-Doing the 'Heathcliff and Cathy' in Stockholm -


Anyone who has seen the black and white film of 'Wuthering Heights' will recall above all things the image of the two lovers being almost swept away in the windy Yorkshire moors as their torrid love affair unfolds. During the winter months I have been walking in Hampstead Heath in such weather conditions - wind whipping through my hair, rain sweeping down randomly, wading through mud on occasion. Friends who have walked this path with me will know what I mean when I talk about 'doing the Heathcliff and Cathy'.

Maybe I had an inkling that one day I would be doing such a thing in Stockholm - at any rate, it was a good thing I'd had the practice. It was all Olov's idea - yes, I blame it all on him.
"Why don't you go to Rosendal's café in Djurgården?"
He had suggested when I mentioned Skansen.
"They have very good food - it's sandwiches and soups and that sort of thing - and I usually go there during the summer months."
I looked it up on the map - Rosendal's gardens were actually quite close to Skansen. It seemed so much more civilised an option than an amusement park.

I should have recalled Olov's exact words - he had said summer months. I was setting off jauntily from the Grand Hotel in late October. I strolled off after a hearty breakfast with a tiny micro umbrella (the only kind you can fit into a handbag) along the harbour on Södra Blasieholmshamnen, giving the National Museum of Art a miss and ignoring the pretty little bridge onto Skepps-Holmen. But about two feet after I'd haughtily ignored the safety of the museum, it started to rain. The wind started to blow. My umbrella blew itself inside out twice, then broke. I was reduced to wrapping my scarf around my hair and briskly walking past strangers in a manner that suggested I suffer from constipation. The yachts were bobbing up and down in the water, their masts creaking in time with the wind. I would normally marvel at these magnificent vessels, but my survival instincts told me that stopping to stare would result in premature death from hypothermia. My hands were frozen stiff as I had forgot to bring my gloves. At the petrol station on Strandvägen I thought about giving up, but didn't. I walked over the green bridge leading to the island of Djurgården as stiff as a board and rudely stared back at the tourists wise enough to take the tram there. I was still stubborn enough to deny myself the opportunity of drying out in the impressive stone towers of the Nordic Museum. However, I soon realised that bloody-mindedness alone was insufficient for me to get to that blooming Rosendal's café.

"Excuse me, do you know a café here called Rosendal's?"
I asked a healthy (and cosy) looking young Swedish couple after wandering off in the wrong direction several times. The young girl looked at me as if I was a madwoman (which to be fair to her, I probably did resemble very closely at that point) but the nice young man took out a map and pointed to the complete opposite direction of where I had been heading. There was nothing for it, but to plod on down a path near the water's edge which was beautiful but completely devoid of any human presence. I was beginning to doubt that 'that damned café' would be even open in the unhospitable weather. I passed by a couple of museums and buildings but I did not stray away from my chosen stony path.

Thirty minutes later, and after various self-examining Q&A sessions with Swedish waterfowl ("Why do you think I am doing this?" "Quack" "I've finally gone mad before I reach thirty, haven't I?" "Quack" and so on), I came across the rolling stretch of land that houses Rosendal's horticulture centre and café. I think I did a mad run for the greenhouse bit that houses the café, but I can't remember exactly - my memory must have blacked out the trauma.

What heavenly manna a piece of seasoned salmon can be. How aromatic the bread was. How much more delicious can tarte tatin be? And who said coffee was bad for you?
"You definitely should have whipped cream with that."
The lady at the counter said when I paid for the white plates of food on my blue wooden tray. I don't know - the Swedish have a hold on me which makes me do things I normally wouldn't. It must be that Nordic accent. I had two large scoops of the cream which had meringue on top - I usually do not touch meringue - and sat down near to the end of the huge greenhouse to enjoy it all. An astonishing number of bold but tiny birds fluttered around me, darting from one end of the greenhouse to the other. There were incredibly starry eyed and apple cheeked children running about. There were old friends laughing at each other's stories. Outside, the winter garden was barren, but a loud flock of geese were running around like mad vicars. I sipped my cappuccino, finished off the cream with a gusto and watched as the sky turned back to milk white while waiting for my hair to dry. Clearly, everyone else had been wise and had driven here. The 'Heathcliff and Cathy' prerogative had been exercised by me alone. But no matter, I was here in this most relaxing and soothing of environments. It felt as if I had somehow become more wholesome - or was that just the caffeine rush?

On the way back I felt restored enough to toss a piece of bread to the companions who had helped me down the sodden path.
"Quack,"
they said.

...on a clear day like today it would have been a good idea to go to Rosendal's....