The Most Exciting Easter Break Ever!

The Parallel Four Book One Part Sixteen Chapter Sixteen

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 Sixteen Chapter Sixteen.

That spring term of 1972 had us nose-deep in revision for our GCSEs and O-levels. Between the flashcards, textbooks, and Johan muttering historical dates like an exorcism, we somehow managed to keep our heads above academic water. With thirteen exams looming like storm clouds over the summer horizon, the pressure was undeniable. We’d done well in the mocks, which meant everyone now expected us to deliver—no pressure there, obviously.

After Easter, school transformed into more of a drop-in testing centre than an institution of learning. We only showed up for exams, floating in and out like academic ghosts. The rest of the time was labelled “home study,” which sounded responsible, but more often involved studying for twenty minutes, then holding an emergency summit to debate whether we needed a snack… or a nap… or both.

Johan preferred pacing revision—one subject per hour, with ten-minute breaks involving juggling tennis balls or shadowboxing imaginary stress. I took a more minimalist approach: if I could explain it to my mum without her eyes glazing over, I figured I understood it. Our living rooms resembled war rooms, strewn with past papers, highlighters, and half-eaten Hobnobs. Even Harry, amused as he was, started using terms like “strategic cramming” and “exam trench warfare.”

Still, behind the jokes and snacks, we were determined. The summer break beckoned like a promised land—just a few more weeks of pressure-cooker learning, and we’d be free.

Unlike our counterparts in Sweden and across the pond in the good old U.S. of A., there were no glittering proms, no stretch limousines, no emotional speeches under fairy lights to mark the end of our days at dear old Hitchin Grammar. No slow dances to cheesy love songs, no ill-advised tuxedos or puffy dresses immortalised forever in Polaroid shame.

Instead, we got what can only be described as the British version of a farewell: an overlit school hall that still smelled faintly of boiled cabbage, a set of noticeboards outside the staffroom, and the thrilling ritual of alphabetical hide-and-seek. The exam results had been pinned up like some academic tombola, and there we were, squinting at the typed lists, fingers tracing down the columns, hearts pounding in rhythm with the squeaky corridor floor.

Johan and I stood side by side, our shoulders nearly touching, silently scanning the list. Then we spotted them—our names, with rows of ‘A’s lined up like obedient little soldiers. We’d done it. Thirteen O-levels each, clean sweep. Teachers would later describe our performance as “excellent,” “remarkable,” and, in one case, “finally justified all that time in the library.” But in truth? The pressure had already shifted. Being accepted into Royal Marine training had made everything else feel like a warm-up act. Still, it was nice to know we could officially spell distinction—and live it too.

While most of the others were exchanging awkward handshakes, slapping backs like they’d just survived a minor war, and tossing out breezy, “See you next term!” as if life would continue exactly as before, I took a slightly more dramatic approach. I shook a few hands, nodded at the odd classmate I didn’t particularly dislike, muttered a single, deliberate “Goodbye,” and walked out without looking back—like a lone soldier in the final scene of a war film. All that was missing was the slow zoom and swelling orchestral soundtrack.

I didn’t even hang around for the usual corridor chaos or the ritualistic final bell. I just turned and left, blazer over one shoulder, the summer sun lighting the path ahead like fate’s own spotlight.

It was only later, as I replayed it in my head on the walk home, that I realised how abrupt it must’ve seemed to those who didn’t know the plan. To them, I’d vanished mid-conversation, mid-year, mid-future. Even the teachers—those seasoned experts in waving off hundreds of teenagers—stood there blinking like owls in daylight, unsure whether to call after me or chalk it up to teenage eccentricity.

I wasn’t just leaving school. I was leaving that version of myself behind too. And it felt right.

I wondered if Ronnie had made the same sort of cinematic exit two years earlier—striding out of his own school gates with purpose, not looking back, bound for the boatyard in Ellios to work alongside his dad. He hadn’t said much about it at the time, just that school “wasn’t quite his speed,” and the sea called louder than the classroom. He’d done his stint in national service since then, come back with a sharper haircut, a sturdier handshake, and a knowing look that suggested he now understood the world in ways the rest of us hadn’t quite caught up to. These days, Ronnie was the go-to guru for all things military. If you needed to know how to march, fold, salute, or survive basic training with your sanity intact, Ronnie was your man.

Vinka, standing at the threshold of her own service, absorbed his every word like a star pupil. You could see the way her brow furrowed with determination, soaking up every nugget of practical advice like she was studying for a final she absolutely intended to ace. But if she was going to be issued a uniform, she’d probably want it with a dictionary in the pocket. Her heart still belonged to languages. She and Marlin were becoming a two-girl UN, effortlessly bouncing between French, German, Spanish, and Latin. They’d recently added Arabic to their repertoire—because apparently nothing says “light reading” like a script that curls and loops like decorative vines. They even threw in some Japanese from their Aikido classes, which they wielded with terrifying grace.

Meanwhile, I was still occasionally confusing “bonjour” with “bonbon,” and wondering whether “merci” needed an accent on the e. Honestly, keeping up with them linguistically was like trying to race a cheetah on a pogo stick.

We sat our final exam on the 10th of June and, barely pausing to catch our breath—or sharpen our pencils—we launched into planning something far more thrilling than revising for algebra: our very own Grand Tour of Europe. Marlin and Vinka were still stuck in school until late July, poor things, so Johan and I decided to make good use of our newfound freedom by zigzagging our way to Sweden over four glorious weeks. Think teenage gap year—only with less money, more enthusiasm, and a slightly dodgy grasp of continental train timetables.

We’d been plotting this trip for months—possibly years if you count the time we spent drawing imaginary routes on classroom maps and calling it “geography revision.” And, miraculously, our parents agreed to let us go solo—because clearly, sixteen-year-old boys with zero sense of direction are the very picture of responsibility. The cornerstone of our master plan was the legendary European Train Pass: a magical bit of paper that let you clamber aboard almost any train in Europe without having to sell a kidney. We’d worked tirelessly to earn the money—scrubbing more cars than a valet service during wedding season. At one point, we even considered launching a loyalty scheme: “Buy ten washes, get your windscreen wiped free.” It was either that or designing a coat of arms for our future travel empire, complete with crossed squeegees and a dripping bucket.

Now, with exams behind us, rucksacks packed, and dreams of sun-drenched piazzas, mountain passes, and dodgy youth hostel breakfasts filling our heads, we were ready to set off. What we lacked in polish, we made up for in pluck—and a stubborn belief that we could conquer Europe with a map, a phrasebook, and Johan’s laughably tiny travel kettle.

