In Sweden, survival training was taught as part of the curriculum. By the age of 10, we could all build a basic shelter and carve a flute (important, apparently). By comparison, the kids at my English comprehensive seemed ill-prepared. This was until I realised that British houses are given a solid seven-month course in survival, annually.

We moved from a sturdy 1960s villa in Sweden to a 16th century rickety barn in Kent, with little idea of what this entailed. Our reasoning was that if it had been standing that long, it would stand a bit longer. In this sense, we were correct. What we had not counted on were the yearly floods, some of which reached window-height, or the fact that central heating in the UK is a kind of cryptic national sport. When, where, and how you switch it on is of utmost importance yet makes almost no difference to the perpetual glacial conditions inside. I soon became accustomed to that distinct heat-rash that comes with pressing a hot-water bottle to yourself 24/7. My new school-friends (whose hardiness I now understood) taught me to sleep on top of my uniform to warm it up a little before wearing it.

And finally, we discovered coal. In Sweden, a crackling log fire provided a quaint, seasonal touch. In the UK, stuffing a rusty fire-grate with coal, pouring obscene amounts of accelerant on top and hoping for the best became a grim necessity. But there were also newfound sources of joy. For example, in that soft ticking of ancient radiators wheezing to life. And with that, the possibility that maybe, just maybe, if the winds blowing through the house were just right and the rising damp not too rampant, we’d get to experience that rare, British phenomenon of balminess.

Maria Smedstad bio

https://tp.media/click?shmarker=510460&promo_id=2060&source_type=banner&type=click&campaign_id=84&trs=289294

Read the feature on issuu