Maria Smedstad: The north

On a recent flight to Stockholm, I got chatting to another passenger who had the haunted look of an Englishman freshly persuaded to move to the north of Sweden, which is exactly what he was. “My wife is from there,” he explained. “She suggested we try living up there for a bit.” I felt a pang of pity for this man, imagining that the ‘for a bit’ would likely mean ‘forever’.

In my experience, when a Swede chooses to move back to the north, it’s because their soul is irretrievably bound to that place. My sister is one of those people. Occasionally, and especially if we are on holiday in some lovely, warm country, she will question her choice to return to the north. This is until I remind her that she would not be able to drive the huskies that she keeps acquiring, down the streets of Rome in a dogsled.

I, on the other hand, have grown too soft for the north, and it shows. On one of my last visits, my sister’s friend, upon inspecting my British outfit, remarked to my sister as if I was not even there: “Make sure this little one wears real clothes.”

Back to the Englishman on the plane, who nervously confessed; “The winter wasn’t good. Do you know what happens when snow melts and turns to ice and then it snows on top of that?” I nodded, familiar with this special hell. “But,” he continued, more brightly, “I look forward to seeing what the rest of the seasons are like!” I wished him good luck, which he probably took to mean him catching his connecting flight, but which in fact was in reference to him finding out that there are only two seasons in the north; winter and mosquito.