With backpacks that made us look like turtles and dreams of exotic sandwiches, we boarded the train from Hitchin to London, then took the Underground to Charing Cross like seasoned pros (or very confused tourists). From there it was Dover, where the scent of chips mingled with sea salt, and onto the ferry to Calais, where our grand rail adventure officially began.

Our first stop: Paris! Naturally. We’d booked a modest guesthouse tucked into the heart of the Arab Quarter, where the café scene pulsed with life—hookah smoke curling lazily into the air, kebab stands doing brisk trade, and street musicians filling the air with everything from scratchy oud solos to wild accordion riffs. The soundtrack was a blend of rapid-fire French and silky Arabic, sometimes both in the same breath. We didn’t understand much, but we nodded sagely, sipped our coffee like philosophers, and pretended we were born to sit at pavement tables discussing Sartre and football (neither of which we had much opinion on).

The streets smelled of cumin, espresso, and rain on warm stone. We wandered Montmartre with baguettes in hand and tried not to look too amazed at everything. Every building had character, every corner café seemed lifted from a painting, and every waiter looked mildly offended by our attempts at French. Still, Johan managed to charm one barista by complimenting her handwriting on the menu board, which somehow got us a free croissant and an extra smile—clearly worth the effort.

We came up with this daft little adventure and called it “The Escape Game”—like a proper war film, only with fewer Nazis and a lot more baguettes. The idea was simple: pretend we were escaped prisoners of war on the run through Europe, doing our best to blend in and avoid “recapture.” No acting like tourists, no flapping maps about, and definitely no loud English—unless you wanted to forfeit points and lose your cover.

It started off as a bit of a joke, but we took it surprisingly seriously. Johan would mutter things like “don’t draw attention” as we snuck into cafés like a pair of dodgy spies on rations. Points were scored for ordering without getting corrected, asking directions in the local lingo without getting a raised eyebrow, and generally looking like you belonged. Lose your nerve or ask where the loo was in English, and you were “compromised.”

Our languages came in handy for once—French, German, even a bit of Arabic or Spanish when we were feeling flash. Johan had this knack for accents, and I did a decent Gallic shrug when the mood struck. The best moment? A tourist actually asked us for directions. We sent them off toward Notre-Dame with a couple of vague hand gestures and an air of authority we didn’t quite deserve. Might’ve been the most French thing we’d done all week.

We took turns setting challenges: “Get a croissant using only French,” “ask for the time in German without looking shifty,” or the ultimate: “chat someone up without sounding like Flash Harry on holiday.” It was brilliant fun—just two lads playing cloak-and-dagger in the heart of Paris, ducking behind flower stalls and dodging souvenir shops like they were enemy checkpoints.

Of course, we probably still looked like a couple of wide-eyed schoolboys with dodgy French and backpacks the size of small caravans—but in our heads, we were international men of mystery. Escapees. On the run. And absolutely loving it.

We spent a couple of days in Paris ticking off all the classics like proper tourists in disguise. First stop, the Louvre—where we squinted at mysterious paintings and tried to act cultured, even though we were mostly wondering if the Mona Lisa’s smirk meant she knew where the loos were. Then it was off to the Arc de Triomphe, where we posed like victorious generals, hands behind our backs and chests puffed out, despite looking more like cadets who’d taken a wrong turn on parade. We ambled down the Champs-Élysées, doing our best not to look like two schoolboys on a budget geography trip—though Johan insisted we’d passed for Swedish diplomats at one point. And of course, we gawped up at Notre-Dame, just in case Quasimodo fancied swinging by. He didn’t. Probably off doing yoga or ironing his bell ropes.

Naturally, we threw ourselves into the whole café culture thing. Nothing said “undercover escapee” like sipping a thimble-sized espresso at a wobbly table, pretending to read Le Monde upside down while eyeing the pastry tray like it held state secrets. We even tried those tiny glasses of fizzy water they serve alongside your coffee, though Johan nearly choked when he mistook his for mouthwash.

To improve our “local disguise,” we bought a pair of classic French berets—black, floppy, and about as subtle as a mime in a thunderstorm. Instantly, we looked 30% more French and 70% more ridiculous. Johan wore his at a jaunty angle like he was auditioning for a baguette commercial. I just looked like I’d borrowed mine from a school nativity play. Still, the locals seemed amused—one café owner even gave us a free croissant, though I think it was out of pity.

On the third morning, we boarded the shiny new Aquitaine Express bound for Bordeaux, trying not to look like lads who’d only recently figured out how train tickets worked. Très fancy, this one—proper plush seats, gleaming windows, and even a trolley service that sold suspiciously overpriced Orangina. We’d booked ourselves into a charming little château on a vineyard in the Médoc region, just outside Pauillac, nestled beside the slow-moving Garonne River. We were expecting wine, cheese, and maybe a goat or two.

What we didn’t expect was Claude—the owner, with a moustache so perfectly waxed it could sign autographs—casually dropping into conversation over breakfast that the estate had been a safe house during the war. “For ze Résistance… and ze SOE,” he said, as if he’d just mentioned he used to rent out rooms to postmen. Suddenly, our Escape Game wasn’t so much a teenage fantasy anymore—it had roots. Real ones. We looked at each other over our half-eaten croissants with the same thought: this place had ghosts… heroic ones.

We immediately asked Claude if we could stay an extra night—partly to soak in the history, and partly because we’d never tasted wine that didn’t come from a plastic bottle with a screw cap and a name like “Château Hangover.” Claude, being the absolute gent, nodded solemnly and said, “Mais bien sûr.” Then he added something about how “history should be lived, not just read”—which sounded very wise, especially coming from a man wearing velvet slippers and pouring Bordeaux before noon.

He offered us a private tour of the estate’s wartime secrets. Turned out, Claude was born in 1930 and had the calm, unhurried air of a man who’d seen enough life to be unimpressed by teenage bravado. His voice was soft, but every word carried weight—like a teacher who never had to raise his voice to command a room. He told us how his father, a member of the local Resistance cell, had been killed by the Germans just weeks before the liberation. It was heavy stuff, and we listened like monks at confession.

Claude had inherited the vineyard not long after, rebuilt it from near ruin, and turned it into the peaceful slice of paradise we were now casually trampling around in our scuffed plimsolls. His wife, Edith, was a force of nature—tiny, fierce, and determined to stuff us full of everything from buttery croissants to creamy local cheeses that practically sang when you bit into them. She even insisted on ironing our socks, which we didn’t realise was a thing people did. I’d never worn such crisp footwear in my life. We felt like visiting royalty—slightly awkward, vaguely unworthy, but very well-fed.

