COLUMNISTS Following a sweaty, frenetic 10-day tour of Asia, last week took on a gentler, breezier Swedish feel when I arrived back in London. My friend (and favourite Swedish pop singer) Emilia de Poret set the tone during an interview we did for Monocle’s online radio station on Tuesday with her sunny enthusiasm for the music industry, fashion and all things pure pop. On Wednesday, I enjoyed lunch at the residence of Sweden’s charming (and refreshingly young) new ambassador to London and spent the better part of the afternoon talking to her about Brand Sweden v Brand UK. And bright and early on Thursday morning, I was sitting on a BA flight bound for Stockholm for a weekend at my house in the archipelago.
I’ve had a somewhat uneasy relationship with Sweden over the past few summers as most of them have turned out to be frigid, grey, blustery wash-outs. Earlier this season I took a different approach and decided I wouldn’t stress about how often I use the house this summer, leaving it in the capable and caring hands of my friends Martin and Caroline. Since early May they’ve been spending weekends and whole weeks on the island tending to the vegetation, doing small repairs and enjoying what most Swedes reckon is the best summer on record.
As the Airbus banked to the north and started its climb I was sure that the hot, sunny spell would break by the time we landed and that I’d have a house full of guests cursing me, the low pressure and the lack of warm clothing in their suitcases. While the captain promised a windy, warm and partly cloudy day in Stockholm, the weather over southern Sweden seemed to suggest otherwise. Clouds looked wet and thundery and, from what I could see from my window, it looked like it was going to be that way all the way to Arlanda airport. Fifteen minutes later, however, as we made our approach, Stockholm was glowing, the lakes were shimmering and the sky was almost cloudless. Was the sun going to stay? Were my guests about to be treated to a perfect Baltic weekend? And was I going to make peace with Sweden?
On the ground we divided up the logistic and replenishment duties (island life demands sound planning) for the days ahead. Mats and Emily were in charge of fetching the car, doing the major grocery haul and picking up Mom. I took my friend Helen into Stockholm to load up the larder with harder-to-find food items and collect Pablo and Enio, visiting from Madrid. Four hours later we all met up on the dock, where Bosse the taxi-boat man was bobbing in his home-made vessel, Mom was singing the praises of the speedy Icelandair connection from Toronto and Emily was already preparing to strip off and plunge into the sea.
Ten minutes later we were disembarking on the island and were greeted by a lively swarm of wasps on the dock. We thought they were just happy to see some human flesh and fresh food and didn’t pay too much attention as we unloaded the boat and made our way up to the house. Inside there was another welcoming committee of wasps, and various guests went about selecting magazines for swatting or opening windows to set them free.
As the temperature crept to 30°C, bathing suits were donned and everyone made their way down to the dock for a dip and a bit of sunning. It was during this excursion that Helen noticed that the wasps had set up home under the dock and this was in direct violation of key tanning and diving real estate.
Pablo went online to look for extermination solutions. A Spanish website suggested a black blanket, a burning torch and the cover of darkness to scare them out. I suggested that while this might seem wonderfully theatrical and medieval it could result in the dock and potentially the whole island going up in flames. More conventional solutions included dumping hot water on the nest (tricky, as they were flying through multiple gaps in the decking) or dousing them with wasp spray after sundown. We opted for the latter but realised there was no wasp spray in the shed. The boiling water option was a logistical challenge and was sure to see Pablo or Enio in the burns unit at a regional hospital.
The following day we set out across the channel to the next island to seek the counsel of the wise-man of the archipelago (our neighbour Claes) and get his views on extermination methods. Claes and his sometime bee-keeping son Peter offered to take a peek.
The next morning we took the boat over to another nearby island for a grocery and coffee run and returned to find Claes and Peter on our dock in full protective gear and sporting hammers and drills. Fearing that we would be chased out into the Baltic by a massive swarm, we idled 70 metres out until Peter gave us the all-clear. Back on shore order had been restored, the sun was blazing, the guests were happy and I was once again at peace with Sweden.
Tyler Brûlé is editor-in-chief of Monocle
More columns at www.ft.com/brule
