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Five years ago saw us visit Trosa for the very first time. It was Sweden’s National Day, the weather was beautiful, and the town was a fairytale come to life. Little did we know that we would wind up living here. At the time, we were just escaping small-minded stupidity and the plague. In a strange way, these things did us a massive favour
This year’s private celebrations were very muted. For one thing, the planned French dinner was abandoned given Mirinda was sick. We’re hoping today was the worst of it as she was feeling particularly awful. Apart from driving over to Nicoline’s to feed Selma, she didn’t leave the house.
On the other hand, I took Emma up Mount Trosa and through the woods, something I haven’t done for ages.
For the most part, Emma led the way. She is not used to my slow pace over uneven ground and would wind up a long way ahead. She would stop, look around, realise I was a long way behind and come trotting back, just to make sure I was still there.
In fact, I was so slow that she picked up a stick at the top of the mountain and carried it almost the entire way home because she thought I’d throw it for her, something that only happens when stopping to rest.
It was a lovely day for a walk during which we didn’t see anyone, except for a chap who, I think, was doing the Everest Challenge. During our one climb, he passed us a few times, raising his arms in victory every time he reached the top. Clearly mad.
At the top, I noticed that the big phone mast was finally finished. And one of the small, graffiti strewn, electricity, I think, out-buildings has gone. Hopefully the other one will remain in situ as I use the step outside to recover immediately following my ascent.
Ironically, I didn’t wind up doing any cooking today given that Mirinda only wanted soup and I just had a salad for lunch which carried me through to dinner when we finished off the strawberry tarts I made yesterday.
They were delicious. When we finally have the ill-fated French dinner party, they will make an excellent dessert.
The other thing I did was record my latest Letter from Sweden except it wasn’t from Sweden, it was a Letter from France, detailing the cooking retreat. Here it is:
