, auringonlaskut työpöydän yllä ja lempeät illat. Sysmä houkuttelee syventymään, keskittymään, ajattelemaan, kirjoittamaan.

Luovun pian niin sanotusta päivärytmistä, sillä kaikki rytmit toimivat täällä. Joinain päivinä herään aikaisin ja ryhdyn heti kirjoittamaan, toisina herään laiskana, käyn pitkällä kävelyllä, juttelen kämppisten kanssa ja ryhdyn työhön vasta iltapäivällä ja jatkan pitkälle iltaan. Olohuoneen kirjahyllyt houkuttelevat pysähtymään ohikulkumatkalla, poimimaan käteen kirjoja, joita ei ole koskaan nähnyt ja kirjoja jotka on halunnut lukea jo kauan.

Luen Sysmässä uudelleen Virginia Woolfin Orlandoa (1984 [1928], suom. Kirsti Simonsuuri) ja silmiini osuu pätkä, joka kuvaa hauskasti kirjoittamisen esiin houkuttelemia, välillä melko sekopäisiä mielentiloja: “Kenellekään, joka kohtuullisessa määrin tuntee kirjoitustyön vaatimukset, ei tarvitse kertoa tätä tarinaa yksityiskohdittain; kuinka hän kirjoitti ja tulos näytti hyvältä; luki sen ja se näytti kauhealta; korjasi ja repi; leikkasi; siirsi väliin; oli hurmostilassa; oli epätoivoinen; eli hyvät yönsä ja huonot aamunsa; tarttui ideoihin ja kadotti ne; näki kirjansa selkeästi edessään ja se hävisi; näytteli henkilöittensä osia syödessään; laususkeli niitä kävellessään; toisinaan itki; toisinaan nauroi; horjui milloin tämän, milloin tuon tyylin välillä; yhdessä hetkessä suosi eeppistä ja juhlavaa tyyliä; seuraavassa eleetöntä ja yksinkertaista; hetken Tempen laaksoja; sitten taas Kentin ja Cornwallin kenttiä; eikä hän pystynyt päättämään, oliko hän maailman jumalaisin nero vai maailman suurin tyhmyri.”

Onhan tämä kirjoittaminen hullun hommaa, mutta samalla niin koukuttavaa, vapauttavaa, joskus hurmoksellistakin. Päädyn työstämään aivan toista projektia, mitä olin suunnitellut, se johtuu tästä mielentilasta. Jostain syystä Sysmä houkuttelee esiin 1700-luvun Uppsalan ja annan sen tulla.

Nämä ovat omapäisiä päiviä.

Niiden luonne muistuttaa Sysmän kissoja, jotka hengailevat reteesti kaduilla ilman aikomustakaan tehdä tietä. Silitettäväksi ne eivät antaudu, niillä on muita suunnitelmia.

Niina Oisalo

By Sahar Delijani

As I sat there watching Hardy smoke a cigarette, which she held mischievously between her middle and ring finger, and tell me about her first memory as a child, I thought maybe writing was never supposed to be a difficult task. Maybe it will all just flow, maybe we are doing the right thing after all, shutting ourselves in an old sunny villa, the windows looking out at treetops lit by the late afternoon glow, which in Sysmä’s summer could mean anything from 5 in the afternoon to 9 at night, and hoping that every step we take, we are closer to what we have come to accomplish here.


Never before had I been to a place only to write. I had been writing for more than 10 years when I arrived in Villa Sarkia, and I had always written in the solitude of my room or in libraries, cafes, and I thought that was perfectly legitimate. I could not understand why a writer would want to go to a secluded place and write. Why couldn’t she just do it home? Sysmä made me realize why. Surrounded by greenery, a shimmering lake just a few hundred meters away and the only sound the carol of birds, the wind swishing through tree leaves and an occasional car passing by, I understood why. It was all a matter of peace and concentration. Peaceful concentration, concentrated peace; it was a matter of nothing coming into your way. In my few weeks of stay in Sysmä I got more work done than I had ever been able to do in the same amount time. It was like there was a magical hand at work, inside me, pushing words out, making them flow.

Once I swam in the lake. The feeling was heavenly. The sky impeccable blue, the clouds surreally white, all reflected on the glistening skin of the water where once in a while a yellow lily would peak its head like it mean to greet you with a coquettish smile, it was truly hard to take in where I was, how I had ended up here, how easy it all was. Fortunate, I felt, and wise to have applied for something that felt far enough to be intimidating.


