The place where we’re staying is quite close to a small collection of buildings, collectively going by the name of Goats Swamp. Or Bog. While the whole place looks quite idyllic, there are bits where you understand why it’s called a swamp. Or bog. In particular the area where Mirinda took the puppies for a walk this morning. To say they brought quite a bit of swamp back with them would be an understatement. Fortunately, they didn’t smell of goat.
Being Easter Sunday, we devoured our treats. Rather than ridiculous numbers of chocolate eggs wildly distributed throughout the garden, we settled for a couple of marzipan chickens.
They were perfect. Unlike the day which was dominated by my inability to walk very much. Because of which, we didn’t really go anywhere other than returning to the Restaurant of Dr Moreau (Värdshuset Tvällen) for our Easter Sunday late lunch.
Amazingly, the restaurant stayed open for us, the only reservation after midday. We had the entire place to ourselves. It felt like when the Mafiosi boss invites the mayor over for a meal and organises for the entire restaurant to be empty. Except without the guys with guns standing at the front door.
Bodyguards there may have not been, but we were more than adequately protected by the plethora of Easter witches. This particular witch quite entranced Mirinda. She now wants one. Clearly the witch Easter theme is something we will need to retain, no matter where we’re living.
Normally, we’d feel a bit odd being the only diners but the restaurant is, basically, an L shape, so you can pretend there’s other people just out of sight. Also, we were in the dog allowable area which further cut us off. Whatever, we enjoyed another wonderful meal blighted only by the addition of menus in English. As I always say, “Where’s the fun in knowing what you’re ordering?“
I forgot to mention the other day, but the house wine here is Jacob’s Creek (white, red, rose). Quite odd dining in a restaurant in the middle of Swedish nowhere and drinking Australian wine.
My only complaint (and it is hardly even a complaint) is that there was no music. Actually, that’s not entirely true. The kitchen staff had Abba playing, and we could just hear it through the open door, but it would have been nice to have a bit of Cornelis playing throughout the restaurant.
Back with Max we made our way back to the Goat Swamp though not before stopping for a bit at the edge of Lake Kymmen. This is pronounced something like Shimm’n. It’s one of those odd thing with language that, in Swedish, sometimes the letter ‘K’ is pronounced ‘K’ and other times ‘Sh’. Regardless of the name, Mirinda and the girls had a bit of romp by the frozen shore as I waited, warm as toast, in Max, nursing my sore toe.
Eventually they grew tired of chasing sticks and returned to the car for the rest of the drive home. Actually, Emma didn’t get tired of chasing sticks because it’s impossible.
So, a rather quiet but relaxing Easter Sunday with an exceptional meal in between. Here’s skål, from a happy old taxidermist, as Sharon describes me.
