I was lying in bed this morning, listening to the World Service while drinking my first, essential coffee, when a fact checking story came on the air about the plane switch that the US Not So Secret Service enacted on Donald Trump back in early July following the NATO summit in Ankara, Turkey. There was, apparently, a credible possibility of an assassination attempt on the president.
It became clear to me that the Not So Secret Service felt that it was important to sacrifice a plane load of press people, White House and general staff, flight crew and hangers on in order to protect one, single human being. Is it any wonder that he thinks he is Napoleon?
The thing is, though, wouldn’t it have been far more effective if the person who planned this escapade, rather than pretend to be writing the plot for a Mission Impossible film, had broadcast, far and wide that the president was, in fact, NOT on Air Force One and, instead, was taking a brief holiday at one of his golf courses for a few days?
The thing is, how can one person, regardless of who he is, be more valuable than up to 70 other people? What kind of scales is this person using to weigh the value of a human being? Or did he even think about it?
As well as being disgusted with the report I was listening to, it also occurred to me that it could explain why Karoline Leavitt suddenly decided she wanted to spend more time with her family, quitting her job as White House press secretary. I mean, lying for someone is one thing but being a sacrifice for him is quite another. While obviously not a fan, I think this shows she does have a strong survival instinct.
But, moving away from the international world of diabolical plans, in local news, I see that the work atop Mount Trosa has moved on a bit,
As well as the wooden boxes above, the base of what was the other shed next to the remaining one, was concreted and prepared for later construction. It is all very mysterious.
Just before Mirinda headed off for her wolf adventure, as we sat drinking a tea/coffee on the deck, we heard them pouring the cement.
And, in case anyone is interested, she didn’t see any wolves today or tonight.
One of the five books that I am currently reading is a biography of Alice Roosevelt, daughter of Teddy. There is a lot of stuff about Teddy as well, as you would imagine given he became president eventually. Anyway, this morning, I was reading over my latte at the ICA Buffet when I came across mention of a narrowly averted war between the US and Britain over Venezuela. Wow, I thought, who knew?
The issue was to do with Britain and Venezuela having border issues and Venezuela asking the US for help to prevent what they considered an imperial takeover of their territory. The Venezuelan government cited the Monroe Doctrine, suggesting that it was being violated by the Brits in an attempt to increase their imperial holdings of South American territory.
The Monroe Doctrine of 1823 was an attempt by America to protect the western hemisphere from what they saw as European colonialisation. The thing is though, the rest of the world didn’t really take a lot of notice given that the US, at the time, was not particularly strong, militarily. One prime example of this was how Britain reasserted its sovereignty over the Falkland Islands in 1833 with nary a whimper from Argentina.
After US President, John Quincy Adams, wrote the doctrine up, things just bubbled along until lots of gold was discovered in Venezuela and Britain, as you can imagine, wanted it. And so the almost war almost started in 1895.
Lots of European powers weighed in with their opinions regarding the Monroe Doctrine, as you can imagine. Even Otto Von Bismarck, German chancellor at the time, said it was rubbish. And then, just as the century was closing, the US helped Cuba defend itself against Spain by taking it over. Obviously that was before communism became the plat de jour.
That doesn’t sound hypocritical at all, does it?
Then, of course, the First World War kicked off, and the US was rather shy in joining at first. I have often wondered whether it was because of their attachment to all things German at the time. But now I reckon it may have dated back to the whole Monroe Doctrine stuff.
Until Germany sunk the Lusitania anyway, after which, all presidential doctrines were thrown under the bus so that all the big, tough men in charge could sit at home and send their young to die in a pointless show of bravado by the puffed up politicians and monarchy.
Enough said!
Moving right on along…the only exciting thing that happened today was Mirinda heading off to Friskis&Svettis in the evening to attend KSP’s new class. She also spent a lot of time packing for her wolf adventure starting tomorrow.
I didn’t take any photos today but here’s a leaf from the other day.