The next day, Claude took us on the most thrilling history tour we’d ever experienced—eat your heart out, National Trust. Forget gift shops and tea rooms, this was the real deal. He led us out through the back of the vineyard, past rows of vines basking in the morning sun, to a rickety old barn that looked like it should’ve collapsed sometime around the reign of Napoleon. With a sly grin and a twinkle in his eye, Claude tapped on a wooden panel near the far wall. It swung open with a creak straight out of a spy film, revealing a narrow passage lit by a single dusty bulb.

“In here,” he said, with the casual air of someone showing off a wine cellar, “we hid les Anglais.”

Inside, behind the false wall, was a tiny, claustrophobic room still lined with bunks, old blankets, and a few rusted tins of British rations—complete with faded Union Flags and a smell that suggested they were now mostly nostalgia and sawdust. And then, in the corner, was the stash.

Laid out on wooden crates like a Bond villain’s showroom: Sten guns, Bren guns, pistols, Mills bombs, and enough ammunition to start a small revolution—or at the very least, defend the cheese platter. Claude folded his arms and gave the lot a nostalgic glance.

“I told the authorities to come collect it,” he shrugged. “That was in 1953. I’m still waiting.”

We nodded solemnly, partly in awe, partly terrified we might sneeze and set something off. Johan reached for a Sten gun, his face lighting up like it was Christmas morning. Claude gave him a look and gently swatted his hand away. “Mon garçon, this is not a toy.”

We agreed, while silently wondering if MI6 had just decided Claude was doing a better job safeguarding national treasures. After all, the barn was still standing, and no one had stolen the stash—not even the cheese-loving locals.

Later that afternoon, Claude led us on a grand tour of the vineyard itself, striding through the rows of vines like a general inspecting his troops. Every tendril and grape seemed to have a story, and he told them all with the kind of reverence usually reserved for religious ceremonies—or polishing a classic Norton Commando.

We learned about grape varieties, sugar levels, pruning techniques, soil temperament, and the critical importance of tannins (which, up until that moment, I thought were either part of leather boots or an excuse to pull a face after your first sip). We were shown barrels so old they should’ve had pension plans, learned that “vintage” wasn’t just a label but a year of joy or heartbreak depending on the weather, and discovered that sniffing a cork wasn’t just something poncy people did in French films—it was actually useful. Apparently.

Then came the tasting session. Claude poured us each a glass of his 1967 reserve and watched our reactions with the kind of quiet pride usually found in parents at school nativity plays. Johan and I took a sip, swirled it like we’d seen in films, and tried not to look like we were suppressing a sneeze.

“To me,” I said, after a long and meaningful pause, “this tastes… red.”

Claude gave a sage nod. “Bon. A good start.”

We tried a few more—each one more delicious than the last, though our wine vocabulary still didn’t stretch far beyond “fruity,” “spicy,” and “ooh, this one’s got legs.”

That evening, seated at their long oak dining table with Edith fussing over us and the golden vineyard glowing in the window, I felt something shift. Between the stories, the laughter, the tinkling of cutlery, and the third glass of something exquisite, I fell head over heels—not just for the wine, but for the place, the people, the history… and, let’s be honest, the cheese.

Pauillac had cast its spell. And like any true love, it crept up slowly, then suddenly hit you all at once—right in the heart, and just a little bit in the head.

We talked with Claude late into the night, hanging on every word like schoolboys at a bonfire ghost story. The kitchen had grown dimmer as the hours passed, lit mostly by the flickering oil lamp and the glint of wine glasses catching the flame. Claude’s voice, soft and steady, pulled us into his world—tales of near-captures, coded messages, midnight handshakes in barns, and agents appearing out of nowhere with muddy boots and British accents, sometimes shepherding escapees who looked more dazed than dangerous.

“They’d arrive hungry, scared, and with stories they’d never tell again,” Claude said, cradling his glass like a relic. “We gave them shelter, food, a little wine if we dared... and then passed them on.” He gave a wistful smile. “Some we never saw again. Others came back after the war, to thank us.”

It felt like we’d stepped into a Le Carré novel, except here the passwords were exchanged over fresh baguette, the codes scribbled on old wine labels, and the danger wrapped in silence and civility. No exploding pens or tuxedos—just quiet bravery tucked behind cellar doors and straw bales.

By the time Claude had poured one last toast “to freedom, and to fools brave enough to chase it,” Johan and I were more than a little bleary-eyed. Not just from the wine, though there was that, but from the weight of what we’d heard. The kind of stories that made you sit up straighter, breathe a bit deeper, and feel strangely proud of people you’d never met.

We clinked glasses, murmured our thanks, and staggered upstairs to bed in that uniquely French state of grace: full of wine, full of cheese, and slightly heroic in our own minds. If the Resistance had ever paused for dessert, we like to think we’d have fit right in.

As I collapsed into bed, the warm hum of Claret in my belly and Claude’s words echoing in my head, I whispered into the pillow, “If only Vinka could see us now…”

That morning, as we stumbled down to breakfast slightly foggy-headed but still grinning like fools, Edith greeted us with a warm smile and two enormous mugs of coffee that probably saved our lives. Over flaky croissants and fig jam, she surprised us by mentioning their son, Pierre.

“He’s sixteen, like you boys,” she said, showed us his photo from the sideboard, then refilling our cups like a mother hen on a mission. “Away this week on a school trip to Lyon—Latin and history. He would have liked you both. He loves talking about the war and old things.” She chuckled. “I expect he’d have kept you up even later with questions for Claude.”

We nodded, slightly touched. It was strange to think of this mystery son, this other version of us, living here in this magical place, with its secret doors and wine that tasted like poetry. In another life, maybe we’d all have been mates.

Later, as we packed up our rucksacks and tried to smooth out our shirts (which now smelled permanently of vineyard and sunshine), Claude appeared dressed in his Sunday best—shirt pressed, moustache waxed, car keys twirling like a gunslinger. He insisted on driving us to the main Gare station in Bordeaux, “Like civilised young men, not bandits on the run.”

Edith handed us a paper-wrapped care package the size of a small suitcase. “For the journey,” she said, brushing crumbs off our shoulders and straightening Johan’s collar. Inside was everything we could dream of: crusty bread, local cheese, fat green grapes, ham, olives, and a full bottle of the vineyard’s finest vintage—labelled in her neat handwriting, Pour les garçons anglais.

