Our Funniest Exchange Trip Ever!

The Parallel Four Book One Part Twelve Chapter Twelve

Writing The Parallel Four has been a journey in itself—a walk through memories, dreams, and all the little moments that shape who we become. Some parts of this story are true. Some are truer than I’d care to admit. And some—well, let’s just say they’re inspired by what might’ve happened if life had taken a different turn.

The characters you’ll meet in these pages—Stephen, Johan, Vinka, Marlin, Tim, and Petra—are fictional, but they live and breathe with the spirit of real people I’ve known, loved, and lost. Their world is stitched together from scraps of real places, actual events, and a few wild yarns that got better with each retelling down the pub.

Poplar, Hitchin, and the snowy reaches of Sweden aren’t just backdrops—they’re characters in their own right. They’ve shaped this story as much as the people in it. And if you happen to recognise a place, a turn of phrase, or a certain kind of mischief from your own youth… well, consider that my nod to you.

This first book takes us from scraped knees to stolen kisses, from playground politics to life’s first real goodbyes. It’s about growing up, making mistakes, and finding the people who’ll stand by you no matter what—even if they sometimes drive you round the bend.

To those who remember the ‘50s and ‘60s—this one’s a memory jogger. To the younger lot—it’s a peek into a time when life moved slower, but feelings still ran just as fast.

And finally, to Stephen, Johan, Vinka, Marlin, Tim, and Petra—six hearts bound by the wonder of first love. Not the fleeting kind that fades with time, but the rare and lasting kind that deepens, steadies, and endures—a love that grows with them, becoming part of who they are, and who they will always be. And though this is only the beginning, the road ahead will test them in ways they cannot yet imagine—through training, through battle, and through the choices that will shape the rest of their lives.

Transcript

The Parallel Four Book One Part Twelve Chapter Twelve

Chapter Twelve.

It all kicked off with a right lark of an idea—an exchange trip to Germany, no less! Our lot would be shipped off to stay with actual German families, while their poor unsuspecting teens would be dropped into the chaos of our homes a couple of weeks later. Bit like a cultural hostage swap, really. Still, we fancied ourselves as ambassadors of Her Majesty’s finest grammar school spirit—armed with dodgy German, questionable table manners, and a suitcase full of Marmite, just in case. Ja, det var spännande stuff, mate!

The family lived in a tidy white house with dark timber beams and a garden so immaculate it looked like the gnomes had a rota. Their mum, Frau Schneider, greeted us with a tray of homemade pretzels and the kind of hug that temporarily dislocated my ribs. Their dad—Herr Schneider—was a quietly intense man who seemed to run the house like a submarine captain, complete with whistle commands for dinner.

Our first morning started at what felt like 3am. Axel (or maybe Henric) barged into the room with a cheerful shout of “Frühstück!” and threw open the curtains like a man unveiling a Broadway set. I barely had time to register where I was before Johan rolled out of bed, muttering something in Swedish that I’m pretty sure wasn’t polite.

School in Münster was efficient, quiet, and terrifyingly punctual. Students stood when the teacher entered, answered questions with military precision, and sat in near-total silence. Johan and I tried to blend in, but Johan’s laugh carried across three classrooms and I accidentally addressed the maths teacher as “Mum.”

Still, we adjusted. The twins were good lads—one taught us how to cycle to school without getting flattened by trams, and the other introduced us to currywurst, which immediately became a core memory. Evenings were spent either doing homework (to keep up appearances) or sneaking out to the lake with the twins and their friends, sharing warm cans of fizzy pop and stories we made up on the spot.

It wasn’t quite the Swedish summer, but it had its moments.

It became clear on day one that bicycles weren’t just a mode of transport in Münster—they were the undisputed rulers of the city. Outside the school, vast rows of bikes stretched out like a metallic migration, handlebars glinting in the morning sun, each one guarded by a lock more complex than a bank vault. Helmets on, we bravely joined the pedal-powered herd each morning, wobbling our way through intersections with the grace of giraffes on roller skates.

Without our usual school uniforms, we felt slightly underdressed and oddly exposed, like part-time students in a full-time world. The German school day started later and ended later too, which sounded brilliant in theory—until we discovered that the evening homework load now cut directly into what we liked to call “important loafing time.”

Luckily, thanks to our overly enthusiastic teachers back home, we’d already covered most of the material. That meant we could blitz through the assignments, earn ourselves bonus recess, and spend it doing the truly important things—like exploring the tuck shop’s mysterious snack hierarchy and mastering the art of leaning nonchalantly against a vending machine without accidentally pressing F7.

Johan perfected the lean. I perfected the ability to pretend I hadn’t just bought a mystery meat sandwich called “Leberkäse” and was deeply regretting everything.

Münster was an odd but charming mix of British garrison town and German university city, which meant half the students spoke better English than we did. Meanwhile, we clung to our phrasebooks like life jackets in a sea of umlauts and long compound nouns. But after a week of trial, error, and catastrophically mispronounced menu items (I’m still not sure what I ordered that one time, but it winked at me), we started to find our footing.

Axel and Henric’s parents took their role as cultural ambassadors very seriously. No stone—or Roman ruin—was left unturned. Every afternoon seemed to involve a new historic town square or cathedral that was “just around the corner,” which apparently translates to “forty-five minutes by car and two hours on foot.” The phrase “late-night stroll” turned out to be code for “seven-kilometre march with educational commentary.”

That said, one stop genuinely stood out: the Möhnesee Dam. One of the legendary Dam Buster targets from WWII, it loomed ahead of us like a monument to both engineering and daring. I never thought I’d get excited about concrete and historical explosions, but there we were—suitably awed and unusually awake. It was a rare car journey where Johan and I didn’t fall asleep dribbling into our borrowed scarves.

We also visited a museum, which was genuinely interesting—lots of dusty artefacts, old helmets, and exhibits that smelled faintly of history and furniture polish. But if I’m being honest, my most vivid memory of the entire trip had nothing to do with ancient relics or even the surprisingly exotic animals we saw at the local zoo. No, the real cultural curveball came courtesy of our host family’s undying passion for... Irish folk music.

Yes, you read that right. Amid the sausages, schnitzel, and sparklingly efficient German orderliness, there lurked a full-blown obsession with Irish jigs. Lederhosen by day, ceilidhs by night.

One evening, we were whisked off to a local community hall, where I found myself blurting out a panicked “Guten Tag” to a room packed with accordion-wielding dancers and violinists mid-fiddle frenzy. With absolutely no idea how to dance to a jig, I defaulted to a kind of rigid, robotic Highland fling—arms glued to my sides, legs kicking out like an agitated pony on a trampoline. The music was fast, the footwork faster, and by some miracle, I avoided kicking anyone in the shin or getting tangled in someone’s apron ties.

It was surreal, sweaty, and unexpectedly brilliant. A far cry from the usual ‘Oompah’ soundtrack we’d expected—but maybe that’s the beauty of travelling: sometimes the most German thing about Germany is its love for a good Irish jig.

Two weeks later, it was our turn to host Axel and Henric in England. Ingrid greeted them at the door with a warm smile and immediately switched into flawless German—much to their delight and our slight frustration. Honestly, that would’ve been really helpful before they boarded the coach.

Harry, never one to miss an opportunity for mischief, gave her a well-timed nudge and reminded her—loud enough for all to hear—that the whole point of the exchange was for the boys to learn English. Ingrid, unimpressed and armed with decades of domestic superiority, rolled her eyes theatrically and delivered a swift clip round his ear. Harry chuckled like a man well-accustomed to losing these battles with grace.

The twins were soon dressed in their bright jumpers and faded jeans and shipped off to school with us, where they joined the ranks of British teens trying to survive double maths and decipher the contents of the school canteen’s mystery meat pie. It was cultural immersion at its finest—welcome to England, boys.

What struck me straight away was just how out of place Axel and Henric looked among 1,500 blazered, tie-wearing English pupils. Striding through the corridors in their bright jumpers and faded jeans, they looked like two exchange students who’d accidentally wandered into a Tom Brown’s School Days casting call. Johan and I raided our wardrobes and managed to cobble together enough spare uniform to help them blend in. They moaned, of course—something about scratchy ties and “too many buttons”—but I could tell they were secretly relieved. At least now they didn’t get stared at like novelty zoo exhibits every time they walked to assembly.

The two lads accompanied Johan and me to Sea Cadets, though it quickly became clear that Henric’s relationship with uniformed discipline had ended long before it properly began. He admitted—quite proudly—that he’d dropped out of the German equivalent of the Cub Scouts before earning a single badge, claiming anything “too regimented” made him feel like he was trapped in a Cold War prison. To avoid sparking a diplomatic incident, we decided to abandon ship (figuratively) and took them swimming at the local leisure centre instead. Henric was far more at ease doing a leisurely breaststroke than being barked at to stand in line. Axel, meanwhile, floated around like a confused otter trying to remember if he’d packed his dignity.

The following evening, we tried again with the whole “British youth experience” and invited them down to the rugby club for a bit of light practice. Axel looked horrified when we explained that the ball must only be passed backwards and that being tackled wasn’t just permitted—it was practically celebrated. His eyebrows vanished into his hairline, and I swear Henric went slightly pale. It quickly became apparent that having a 14-stone prop charging toward them like a runaway fridge was not in their carefully imagined itinerary.

To preserve their sanity (and skeletal structure), I discreetly guided them over to a group of enthusiastic eight-year-olds playing a relay game between some battered orange cones. There, their dignity remained mostly intact, no bones were broken, and—crucially—nobody lost a shoe.

After training, Johan and I skipped the final drills in favour of a truly sacred British rite: fish and chips, still steaming in yesterday’s newsprint and smelling like heaven’s own fryer. The moment we unwrapped those parcels of golden glory, the aroma alone was enough to convert Axel and Henric on the spot. They tucked in with the enthusiasm of men who’d just discovered deep-fried enlightenment.