When I was first packing to come to Finland, I was agitated. I thought maybe it was all a mistake, that I would feel alone and anxious, regretting every moment of my stay once I got to Villa Sarkia and all I would do would be counting days until I went back home. Not only I did not feel lonely and anxious, but I felt that after a long time, it was the best thing that I had done for myself.

Back to the room with Hardy who sits with her back to the windows, I tell her that when I was a child and would be asked to make a drawing of a house, I would always draw a house with slanted wooden roof, a couple of trees next to it and a sky decorated with pearl white clouds. Only a bench was missing apparently, as I showed her the photo of Villa Sarkia that I had taken one day coming back home from the lake. Villa Sarkia was not of course home. But something about the beautiful dreamlike Finnish landscape made an Iranian girl think of the images that floated in her young mind of what and how should a home look like.


Floating memories

The Two Hands

By Marie-Pascale Hardy


I chose to share here an excerpt of a short story that came to me as I was walking to the S-Market to buy chocolate one evening.

The Two Hands

    “She has too much time on her hands, too little weight on her shoulders.”

Arrived at Villa Sarkia in the middle of a heat wave and was pleased to find the house empty. Empty, colossal, stagnant. Was assigned the largest room, top floor; the ‘Gable Room’. Enjoyed the privilege of strutting about throughout the house wearing nothing, of leaving the bathroom door open while micturating. […]

Days passed without a trace of a companion. Constantly on edge, I was expecting to be caught at any moment in the most disgraceful position. For instance while having a footbath of sea salt and ice cubes in the crystal salad bowl in the kitchen amongst precarious piles of dirty dishes and scattered heaps of shards. (Within four days I had beaten my yearly records of breaking glassware, knocking over a whole shelf of ornate short drinking glasses—the sort that looks like they contain whiskey even when humbly hosting cardamon tea—which were incidentally matching the decoration style of the house perfectly, in its judicious incorporation of late 19th Century Finnish Golden Age and comfy modern retirement home.)

After a week the responsible for the residency announced that the other writer who was meant to participate this month could unfortunately not come. […] I felt relieved, yet a little too loose, lacking restriction, lacking deadline. No one would ever disturb my peace; I was unbearably free. Plus, this suffocating heat was draining all my energy. All I could do was lie about and—only when getting up became a necessity—raise my head as slowly as imaginable, in several stages, like a scuba diver resurfacing, so that I wouldn’t faint. […]


Luckily the weather soon turned sour, i.e. cold. It was clear a storm was in the making. The novelty of roaming alone is a massive home had worn out; I confined my activities to the bedroom solely. The gable ceiling provided minor yet not insignificant comfort.

‘Drawback: The gable end roof is a poor design for hurricane regions, as it easily peels off in strong winds. The part of the roof that overhangs the triangular wall very often creates a trap that can catch wind like an umbrella.’ [wikipedia]

    […] So I was sitting dans les courants d’air (despite my mother’s advice), waiting for the storm, feeling increasingly anxious and useless and disastrous. That’s when I discovered the hidden paradise in the basement.

The Finnish Sauna, a pillar of tradition. […] The secret pleasure garden from which promises of expiation through mild torture emanated.

As soon as I sat down on the top shelf of this human-size oven, the heat came down on me like the two large hands of a man, soft, strong, with just the right amount of hair. The hands were pressed firmly onto my shoulders, holding me down. I sank in my seat of cedar, and let out a long sigh of relief. A deep voice conveyed instant reassurance : Hey. There’s nothing to worry about. I am taking care of everything. As tears and sweat poured out of me I measured the liters of impurities that were being evacuated. If one could perceive them, they would surely appear in the shape of restless insects crawling out of a burning log, emitting a high pitch screech no one could hear except dogs, if only they had survived the blaze.
—You too are not from here, are you?, I ventured.
He avoided the question by throwing more birch-scented water on the hot stones, adding a sadistic twist to our therapeutic session. Again I sighed, before forcing myself to focus on my breath in order not to collapse. […]

Some details in the story are fiction. In reality, what saved me from drifting was not the man in the sauna but the other writer who joined me after a week. Sahar was the perfect comrade. She scared my ghosts away and cooked legendary persian rice.