We waved them off like long-lost relatives—Claude standing tall beside the Citroën, Edith dabbing her eyes like a woman sending sons to war—and boarded the train to Irun, bound for the Spanish border. The train took forever to crawl through the French countryside, clanking along with all the urgency of a lazy snail. But with that picnic in our laps and the sun spilling through the windows, we didn’t care. It was less The Great Escape and more The Great Snack. We nibbled, dozed, and gazed out at the hills, already spinning stories about Pierre, Edith, and Claude—the secret heroes of Pauillac.

Arriving in Burgos, we found a modest hotel just a stone’s throw from the station—once, perhaps, a jewel of Spanish Art Deco, now more “functional with character.” The kind of place where the light switches clicked with authority, the towels had the absorbency of tracing paper, and the shower delivered water in two settings: lukewarm drizzle or medieval punishment. Still, it had beds, a view of the rooftops, and a faint scent of old tobacco and floor polish that made it feel oddly authentic.

Our plan for the next few days was wildly ambitious—two teenagers, two backpacks, and a full military campaign to track. We’d studied the Peninsular War back at school, mostly under the watchful glare of Mr Richardson, who taught history like it was a contact sport. Now we were determined to walk in Wellington’s bootprints and stand where the great battles had been fought—Burgos, Salamanca, and maybe even up toward Vitoria if time and trains allowed.

That evening, we found a cosy little restaurant tucked away behind the Plaza Mayor, the sort of place where the candles were real, the waiters wore waistcoats, and the menu came with more accents than we could pronounce. We were working hard on our Escape Game—pretending to be locals, sipping vino tinto and throwing in the occasional “gracias” and “muy bien” with the confidence of men who thought they sounded suave but probably sounded like lost German tourists with a head cold.

Fate, however, has a wicked sense of humour.

At the next table sat a middle-aged gentleman, sharply dressed, with a battered leather briefcase and the kind of moustache that suggested either academic brilliance or membership in a revolutionary cell. He sipped his wine thoughtfully while reading a thick folder of notes, but clearly, our attempts at Spanish were too much for him.

He looked over, raised one eyebrow like a disapproving uncle, and said in perfect English, “Tell me—are you boys genuinely trying to speak Spanish, or summon goats?”

Johan choked on his bread. I nearly knocked over the wine.

“Well,” I stammered, “bit of both, really. Depends if the goats are friendly.”

That broke the ice—and, mercifully, the language barrier. The man introduced himself as Professor Alonso García, a local historian who specialised in the Napoleonic campaigns in northern Spain. He’d taught at the University of Valladolid and had written the book on the Siege of Burgos. We nearly fell out of our chairs.

When we told him our itinerary, he nodded with the calm approval of a general reviewing a battle plan. “Come,” he said. “Tomorrow morning, I will take you to the castle ruins myself. Most tourists walk past it without realising what happened there. But I will show you where the real story lies.”

The next morning, true to his word and punctual to the second, Professor García—whom we now fondly called “Mendas,” short for El Comandante de las Batallas de Burgos—whisked us off in his ancient Seat 600. The car coughed to life like a chronic smoker and wheezed up the hill to the Castle of Burgos, perched dramatically above the city like a stone guardian that had seen it all—and then some.

“This,” Mendas declared, sweeping his arm with the drama of a theatre director, “is where history refused to be rewritten.”

He launched into the tale of the Siege of Burgos (19 September to 21 October 1812), when Wellington, riding high from victories further south, decided to try his luck and boot the French out of their stronghold here. Only, as it turned out, General Dubreton and his band of moustachioed defenders weren’t quite ready to hand over the keys.

Wellington and his Anglo-Portuguese Army gave it a fair go—more than a fair go, according to Mendas. “They tried mining the walls, storming the breaches, and even lobbing grenades over the parapets,” he said, waving his arms like a man swatting imaginary cannonballs. “But Dubreton? Ah! He was a fox in uniform. He held firm!”

We followed him around the dusty ruins as he paced out the battlefield with military precision, each footstep a re-enactment. He pointed to the shattered remains of bastions, walls, and embankments, explaining each failed assault with the exasperated tone of someone who’d clearly given Wellington better advice at the time. We didn’t dare interrupt.

Then came the moment.

“To demonstrate,” he announced, gripping his gnarled walking stick like a Brown Bess musket, “how one unfortunate redcoat might have misfired at this very spot…” He mimed the firing sequence—ramrod, powder, flintlock—and pulled an imaginary trigger with theatrical flair.

Bang!

Well, not quite. The only thing that took flight was a very real and deeply offended pigeon, which exploded from the nearby wall like it had just been court-martialled. It flapped away in a panic, leaving Mendas triumphant and us doubled over in laughter.

The professor gave us a sly grin. “History is best remembered with feathers and imagination,” he said, dusting off his trousers. “Now come, I haven’t yet shown you the tunnel where they tried to plant the mine.”

We hadn’t planned to be personally escorted through Napoleonic history by a man with a sabre-shaped moustache and the energy of a cannonball, but that’s exactly what happened. Mendas invited us back to his home that evening for what he modestly called “coffee and conversation.” What he failed to mention was that his living room doubled as a private museum.

Wall to wall were glass cases and display boards filled with everything from French uniform buttons and British musket balls to field maps that looked suspiciously original. One shelf featured what Mendas claimed was Napoleon’s favourite spoon—silver, slightly tarnished, and handled with such reverence that we didn’t dare question its provenance. “Used at Austerlitz,” he whispered. “Stirred the sugar of destiny.”

We sat through this history lesson wide-eyed and deeply caffeinated, while he unpacked the campaign of 1812 with all the zeal of a man who might’ve ghostwritten Wellington’s dispatches. “And tomorrow, boys,” he declared with a flourish, “we go to Salamanca!”

At dawn, we were back in his See At 600, which rattled down the road like a musket carriage on cobblestones. A few hours later, we were standing on the golden plains of Los Arapiles, where the fate of Spain had once turned on a bayonet’s edge.

“This,” Mendas said, stamping his foot theatrically on a patch of dry earth, “is where Thomières fell—struck down by British cannon as he led his division into an ambush!” He jabbed his walking stick toward a slight ridge. “And there! That’s where Lieutenant William Pearce of the 44th East Essex Regiment captured the Eagle of the 62nd French Line.”

Johan and I exchanged a stunned glance. We knew that name—the 44th East Essex had become part of our own county regiment: the Royal Anglians. We’d seen that very Eagle proudly mounted in the museum at Chelmsford. But to stand on the exact patch of ground where it had been wrestled from French hands? It was like discovering your favourite family heirloom had been nicked during a sword fight.

