The Great Outdoors

Startling blue eyes greeted me.  Their owner, Lars, stereotypically tall and blond, had been assigned as my buddy and led me into the office.  Everything that could be made from wood was, and a resinous odour mingled with the scent of ripe apples heaped in bowls.  ‘Let’s start with fika,’ he suggested.  There was a cluster around the coffee machine.  Everyone was drinking coffee strong enough to stand a spoon in, and nibbling cinnamon pastries.  The chatter was in Swedish but my introduction flicked a switch and the conversation continued seamlessly in English.  Fika is a cultural institution, I soon discovered; it’s when work colleagues swap ideas and friends exchange gossip.

‘I haven’t been at work since July, so I’m a bit out of the loop,’ Lars confessed.  It was now early September; I calculated he must have had at least 5 weeks holiday.  He’d spent the holidays at his summerhouse. ‘It belonged to my parents and my children love it.  We walk in the forest and there’s a lake nearby for swimming. ‘ The blue eyes lit up as he talked.  ‘And I hunt moose, too.’  He paused. ‘They need to be culled, especially near towns,’ he added, noticing my consternation,  ‘in the autumn, they gorge on fermenting windfall apples and get drunk.  One blundered into an empty swimming pool recently and had to be lifted out with a crane.’  ‘You’re lucky to have such a wonderful retreat,’ I commented.  ‘Not really, ‘ he replied, ‘ most Swedes have a summerhouse, or at least access to one through friends.  Many people have a boat as well.’

Summer’s end is signalled by rituals; winter tyres are fitted to cars, the patios outside cafes are dismantled and in the office canteen there were candles on the tables and little ginger biscuits appeared.  Lars suggested a skating party.  The rink was outside the city and surrounded by woods.  It resembled a cavernous barn, the shape and size of a running track with a high corrugated iron roof, open sides and seating for spectators.  Harsh floodlights reflected off the ice and there was no music; this was an environment where relaxation was taken seriously.

The skaters were a mixed bunch.  Middle aged men in office attire circulated at dizzying speed without exerting any apparent effort, as if propelled by invisible hands.  A small child wearing a helmet and scarcely old enough to walk skated with the assistance of a brightly coloured wooden frame.  Couples cavorted.  All had one thing in common: no one fell over.  I managed a couple of halting circuits, arms flailing to avoid losing my balance; it was a relief when Lars announced a break and produced a flask of hot chocolate.  Our backs to the dark forest, we sat on the edge, our breath condensing in the chilly air and watched people flash past, many as adept at skating backwards as forwards. 

On the way home, we passed a real running track snaking through the trees.  The lights were still on.  ‘That's deliberate,’ Lars explained, ‘some people like to run at night.’ I was beginning to appreciate the depth of the Swedish obsession with the great outdoors.

© David Thompson 2015