Henric, mouth full of cod and joy, fumbled out his Polaroid camera and insisted on capturing the moment. The resulting snaps showed the two of them mid-bite, cheeks bulging, batter flakes clinging to their chins like edible confetti. Later, they stuck those blurry masterpieces into their scrapbook under the lovingly scrawled heading: “Gastronomic Adventure in Grease!”

The next afternoon, Harry and Ingrid proposed a grand cultural outing: hop on a train, then the tube, and embark on a whirlwind tour of London’s finest winter-lit landmarks—Trafalgar Square, Buckingham Palace, and whatever else we could stumble across without being flattened by tourists or lost to pigeon-induced trauma.

As we waited at the bus stop, a red double-decker rumbled around the corner like a two-storey knight in shining paintwork. Axel and Henric’s eyes went wide—proper cartoon saucers—like they’d just spotted a unicorn on wheels. So much for cool, composed Europeans. The pair of them elbowed past pensioners, prams, and what may have been a startled Jack Russell to race upstairs and claim the crown jewel of public transport seating: the front row on the top deck.

Apparently, Axel could handle contact sports after all—he just needed the right motivation.

From their top-deck thrones, Axel and Henric grinned like they’d just conquered Everest. Henric pressed his face against the window with the enthusiasm of a labrador spotting squirrels, while Axel provided a running commentary in half-German, half-gobsmacked English: “Zat is... very big… und fast… oh! Look! A man in a suit eating chips!”

By the time we reached the station, they’d already filled an entire roll of film on their Polaroid, including a blurry photo of a traffic warden they were convinced was a member of the Queen’s Guard off duty.

The Tube was a different beast altogether. Axel nearly lost a shoe in the ticket barrier, and Henric couldn’t stop waving at people across the tracks like he was in a royal carriage. When the train whooshed in with a roar and a gust of wind strong enough to rearrange your fringe, Henric shouted, “Hold onto your sausages!” which earned a few chuckles from nearby commuters.

We rattled under the city like steel-plated moles, popping up at Westminster just in time for the golden hour. Big Ben loomed above us, its clock face glowing like a giant Quality Street toffee. Trafalgar Square followed, where Axel attempted to climb a lion statue before Ingrid read him the riot act. Henric bought a foam crown from a street vendor and wore it for the rest of the afternoon, declaring himself “King of London Pigeons.”

When we reached Buckingham Palace, they peered through the gates with genuine awe. “Do you think she’s in?” Henric whispered. “Probably having tea,” I replied. “Or training the corgis.” We lingered there a moment longer than planned, wrapped in the magic of fairy lights, cold air, and the distant hum of city life.

That night, back home and nursing sore feet, we all agreed—London in winter was exhausting, chaotic, and completely marvellous.

Later that night, something odd happened. I found myself tucking my camera into a T-shirt and stashing it behind a sports bag at the back of my wardrobe with the kind of discretion normally reserved for smuggling contraband into school.

A quick glance down the hallway revealed Johan doing the exact same thing—though his secret stash included a small tin box, a battered paperback, and what looked suspiciously like a signed photo of Marlin. Great minds, as they say. Nothing says “sleep well” like locking away your prized possessions from the overenthusiastic hands of houseguests with a scrapbook habit.

Over the weekend, we were spoilt rotten. First stop: the London Dungeons—because nothing says “fun” like being chased by fake plague victims and pretending not to scream. Next up was Madame Tussaud’s, where Axel earnestly tried to strike up a conversation with waxwork Prince Charles before realising he was chatting to a mannequin with better posture than most real people.

The whole weekend felt like Christmas morning—if Santa delivered takeaway noodles and mildly traumatising history lessons.

Friday night’s school disco for the exchange students was a chaotic delight: suspiciously fizzy punch, dance moves that defied rhythm and reason, and Henric debuting what can only be described as Belgium breakdancing.

On Saturday evening, we introduced them to our local Chinese restaurant—an exotic wonderland of sizzling plates and mystery sauces. Axel, chopsticks raised like tiny fencing swords, declared, “This is better than schnitzel!” Praise indeed.

They returned to Germany early on Sunday morning, eyes heavy but suitcases bulging with souvenirs—including enough British chocolate to open their own tuck shop. Our families kept in touch for years, Christmas cards flying back and forth like polite paper boomerangs.

Eventually, the letter-writing fizzled out, as these things tend to, once teenage boys discover motorcycles, sports, and the tragic reality that writing more than two sentences feels suspiciously like homework.

Still, the memories lingered—like the scent of crispy duck and sweet ’n’ sour sauce—comforting, vivid, and impossible to forget.

Back on home turf, Johan and I returned to the rugby pitch, where we helped secure yet another glorious win. We were top of the league, and dreams of promotion hung in the air like steam off a hot scrum—until we finished second. But honestly, we didn’t care. We just loved playing.

Johan and I would switch positions mid-match just to confuse the opposition. Sometimes, we’d even drop back to full-back for a laugh, waving at our bewildered coach as we went. Eventually, he gave up trying to make sense of our strategy and just muttered, “Whatever works…”—as long as we brought home the points.

Sunday evenings was my official “Vinka Correspondence Hour.” Come rain or shine.

Dear Vinka,

I’ve been staring at this blank page for the better part of an hour, trying to find the right words to describe everything I’ve felt since we said goodbye. But every time I try, it’s like the summer slips through my fingers all over again.

That evening on the yacht—when the stars came out one by one and we just… existed, side by side—I keep going back to that. You looking out over the water, hair tangled by the breeze, fingers brushing mine. It felt like time paused for us. Like we didn’t have to be anything but two people who knew, without saying it, that something had changed.

I didn’t say it then—not properly—but I think I fell in love with you somewhere between the ferry ride and that walk back to the cabin. Maybe I already had, back at Christmas, when you pulled me down into your bunk without a word and everything just… made sense. You make sense to me, Vinka. In a world that doesn’t always offer clarity, you do.

I still hear your laugh. I still catch myself looking for you in crowds that you couldn’t possibly be in. Every rugby match, every cadet drill—it’s like I’m counting down the days until I see you again. And yet, somehow, missing you hurts and warms me at the same time.

Write soon. Tell me everything. Or tell me nothing and just send that smile of yours in ink.

Yours, always, love

Steve

I received her reply on Wednesday:

My dearest Steve,

I cried when your letter arrived. Not because I was sad, but because for a moment, it felt like you were here again—like I could reach across the page and touch your hand.

This summer felt like waking up. Like discovering that something inside me had been waiting… for you. You’ve always made me laugh, always been kind and brave in ways that don’t shout for attention—but this time, it was different. Deeper. Holding your hand on deck, falling asleep beside you in our little bunk… it felt like something sacred.

I think I’ve loved you since you wore that ridiculous red hat to walk me home in the snow. But I knew I loved you when you sang “Waterloo” with me, completely off-key, not caring who was watching. Only someone who really loves another person would do that for them.

Since you left, I’ve kept your letters by my bedside. I read them like prayers, like spells that might bring you back sooner. I miss you so much it aches—in my chest, in the quiet moments when I’m folding laundry, or walking down to the lake and half expect to see you waiting with your crooked grin.

Promise me we’ll have more summers. Promise me this isn’t just a chapter, but the beginning of our story.

With all my love,

Vinka

That autumn term flew by faster than a snowball down a ski slope. Johan and I were thriving—loving school, soaking up knowledge like hyperactive sponges, and staying in peak physical condition thanks to rugby tackles, cadet drills, and the occasional sprint to beat the dinner queue. We were getting stronger, sharper, and more confident with each passing week.

Meanwhile, in Sweden, our counterparts were apparently training for the next Winter Olympics. Vinka, Marlin, Ronnie, Sven, and Petra weren’t just keeping busy—they were turning into a Nordic super squad. They skied to school like it was the most normal thing in the world, raced competitively at weekends, practiced Aikido with the grace of martial artists and the discipline of monks, and ran distances that would make most adults cry into their isotonic drinks. Oh, and they were champions at orienteering too, because why just be brilliant at one thing when you can dominate all the things?

Every letter from Vinka read like a dispatch from an elite training camp: “Twenty-kilometre ski trek before breakfast. Marlin beat Sven in sprints. Ronnie accidentally broke a tree branch practicing rolls. Petra’s new Aikido move could probably take down a moose.” We cheered them on from afar, amazed and slightly exhausted just reading about it. Still, it made our muddy rugby pitches and drill parades feel a little less dramatic by comparison.

As the final school bell of the year rang out, we packed away our textbooks and exam timetables with a collective sigh of relief. The air was thick with anticipation—Christmas was just around the corner, and more importantly, so was Sweden. Our cases were already half-packed in our heads: woolly jumpers, ski gloves, and a healthy dose of excitement. The thought of snow-covered forests, family reunions, and the promise of another magical winter with Vinka, Marlin, and the gang made the days tick by like minutes. We were ready—for adventure, for laughter, and for whatever this Christmas had in store.

Up until now, we’d mostly dabbled in the noble art of Nordic skiing—bit of sliding about, bit of falling over, all very wholesome and “back to nature.” We’d even done a touch of Telemark touring, which basically meant skiing with style while looking slightly lost. But this year? This year, we were going upmarket. No more flappy boots that squeaked like your nan’s old floorboards, and none of those bendy skis that looked like they’d been nicked from a 1930s scout hut. Nah, we were talking proper Telemark gear—big wide boards that looked like snowboards cut in half, boots so stiff they needed their own postcode, and bindings that wrapped round your heels like they were trying to arrest you. We told ourselves we were ready. Bold. Brave. Possibly daft. Because nothing quite says “Merry Christmas” like voluntarily launching yourself down a frozen hill with planks strapped to your feet and frostbite politely nibbling your nose.

While the others zoomed down the slope, hooting and hollering, Johan and Marlin ended up on the beginner’s trail—more by choice than skill. They skied side by side in companionable silence, the crunch of fresh snow beneath them the only soundtrack. Occasionally, they glanced at each other and smiled, no need for constant chatter. At the bottom of the run, Johan turned and asked, “Want to go again?” Marlin looked at the winding trail ahead and said, “Only if you promise not to fall on me this time.” “No promises,” he grinned. “But I’ll try to fall gracefully.”