“It was hand-to-hand,” Mendas continued, eyes blazing. “Pearce took it with a pistol in one hand and a sabre in the other! What a way to earn a regimental mascot, eh?”

We were gobsmacked—not just by the passion in his telling, but by the eerie thrill of standing on the same soil our regimental forerunners had fought upon. It felt less like a schoolboy battlefield tour and more like meeting our military ancestors face to face.

As the sun began to dip, painting the hills in amber light, Mendas stood back and gave us a long, proud look.

“You two,” he said, “will make fine soldiers. And you will carry with you the stories of this place—so promise me, when you wear that cap badge, remember the men who fell here.”

We both nodded, solemn for once. This wasn’t just a holiday anymore. It was the beginning of something far bigger. Little did we know that in a few years’ time, after earning our green berets and serving in the Royal Marines, we’d find ourselves in the ranks of the Royal Anglian Regiment—the very successors of those East Essex men who fought and bled on this field. That captured Eagle would one day hang above our own heads, not just as a piece of history, but as part of our story too. We would ware that Eagle on the left shoulder of our uniforms.

After lunch, Mendas bundled us into his trusty old car—honestly, it had more historical mileage than a Napoleonic campaign map—and off we went again. First stop: Talavera. Then Ciudad Rodrigo. Two more battlefields where Wellington gave the French a proper thumping—or at least a stern telling-off. Mendas brought it all to life so vividly that at one point Johan ducked like he’d actually seen a musket ball coming. I was half convinced a cannonball was going to roll out from under the dashboard.

That evening, we rolled into Villa Formosa, just shy of the Portuguese border, where a friend of Mendas kindly put us up for the night. The next morning, they chauffeured us the rest of the way to Porto. There, we explored the ancient port wine cellars and the buildings where Wellington’s army had once shivered through the winter—though probably with a lot less wine tasting and a bit more frostbite. We, on the other hand, were thoroughly warm, a bit giddy, and convinced we were now honorary Peninsular veterans.

Our guide for the Portuguese leg of the adventure was Hosta—a jolly chap with a passion for fortified wine and a driving style that could only be described as “aggressively historical.” Every roundabout came with a tale of Wellington, every hairpin bend with a dram of local folklore. He drove like Napoleon was still in hot pursuit, but to be fair, we made excellent time.

We checked into a cheerful little guest house on the outskirts of Porto, then collapsed onto our beds like we’d just crossed the Alps on foot. The next morning, bright-eyed and slightly wine-curious, we set off with Hosta on a noble quest through several of the city’s famous port sellers.

Naturally, we joined in the tastings—it would’ve been unthinkably rude not to. I became an instant fan. Johan reckoned it was just grown-up Ribena, but I preferred to think of it as “ambrosia with a kick.” Either way, from that day on, a proper bottle of port has always had a spot in my Christmas cupboard, right next to the biscuits and questionable jumpers.

After a slightly wobbly lunch (thanks more to the port than the food), Hosta cheerfully deposited us at the station with a handshake firm enough to realign your spine. We boarded the train to Lisbon and settled into our seats, the carriage swaying gently like we were still tipsy—which, to be fair, we might’ve been.

We spent the night in a modest hotel near the station, decorated in what I can only describe as “post-Salazar chic”—all faded grandeur, heavy curtains, and a lightbulb hanging where a chandelier once dreamed of returning. The beds were firm, the plumbing questionable, and the receptionist looked like he hadn’t smiled since the Carnation Revolution was just a rumour.

The next morning, we boarded an early train to Barcelona, a full day’s slog via Madrid. By the time we pulled into the Catalan capital, we’d developed the thousand-yard stare of men who’d seen too many snack trolleys and not enough legroom.

Backpacks stowed in our hotel room (which had actual towels and only one mysterious stain), we strolled out onto Les Ramblas. The place buzzed with energy—street performers in human-statue makeup, flower stalls blooming with colour, and the occasional puppet show that looked one string pull away from turning into a horror film.

We found a small restaurant tucked away in a side street, ordered something vaguely edible in fractured Spanish, and toasted our arrival with bottles of Fanta, held high like goblets of vintage Rioja. Two very cultured teenage explorers, living large on citrus fizz and ambition.

I wrote Vinka a letter:

Dear Vinka,

I miss you.

There, I’ve said it—right at the top, no flourishes or poetic warm-ups. Just the truth. Not a day goes by without me wishing you were here to see what we’re seeing, hear the things we’re hearing, and laugh at all the ridiculous moments Johan and I stumble into.

Paris was wonderful—full of smoke, scooters, and people pretending they’re not watching you. We wore berets (yes, really) and tried our best to blend in. Johan looked like he was auditioning for a spy film. I looked like I was smuggling onions. But we had fun, and I kept wishing you were next to me, rolling your eyes and stealing bites of my croissant.

But Bordeaux… Vinka, you would have loved it. We stayed on a vineyard run by a kind couple who fed us like kings and shared stories of the Resistance that gave me goosebumps. There was something about that place—peaceful, timeless. I caught myself thinking: this is where I’d bring you, if we could ever just stop the clock for a little while. It sounds silly, but there was a moment, walking through the vines at dusk, when I looked back and half expected you to be there, brushing your hair out of your face, laughing at something I said.

Spain has been wild and wonderful. We met a historian who knew more about Wellington than Wellington probably did. He took us to Talavera and Salamanca and told stories with such passion, I forgot we were tourists and not soldiers. I kept thinking how proud you’d be of us—two scruffy English lads trying to learn, to see, to understand. You’ve always inspired that in me, you know.

I sleep like a log most nights, but sometimes I wake up thinking you’re beside me. That moment, before memory kicks in, is the hardest—and the sweetest. I replay our last day together more often than I should: your kiss at the gate, the way your fingers lingered in mine, like they didn’t want to let go either.

I know your studies must be overwhelming right now, and you’re probably juggling languages like a magician, but I hope you find a quiet moment to read this and smile. You’re in every good moment, Vinka. Every beautiful thing we see feels a little less so without you beside me.

See you soon.

All my love,

Stephen

P.S. I’ve saved a cork from the vineyard. I’ll give it to you and pretend it’s a ring.

Every morning, before we did anything remotely civilised—like eat, dress, or even open both eyes properly—we hit the deck for a hundred press-ups, dips and sit-ups apiece. It had become our own teenage monastic ritual: part discipline, part self-punishment, all sweat. Bedtime? Same again. No exceptions. Even if we’d eaten our bodyweight in cheese, wine, or questionable tapas.