Ages ago, I lost the recordings and transcripts for the first 15 episodes of my Letters from Sweden. Though in deep despair, I never gave up looking and, you’ll never guess. I FOUND THEM! The thing is, I was going to announce that I have made 50 but felt a bit of a sham if I could only produce 35. Anyway, they are all back, where they should be. Right here.
In the not so good news department, the waste pipes in our house are gradually filling up and blocking the exit of all manner of things that should be gone. The blockage under the kitchen sink has grown, blocking the sink, the dishwasher and, horror of horrors, the toilet in the shower room.
I texted Harald first thing, to see if there was anything he could do, but he texted back saying he wasn’t working at the moment because he was very sick and I should contact another plumber. Mirinda then found a company who would come out today, Saturday and sort us out.
The guy that turned up looked ridiculously like Woody Harrelson.
He was very efficient and had everything cleared away by 17:00. Oddly, the blockage was, in fact, two separate ones – the kitchen and the toilet. Just a coincidence that they both acted up at the same time.
Of course, the big thing today was baking bread for the crayfish party tonight. I was quite happy with the first one.
The weird shape is because I baked it in a small Dutch oven I bought second hand a few weeks ago. I figured that was better than buying a bread tin especially. Anyway, it worked. Obviously. As it turned out, the shape of the second one was weirder.
I spent a while wondering whether they would be good for toasting. Turns out they were.
Apparently I was also in charge of bringing butter, only I’d not read the memo properly. For this infringement I was put in charge of making the toast. But, full disclosure, Kitten helped with this onerous task.
The toast was the least of the evening’s repast. Some delicious crayfish (Jonas and KSP), superb Västerbotten pie (Birgitta) and two berry tarts (Kitten).
And, of course, the crayfish house looked perfect.
I know I’ve only attended a few crayfish parties but this was my first one without alcohol so toasting after every song was a very sober affair. Birgitta tempted me with offers of OP Andersons, but I demurred politely. It was a good test of my resolve.
Of course, I wasn’t the only one not drinking booze. Jonas was driving and, tomorrow, he is learning how to scythe and will, therefore, need all his wits about him rather than slicing them off. And, of course, Mirinda was stuck drinking my non-alcoholic wine.
Speaking of the songs, one of them was a misspelled Lambeth Walk, in Swedish. When I sang the tune (I’d forgotten the words) I know from my family parties, I ended with a resounding “OI!” but was corrected by Thomas who said it was “Hej!“
While not a Cockney myself, I am the son of one and they would NEVER say “Hej!” at the end of a line of song. And, to prove it, here’s a young Robert Lindsay showing how it should be sung.
The song was written in 1937, in English, and was inevitably sung by my drunk relatives, which explains why I remember the tune and a few of the words. Including the “OI!” Still, what do I know. After all, I think wine bottles should have corks rather than screw tops.
Anyway, there was the usual struggle (by me) to sing the Swedish songs but Mirinda did much better than preceding years. She even read and translated a short, odd story about a wild man who broke another man’s umbrella then hoped it would rain. Was it an analogy of an unfaithful wife? I don’t know. (There is part of the story shown in the bottom right-hand corner of the photo of Birgitta cutting her Västerbotten pie.)
The night was, of course, great fun and enjoyed by all. It was particularly ‘enjoyed’ by a rather noisy cricket that was possibly complaining that we were keeping it awake. Oh, and my bread was praised and devoured, so there was that.
And, of course, Nicoline showed what an excellent hostess she is. I do love attending crayfish parties and have her to thank for introducing us to them.
I find it very difficult to believe that the people of Clacton voted Farage back in as their local member. Okay, so only 44.37% of the eligible people voted but he still took over 60% of those votes. The man is never there. How can the voters claim he is representing them? Unless, of course, they feel happy with an MP who is never in the constituency and regularly gallivants across to the US for fireside chats with his mate. An MP who believes Parliament is not a place he needs to visit very often.
Stupid, stupid people.