Stefan took us to a nearby slope with a drag lift—clearly designed by someone who hated comfort and loved rope burns. The thing yanked you uphill like a grumpy uncle dragging a shopping trolley, and if you weren’t paying attention, it gave your dignity a right wallop.

Then came the new gear. The Telemark skis and boots felt, at first, like we were wearing a pair of canoes bolted to concrete breeze blocks. Stylish they were not. But after a few wobbly descents, a fair bit of cursing, and Stefan barking orders like, “Bend ze knees, not your will to live!”—we slowly started getting the hang of it.

The skis had a waist (which made them sound oddly seductive), and turned with far more grace than our old Nordic planks. The bendy-knee, one-foot-forward, heel-free shuffle that defined Telemark style started to click—although our joints occasionally clicked too, just for good measure.

One afternoon, Johan was attempting to carry far too many logs at once into the cabin, clearly trying to impress someone (possibly himself). Halfway up the porch steps, the whole bundle tumbled from his arms and scattered everywhere. Marlin, who’d been helping her mum peel potatoes nearby, came over with a smirk. “You trying to heat the whole forest?” she teased. “I was going for rugged and capable,” he replied, cheeks pink from more than the cold. She knelt beside him, helping gather the logs. “You’re halfway there,” she said, handing him one last log and letting their fingers brush a little longer than necessary.

After one long skiing day, the house was buzzing—wet socks drying on radiators, cousins chasing each other with snow down their shirts, and a meatball production line in full swing. I slipped away with Stephen to the quietest room in the house, mugs of hot cocoa in hand. We sat on the floor by the radiator, my legs tucked under I stretched out. I offered him a bite of my ginger biscuit, and he nibbled it from my fingers without breaking eye contact. “You know,” I said with a soft smile, “this is my favourite kind of tired.” “Because of you?” he asked. “Yes,” I said simply.

By day four, our thighs were screaming, our balance was marginally less comical, and we could just about stop without impersonating a runaway wardrobe. And that’s when Stefan dropped the bomb: we were ready for the big one—an overnight ski tour into the wild.

The next morning, we strapped on backpacks that made us look like we were either off to war or starring in one of those hardcore survival shows where someone ends up eating moss. Sleeping bags? Check. Emergency snacks? Check. Enough chocolate to outlast a blizzard and negotiate with a yeti? Double check.

Our mission: ski ten miles to a remote cabin in the middle of nowhere—which, in Scandinavian terms, means “a picturesque spot with no phone and a strong possibility of wolves.”

During one of their snowy walks, Marlin’s glove slipped from her pocket. Johan noticed, scooped it up, and without a word, gently slid it back onto her hand. Their eyes met—no joke, no quip, just a soft understanding between them. She whispered, “Tack,” and he replied, “När som helst.” It wasn’t grand or dramatic. But it stayed with them both.

When we finally clattered through the snow and reached the hut, we found a place that was... let’s say intimate. It could technically sleep ten, if everyone fancied becoming extremely well-acquainted. Bunk beds lined the walls, the kind where the top one dares you to try and climb in without elbowing someone in the face. A sturdy table sat in the middle with just enough chairs for a card game—or a mildly aggressive land dispute. And in the corner, an old wood stove hunkered by the fire like a grizzled mountain veteran that had seen more winters than we’d had birthdays.

Round the back, we discovered the outhouse—a wooden throne with rustic charm, an earthy attitude, and ventilation so efficient it practically whistled through your trousers. Refreshing, in the worst possible way.

Job one: get that fire lit before our fingers turned into novelty icicles. Luckily, someone had thought ahead. Outside the hut, stacked neatly beside the door, was a box of kindling and logs, along with a clever little match trick—matches wedged upright in the lid so you could strike one without even opening the box. Genius. Especially if your hands were too frozen to do anything more fiddly than wave for help.

With numb fingers and gritted teeth, we got the fire going—slow at first, then crackling into life like it had remembered its job. Heat bled into the room in slow waves, chasing the cold from the corners. We threw damp gloves near the stove, praying nothing caught fire except our spirits.

Once the warmth returned to our limbs and our eyebrows unfroze, it was time for the next priority: food. We whipped up dinner with the kind of feral enthusiasm that comes from burning 4,000 calories just by not falling over. Pasta, cheese, sausage chunks—whatever we could dig out of our rucksacks that wasn’t frozen solid or suspiciously squashed.

With the fire roaring, oil lamps flickering, and the unmistakable smell of wet socks roasting gently beside us, we flopped down at the table, cupped mugs of cocoa or whatever we’d managed to brew, and replayed the day’s adventures with all the self-congratulatory flair of returning war heroes. We were cold, aching, possibly slightly undercooked on the inside—but we were glowing.

It was the kind of night where nothing moved but the shadows, and the silence outside felt thick with snow. And inside, well… it felt like the heart of the world.

Mornings in the shared cabin were usually a whirlwind of boots, biscuits, and bruised shins, but I always seemed to wake just before the others. Stephen, ever attuned, would stir and smile at me from the opposite bunk. We’d steal five minutes of peace, whispering about the dreams we’d had or the plans for the day ahead. Once, he reached across the narrow gap between our beds and brushed a lock of hair from my forehead, letting his fingers linger just a second too long. Johan snored dramatically, breaking the spell—but the warmth between us lingered.

The following morning began with a crash course in “leave no trace”—which, as it turned out, was exactly like tidying your bedroom… if your bedroom was a log cabin in the wilderness and your mum was a Viking with a clipboard. We scrubbed floors, swept out corners, folded the blankets like hotel staff on performance bonuses, and even fluffed the firewood for good measure.

We reset the fire so the next poor, frostbitten traveller could spark it up without spending twenty minutes swearing at cold fingers. The oil lamps were topped up like seasoned mountaineers—or, more accurately, like overly keen boy scouts who’d read the manual twice. By the time we were done, the hut looked more welcoming than when we arrived, which felt oddly satisfying.

Then came the ski back.

It took us a few solid hours of steady gliding, more than a few thigh-burning climbs, and the occasional dramatic wobble, but we made it. Legs aching, faces windburnt, but hearts absolutely singing. That overnight adventure had been epic—proper rite-of-passage stuff.

We were in the thick of a proper snowball skirmish—Johan was lobbing icy missiles like a mad Viking, and Marlin had built herself a blinking fortress. I was mid-duck behind a snowbank when Vinka suddenly grabbed my hand—cold glove in glove—and yanked me behind a tree. “We need to regroup,” she said, dead serious. I thought she meant tactics, maybe a flanking move. But no—she plonked herself straight down in the snow and started flappin’ about like a wind-up goose. “What are you doing?” I asked, grinning. “Snow angel,” she said. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

So down I went beside her, arms and legs flailing in unison, laughing like a right berk. When we finally stopped, puffing a bit, just lyin’ there side by side, lookin’ up at the clouds floatin’ past like lazy old airships, she turned her head, grinned, and said, “You’re completely mad.”

I looked back and said, “You make me worse.”

She reached over and gave my glove a squeeze.

I squeezed back.

Sadly, reality returned with a vengeance in the form of something called “a flight back to England,” which felt like a personal insult after such a majestic trip. Still, we left with full hearts, tired muscles, and a new understanding of both wilderness survival and the humble Telemark turn.

If it hadn’t been for Greta, Ingrid, Anna, and Silvi, we might’ve completely forgotten our thirteenth birthday. That’s what happens when your days are filled with Telemark skiing, rolling in snowdrifts like lunatics after every sauna, and consuming your bodyweight in meatballs. Time stopped meaning much beyond “Is it dinner yet?”

But the mums weren’t having it. Oh no. Birthdays, in their world, were sacred ground. Between them, they’d coordinated cakes, candles, and group hugs with military precision. We were ambushed with love before breakfast, serenaded in two languages, and force-fed enough sugar to make our skis vibrate.

Honestly, it was perfect. I couldn’t wait for next year—especially with the school ski trip looming on the horizon and my thighs just about beginning to forgive me for the Telemark torture.

It was one of those nights where everything just… paused. The others had drifted off, snoring and mumbling in their sleep, the fire crackling low. Vinka caught my eye, gave me that little tilt of her head, and we slipped out without a word. The snow was fresh, untouched, crunching soft under our boots as we wandered into the trees. Above us, the sky was a proper show-off—crystal clear, stars scattered like someone had flung a handful of diamonds across a velvet cloth.

We didn’t talk much. Didn’t need to. Just walked hand in hand, our breath mingling in the cold like steam from a kettle. When we reached the edge of the frozen lake, she nestled in under my arm like she belonged there. Her head rested gentle on my shoulder, like it’d done it a hundred times before. I looked up, took it all in, and murmured, “I wish we had skies like this back in England.”

She didn’t miss a beat. “You have me,” she whispered.

And, blimey, that was enough.

Our last night in the cabin was a bit of a circus—everyone bickering over who’d nab the last meatball like it was buried treasure. But over by the stove, Johan and Marlin were off in their own little world. She pulled a square of chocolate from her coat pocket, broke it in half, and handed him a bit. “Will you write to me?” she asked, all quiet-like.

Johan nodded. “Even if I don’t know what to say.”

“Say whatever,” she said. “Just don’t forget.”

He looked at her then, really looked, the firelight flickering in her eyes like it knew a secret. And he said, “How could I?”

And you know what? None of us said it out loud, but we all knew—something had changed that winter. Something proper lovely.

Saying goodbye is never easy—especially when it comes with hugs that make your ribs creak and teary goodbyes that even the snowflakes seemed to pause for. There were the usual farewells: ruffled hair, watery smiles, and promises to write (with real paper and stamps!). But this time the parting wasn’t quite so heart-wrenching, because we knew we’d see Vinka and Marlin again at Easter, when they’d be coming to England with Erik, Anna, Petra and Ronnie. That made leaving a little easier… though not much.