Fitting in runs was more of a challenge. European city streets are not designed for enthusiastic teenage joggers with flailing limbs and dodgy trainers. Dodging trams in Lisbon or leaping stray dogs in Barcelona didn’t exactly scream “safe cardio.” But we did what we could—sprints up hotel stairwells, dips between bunkbeds, the occasional push-up challenge in a quiet station platform. Anything to keep the Royal Marine spirit alive, even while living like backpacking hobbits with a fondness for snacks and scenic detours.

The following morning, we bid adiós to Barcelona and said a cheerful bonjour to Lyon, hopping back into France like seasoned rail veterans—albeit ones who still needed help deciphering timetables. A swift change of trains (and a near-disastrous flirtation with a platform bound for Marseille) saw us safely into Geneva by evening.

Our guest house in Geneva was the no-frills variety—minimal décor, maximum creaky floorboards, and pillows flatter than the receptionist’s sense of humour. Still, we’d stayed in worse. Possibly.

The next morning, after a breakfast that could only be described as symbolic, we were off again—this time to Munich. It was a long day on the rails, but our reward came in the form of a snug guest house with beds that didn’t feel like they were forged from leftover scaffolding. Luxury, by backpacker standards.

Once we’d dumped our bags and freshened up, Johan and I did the only sensible thing two lads in Munich could do—we made a beeline for the legendary Hofbräuhaus. Because when in Bavaria, you do as the Bavarians do: drink beer the size of your torso and pretend you’re fluent in German after half a pint.

We confidently asked for “zwei Bier,” expecting something modest. What arrived were two monstrous one-litre steins, each heavier than a bowling ball and frothier than a bubble bath. Lifting them took both hands and a minor act of divine intervention. We got through one each—barely. Pride demanded it. A second might’ve done us in entirely, or at least required medical assistance and a wheelbarrow.

The rest of the evening was joyful, slightly wobbly, and positively dripping with gemütlichkeit. We followed our beers with plates of pork steak and mashed potatoes—so rich and hearty you’d swear each mouthful came with its own Bavarian folk tale. This wasn’t just food; it was an edible sermon on comfort and cholesterol. The pork was tender enough to cut with a look, the mash was smoother than a conman in a silk suit, and the gravy… well, the gravy deserved its own passport.

As the oompah band launched into a full-throttle brass-fuelled rollercoaster of sound, the great hall began to hum and sway like a ship in full sail. Steins clinked, strangers arm-linked and swayed, and roars of laughter bounced off the timbered ceiling. We lost track of how many times we toasted things we didn’t understand—“To good health!” “To sausages!” “To that bloke in the hat!”—but every one felt like the most important moment of our lives.

We stumbled back to our guesthouse that night like two happy, overfed drunks in search of their pillows—and returned the next evening with the same hopeful devotion most people reserve for churches and chip shops. Moths to a well-lit keg, indeed.

But in between the songs and sausages, we couldn’t help but glance over our steins and wonder what darker echoes still lingered in these historic walls. Before the room became a temple to bratwurst and brass, this very beer hall had once thundered with the terrifying barks of political zealotry and the stomping rhythm of the Brownshirts. It was here, decades earlier, that history had taken a dangerous turn under the illusion of order and purpose.

The thought sent a chill down our spines—though, to be fair, that might’ve just been the draught beer catching up with our teenage stomachs. Still, it added a surprising gravity to the laughter and music around us. The contrast was striking. Here we were, two lads clinking steins and marvelling at pork, while the ghosts of the past murmured just beyond the oompah band.

Who says history can’t haunt a party?

Earlier that day, we’d taken in the full Nazi-era walking tour—a grim but necessary plunge into Munich’s darkest chapters. We stood in silence at the Feldherrnhalle, imagining the echo of jackboots where now school groups snapped Polaroids and tourists with guidebooks in hand milled about, talking in hushed tones. We wandered through the Königsplatz, Odeonsplatz, and past the Old Town Hall—once all steeped in Nazi pomp, now quietly reclaiming their dignity under a Bavarian sun.

Of course, Johan and I kept up our “Escape Game,” doing our best impression of undercover agents—blending into the crowd, sunglasses on, maps folded discreetly under the arm like coded documents. It was all a bit daft, but it gave us something to hold onto—our own little narrative amid the heavy history. And besides, no one suspects teenage spies with dodgy French accents and a fondness for bratwurst.

It was time to move on again—our passports were starting to look busier than a postman at Christmas. With an early start and a croissant in hand (very continental of us), we caught the train to Nuremberg. Our schedule was tight, but we weren’t about to miss the Palace of Justice—home of the Nuremberg Trials, and about as far from a laugh-a-minute attraction as you could get.

Walking those solemn halls felt like stepping into a living history book—one where the footnotes stared back at you in black and white. We were awestruck, reverent, and slightly underdressed for the weight of it all. The courtroom itself was like a time capsule: the benches, the box, the dock—all frozen in solemn dignity. Definitely not the place to make a joke about gavel sizes or who’d nicked the last biscuit in the jury room.

Standing where justice had been served to some of the worst villains in modern history gave us both a lump in the throat and a sudden pang of guilt for ever bunking off history class. (not that we ever did). It was a short visit—but one that packed a punch harder than a Sergeant’s parade-ground roar.

From Nuremberg, we rolled on to Würzburg—not for the wine (for once), but because we’d set our sights on visiting the legendary Volkswagen factory. What we stumbled into wasn’t just a tour of gleaming machines and oily conveyor belts, but the sort of tale you’d expect to hear in a pub after someone’s fourth pint—a story so unlikely, it should have started with “You’re not going to believe this, but…”

In the aftermath of the war, the VW plant was little more than bomb-blasted rubble and broken dreams. Most folks—especially those with clipboards and demolition orders—were ready to write it off entirely. But one young British Royal Electrical Mechanical Engineers officer looked past the debris and saw something else: potential. While others were preparing the wrecking crew, he was busy making a pitch to restart production of a quirky little car that looked like a metal jellybean on wheels.

He sold the idea like a man possessed—convincing the higher-ups that the Volkswagen Beetle could be the motorised phoenix Germany didn’t know it needed. Against all odds (and plenty of raised eyebrows), production resumed. And that weird little car went on to become a global icon.

So, next time you see a Beetle tootling down the road—or get stuck behind one doing a noble 28mph uphill—you’ve got that British officer to thank. A miracle of mechanics, diplomacy, and post-war optimism… all rolled into one.

