A WINTER PALACE

Of all the interesting aspects of relocation to another country, the linguistic factor has to be the most intellectually challenging. Whilst many Swedes speak passable English, and the youth are fairly fluent, Sweden cannot be considered a bilingual country. When one calls the local hospital, or any other such public service, voice prompts present a stream of Swedish options as to whom one may be connected. Billboards, posters, signs and other public announcements are all in Swedish, and it is therefore essential to master a basic grasp of the language as soon as possible. To this end I attended a number of beginners’ Swedish courses at the Medborgarskolan (Citizens’ School) in the heart of Stockholm. There I found myself amongst an interesting mix of students including young au pair girls from Finland, Germany and Canada, and other young women from Thailand, India and China. There I gained a working knowledge of Swedish, and became able to conduct a basic conversation. This is particularly essential when trying to communicate with the elderly, such as our neighbour, old Mrs. Edmé Eriksson, who was, along with the rest of her generation, taught German as a second language at school. I could also then gather the general drift of the free Metro newspaper, available every week day at train and metro stations, and other public places.

I am also able to maintain my Afrikaans by talking to my two South African friends here in Stockholm, one of whom, like myself, is also a SAAB wife. I had actually worked with Lizbé Swart in the music department at the SABC many years before, and we always enjoy a jolly good gossip about the ladies we meet in Stockholm social circles.

French is my third language, learned, along with Afrikaans, at school, and developed a little further with a course at the Alliance Française in Johannesburg a few years ago. There is no shortage of opportunity to maintain and improve this language skill in Stockholm. Apart from the monthly French Conversation Group get-togethers under the auspices of the IWC, ably led by my dear friend Véronique Blanchard, there is also Stockholm Accueil, the French ex-pat wives’ club. They are an extremely active group of Frenchwomen who organise such activities as the weekly museum outings, cookery sessions, Swedish and English conversation meetings, and wonderful city walks once a fortnight. It is on these walks, always followed by a café lunch, and which also allow us to discover different parts of Stockholm, that I have the opportunity to practice my French for an entire exhausting morning. And so, having become better attuned to the lilting tones of Swedish, I must then tune in to another linguistic music – that of the versatile French language – spoken with the customary, and often daunting, rapidity.

On one of our winter walks we explored the magnificent grounds of Drottningholm Palace, the permanent residence of the Swedish royal family, which is situated on Lake Mäleren on the outskirts of the city. Peter and I had taken the ferry boat there during our first summer in Stockholm, and the lake approach affords one the most marvellous view of this beautiful old chateau.

This particular sunny winter morning, we saw the chateau, and its surrounding box hedges and statuary, in all its magical winter snow-clad finery. The lake beside which the building lies was frozen solid, the vast expanse of ice covered with a blanket of soft fresh snow, and there was no sign of the swans and geese which dabble at the water’s edge near the ferry dock in summer.

The view of the chateau from the formal gardens, laid out in the French style similar to those at Versailles, is most impressive, affording one a tunnelled view through an avenue of leafless trees draped in thick fronds of silvery frost. The sun at that time of year does not rise sufficiently high to illuminate the trees, only the chateau, and it glowed in the mellow sunlight at the end of the avenue, like the stage set for a Russian ballet.

Our walk took us through the avenue, over a gentle rise, and up another hill, to the quirky Chinese Pavilion – the entertainment area of the Swedish royals of a bygone era. It is painted red-ochre and dark yellow, and icicles festooned the curling green-tiled roof – water frozen in time by the bitterly cold dry air.

We trudged along a narrow path through the surrounding woods, filled with heavily snow-laden evergreen fir trees, and I again had the strange sensation of stepping into some Northern European story book. Then we came out into a vast clearing filled with bright sunlight. The field of snow glittered so brightly that my eyes began to smart. Some of the ladies had sensibly brought sunglasses with them, to protect their eyes against the snow-white landscape.

We continued our walk around the rest of the chateau grounds, circumnavigating the building, and followed a winding pathway to a quaintly ornate café set beside the frozen lake shore. Once inside the warm interior, redolent with the flavours of hearty Swedish winter fare, we removed some of our heavy outer clothing, gloves, hats and scarves, and sank gratefully onto benches set around tables near a roaring log fire. Orders were placed for goulash soup, served with thick hunks of brown bread and butter, or meatballs with lingon berry sauce and mash, followed by mugs of strong steaming coffee. My friend Paul has a theory that the further north one travels in Europe, the stronger the coffee becomes. This is certainly true of Swedish coffee, which is enough to set one’s teeth on edge. I judiciously settled for hot chocolate, knowing that this diabolical Swedish brew would ensure a sleepless night, in spite of all the vigorous exercise in the biting fresh winter air.

Such sunny days are rare in winter in Stockholm, and whenever the ever-present cloud-cover drifts away, those who can, go out into the countryside as much as possible. There one can enjoy this rare gift of sunny brightness, bestowed so infrequently by the wilful Nordic gods, and dispel the insidious mood of winter gloom.