The morning we left was a blur of boots thudding, suitcases thumping, and half-finished goodbyes shouted across the porch like we were late for a train that hadn’t even turned up yet. Amid the flurry, Vinka and I ducked out for a moment—just the two of us by the old coat rack in the hall, where the smell of woodsmoke still clung to everything.

“You packed my scarf?” she asked, all calm-like, but I could see the worry in her eyes, same as mine.

“Wouldn’t dream of forgetting it,” I said, and gently looped it round her neck, like I was wrapping up a bit of my heart with it.

Her eyes searched mine—proper serious now. “See you at Easter?”

I nodded. “Every day ‘til then, I’ll be thinking about this one.”

And just before the chaos could catch up with us—before someone came barrellin’ in lookin’ for lost gloves or shoutin’ about passports—she leaned up, stood on her toes, and kissed me. Quick. Sweet. Certain.

Just long enough to keep me warm till spring.

We returned to school after New Year and were swiftly flung back into the familiar chaos—homework piling up like snowdrifts, Sea Cadet drills barked with renewed vigour, and rugby matches that left our knees muddier than the pitch. No rest for the wicked—or for the slightly over-achieving. Fortunately, there was light at the end of the academic tunnel: mid-February brought our long-awaited school ski trip to France and the Alps.

We made our first major stop just outside Paris for a comfort break and a spot of food. As we climbed back onto the coach, I noticed Miss Higgins staring wistfully out the window, lost in thought. The usual fire in her eyes had softened, like she was watching something long gone but still vivid.

Concerned, I gently tapped her arm. “Ça va, mademoiselle?”

She blinked, returning from whatever distant memory had seized her. A faint smile tugged at her lips.

“Just remembering.”

“Remembering what?” I asked, already sensing it wasn’t about the croissants.

“Oh… the war,”

Johan, now half-listening, perked up. He knew, same as me, what she’d once confided at the Remembrance Parade. I figured this might be the moment she finally unpacked the full story.

“Would you like to talk about it?” I offered, half-wondering if I’d just invited a two-hour monologue about ration books and sock darning.

She gave a sigh, but this time it was aimed at us.

“Where do I start, boys?”

she murmured, gazing into the middle distance like a war-hardened BBC drama character.

“Er… the beginning?” I said.

“All right then,” “It was 1943 and I was eighteen. I’d just joined the Fany—no, don’t you dare laugh, it stands for First Aid Nursing Yeomanry—when a rather formidable woman named Vera Atkins asked me if I fancied doing something ‘a little different.’”

Johan and I exchanged a glance. This was already more thrilling than any school history lesson.

“Next thing I knew,” “I was sitting opposite Maurice Buckmaster himself—head of the French section Special Operations Executive. Charming man. Terrible coffee. He looked me over, tapped his pen, and asked, ‘Can you keep secrets, Miss Higgins?’ And I told him, ‘I’ve got three brothers and a diary—secrets are my speciality.’ That seemed to do the trick.”

“I spent six months learning everything: sabotage, radio work, codes, even how to disappear in a crowd. Yes, they really did try to teach me how to kill a man with a pencil sharpener—but that’s mostly poetic licence. Mostly.”

“Then they gave me a new name—‘Marguerite’—and dropped me into France one moonless night by Lysander aircraft. My cover? A governess. Which was perfect, because I could tell off children and smuggle explosives in their toy trains.”

We gaped. There were no words. How do you respond to your French teacher casually admitting she used to courier bombs disguised as homework?

“Don’t be fooled, boys—it wasn’t glamorous. It was cold, wet, and terrifying. The Gestapo had a price on my head. I slept in barns, attics, once even a chicken coop—with the chickens.”

“What was the scariest part?” Johan asked quietly.

“Losing people. Friends. There was a man—Étienne. Brave, kind, and very dear to me. He was captured. I never found out what happened. You carried on, because you had to carry them with you.”

The bus rolled on in silence, the road humming beneath us. Even the rowdy kids two rows up seemed to sense something sacred was unfolding.

“When Paris was liberated,” “I wasn’t watching from a distance—I was right there, racing through the streets with the Resistance. Delivering messages, carting weapons, dodging bullets. It was chaos, but glorious chaos. And on the 19th of August, 1944—ah, that day was wild. Paris became one giant street party. Champagne, kisses, and utter bedlam.”

She grinned at the memory, and we could almost picture her in the middle of it all—boots muddy, satchel full of secrets, smirking in the face of danger.

“For bravery,” “I was Mentioned in Despatches, given an MBE by the King, and awarded the Croix de Guerre by the French. That last one came with considerably better wine.”

We sat there, stunned. She’d just dropped a medal haul like it was a shopping list.

“By the way, your French is coming along nicely. A few more weeks and you might just pass for locals.”

We beamed. When a war heroine gives you a nod, it hits you right in the pride—like you’d just been knighted with a wooden spoon.

The next morning hit us like a snowball to the face. We’d arrived in the dark the night before, so waking up to blazing sunshine and a jaw-dropping mountain panorama was… well, a bit of a shock—in the best way. Beyond the frost-frosted window lay endless white slopes, glittering like someone had scattered a billion diamonds across the Alps.

As we wolfed down croissants and scalded our tongues on hot chocolate, we watched snow cannons firing away in the distance—blasting out plumes of artificial powder like frosty flamethrowers. Our teacher, far too cheerful for that time of morning, casually mentioned that we’d be heading up there later.

Cue nervous glances and a few quiet prayers to whatever ski gods might be listening.

Down in the hotel lobby, we assembled for a headcount—which took ages thanks to someone inevitably forgetting their gloves, again—and then marched (well, shuffled) off to the ski hire shop.

The boots were not, I repeat not, like our comfy Telemark kit back in Sweden. These monsters were hard plastic nightmares—heavy, stiff, and about as forgiving as a maths exam. Walking in them felt like trying to wade through treacle wearing two breeze blocks. And the skis? They were long, skinny, and had the turning radius of a barge. Clipping into them felt less like gearing up for fun and more like preparing to pilot ironing boards down an icy staircase.

Still, we were up for the challenge.

Sort of.

Still, we soldiered on—eventually the boots started to feel slightly less like medieval torture devices and more like mildly vengeful footwear. Our ski instructor was French, with a moustache that looked like it had its own passport, and spoke English as if he’d learned it exclusively by watching old cowboy films. Every sentence sounded like John Wayne trying to order cheese.

He did his best to mime the basics—lots of swooping arms, dramatic knee bends, and the occasional yell of “Le snowplough!” like he was charging into battle. After an hour of misunderstandings and students unintentionally skiing into each other like confused ducklings, Johan and I took pity.

“We speak French,” Johan offered, slightly smug.

The instructor blinked, then beamed. “Ah, fantastique!”

From that moment on, we became his favourites—and, unintentionally, the unofficial translators for the entire class. While the others stared blankly as he yelled “Poussez avec les bâtons!” we were relaying instructions, helping adjust helmets, and occasionally reminding people that “gauche” means left, not go faster.

Once we stopped walking like drunken robots in those clunky Alpine ski boots, Johan and I finally found our groove. Turns out, all those years of Telemark skiing had quietly trained us into mountain ninjas. While the others were still working out which end of the ski was supposed to point downhill, we were already bending, carving, and gliding like we belonged in a slow-motion montage.

By day three, we were starting to look suspiciously competent. Our instructor took one look at our smug grins and made a swift executive decision: time to separate the wheat from the wobbly. The class was split into groups, and we, the so-called “advanced” lot, were handed over to a new instructor—a wiry bloke with mirrored goggles and a permanent five o’clock shadow, who clearly thought the piste was for amateurs.

He grunted something that might’ve been encouragement and promptly led us off-piste, where skiing stops being about style and becomes more about survival with a smile. Trees, moguls, and icy patches awaited. It was like alpine obstacle bingo—if you could stay upright long enough to shout “house.”

But despite the bruises, the falls, and one particularly enthusiastic encounter with a snowbank, we loved every minute. This was proper skiing—wild, exhilarating, and just on the edge of madness.

In the second week, someone—probably a closet sadist lurking in the staff room—suggested we try langlauf. The mere mention of it sent the rest of the group recoiling like it was a contagious rash. “Cross-country skiing?” one lad muttered, “Isn’t that just walking, but colder and sadder?”

But Johan and I weren’t fooled. It looked suspiciously like Telemark touring with a posh name—and to us, that meant home turf. We signed up without hesitation.

Best decision of the trip.

The boots were blissfully comfy (actual footwear, not medieval torture devices), the skis were featherlight, and—praise be—we had free heels again! The moment we clipped in, it felt like returning to civilisation after a week of strapping ironing boards to our feet.

To our surprise, we were the only two takers. Everyone else was clearly allergic to freedom—or just couldn’t bear the thought of skiing uphill. The upside? We got a private instructor all to ourselves.

Our instructor, Perrie, was a legend. Within minutes he’d clocked that we weren’t total novices and spent the first morning fine-tuning our turns like a ski whisperer. “More hips! Less panic!” he’d shout cheerfully as we carved around trees and narrowly avoided the odd snowploughing pensioner.

Once he was satisfied we wouldn’t ski straight into a pine tree, he took us off the beaten track—scenic glides through silent forests, powdery descents that made us whoop like lunatics, and only the occasional tumble into a suspiciously deep snowdrift that left us flailing like upended turtles.

By the time we got back to the hotel, we were more exhausted than a lift attendant on half-term week. We managed dinner, just about, then collapsed into bed without even pretending we’d stay up late. Legends, yes—but tired ones.

The next morning, Perrie greeted us with a wicked grin and a new challenge: ski skins. “Today, no lifts,” he said, as if this were good news. “We climb.”

And climb we did.

Up the mountain we went, skins gripped to our skis like magic carpet treads. Step by step, sweat steaming off our brows in the frosty air, we zigzagged up slopes most people only ever ski down. Then we turned and descended like giddy missiles, legs screaming, grins plastered to our faces. Then—up again. And again.

Other kids thought we were mad. We knew we were elite.

On the final day, tradition demanded a ski race—a rite of passage where everyone from the cocky Year 9s to teachers who hadn’t seen their knees since the Churchill era had a go. The air buzzed with nervous energy and the faint scent of muscle rub.

