Off to Sweden!

Who did you want to be when you were little? Pippi Longstocking? Ronia, the Robber’s Daughter? Baldy Per, who shamelessly farted his way through life? Mischievous Emil of Lönneberga?

My idol was Britta from The Children of Noisy Village. Not particularly spectacular, I know. A little bob haircut, a dress, and usually somewhere in the woods with all the other children from the neighbourhood.

How lucky I was to actually grow up like that. Almost unimaginable today. A world without mobile phones, without an adult constantly keeping an eye on us. We built “huts” between the trees that were really little more than collections of rotten branches, or genuinely adorable moss houses for dwarfs, fairies and trolls. We challenged each other to see who could stand longest in the freezing water of the little stream where so many leeches wriggled around. Naturally, my older sister usually won – she had far more Pippi genes in her than I did back then.

We only returned home when the day began to fade into evening, darkness was falling and dinner was waiting.

A free, wild and exciting childhood among little woods, streams, wide fields and meadows. On the neighbouring farms, or sometimes simply playing with dolls in our bedroom. Our parents – ours and everyone else’s – had this fundamental trust that we wouldn’t do anything truly dangerous or wander too far away.

And, remarkably, nothing ever happened.

The milk came straight from the udder of a cow on the neighbouring farm. The old farmer’s wife would fish flies and gnats out of the bucket of fresh milk with her fingers and pour it once through a coarse sieve.

Pasteurisation, 1980s-and-90s style.

The milk was still warm, with a layer of cream settling on top. Our cat usually got that and greedily lapped it up.

On the occasional Sunday afternoon in summer, we would go into the little woods with our mother to pick wild blueberries. Not exactly thrilling when you’re a child.

Now I voluntarily travel to visit a very dear friend just to help him harvest his blueberries – kilos and kilos of them.

Swedish forests, however, are different from Austrian ones. They remind me of Scotland. Lots of deciduous trees, wonderfully light and open, scattered with rocks, and so, so, so much moss and fern covering the ground. Friendly birch trees with their black-and-white bark.

It makes these forests feel bright and welcoming, yet deeply enchanted. People still seem connected to nature and leave the fairies and trolls their own little realms. Here, the forest doesn’t have to be “tidied up” the way it often is back home. Nature rules.

And if a dwarf suddenly marched out of a hole in a tree trunk, I don’t think anyone would be particularly surprised.

These little cakes, made from thin, crisp, flaky shortcrust pastry and filled with nothing but intensely flavoured blueberries, are the essence of a sunny late afternoon from our childhood – whether in Bullerbyn or somewhere else entirely.

The fairy forest with its ferns and moss. Carefree days and simplicity.

Let’s close our eyes, the taste of dark, sweet blueberries still in our mouths and our lips stained blue, and imagine we’re sitting on a little jetty beside one of those cool Swedish lakes with rocky shores.

Behind us, the fairy forest.

Our legs dangle in the water, our feet feeling its refreshing coolness. We spread our toes and feel a gentle breeze drifting towards us from the green forest.

The birch leaves rustle softly in the wind.

I have to smile.

Do you?