Back home and movin' on

You know, you can tell it's been a good weekend when Sunday night rolls around and your cheeks are pink and tingly-stingy from freezing air, your legs are feeling deliciously tired from ice skating in your shoes, your head is full of Swedish hunter stories, told high up on a wooden platform above the trees, looking at the stars and the planets, and your voice is a little husky from too much talking, laughing and whisky. Then, you know it’s been a good weekend.

Y'see I'm feeling a bit nostalgic tonight. I'm remembering our trip to Sweden back in March – from where we returned, laden down with sild and memories, and with thoughts of return not far from our minds. Sweden's got it all. I'm blessed with the luckiness of having a friend who lives just north of Stockholm. Still fairly close to Uppsala but far enough into the countryside to still take seriously the rumours of a bear being seen in the local wood.

We slid around on a frozen lake, so solid that it can be walked across with no fear.  The ice was white and crackly (it crackled loudly as we skated over, eliciting loud squeals) and, as I discovered, the perfect palette for soppy declarations. 

Later on that night we took a walk into the woods.  By firelight, we drank hot glogg with almonds, and listened to the sounds of the forest.  I was convinced we were surrounded by wolves and snuggled up close to Per Anders' dog, burying my hand in his thick fur.  He was magnificent, a Swedish hunting dog, a Jamthund, bred for hunting elk.  He sat bolt upright, ears pointy, eyes glistening, every now and then deigning to give my hand a comforting lick.  The firelight cast brilliant colours on the trees above us. 

And then our jamthund led us home.