Mind you, the people of Clacton do not own the rights to stupidity. Today, at the summit of Mount Trosa, we found this:
Fortunately, the arsonist was too stupid to realise that fresh green tree will not burn from such a piddling little fire but, still, lighting a fire so close to tinder dry grass is not the brightest idea when the days have been hot and the rain absent.
I hope it was kids with little to do but mischief because a fully grown adult should seriously be a little more intelligent.
The ashes were cold, so I assumed the fire was lit last night. Maybe it was some sort of beacon, warning people that there was a moron abroad.
Stupid, stupid people.
Apart from taking the girls to the top of the almost renamed Fire Mountain, I spent a goodly amount of my day unsuccessfully clearing a blockage in the kitchen drainage system. We are going to have to call Harald in again. Last time he came and struggled to clear it so I’m hoping this time will be easier given he won’t have to experiment with solutions.
I am currently using a bucket to wash up in given the sink takes at good hour to drain away.
Personally, I think the whole kitchen plumbing needs replacing in order to make it easier for a homeowner to clear himself. Like I had to do that time in Farnham when the cauli blocked the S bend.
While I was struggling with the inevitable failure, Mirinda accompanied Jonas and Erik to try and drain a lake of crayfish. Tomorrow is Nicoline’s Crayfish Party so they set off to catch as many as possible. Mirinda had a wonderful time, declaring how much she loved being on a boat, in the water.
In the meanwhilst, back at the summit of Mount Trosa, I see someone has a wonky level. Well, I assume this is supposed to be level.
This morning was once more beautiful; sunny and calm with a few isolated and wispy cirrus clouds. As soon as I returned from the ICA, Mirinda wondered if we should go and get The Bob out and on the water. “It’s important we take every chance we get in order to break the engine in,” She insisted.
And so we did.
And the sky was a delight.
It looks like something unintentional artistic if you ask me. Mirinda would have merely scoffed, I’m sure.
Incidentally and apropos of nothing previously written, I ran into Dina this morning on my way back from the ICA. I was only wondering the other day why I hadn’t seen her. I figured she’d moved away given it’s been about a year. But, no, she’d been working in Södertälje.
She is still studying at SFI and now has a job in the kitchen at Stadshotell. She was taking her son to pre-school. His English is amazing. I was assured, by his doting mother, that his Swedish is equally good.
But, back to the boat…
Mirinda decided that we would visit Kråmö given it’s been a while. Unfortunately it was an idea shared by a few other boats as well. They had taken all the available spots at the normal jetty. We decided to try around the back of the island at Kråmö Skärgårdsby.
The unsheltered side. The side with the almost constant waves, threatening to dash The Bob against the jetty as we attempted to tie up.
Amid screeds of drama, we managed to get the boat secured and sat on the dock enjoying some wraps, drinks and mazarins. A few visitors came down for a look see of the conference building but, basically, we were peacefully on our own.
Obviously, the girls were with us and Emma insisted on a walk so Mirinda hitched them both up and headed off. Unfortunately, Freya was feeling a bit frail this morning. To be fair, she did take a tumble off the bed when she woke up which is going to put a dent in anyone’s day. Not to mention any dents the body may acquire from it.
The walk was, therefore, quite short.
The run back was uneventfully pleasant. The engine performed brilliantly, and we all reached the dock in one piece.
I do love having a boat. It makes each day an adventure.
Frida told us on Sunday that moose can swim. And not only that, but they can dive 20 feet and hold their breath for a minute. I wouldn’t be surprised if they also investigated sunken maritime vessels while wearing scuba gear and keeping sharks at bay with harpoons. They are clearly really aquatic creatures. And, now knowing this, I kept a sharp eye out for any antlers cleaving through the water as we motored around the archipelago.
Yep, the weather was so perfect this morning that, after a cup of tea, we bundled the girls together and headed down to the dock for a bit of water pootling.