Villa Sarkian kesäkuu

Oli ihana viettää iltoja vaaleanpunaisia auringonlaskuja ihaillen talon kuistilla, aivan kuten myös aamuja nojatuolin uumenissa Villa Sarkian runokokoelman äärellä. Saunominen tarjosi minulle ja muille vieraille rajatonta iloa ja niinä meditatiivisina hetkinä kun saunan lämpötila on n. 80 astetta sain paljon uusia ideoita kirjan kirjoittamiseen.

Päijätsalon kansallispuisto ja Kelvenne ihastuttivat myös Sysmään ensi kertaa saapunutta – tienvarrella tuoksuvat loputtomat purppurat villilupiinit ja metsien naavaiset puut hämmästyttivät Helsingissä aikaansa viettänyttä yllättävän hyvällä tavalla.

Palaan tänne uudelleen.

Kiitos (thank you) Fatin Abbas, Pirkko Talvio-Jaatinen ja Dušica Božović hienosta ja tuotteliaasta kuukaudesta Villa Sarkiassa!

Kiitos Riitta Kuisma, Aura, Sara ja Juho-poika ihanasta päivästä Kelventeellä.

Kiitos Nuoren Voiman Liitto.

Lämpöä ja valoa,

Elina Huttunen






Rastaille pesintäonnea

Villa Sarkian piha oli vielä kunnolla lumen peitossa, kun saavuin taloon huhtikuun alussa. Tuntui vielä talvelta.

Mutta useana aamuna koko Sysmä oli sumun peitossa. Ehkä lumia sulattaneet iltojen ja öiden sateet tai lumen ylle yön aikana virrannut lämmin ilma nosti sumun, joka sitten hälveni aina pian auringon noustua. Välillä oli niin sateista koko päivän, ettei ilma juuri sumusta hälventynyt.

Asiat olivat usein sumun peitossa, ainakin residenssijaksoni alussa.

Jossain vaiheessa kuun puolivälissä maa alkoi näkyvä vetäytyvän lumen alta. Kastelin usein kengät ulkoportaiden edustalla.

Sisemmän ja ulomman ikkunan väliin heräsi horroksesta kärpänen, jonka päästin ulos. Tuntui, että Villa Sarkian olohuoneen pianon vire muuttui hiljalleen. Lueskelin pianon yllä olevalta taululta pieniä lehtileikkeitä Kaarlo Sarkiasta. Hänelle myönnettiin kuin myönnettiinkin jossain vaiheessa kermanostolupa.

Lumien sulaessa aloin heräillä yhä aikaisemmin pihamaalta kuuluviin räkättirastaiden ääniin. Keittiön ikkunan ääressä seurasin, miten rastaspariskunta laskeutui vuorotellen pihan kostealle nurmelle ja poimi kasoittain nurmea nokkiinsa.

Rastaat lensivät pihalta Villa Sarkian parvekkeelle. Niiden lento oli suoraviivaista ja kankeaa. Välillä varis kävi pihalla tonkimassa maata ja tutkimassa pihapiiriä. Se sai aina toisen rastaista kimppuunsa, mutta ei juuri välittänyt varoituksista.

Kun lumi oli vihdoin sulanut kokonaan, ilma oli aamuisinkin kirkas. Kuun lopulla aurinko laski aina iltaisin samoihin aikoihin naapuritalojen kattojen taakse. Viimeiset säteet houkuttelivat aina lenkille, mutta aurinko ehti laskea aina ennen kuin ehdin ovesta ulos. Se paistoi enää vain keskustan ulkopuolella olevilla peltoaukeilla.

Mutta kaikki oli välillä kirkasta.

Viimeisenä aamuna Villa Sarkiassa uskaltauduin parvekkelle johtavan huoneen nurkkaan ja katsoin piilosta rastaiden puuhia. Näytti hienolta, kun rastaat lennähtivät ensin suoraan kohti ja sitten jarruttivat pesälleen parvekkeen antennipidikkeen juureen. Luulen, että pesä alkoi huhtikuun lopulla olla jo valmis, sen verran tukevalta se näytti.

Toivotan hyvää pesintää rastasparille ja hienoja residenssijaksoja seuraaville Villa Sarkian asukkaille. Kiitokset Arja ja Emma Puikkoselle seurasta huhtikuun alussa, Juha Rautiolle loput huhtikuusta, kirjastonjohtaja Riitta Kuismalle avusta sekä Nuoren Voiman Liitolle residenssimahdollisuudesta.