Johan and I, ever the rebels, stuck to our trusty touring skis and comfy boots. While the others clomped around in their rigid Alpine setups, looking like robots on stilts, we slipped through the gates with the effortless grace of two very smug swans.

We didn’t just ski the course—we glided it. Bent knees, crisp turns, the occasional flourish. One of the instructors actually squinted at us like we’d just skied out of a Bond film and were about to order a martini at the bottom.

Two runs later: joint first.

The staff were baffled.

“Are these two even students?” one muttered behind a clipboard.

We, of course, acted modest—nodding earnestly, offering helpful ski tips, and totally not mentioning the fact we’d had a private instructor all week, years of practice, and thighs forged in the icy fires of Telemark training.

Pure coincidence. Honest.

On the journey home, Johan and I snagged seats next to Miss Higgins—not just because they were near the snacks, but because we were curious. Somewhere between packet crisps and a lurch through a pothole near Reims, we finally asked the question that had been bugging us all week: “Miss, where did you learn to speak such perfect French?”

I gave one of my trademark mysterious smiles and said, “Ah, that would be my mother’s doing.”

My father had worked for the Foreign Office and was posted to the British Embassy in Paris—where he promptly fell head over brogues for a Parisian woman my mother. I grew up in the heart of the city, attending school there and soaking up the language before most kids could spell ‘bonjour.’

Then came the war. Just before the German invasion, my family was evacuated back to Britain.

Talk about a backstory—our French teacher hadn’t just studied French, she’d lived it. Suddenly, all those moments where she effortlessly corrected our grammar with the flick of an eyebrow made total sense. She wasn’t just teaching the language—she was the prequel to a war film, with subtitles and a decent soundtrack.

I went on to explain that after the evacuation, my family had settled in Hitchin, where my father already owned a house. I finished school at the Girls’ Grammar, then took a job at the GPO’s sorting office—“not exactly glamorous,” I admitted with a wry smile, “but it paid the rent.”

At eighteen, I joined the Fany, trading post for patriotism. “I wanted to do more,” “Delivering mail is one thing. Delivering hope, sabotage instructions, and the occasional revolver? That felt a bit more useful.”

It wasn’t long after that I was recruited into the SOE.

Johan and I just sat there gawping, mouths slightly open, somewhere between awe and disbelief. Our French teacher—who once deducted marks for using tu instead of vous—had been a real-life secret agent.

When we finally found our words, we told her she must’ve been incredibly brave.

I gave a little shrug, eyes crinkling at the corners. “It was my duty—to the country I fell in love with.”

We were stunned. And weirdly proud. Suddenly, the end-of-term French test didn’t seem quite so terrifying. After all, it wasn’t like she was asking us to sneak across enemy lines with a typewriter and a cyanide pill.

As the coach rumbled its way back across the Channel and onto British tarmac, the mood shifted into that familiar post-adventure quiet. The kind where everyone’s too tired to talk but too wired to sleep. Crisp packets rustled. Someone at the front was snoring like a distressed accordion. Miss Higgins had nodded off against the window, arms crossed, dreams probably filled with parachutes and code words.

Johan nudged me and whispered, “Still can’t believe she was in the SOE.”

I nodded, staring out at the blurred hedgerows. “Makes you think, doesn’t it? There’s a whole life behind every teacher. Most just choose to hide it behind vocab tests.”

He chuckled. “Reckon we’ll ever do something half as cool?”

I thought of Sweden, of Vinka. Of skiing off-piste and singing Abba at karaoke. Of Miss Higgins in Resistance gear, and Paris erupting in joy. Then I shrugged and said, “We’re working on it.”

We both leaned back in our seats, shoulders aching, legs sore, but grinning like two boys who’d just seen the world crack open a little wider. Easter in England with the Swedish crew was only weeks away. Something told me we hadn’t seen the half of it yet.

The coach rolled on. The future waited.

That evening, back at home, the house felt cosier than usual. Maybe it was the warmth from a long spring day or the soft buzz that follows a good trip, but there was an easiness in the air. We’d picked up a few treats on the way—some fudge from a market stall, postcards we’d never send, and a tin of novelty biscuits shaped like Spitfires that Harry pretended to scowl at before sneaking one with his tea.

They arrived in a rush of hugs, coats, and that unmistakable scent of cold air clinging to wool. The house instantly felt smaller, warmer, and noisier. Vinka’s laugh filled the hallway, Marlin wrapped me in a hug that left no room for escape, and Petra appeared at Tim’s side like she’d been there all along. Harry and Erik shook hands with the quiet nods of men who didn’t need words to convey affection, while Ingrid and Anna set about reorganising the kitchen as though they’d lived there for years.

After dinner, we all piled into the lounge with blankets, hot chocolates, and the kind of yawns that only come from a full day of walking and laughing. Ronnie stretched out with a book on naval architecture (of course), Petra put her feet on his lap without asking, and he didn’t complain. Marlin curled up next to Johan, their heads close, voices low. Every now and then they’d giggle, and someone would throw a cushion at them on principle.

Vinka and I found ourselves sitting together on the old settee by the fireplace. The room was softly lit, the flames throwing flickers against the walls. I looked at her, and she smiled that little smile—the one that said this is nice, isn’t it? I reached for her hand, and she didn’t hesitate. We just sat like that for a while, the noise around us fading into the background hum of home.

Eventually, someone suggested watching a film. We agreed on something classic and comforting—though we all knew we’d be asleep before the second act. And we were. One by one, we drifted off. Heads resting on shoulders, cocoa forgotten.

It was the sort of night that doesn’t look like much on paper, but stays with you for years. A perfect full stop at the end of a perfect day.

Somewhere between the laughter and the late nights, we found time for what Johan dubbed “the summit.” The dining room was transformed into our war room: an old Admiralty chart spread across the table, a battered compass (mostly twirled for show), and several mugs of tea standing in for strategically important islands. Harry leaned back in his chair, arms folded, Erik sipping his tea like he was weighing the fate of nations. Petra, perched on the arm of a chair, offered occasional commentary—usually to bet on how long we’d last before calling for rescue.

“We’ve got the skills,” Johan declared.

“And the experience,” I added, which earned me a sceptical eyebrow from Ingrid.

We laid out the plan: one week, coastal sailing only, strictly within Swedish territorial waters, and under no circumstances challenging any commercial ferries to a race. The parents listened without interruption, exchanging the occasional glance that was impossible to read. Then, to our astonishment, they didn’t shut us down. Harry gave a grunt that might’ve been approval. Erik said something about “growth through responsibility.” And just like that, Operation Independence was a go—provisional on weather, good planning, and an emergency radio that was definitely not to be used for ordering cinnamon buns mid-fjord.

As they left the room, Erik called back, “And remember—Norway is that way. Don’t make me come looking.”

We grinned at each other, equal parts thrilled and slightly terrified.

The days that followed felt even more precious, knowing they were numbered. We stretched out breakfasts, lingered over walks, and clung to conversations as if they might keep the clock from moving. The final morning crept in with that peculiar hush that comes when something good is ending. Suitcases huddled by the door like sullen children.

At the station, the hugs were long and rib-crushing, the kind that leave you a little winded but warmer for it. Off to one side, Petra and Tim lingered as if the rest of the world had blurred away. They’d been writing to each other for months now, their letters filled with little jokes, shared news, and the sort of details you only share when someone’s begun to matter.

“I’ll miss you,” Petra said softly, almost lost under the noise of the platform.

“I’ll miss you too,” Tim replied, and it didn’t sound like something he was just saying.

She slipped a folded note into his hand. “Something for when you get home,” she whispered.

He glanced down at it, then back up at her with a grin. “I’ve got one for you too,” he said, producing his own from his pocket.

They hugged—longer than before, neither of them quick to let go. When they finally did, Petra’s eyes were bright, and Tim looked like he’d just discovered he could feel two things at once: sad and happy.

The train doors closed, the carriage slid away, and they were gone again—vanished into the rhythmic clatter of steel on steel. Johan glanced over, a half-smile playing at his lips.

“Only a few months till summer,” he said.

And that was enough. Because we knew that when it came, we’d be ready—chart in hand, sails waiting, and a summer’s worth of sea ahead of us.

The North Sea stretched out under a pale sky, the deck wind sharp against Petra’s cheeks. She found a quiet spot by the rail and pulled Tim’s note from her coat pocket, unfolding it with cold-stiffened fingers.

Min älskling,

Thanks for making Easter brilliant. You always make me laugh, even when you’re trying to be serious. Wish I was coming to Sweden instead of mucking out pig pens and fixing fences. I’ll be thinking about you every day till we meet again.

—Bondepojke

She read it twice, her lips curling into a smile, before tucking it safely back into her pocket.

Later that night, Tim finally unfolded her note and read it one last time before sealing it in an envelope:

Bondepojke,

This week was the best. You’re my favourite person to talk to, and I’m going to miss you like mad. I’ll write as soon as I’m home. Don’t forget about me while you’re out being Farmer Boy.

älskling x

If they couldn’t spend the summer together, at least their letters would.

We took our demotions with good humour—mainly because we knew the real power lay with whoever controlled the snacks. I was officially designated Navigator-in-Chief, responsible for plotting the course, managing tide tables, and not accidentally sailing us into a NATO exercise zone. Johan was dubbed Chief Engineer and Latrine Overlord, in charge of all boat systems, including the notoriously temperamental heads—his personal Everest.

Vinka, of course, was Head Chef and Galley Goddess, complete with self-awarded stars for culinary excellence (and zero tolerance for underseasoned potatoes). Marlin claimed the top title of Skipper and Supreme Ruler of the Seas, which came with full veto power, a pretend admiral’s hat, and a talent for giving orders while sunbathing.

Our letters took on an increasingly official tone, littered with headings like “To the Office of Winch Monkey Operations” or “Memo from the Galley”. We exchanged hand-drawn treasure maps with snack stop Xs, meal plans that included disclaimers like “subject to sea state and teenage appetite,” and a mock ship’s log with boxes to tick for “Mood of the Skipper: flirty / bossy / singing ABBA again.”