As you can see, midshipman Freya was right at home in the bow of The Bob. Actually, she thoroughly enjoyed the whole trip out, around and back. As did we all.
But I should explain, for the uninitiated, about ‘pootling’.
Back in 2015 we visited France and, as we always did, hired a car for our adventure. We went mad and hired a convertible VW which we christened Coco. And, we drove through the French countryside, stopping wherever we felt like and thoroughly enjoyed the pleasure of having no roof. We called the whole, joyful experience pootling.
Now we have The Bob, which has no roof, we can pootle on the Baltic. And that’s exactly what we did today. We are still at the final stage of breaking in the new outboard, so there is a bit of going fast then slow, but, most of all, it’s all just a jolly good pootle.
And all in the morning. By the time we got back home, it was barely gone midday.
While Mirinda chatted to Fiona on Zoom, I took the girls up Mount Trosa again and through the woods at the top. Before descending through the trees, I managed to get a photo of the floor slab I mentioned yesterday and the spot where it once resided.
Now that Freya seems like she might manage to live, I will be taking more trips up the mountain and will keep this blog posted on the developments.
Tonight, rather than gawp at the solar eclipse, I was at my usual weekly art class. Rather than stretch this post out any further, I think I’ll leave that until tomorrow.
Well, except for one bit of my homework.
We had to create an Andy Warhol. This is one of mine:
Warhol Gaz (2026) by Gary Cook (1955-)
Mirinda reckons this is much better than the Dada stuff last week.
Following the weekend when Freya managed four miles a day walking without any obvious stress, distress or pain, I decided to take her (and Emma of course) right to the top of Mount Trosa and down the other side, through the woods. It was almost the route we used to take; before she got unwell. And, I have to say, she did brilliantly.
Mind you, not as brilliant as Emma who, with an extraordinary sense of direction and determination, navigated us between trees and down a narrow old bike track to the path just up from our house.
Not that I was lost or anything but, it’s nice to know that she could have led us to safety if the need had arisen.
I haven’t been to the summit for ages and was quite surprised to see a big digger up there today.
I don’t know why it was there, but there is one less shed now. Even a big concrete slab, which served as a floor for the shed, has been lifted and dumped. It could only have been moved using the digger.
I think the new mast installation has, somehow, supplanted the sheds and they (I don’t know who ‘they’ are) have only just got around to removing the unnecessary bits and pieces of the previous infrastructure.
The first time I spotted the new mast was back in early April last year when it was still unfinished. Maybe it has only just been finished recently. I think the snow last winter may have slowed things down a bit.
Whatever is going on, I dare say I’ll be more of a witness to it now that Freya appears to have returned to normal.
Actually, we were not alone on the mountain. Four women and two men were jogging up and down it and a family of mum, dad, child and dog walked up it before vanishing into the woods on the other side. It’s easily the most people I’ve seen up there ever.
Back at home, I settled in for some snooker. Mirinda was at a Gathering and so the TV was mine for the night. And what a thrilling treat of a match I watched.
It was a China Open final session between world number three Zhao Xintong, who was expected to win easily, and world number 19, Zhang Anda, who was not.
Things were pretty tense at five frames apiece with both needing the black. Then Zhang potted it and it was a tie. The black ball was respotted, and it was all down to who could pot it first for the win.
After a few shots, Zhang managed a tricky pot to go through to the next round. I have to say, Zhao looked very calm and resigned about losing, heading off smiling.
The day was a bit slow to start as far as some people here were concerned. Mirinda slept in till 9am and Magne was still fast asleep at 10am. Frida was awake early enough to have two breakfasts and, naturally, I was awake at sparrow’s fart, finishing off the washing up from last night.
Eventually we were all gathered together in the house, discussing the plan for what remained of the morning.
I had suggested that we could lunch at Emils Backe, but that plan was thwarted when we discovered that last week was the last one when the wagons are open during the week. Then my second suggestion of Tre Små Rum was likewise scuppered when it was established that they, similarly, were not open.