Our next hop was Hamburg—just for one night before we launched ourselves toward Denmark and, ultimately, Sweden. We found a hotel near the Reeperbahn that had, shall we say, a certain lived-in charm. The kind of place that probably hadn’t seen a fresh coat of paint since the Beatles were still playing local clubs… and might’ve hosted them, too.

The lights flickered like they were running on ghost-power, the floorboards squeaked like they were trying to warn us of our life choices, and there was a permanent whiff of curried sausage drifting through the air—possibly baked into the wallpaper. But the beds were flat(ish), the door locked (eventually), and the noise from the street outside was almost musical—if you happen to like the sound of someone arguing with a vending machine at 2am.

That evening, curiosity got the better of us—and like two innocent moths to a particularly questionable neon flame—we wandered into the infamous Reeperbahn. Now, this wasn’t your average bit of window shopping. No shoes. No postcards. No fridge magnets. Just a full-frontal assault on the senses.

The window displays? Well… let’s just say they were very educational—like attending a human anatomy class run by Cirque du Soleil. There were limbs doing things that defied both modesty and gravity, and poses that made yoga look like standing still.

We stood there for a full minute, trying to look worldly and unfazed, hands in pockets like proper men of the world, but internally screaming like choirboys in a strip club. Eventually, we exchanged one of those silent nods that translates roughly to: Right. Seen enough. Time to go. Temptation, it seemed, had definitely missed its train—probably the same one we’d just arrived on.

The next morning brought one of the trip’s more surreal moments—right up there with the Reeperbahn and Johan accidentally ordering liver in Lyon.

We boarded the train to Puttgarden, half-asleep and clutching tea like it held the meaning of life. Then, to our absolute astonishment, the entire train casually rolled onto a ferry. That’s right—the whole locomotive just trundled aboard a boat like it was popping in for a cuppa.

Watching it happen was like seeing a hippo do ballet—bizarre, impressive, and just a bit unnerving. We half expected someone to shout, “This can’t be safe!” but no one batted an eyelid. Apparently, in Scandinavia, this sort of logistical sorcery is just Wednesday.

Once we were afloat, we wandered the deck acting like seasoned intermodal commuters—sipping tea, leaning against railings, and nodding at the waves like we were born to do it. The crossing was breezy, the return to land smooth as clockwork, and before we knew it, the train rolled off at Rødby like nothing ever happened.

No announcements, no fanfare—not even a passport stamp. Just Denmark, quietly getting on with being brilliant. Come for the pastries, stay for the transportation wizardry.

Copenhagen gave us two lively days of pretending to be cultured. We arrived with rucksacks on our backs and “curious young men” expressions glued to our faces—ready to soak up Scandinavian sophistication, or at least fake it convincingly.

First stop: the Little Mermaid statue. She’s Denmark’s answer to the Mona Lisa—iconic, mysterious, and considerably smaller than advertised. Frankly, we’d seen bigger garden gnomes. She also had the slightly harassed look of someone who’d just remembered she’d left the oven on and was now stuck posing for strangers in sensible slacks. Still, we took the obligatory photos and nodded like we were in the presence of greatness. One man next to us whispered, “Beautiful.” Johan whispered back, “Bit damp.”

Then it was off to Tivoli Gardens, a magical blend of fairytale whimsy and carnival chaos. Imagine if Hans Christian Andersen teamed up with a Las Vegas lighting technician, and you’re halfway there. There were twinkly lights, thrilling rides, flowerbeds arranged like art installations, and more sweet snacks than a dentist’s fever dream.

We wandered through the park, munching overpriced popcorn and squinting at attractions like they were renaissance paintings, trying to look like serious travellers instead of two lads wondering how much the hot dogs cost. Johan even suggested going on one of the rides—until we saw it spin upside down and decided that dignity was more important than adrenaline.

By the end of it, we were stuffed, dazzled, and very slightly sunburnt—which, for two English boys abroad, is basically a cultural exchange success story.

The Danish War Museum gave us a rare pause for reflection—a grand old arsenal packed to the rafters with cannons, sabres, muskets, and oil paintings of stern-faced chaps who looked like they’d rather duel than dance. Most of them hadn’t smiled since about 1792, and we suspect even then it was only due to a tactical victory or a particularly good herring.

We tried to behave—honestly—but history can only hold back teenage mischief for so long. After ten minutes of respectful nodding and one near-miss with a tripwire around a spiked mace display, we made a tactical withdrawal.

Next stop: the Citadel. A stunning star-shaped fortress that looked like someone had carefully folded Denmark into origami and then stuffed it with soldiers. We strolled the moat’s edge half-expecting to catch a guard dozing off mid-parade or polishing his buttons in a daze. No such luck—Danish discipline prevailed. Not a single step out of place. Even the geese looked well-drilled.

Our royal crawl ended at Amalienborg Palace, the King’s winter residence—very elegant, very stately, and very locked. We pressed our noses to the wrought-iron gates like Dickensian orphans in need of royal adoption, hoping for a wave, a summons, or at the very least a stray schnapps. Alas, monarchy doesn’t do drop-ins, especially not from two scruffy British lads who’d just polished off a suspicious sausage roll near the fountain.

Still, we tipped an invisible hat to the flag, admired the symmetry of the square, and agreed it was all very… Danish. Refined. Calm. And not even a whisper of revolution. No wonder they invented Lego—everything’s built to fit just right.

The weather was suspiciously pleasant, like Denmark had checked the forecast and decided to really push for “Best Host” in the Grand European Tour Awards. Blue skies, mild breeze, and not a rogue cloud in sight. We half-expected a brass band to see us off at the station.

From Copenhagen, we caught the train to Frederikshavn via Fredericia, bluffing our way through the ticket hall like seasoned commuters—though we secretly relied on following whichever confident-looking Dane wasn’t wearing socks with sandals. Miraculously, we made all our connections with barely a hiccup, save for Johan nearly boarding the wrong train due to a particularly distracting pastry display.

Then it was back to the high seas, clambering aboard the ferry to Gothenburg, our final aquatic hurdle before home soil—well, home-ish. The crossing was smooth, the wind obliging, and we spent most of it leaning on the rails like a pair of Nordic Jack Dawsons, minus the romantic soundtrack and iceberg.

At the port stood Olaf, arms folded, boots planted, and that grin of his stretching from ear to ear. He looked like a man who’d just been told he had to collect two teenage vagabonds with questionable luggage and a noticeable lack of adult supervision. But behind the smirk was warmth—the kind that says, “Get in the car before you embarrass yourself further.”

