- a winter tale from östergötland -

it was an industrial landscape that faced me when i looked out of the window as the train pulled out of stockholm - dismal warehouses, a big sign of scania and yet another of that of volvo leaving me in no doubt about the grim metallic feeling of the surrounding countryside. the sharply splintered ice on the river, broken by icebreakers that chugged through only minutes before, was blue and uninviting. the milk-white sky looked full of omen. i closed my eyes to block out the dreadful coldness of it all.

throughout the journey down southwards into östergötland i saw nothing that inspired me - it felt as if the low temperature was engulfing my spirits, as though the nordic depression was getting to me. at the end of my journey to where göta canal started, i saw the icy waters of lake vättern and was grateful for the soothing sensation that comes from being near the water's edge. i knew then that i had not made a mistake.

the sommelier was full of chat on how sweden's only saint, saint birgitta had set up the convent building and monastery we were now dining in in vadstena. this year is the 700th anniversary of her birth. i looked at the stoneflagged floors we were sitting on and shuddered as i tried to imagine what it would be like to live the life of a nun in sub-zero conditions with no blankets.
"the monks were rationed 5 litres of beer a day."
the sommelier told us. no wonder, i thought. but then he surprised me:
" they gave the nuns 4 litres of beer each."
surely the frail women would need all the help they could get to keep up their spirits? i was somewhat miffed at this. whatever good work of the order of saint birgitta that was being done was, however, put to a stop by king gustav vasa.

as we stepped out to walk to vadstena castle, it dawned on me that this man was the swedish king henry viii of sorts, breaking away from the catholic church, creating a stable and profitable taxation and administrative system for sweden. to this day sweden celebrates his achievements as the founder of the house of vasa every 6th of june and remembers his desperate efforts to get reinforcements against denmark's invasion by way of the 90km cross country ski race each year, the vasaloppet, under the motto "I Fäders Spår för Framtids Segrar" (In the footsteps of our forefathers for the victories of tomorrow).

the pale thin ice on the moat of vadstena castle did not reflect the moonlight, though it was shining brightly, as if to remind one gently that this was tragic historic ground. magnus, king gustav's son, had died in the moat, while chasing mary, queen of scots, with whom he was infatuated with. he had gone mad and drowned in the moat claiming she had come to visit him in the form of a mermaid. the frost-gilded waters had claimed him silently, as it did the seven soldiers who jumped in to save him, forgetting that they themselves could not swim. i thought of the restaurant we had just been in - the converted monastery which had housed the unfortunate magnus for a period of time during his illness - and wondered whether madness was in fact the only form such intense unrequited love could take. the quaintness of gamla vadstena, with the beautifully ornamented wood panelled walls adorning the brightly painted houses seemed almost cruelly perfect as the setting of such a dramatic tragedy. the unusal profile of the castle alone seemed to fit the gloom, dark and forbidding as it stood on the shores of the frozen lake.

we stayed in an old merchant town, linköping. linköping (lin-shopping) is in the heart of the richest land in southern sweden. the flat horizon stretched on for miles, but this was not as alien a territory as i had felt with the industrial backwater of the outskirts of stockholm - this was farmland, with thin matchstick firs growing neatly in rows as they surrounded the tilled fields, and occasional silver birches (the only trees i could identify) brushing through the sweeping path. sometimes a beautifully white church would be visible, in the middle of a field, away from the small houses with their dainty porches. the greenish brown hues calmed me in a way i feel the chill white of the snow and ice never would.

the train journey back to stockholm felt like a happy relief from the solemnity of swedish winter - it was homeward bound, after all. the canal waters were frozen to form a stiff and unrelenting line cutting across the divide between the grey heaven and pale earth.
"it's beautiful."
my travel companion said. but i saw the dark firs standing like sentinels across the lake and closed my eyes to dream of blue sky.