And so we all jumped into Magne’s car and headed off to the ever reliable Mekka…or Nilssons if you prefer.
Now, Magne is a bit of a Princess Cake connoisseur. Because of this, he found it impossible to resist the frogs at Mekka. We have always thought the frogs were a version of the Princess Cake in amphibian form. We were wrong. And poor Magne was disappointed.
He made a good effort but was unable to finish it, saying it tasted way too artificial and sickly sweet.
Eventually, we left Mekka and headed down to Worlds End, passing a busy Mat Studio during which I entertained Frida with the story of how, early on in our Swedish life, we thought a lot of Swedish chefs were named Mat – Mat Baren, Mat Studio, etc.
Trosa wasn’t as crowded as it has been but then the season is slowly closing down. I noticed the marked absence of boats along the harbour boardwalk as well as very few people.
It feels, to me anyway, that this year, the summer season has been done and dusted faster than in previous years. Maybe it’s because I haven’t been going into town as often, heading to the Systembolaget for booze. Or maybe it’s to do with Freya’s health issues that have kept me at home.
Not that I mind at all. Trosa returning to its hibernation suits me just fine.
Anyway, after a lovely stroll we headed back to the car. Magne dropped us home before he and Frida headed off.
It was a lovely visit though they are going to have to return for games and lunch at Emils Backe.
Following yesterday’s marathon walking effort, Freya managed another four miles today. She didn’t flag, just kept walking, tail high and happy. It certainly looked like she was feeling heaps better. Maybe it was because we had guests, but whatever the reason, it felt like the old, non-shivering, pain free Freya was back.
The walk was into Trosa and back; the friends were Magne and Frida.
Magne attended the same classes as Mirinda did last year and Frida is his partner. They not long ago returned from Oz and had lots of photos to show us in an attempt to make us homesick. Instead, we had a very funny night, laughing and joking and, most of all, enjoying each other’s company.
I met Magne last year when he, Ashley and Linnea visited us following their time spent on the farm, during their field trip. I’d not met Frida before.
Of course, we started with fika before heading out, walking to Två Små Svin for a drink. Mirinda tried a new cocktail that she almost immediately, upon taking a sip, swore she’d never try again. It was an Icelandic martini and, from the look on her face, was just pure alcohol with a pickled onion for relief.
It was very lively at Två Små Svin with a whole family of roadies wandering around, squealing and generally making their presence felt. They were ‘crew’ according to their t-shirts, for someone performing at Galejet. Given their overall decibel management, I don’t think they need microphones.
Anyway, having survived the return walk, we had salmon for dinner, on the deck, then settled down in the dining room to view (some of) their photos of their recent trip from Perth to Cairns, via the road up and across the top of Oz. (Strangely enough, visiting a lot of places and driving on the same road as my little sister is currently doing.)
There were some fantastic pictures which just showed how beautiful Australia can be. Included, there was a rather disturbing photograph of an emu that tried and succeeded in having sex with Magne. There was also a video. It was all a bit cross species and decidedly weird. Have you ever seen a male emu have sex with a very tall human male? It is most peculiar.
We were going to play Cascadia but the clock on the wall determined this was never going to happen. We all eventually retired, promising we would play a game tomorrow.
In 1710, nine years before the Russians sailed into Trosa and burned it to the ground (except for the church), the island of Landsort was besieged by the plague. It would have bypassed the people were it not for all the seafarers who bought it to the island and spread it about. There were only 300 people there in the first place. They lost 79 of them and they were buried in, what is now called, The Plague Cemetery.
If only it had waited around for the pesky, arsonist Ruskies.
As you can no doubt see, there are no grave markers in The Plague Cemetery. Well, there is a big iron cross but that’s it. So who were these people? And why have they been forgotten?
Actually, we do know about one person who was buried here. It was Johan Andersson’s wife. She doesn’t seem to have had a name. History doesn’t care about such things. Women were just not very important. Mind you, Johan was a Pilot.