What started as practical planning had turned into a fully-fledged fantasy adventure, stitched together one doodle and dramatic title at a time. And the best part? It was almost real. The countdown had begun.

Erik, being either wonderfully trusting or just a tiny bit delusional, mailed over the full suite of charts and pilot books we’d need for the voyage. The moment they landed on our doorstep, Johan and I turned into caffeine-fuelled cartographers, spreading maps across the dining table like battle plans before D-Day. Every spare moment was dedicated to plotting routes, calculating tide tables, and sketching passage and pilot plans with the intensity of boys who believed they could outsmart Mother Nature—and possibly Marlin.

We mapped out emergency scenarios, ranging from standard man-overboard drills to the more niche “what to do if Vinka burns the porridge and declares a kitchen mutiny.” There were rosters for night watches, meal duties, and a rotating schedule for cleaning the heads—though, mysteriously, Marlin’s name never once appeared on that particular rota. Suspicious.

Naturally, we produced briefing notes for the rest of the crew, complete with colour-coded diagrams, nautical doodles, and a few snarky footnotes. (“Note to self: Johan must not be left in charge of boiling eggs after last year’s ‘incident.’”) In truth, half the planning was an excuse to crack out the fancy pens and pretend we were running a top-secret naval operation.

But beneath the laughter and the laminating, we knew something big was coming. Operation Independence wasn’t just a holiday. It was our first real voyage as a crew.

When we finally arrived, our excitement was practically bouncing off the bulkheads. The bags were barely stowed before we called a crew meeting that evening around the big oak table—Grandpa Olaf, Papa, Marlin, Stephen, Johan, and me—Team Voyage 101. We came armed with charts, laminated checklists, highlighters, and the kind of solemn expressions usually reserved for court martials or tax returns.

By the time we’d finished, the table looked like the Admiralty had exploded on it. Charts, checklists, and a suspicious number of biscuit crumbs all mixed together like some sort of nautical crime scene.

Marlin, of course, was in full Skipper mode, tapping the table with a pencil like she was about to announce battle orders. “Right,” she said, “final run-through before we present this to the others.” Translation: one last chance for her to remind us she’s in charge.

Stephen, our self-appointed Navigator, had drawn up enough routes to invade Denmark. He’d even used a protractor, which frankly terrified me. I swear if you asked him to pop down to the shops, He’d still plot three alternative courses and a tidal stream calculation.

Johan—our Engineer and official Head Honcho of the Heads—was polishing a spanner like it was the Crown Jewels. He kept muttering about “efficiency” and “preventative maintenance,” which we all know is code for “I’m going to take something apart just to see how it works.” His cleaning rota for the heads was suspiciously neat… and suspiciously missing Marlin’s name. He claimed it was “purely a clerical oversight.” I claimed I’d be checking his handwriting.

And then there was me. Galley Goddess. The beating heart of morale. The woman between you and starvation. I’d already laminated the menus, colour-coded for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and I may or may not have included a warning in bold red: Do not annoy the cook unless you fancy eating powdered mash for a week.

We’d covered everything: man-overboard drills, storm protocols, even the highly sensitive burnt porridge mutiny clause. Looking around at the three of them, all smug in their little roles, I couldn’t help but grin. We were about to hand over our grand plan, and sure, half of it was an excuse to boss each other about on paper… but deep down, I knew this wasn’t just a trip. It was our first taste of running the whole show.

And if the sea had any sense, it would be just a little bit scared of us.

We laid out our grand plan with all the gravitas of a naval war room. Marlin took the lead as Skipper and Supreme Ruler of the Seas (her words), while I donning an imaginary apron and a very real notebook, outlined galley logistics with terrifying efficiency. Johan and Stehpen handled navigation and operations—complete with a colour-coded tide chart that Grandpa Olaf squinted at before nodding slowly, clearly impressed.

No one laughed. Not even when Johan mentioned our contingency plan for rogue seals. Grandpa Olaf even grunted a rare compliment, muttering something like, “Damn fine prep,” before reaching for his pipe and giving an approving puff, which might’ve been the maritime equivalent of a standing ovation.

With the official green light given, and a hearty round of approval from our elders, we were cleared to cast off into the great Baltic unknown—with high hopes, a modest stack of pilot books, and possibly one too many tins of baked beans.

Two days later, we officially took command of our noble vessel—a gleaming Milsi One, freshly scrubbed and shimmering like she’d just wandered off the pages of a yacht calendar. With sleek lines, polished teak, and a galley that looked more competent than most student kitchens, she was perfect. We treated her with the reverence of new parents taking home a particularly seaworthy baby.

The handover was thorough. Olaf walked us through everything from how to pump the heads “with dignity, not drama,” to where the emergency chocolate was stashed—crucial knowledge for morale in rough weather or dessert-related emergencies. Erik double-checked our passage plan and made only two mild jokes about mutiny. Then, just after lunch, with a confident nudge of the throttle and a flurry of fenders, we slipped the berth and set off.

Our maiden voyage was a modest five-mile hop along the coast—a gentle shakedown sail designed to test our sea legs, systems, and friends patience. Marlin stood at the helm, already radiating “future circumnavigator” energy. I’m fairly sure she’d mentally plotted a transatlantic crossing before we’d even cleared the marina.

Once anchored in a quiet cove, Johan and I sprang into action—tidying lines, adjusting fenders, and performing deeply unnecessary knots. I rounded it off with a dramatic swan dive into the water to “check the anchor” (which was clearly fine), though mostly to show off in front of Vinka. She rolled her eyes, but I swear I saw her smile.

Back on board, the boat quickly became a floating home. Vinka whipped up a dinner so divine I briefly considered proposing then and there—knees still damp from the anchor check. But I wisely kept that to myself. No need to scare her off with premature romance over pasta and tinned tomatoes.

Post-dinner, Johan and I did our duty as galley slaves, clanking pans and scrubbing pots while Vinka reclined on the cockpit cushions with all the smug satisfaction of a Michelin-starred chef who hadn’t touched a sponge in years. “You missed a spot,” she teased, pointing with her spoon before licking the last of the sauce off it. We grumbled theatrically, but truthfully, we didn’t mind. Her pasta had been worth every sudsy second.

Once the galley gleamed, we convened at the chart table for our nightly briefing—part naval operation, part bedtime story. Tomorrow’s leg was a thirty-mile stretch through a nest of tight, rocky channels, the kind that required precision, teamwork, and a bit of light praying. Papa had dubbed it “threading the needle,” though in our case, it would be more like threading a needle while someone splashed your face with seawater and yelled, “Mind the lobster pots!”

Fortunately, the weather was still playing nice. The forecast showed calm winds, good visibility, and no signs of trouble—just the kind of optimism that made you forget how quickly the sea could change its mind.

The Milsi One behaved like a dream, all grace and confidence. She heeled gently when asked, tacked like a dancer, and made us look far more seasoned than we had any right to be. Johan took his turn on anchor dive duty, surfacing with a thumbs up and a clump of seaweed in his hair. “She’s dug in solid,” he declared. “Unless Poseidon himself wants a word, we’re not going anywhere.”

That was reassuring, since “drifting into rocks while asleep” wasn’t high on anyone’s holiday wish list.

We settled in for the evening. With only a few hours of moody Scandinavian twilight to call “night,” the sky never truly darkened—just melted into bruised purple and soft indigo as the sun hovered below the horizon like it couldn’t quite make up its mind.

Wrapped in blankets, sipping hot chocolate, we lay stretched out in the cockpit a lazy sprawl, the four of us watching seabirds skim the surface and the water gently lap against the hull. Johan produced a harmonica from somewhere, played one vaguely recognisable tune and a few that weren’t, and somehow it all felt just right.

Somewhere between the laughter, the salt in the air, and the lapping of the waves, the moment stretched—simple, perfect, and quietly unforgettable.

The sleeping arrangements had been a source of much negotiation—largely because the Milsi One, while luxurious, was still a boat, and boats tend to view personal space as a myth. Marlin and I shared the forward double berth, with strict rules about “no chart clutter” and “no boys unless invited.” Johan and Stephen took the aft bunks, each tucked behind a little wooden partition barely wider than our shoulders. Cosy, creaky, and full of charm—not unlike the boat herself.

But that night, as the sky outside turned dusky gold and the sea stilled to a mirror, Vinka appeared at the galley with a toothbrush in one hand and a small lantern in the other.

“Stephen,” I said softly, “can we talk?”

I followed her to the forward cabin. Marlin was already cocooned in her sleeping bag, one arm slung over her head, breathing the slow rhythm of deep sleep. Vinka pointed to the small bench opposite the berth and perched beside me, legs tucked up beneath her.

“I keep thinking about last summer,” I said. “That night on the ferry... the cabin... It felt like something changed.”

I nodded, suddenly very aware of how close she was. “It did. At least, for me.”

“For me too,” I whispered.

There was a pause, gentle and full of things unsaid. Then she reached out, fingers brushing mine, before curling them into a firm hold.

“I’d like you to stay here tonight,” “Just… like before. No drama, no pretending. Just us.”

We climbed into the berth, carefully and quietly so as not to wake Marlin. The berth wasn’t exactly designed for sprawling—one turn too many and you’d headbutt the hull—but it didn’t matter. We lay side by side, wrapped in sleeping bags zipped together, the gentle sway of the boat matching the rhythm of our breaths.

She tucked her head under my chin, and I wrapped an arm around her. There were no kisses, no speeches, just that closeness—that quiet trust that needed no explanation.

Outside, the Milsi creaked gently in the hush of her anchorage. Inside, we lay still, heartbeats slowing, sleep pulling us under like the tide.

Just before I drifted off, I whispered, “I’m glad it’s you.”

She squeezed my hand, and in the hush that followed, I was certain I felt her smile.

