The Kettumäen Kansanpuisto Association was founded to protect the Kuusankoski Workers' Housing Museum buildings from being sold or demolished. In January 2016, following a request from Tanja Kukkola, the buildings were donated to the newly formed association under her leadership. The area has since become a model for utilising the locally abundant natural material, common reed — or järviruoko in Finnish — with a focus on tradition, sustainability, and community. I visited to learn about Finnish common reed practices, and was impressed by Tanja's expertise in various reed crafts. Inspired to learn more, I reached out to her afterwards to meet again and gain deeper insight specifically into her techniques for handweaving reed mats.

Stepping off the train, I felt proud of my punctuality. I couldn’t afford a bad impression as she was doing me a big favour. Inside the hall, I couldn't find her, so I texted. She replied, ‘Blue car.’

In the parking lot, I spotted a backwards-parked blue car. As I approached, unsure if anyone was inside, I heard a shout, ‘Haaanaaa!’ I turned and saw a short, brown-haired woman with glasses and a big grey coat waving from another blue car behind me. It was Tanja. Out of four blue cars in the parking lot, we found each other.

Apologising for the mess — which didn’t seem messy — she drove us to her house, about 10 minutes away. Passing a nearby forest, she said, ‘That’s Kettumäki, where you were last time, remember?’ She wasn’t expecting an answer.

Her two-storey house, with its dark wooden cladding, had that unique Finnish charm. Huge rectangular tree pots near the entrance, covered with vertical bundles of reeds, reflected her style and reminded me of her previous work. Inside, we removed our shoes and jackets, then went upstairs to the cozy kitchen-living room. A massive dark wood dining table divided the space, surrounded by benches and cottage armchairs.

‘Do you craft indoors or outdoors?’ I asked, aware of the mess the reed could make. She smiled, and explained that she usually works outside, but could move indoors if needed. I wanted to see her habitual process.

After offering me coffee, she spoke about how common reed connected all her careers, from studying it as a stormwater filter in civil engineering to exploring it as a craft and construction material in artisan studies. Later, while studying natural resources and professional horticulture, she examined its use in parks and gardens, eventually earning an applied sciences degree in bioeconomy solutions.

She poured the coffee into simple ceramic cups. Curious about her tools, I asked if she could show them to me. She brought out a shoebox filled with netting needles and rolls of twine and rope in various materials. I had never seen tools like these before. ‘It’s just a little trick I figured out,’ she said, wrapping a piece of twine around a long, slender plastic needle with a pointed end. ‘They’re normally used for repairing fishing nets,’ she added.

‘Handling a whole roll of twine is annoying, so this makes it easier.’ She handed me different types of twine — cotton, linen, sisal, and even thin metal. Then she gave me one that smelled familiar. ‘That’s tarred twine,’ she said. The smoky, almost sharp scent of tar — or terva in Finnish — hit me. It was a scent I’d encountered a few times since moving here, used for everything from coating ships to medicine. I remembered the first time I smelled it in a sauna product store, wondering why anyone would want their sauna to smell like that. ‘It's great for outdoor mats — more durable than linen, and waterproof,’ she explained.

‘Shall we go outside before it gets really dark?’ she suggested. On the way to the terrace, she grabbed a big metal clothes hanger. I wasn't sure what it was for. She placed it on the wooden terrace under a plastic roof with a lovely view of the trees and garden. ‘This is where I normally work with reed,’ she said.

Tanja quickly knotted the cotton twine she had taken from the mystery box, tightening it between the two horizontal tubes of the hanger to create three tight lines. ‘This hanger is really useful,’ she said. ‘I've never used it for making mats before, but it's easier than building wooden frames.’ Her hands moved smoothly as she tightened the third strand of twine, spacing it about 15 centimetres apart from the others. Finding the position a bit uncomfortable, she moved the hanger to a nearby metal table and positioned it vertically.

From her jacket, she pulled out three fishing netting needles, each threaded with the same cotton twine. She unwound a bit of cotton twine from one of the threaded needles and knotted it to the bottom tube of the hanger, onto the vertical twine. I was still in my head, amazed at how she had repurposed a fishing tool to make reed mats.

Tanja went to the garden and returned with a handful of reed stems. ‘Now it's time to decide what kind of mat this will be,’ she said. ‘Let's go with six.’ She chose six long, dry winter reed stems and leaned them against the three vertical tight twines. With her left hand, she passed the threaded needle from the front left side around the vertical twine, securing the stems in place without forming a knot, and tightened the thread firmly. She repeated this process, adding six stems in one bundle, wrapping the twine around, then adding another six stems in another bundle and wrapping the twine around, almost like building a ladder. The mesmerising routine reflected years of practice.

When it started looking like a mat, she offered me a turn. Though initially insecure, I quickly realised it wasn’t that hard, but my “ladder” lacked her beauty and precision. She makes them very cleanly, always using several stems, perhaps because it’s quicker, or because the thicker and less see-through mats provide more privacy. Tightening the cotton twine around the vertical twine and bundle of stems was challenging for me. The reed is naturally brittle, and I was afraid of cutting it accidentally by tightening too much, or if it was too loose, it would come apart.

Seeing my struggle, she said, ‘Yes, cotton twine is quite hard to use; it’s too smooth. Try sisal,’ and went inside to grab a sisal fishing netting needle. She knotted it to the mat in progress and cut off the needles loaded with cotton twine, replacing all three with sisal ones. After a quick demonstration, she let me try again. Sisal was indeed easier to work with, even though it felt much rougher on my fingers. When tightened, it stayed in place, possibly due to its overall hairiness. I let her continue as she was much quicker than me, and it was getting darker.

When the mat was finished and still on the hanger, she asked if I wanted to keep it as a memory. I happily agreed. She tied a few knots at the end of the mat to secure it and then cut it off the hanger. Then, with scissors in hand, she walked to the garden and carefully trimmed about 10 centimetres from each side of the bundle, making sure the cut-off pieces fell onto the raised garden bed, to be used as fertiliser.

I placed the finished mat in my bag and carried it with me all the way back to Helsinki, cherishing the memory of this unique experience. Tanja kindly drove me back to the station in the same blue car where our journey began, our conversation filled with shared enthusiasm for reed and crafting with it.

On the train, I couldn't help but keep glancing at the mat, feeling a new sense of connection to this material, and the many ideas to come with this technique. Back at home, I found a special spot for the mat on the shelf near the entrance, next to my other projects. It now greets me every day, a tangible reminder of Tanja's generosity, and the beauty of handmade craftsmanship.