Anyway, the point is, why did the Russians feel the need to burn all the towns along the east coast of Sweden when they won the war and should have been celebrating rather than incinerating? Especially a tiny place like Landsort!
No, actually, that’s not the point. That is more like a bugbear I have. No, the point is, today we caught the special ferry out to the island of Landsort for a bit of an adventure.
Västerhamn
The island is like a tiny Sandhamn but without all the murders. However, and I really need to clarify something. The island is actually called Öja and the lighthouse is called Landsort. But, then again, the small village you see in the photo above is also called Landsort. And, to make things way more confusing than it needs to be, the island is often referred to as Landsort.
But let’s leave that confusion because the day was too beautiful to indulge in it.
We were principally there for Mirinda to check out the bird station. This is a research station where they ring and count birds, something she would like to participate in. But, that wasn’t the only reason. We also wanted to see the lighthouse.
While it isn’t the original lighthouse (that burned down in 1672, because it was made of wood and not because of overzealous Russians) it is one of Sweden’s oldest preserved lighthouses.
It is pretty majestic sitting atop the highest point on the island. The views were fantastic.
I would have liked to visit the gun emplacement next to the lighthouse, one of the leftover reminders of the Swedish defence needs during WWII, but it was full of a noisy family with too many children. I figured I’d seen enough gun emplacements in Normandy and probably wasn’t missing too much.
What I was glad not to have missed was all the art dotted around the village.
Skyddsrum (1985) by Lena Lervik (1940-)
It started in 1991, this island art show. Back then, it was a small affair, raising money for charity and housed in the village chapel. Two years later, the annual show left the confines of the building and spread out across the village.
These days, the works seem to be everywhere. The piece above, for instance, is at the harbour, as soon as you arrive. In fact, it’s difficult to move for public art. And I loved it.
A little longer ago in its creation was the labyrinth located outside the village, on the path that heads north to the other end of the long, narrow island.
This ancient maze was built in order to safeguard fisherfolk from the cruel reality of the dangers of the sea. There is only one way in and one way out and once a person starts the journey between the stones, it is imperative for the person to continue and complete the route through. Otherwise, bad luck will follow. Likewise, bad luck will occur if the person crosses the stones rather than follow the narrow track.
I was too concerned with the state of my luck to attempt it – wobbly legs and all – but Mirinda managed it. Emma, being not that mystically minded, just wandered all over it, unmindful of the spiritual connotations.
Also, not very mindful were the people who built a military barracks on top of the labyrinth during WWII. This one was rebuilt in the 1970’s.
Something not destroyed by war was the Gulahuset, a rather odd building.
This was built in 1886 in order to measure the depth of the Baltic. It is one of four water level gauges spread around the Swedish east coast. It sits on a big stone and has a basement which is around two metres deep. In the middle of the basement there is a long, deep hole which joins the Baltic via a canal.
From here there is a horizontal copper pipe which sits a few metres below the level of the sea. All of this somehow measures the sea level and transmits the results to a printer that sits in the building above.
Currently, there are around 30 people who live permanently on the island. Of them, the kids go to school somewhere on the mainland and travel every day by boat to attend lessons. Now that would be amazing. It certainly puts the bus I used to catch in the shade.
Mind you, it would be wise not to sit outside like we did on our return trip. Mirinda and a couple sitting on the port side didn’t last long. The Baltic was angry today and regularly doused them in seawater splashing and wind. They went inside while the more hardy of us remained, clutching on for dear life and enjoying the wild ride.
Even Freya managed to survive the journey, curled up on my lap and fast asleep.
Actually, Freya did extremely well given we four walked over four miles. And that’s not a mile each! Given her recent health, that is a couple of marathons for her. She did extremely well and her tail was up and wagging for most of the day.
Obviously, Emma was fine and could have kept going for the rest of the day but, sadly for her, the boat returned at 2pm, ending our wonderful day out.
We may have had a sneaky ice cream back in Trosa before heading home, zonked but happy.