I woke to the gentle creak of timbers and the sound of someone above tapping the kettle against the stove. Vinka was still tucked against my side, her hair slightly tangled, face calm and soft in the morning light leaking through the porthole. For a few blissful moments, I lay there, listening to the muffled rustle of the others stirring, the faint slap of water against the hull, and the unmistakable scent of frying bacon wafting in from the galley.

Then came the voice—cheerful, far too awake, and unmistakably Johan’s.

“Oi, Cap’n Kärleksbåt (Loveboat), you joining us or should I bring breakfast to your honeymoon suite?”

Vinka groaned and buried her face in my shoulder. I chuckled.

“We’re coming, we’re coming,” I called back, though neither of us moved right away.

Eventually, with great reluctance, we detangled ourselves and emerged looking far more rested than anyone had a right to. Marlin raised an eyebrow at us over her mug of tea but said nothing—just handed me a steaming cup with a smirk.

The cockpit table was already laid out with plates, toast, eggs, bacon, and a jar of cloudberry jam that Granpa Olaf had insisted we bring “for morale.” Johan was still in his boxers, flipping pancakes, and Marlin was sketching our day’s route on a folded chart with a grease pencil and an air of command.

“Morning, lovers,” Marlin said breezily, not looking up. “We’re making for Smögen. Good harbour, ice cream, gift shops, and apparently showers with actual water pressure.”

“Luxury,” I slid into a seat beside Stephen.

“I’ve scheduled Stephen for dishes, and Johan for anchor retrieval,” Marlin continued, all business.

“And what do you two get?” I asked, buttering toast.

“Command,” she said sweetly.

“Supervision,” I added, already grinning.

The boat gently rocked as the breeze picked up. Sunlight glittered across the water, the horizon promising a new adventure. We laughed, ate, teased each other like old married couples, and prepared for another perfect day at sea—together, just us, crew and companions, tangled up in summer and salt.

We weighed anchor just after nine, bellies full and spirits high. The wind was kind, a steady force four from the southwest, the kind that made the sails puff out with a satisfying snap and Milsi One hum beneath our feet like she approved of our passage plan.

Marlin took the helm for the first leg, her eyes narrowed with determination as she steered us between scattered skerries, reading the chart like it was a familiar bedtime story. Johan sat beside her, sprawled in the sunshine, pointing out channel markers and teasing her about her “intense captain face.” She pretended not to hear him, but the corners of her mouth betrayed her.

Vinka and I were lounging on the coachroof, sharing a bag of dried apricots and occasionally trimming the headsail like good little winch monkeys. The boat heeled gently, slicing through the water with ease. It was one of those golden mornings where everything felt possible.

At one point, as we cleared a tight rocky gap and the sea opened up ahead of us, I saw Marlin nudge Johan with her elbow and gesture toward the cockpit bench. He followed her, curiosity in his stride.

I glanced over just in time to see her lower herself onto the seat beside him, folding her arms and tapping her fingers lightly against her sleeve. Johan looked slightly confused, but he mirrored her posture and leaned in.

“What’s up, Skipper?” he asked, still half-smiling.

She turned toward him fully, her face suddenly serious but open. “I’ve been thinking.”

“That’s always dangerous,” he quipped gently.

“No, really,” she said, nudging him again, this time with her foot. “I’ve been thinking about us.”

His smile faltered slightly—just for a second. “Yeah?”

She looked out over the water for a moment, then back at him. “I know I can be… slow. Not because I don’t feel things, but because I feel everything. And sometimes I need to be sure.”

Johan nodded. “That’s okay. You’ve never rushed anything.”

“Well,” she said, voice dropping, “maybe it’s time I did. Just a little.”

A long pause. Johan blinked. “You mean…?”

Marlin reached out and took his hand—calm, certain, brave. “I want you to sleep in my cabin tonight.”

For once, Johan was speechless. A light breeze toyed with the collar of his shirt. He glanced down at their joined hands, then back up at her. “Are you sure?”

She smiled, that quiet, fierce little grin that always meant she’d already decided. “Very.”

He nodded, swallowed hard, and said, “Right. Well. I suppose I’d better shave or something.”

Marlin laughed, leaned in, and kissed him—not dramatically, not showy, just real. A seal barked in the distance, and Johan muttered, “Even the wildlife approves.”

We didn’t say anything, but from our perch, Vinka and I exchanged a look, all raised eyebrows and slow grins.

By late afternoon, the coloured wooden buildings of Smögen came into view, strung along the harbour like sweets on a string. We sailed in quietly, each of us caught in our own little glow—sunlight, salt air, and the feeling that something had shifted onboard.

Marlin had made her choice.

And Johan? Well, he’d never looked happier.

Smögen in the evening was pure magic. The golden hour turned the pastel boathouses into glowing jewels, their reflections shimmering lazily on the still harbour water. A faint scent of grilled fish drifted from the restaurants along the boardwalk, mingling with the salt air and the distant clink of rigging against masts. It was the sort of place that made you want to walk slowly and hold someone’s hand.

Which, naturally, Stephen and I did—ambling along the wooden jetty, bare feet slapping softly against the warm planks, occasionally ducking into the odd souvenir shop or fishmonger just for the smell of smoked mackerel and mischief. Johan and Marlin were a few paces ahead, fingers interlocked, talking quietly in that language you don’t need to understand—body language, easy smiles, the occasional giggle.

Dinner was simple and brilliant. We found a little harbour side café with a wooden terrace perched above the water. The owner was an old fisherman with a weather-beaten face and the sort of accent that even Marlin had to concentrate to understand. He recommended the shrimp toast and fresh-caught langoustines, and we didn’t argue. We sat outside, devouring seafood with our fingers, butter dribbling down our wrists, chasing each bite with fizzy elderflower lemonade and grinning like we owned the harbour.

“Can we never leave?” I asked, licking my fingers and sighing contentedly.

“We’ll have to,” “but not tonight.”

Marlin raised her glass. “To not tonight.”

We clinked.

After dinner, we took a twilight walk out along the rocks, skipping stones and watching the horizon fade into a dusky blue. It never truly got dark this time of year—just a long, gentle exhale into dusk. When we made our way back to Milsi One, the harbour was quiet, only the occasional creak of mooring lines and the splash of fish beneath the pontoon.

Below deck, the air was warm and still, the gentle lap of water against the hull the only sound. Johan and Marlin shared a smile that said everything. He kissed her forehead and followed her into her cabin without a word. The door clicked shut behind them like the last page of a long-awaited chapter.

Vinka looked at me with that same spark in her eye she’d had since the first summer in Ellios. “Come on,” she whispered, pulling me toward our cabin. “Let’s not waste this night either.”

We curled up together on the bunk, tangled in each other’s arms, listening to the rhythm of the sea and the occasional thud of someone forgetting where they left their socks. Vinka traced circles on my arm as we drifted, her breath soft against my neck.

“I think this might be the best night of my life,” I murmured.

She didn’t answer, just kissed my collarbone and tucked her head beneath my chin.

Outside, the harbour slept.

Inside, we dreamt of tomorrow—and the sea still waiting.

Morning in Smögen arrived with the scent of salt, seagulls, and someone cooking bacon on a nearby boat. Sunlight streamed through the cabin portholes, casting golden stripes across the bunks and waking us far more gently than any alarm clock could manage. Still, we groaned like we were being summoned to school.

I rubbed my eyes and stretched, careful not to wake Stephen, who had cocooned himself in the blanket like a smug English burrito. Somewhere beyond our closed door, I could hear the muffled thump of someone banging into the companionway steps, followed by a very British “Ow!”

Johan.

By the time we all gathered in the cockpit, hair tousled and faces still puffy with sleep, Marlin had already fired up the kettle and was rationing out mugs of coffee and tea like a benevolent dictator.

“Breakfast is up to you lot today,” she declared, already halfway through a cinnamon bun. “Captain’s orders.”

“Captain’s lazy,” Johan muttered, but kissed her cheek anyway.

With toast popping and bacon sizzling in the galley pan (courtesy of me, self-appointed Galley Assistant to the Galley Goddess), the crew slowly shook off the sleep and eased back into shipboard life. The harbour was starting to stir too—fishermen clanking about with crates, gulls screaming at nothing in particular, and the odd tourist squinting at the water as if trying to remember where they’d moored their hire boat.

We took our time casting off—checking lines, double-checking the charts, triple-checking the biscuit supply. Vinka and I handled the bow while Johan and Marlin sorted the stern, and soon Milsi One was drifting quietly out of the harbour, the engine murmuring beneath us as we threaded our way past sleeping boats and lobster pots bobbing like lazy jellyfish.

Out in the open, Marlin cut the engine, and we hoisted the sails with a satisfying whumph. The wind caught and filled the canvas like a sigh, and we heeled gently to starboard—homeward bound, though not quite ready to admit it.

From the helm, Johan called back, “Next stop: Fjällbacka, via a scenic detour or two. Captain’s discretion.”

“Do we have a map for ‘scenic detour or two’?” I asked.

Marlin tossed me a grin. “I am the map.”

“You’re also the one who nearly mistook a fishing buoy for a lighthouse yesterday,” Vinka teased.

“Details.”

We all laughed, the kind of easy, full-bellied laughter that comes when you’ve had a good night’s sleep, a strong brew, and the promise of another perfect day on the water.

As Smögen slipped behind us, shrinking into a postcard of pastel houses and weathered rocks, none of us said much. We didn’t need to. The wind carried us forward, and the smiles said everything.

We had each other, we had the sea, and we had nowhere else we needed to be.

Not yet.

Once the charts had been folded and the wind forecast analysed (with all the gravity of a BBC weather report), we tucked into mugs of hot chocolate and a shared bar of chocolate someone had heroically not eaten earlier that day—miraculous, really.

The cockpit, under the soft glow of the cockpit lamp, felt like the heart of our little universe. Waves lapped gently against the hull, and the distant chime of halyards against masts created a lullaby only sailors understood. We were still anchored just off a quiet island cove, shielded from the wind, our world gently rocking to the rhythm of the water.

“Do you think we’ll always do this?” Marlin asked quietly, her eyes fixed on the horizon. “Sail together, I mean. Even when we’re grown up?”

“Course we will,” said Johan, without hesitation. “We’ll have a fleet by then.”

“Or matching cardigans and a timeshare in a Swedish harbour,” I teased.

I elbowed Stephen playfully. “Speak for yourself. I’m getting a yacht and a French bulldog.”

“Well, if we’re playing future fantasy,” Johan said, stretching, “I’ll take the Arctic route and a sauna built into the deck.”

“Sold,” said Marlin. “But only if I get to name the boat.”

There was a pause. The stars blinked into view above us, one by one, and the air cooled just enough for me to pull my blanket tighter around my shoulders. I leaned against Stephen and whispered, “This is the life, isn’t it?”

I nodded. “It really is.”

Eventually, one by one, we peeled away to our cabins, the kind of content tired you get from sun, sea air, and just the right amount of mischief.

And somewhere between unzipping sleeping bags and muffled laughter from Johan and Marlin’s cabin, I realised something: this trip—this little floating world of ours—had become more than just a summer adventure.

It was a promise.

A quiet, unspoken one.

That no matter what came next, we’d always find our way back to each other.

The sea that day had the kind of rhythm that made you forget time altogether—long, rolling swells that lifted the Milsi One like a lullaby, the wind humming through the rigging like an old friend singing backup. We trimmed the sails, checked our heading, and settled into that sweet groove where everything just worked. Johan handled the helm with one hand and an apple in the other, while Marlin perched at the bow like a figurehead come to life, her hair whipping around like a flag of defiance.

Vinka, as ever, made the cockpit her kingdom—jotting notes in the logbook, reading aloud snippets from the pilot guide, and occasionally tossing snacks toward the helm like some benevolent sea goddess. I swear she could cook a three-course meal in a force six while quoting Shakespeare.

Around mid-afternoon, the sea shifted—subtle, but definite. A moment of silence, then a splash. Johan shouted, pointing, and then we all saw them: dolphins. At least half a dozen, sleek grey shapes surfing alongside us, darting under the bow and popping up with theatrical flair. Marlin lost her composure completely, whooping like a pirate on payday, while Vinka just leaned over the guardrail and whispered something to them in Swedish. I’m convinced they understood.

As the sun began its slow descent into gold, we raised our glasses of orange squash and toasted the day, the boat, and each other.

Then Vinka served dinner—some sort of creamy pasta with smoked salmon and herbs that must’ve been stolen from a Michelin-starred kitchen. We ate in awe, letting the flavours (and the sea air) do their magic.

“You know,” Johan said, gesturing with his fork, “if school doesn’t work out, we’ve got a future.”

Marlin raised a brow. “As what?”

He grinned. “Pirates. Obviously.”

We laughed so hard the dolphins probably considered reporting us for noise pollution.

That night, anchored in a quiet bay with the last sliver of sun melting into the water, we sat wrapped in blankets, listening to the gentle slap of waves against the hull, feeling like the luckiest crew on the coast.

The anchorage was silent but for the rhythmic lapping of water against the hull and the occasional creak of the rigging, like the boat itself was settling in for the night. Above us, stars began to bloom across the sky—more than we ever saw back home—spilling across the darkness like someone had dropped a box of diamonds.

We sat on the foredeck, bundled in jumpers and sea blankets, pairs tucked side by side with steaming mugs of tea warming our hands. No one felt like breaking the peace. It was the kind of silence that invited truth—not awkward, but open, like the sea around us.

I leaned my head gently on his shoulder. “This… this is what I always imagined summer would feel like,” I whispered. “Not suncream and crowds and silly music in shopping centres. Just… this.”

I smiled into the breeze. “A floating island. Just us.”

Down the bench, Marlin and Johan sat close too. She was absently tracing circles on his palm while he stared out at the stars, unusually quiet.

“You know,” Johan said softly, “I think this is the happiest I’ve ever been. And that kind of terrifies me.”

Marlin turned to him. “Because it’ll end?”

He gave a small nod. “Because things this perfect feel like they’re borrowed from someone else’s story.”

Marlin smiled, not mockingly, but deeply. “Then let’s write our own. And steal a few more perfect chapters while we can.”

We sat like that for a long while, sipping tea, trading quiet smiles, wrapped in a cocoon of salt air, friendship, and something even warmer than summer—love, not declared with fireworks, but lived in shared silences and star-watched breaths.

Below deck, the little oil lamp glowed in the galley. Eventually, we would peel ourselves away from the night and tuck into the warmth of our cabins, but not just yet. This was a moment to stretch—to hold—for as long as the stars allowed.

As we motored into Ellios harbour, the sun shimmering on the water like it was showing off just for us, none of us said much. It wasn’t that we were sulking—we were just full. Not from food (although my galley wizardry had certainly left its mark), but from everything. From laughter and sunsets and the kind of memories that cling like sea salt to your clothes.

The lines were tossed ashore, cleats tied, and the boat—our beautiful, borrowed kingdom—was officially someone else’s responsibility again. Grandpa Olaf gave us a proud nod, Papa gave us a back-pat so firm I nearly face-planted the dock, and Silvi handed us a tray of cinnamon buns so fresh they were practically steaming.

“Just in case you’re peckish,” she said. We weren’t, but we ate them anyway.

Later, back at the house, as gear was rinsed and laundry lines sagged under soggy kit, we fell into that familiar post-adventure daze. Johan and Stephen flopped into garden chairs while Marlin and I vanished into the kitchen, no doubt scheming something involving more food and possibly whipped cream.

“Think we’ll ever get a week like that again?” I asked.

Johan, eyes half-shut against the sun, just said, “Mate… we have to.”

I looked out over the bay where Milsi One had carried us through our first taste of freedom, of leadership, of love without curfews. And though the boat was gone, and the week was over, the feeling lingered like a secret handshake between the four of us.

Operation Independence was a success. And we weren’t done yet—not by a long shot.

In the evenings, we’d gather on the porch with mugs of hot chocolate and the sort of relaxed chatter that only comes when you’ve been sunburnt, saltwater-soaked, and thoroughly content all day. Ronnie would usually be fiddling with some driftwood creation, Petra scribbling in a notebook she refused to let anyone read, while the rest of us watched the sun melt behind the pines like it had nowhere better to be.

One night, I leaned over and whispered, “I think I’d like to start a proper rugby club here.”

“You’d have to call it Valkyrie RFC,” I grinned.

“Only if you’ll coach.”

I nodded. “Deal. But I want a cape.”

It was that kind of summer—the kind where even the silly ideas didn’t seem so impossible. Where futures were dreamt up in the glow of mosquito coils and fireflies, and everything felt just real enough to believe.

As the leaves began to turn and the air took on that crisp, cinnamon-scented edge, we found ourselves gathering more often in Vinka's attic room—not for rugby tactics or schoolwork, but for something far more thrilling: winter expedition planning. The success of our summer voyage had gone to our heads in the best possible way. We weren’t just dreaming now—we were plotting.

Johan pulled out a battered topographic map of the region, its creases practically sacred. Vinka had a notebook already brimming with ideas—some practical, others involving things like “sauna sleds” and “emergency cake rations.” Marlin, of course, came armed with highlighters and a list of potential routes that would impress the Swedish Army. I, ever the realist, came equipped with a pen, a flask of tea, and a list titled “Things We Should Probably Not Die Doing.”

We pitched our four-day, three-night skiing expedition idea to Olaf and Erik, armed with maps, proposed routes, and enough enthusiasm to power a ski lift. They listened patiently, nodding thoughtfully like seasoned commanders being briefed on a mission. When we finished, Olaf raised an eyebrow and said, “Sounds reasonable… ask Harry.”

So we did.

Harry—keeper of calendars, flights, and all things logistical—took one look at the plan and ran a mental diagnostic worthy of air traffic control. After a moment’s pause, he gave a slow nod and said, “Alright. As long as it’s planned with military precision.”

There was, of course, one condition: we’d be flying out on the 16th of December, skiing off into the wilderness first thing the next morning, and returning just in time for our fourteenth birthday celebrations on the 20th. No delays, no detours, and definitely no missing the cake. We were essentially slotting a Scandinavian epic between two slices of sponge and a stack of wrapped presents.

It was ambitious, ridiculous, and absolutely perfect.

The night before we were due to leave, the four of us slipped away from the house and wandered down to the edge of the swimming hole. The sky was still streaked with purple and gold, the water mirror-flat, only broken by the occasional ripple from a curious fish or the lazy flap of a dragonfly.

We sat side by side on the old wooden jetty, feet dangling over the edge, toes just brushing the surface. Johan had an arm around Marlin’s shoulders, and I found Vinka’s hand in mine without even looking.

No one spoke for a while. There was too much and not enough to say.

Finally, Marlin broke the silence, her voice soft. “Do you think it’ll ever be like this again?”

Johan looked out over the lake, the fading light dancing in his eyes. “I hope not exactly like this… I hope it’ll be even better. But I’ll take this memory with me, everywhere.”

“We’ve had a lot of ‘last nights’,” Vinka said thoughtfully. “But somehow this one feels… heavier.”

“Because we’re changing,” I murmured. “We’ve all changed. And not in a bad way. Just… grown.”

Vinka nodded, then leaned her head on my shoulder. “We won’t let the distance change us, though. Not what we have.”

I tightened my fingers around hers. “Never.”

Johan let out a quiet laugh. “Imagine trying to explain all this to our classmates. ‘What did you do over the summer?’ Oh, just sailed the Swedish coast, fell in love, and maybe grew up a little.”

“They wouldn’t believe a word of it,” Marlin said, smiling. “And honestly, I kind of like that it’s ours. Just ours.”

The breeze picked up slightly, sending a few strands of hair across Vinka’s face. I brushed them away and kissed her forehead, the smell of lake water and pine forever etched in that moment.

We sat like that for a long while—four friends, two couples, one unforgettable summer—watching the stars blink to life, knowing the next day would pull us back to school, routines, and responsibility. But just for now, we held on tightly to what was, and what we hoped would always be.