We clambered into the Volvo like long-lost sheep and barely got out our “Hay Hay”s before Olaf barked, “You stink of ferry diesel and baguettes. Let’s get you scrubbed up before Greta sees you.”

It was official—we were back.

By now, we were no longer wide-eyed boys on a jolly—we were rugged, worldly veterans of Europe’s quirks. We could spot a faulty hotel shower by smell, navigate foreign train timetables like cryptographers, and had formed strong opinions on which country did the best jam.

We’d had art in Paris, war stories in Spain, unsettling sausages in Germany, and cultural confusion just about everywhere else. But amidst all the chaos and baguette-fuelled bravado, one discipline remained unshaken: every morning began with 100 press-ups and 100 sit-ups, like clockwork. Whether we were on a tiled hotel floor in Munich or a threadbare rug in a pension in Lyon, we grunted through the pain like two recruits at dawn. It wasn’t glamorous, but it kept us sane—and slightly less doughy.

And once we’d finished our self-imposed torture? We replenished with military precision… at the nearest bakery. Because fitness is important—but so are flaky pastries. Croissants in France, kanelbullar in Denmark, and in Germany, something unpronounceable but so dense it could anchor a zeppelin.

At this point, we didn’t just feel like young men on the cusp of life—we felt like seasoned campaigners, returning from tour. Battle-hardened by language barriers, cured meats, and the unpredictable wrath of shared bathrooms. And now, as the road wound its way toward Ellios once again, it was clear: we had stories to tell, tans in strange places, and hearts beating just a little faster at the thought of seeing the girls again.

Home—at least the Swedish sort—was within reach.

When Olaf pulled up outside the house in Ellös, the engine had barely begun to tick cool before the front door burst open. Vinka and Marlin came flying down the path like an emotional cavalry charge, eyes wide and already brimming.

The moment Stephen and Johan stepped out of the car—travel-weary, sun-dusted, and grinning like fools—we flung ourselves into their arms. I clutched Stephen so tightly he dropped his bag, my tears soaking into his shirt as I whispered, “You’re really back.” Marlin wrapped Johan in a hug that could’ve cracked ribs, both of us laughing and crying in one breath.

Stephen barely had time to catch his breath when another figure appeared in the doorway — grinning, tanned, and looking far too pleased with himself.

“Alright, lads?” Tim said casually, like it was perfectly normal for him to be standing there in rural Sweden.

Stephen blinked. “What the—Tim?! What are you doing here?”

Johan’s jaw dropped. “Since when—?!”

Tim just shrugged, that infuriating little smirk creeping in. “Bought a ticket. Got on a plane. Thought I’d drop in.”

Before either of them could fire off the next question, Petra came bounding out to join him. Without hesitation, she wrapped both arms tightly around his middle, fitting against him like she’d been there all along. Tim’s arm slipped naturally around her shoulders, his thumb brushing absent circles against her upper arm. They exchanged a brief, quiet smile — the kind that told its own story — before turning back to the stunned faces in the driveway.

Grandpa Olaf, bless him, simply nodded and muttered something about leaving them to it, disappearing inside with the quiet satisfaction of a man who’d just delivered not two, but three very precious parcels.

Once we finally prised ourselves apart from the reunion hugs — and Tim’s little display of smug nonchalance — we all piled inside. The hallway smelled of coffee and fresh cinnamon buns, and Grandpa Olaf had already vanished into the kitchen, clattering about like the maestro of some Swedish welcome orchestra.

Stephen dropped his bag by the door and rounded on Tim. “Right. Spill it. How in the name of Charing Cross did you get here without so much as a postcard?”

Tim just shrugged and plopped himself onto the sofa, Petra curling up beside him without a hint of self-consciousness, her hand resting neatly on his knee. “Saved up from the farm, booked the ticket myself, told no one. Thought it’d be more fun this way.”

“Fun?” Johan repeated, leaning on the armrest. “Mate, you nearly gave us both a coronary. One minute we’re picturing you stuck in Hertfordshire, the next you’re standing in Sweden like you’ve just nipped out for milk.”

Tim grinned, clearly enjoying himself. “Well, it worked, didn’t it?”

Stephen narrowed his eyes. “You realise you’ve just put yourself at the top of the payback list, right?”

Petra gave Tim a sideways look and smirked. “Worth it,” she said simply, tightening her arm around him.

Vinka breezed in with mugs of coffee, handing them around. “I think it’s sweet. He wanted to surprise her.”

“Sweet?” Johan said. “This from the woman who once plotted a six-month campaign to steal my last slice of cake without me noticing.”

“Exactly,” I replied, settling beside Stephen. “Sometimes a good surprise is worth the planning.”

Tim raised his mug in a small toast. “To surprises, then.”

We clinked cups, and I had the distinct feeling that whatever else this summer held, it had just taken on a whole new energy.

The living room filled up the way it always did when we were all in one place — chairs dragged in from the kitchen, cushions claimed like territories, the low murmur of everyone talking at once. Outside, the late summer light slanted through the lace curtains, throwing warm patterns across the floorboards.

Tim sat forward in his chair, Petra perched on the arm beside him like it was her rightful spot. He cleared his throat, which immediately got everyone’s attention — not a common occurrence.

“So… while we’re all here,” he began, “I’ve got some news.” He paused just long enough for Johan to mutter, “He’s getting married,” earning himself a cushion to the face.

“I went back to the recruiting office,” Tim said, ignoring the interruption, “and this time, I passed the Army entrance test.”

Stephen straightened in his seat, a slow grin spreading across his face. “You’re joking.”

“Nope. Did all right at school this term too — went back after Easter, worked my socks off. Even put myself in detention most days so I could catch up. Got the grades I needed. I’m heading back after the summer, finish the year, then join up next September.”

Marlin let out a low whistle. “That’s a turnaround.”

Tim gave a modest shrug. “Guess I just needed a bit of a kick. And… well, I left Mum a note before I came out here. Told her where I was, not to worry. Figured it was about time I started doing things properly.”

Petra squeezed his shoulder proudly. “He didn’t tell me he was coming until the letter arrived the same morning he did. I nearly dropped my coffee.”

Stephen shook his head in mock disbelief. “So you spring the Sweden trip on us, drop the Army news, and somehow still look smug about it.”

Tim smirked. “It’s a gift.”

The rest of the evening passed in that easy, golden haze that only comes after a perfect reunion — coffee giving way to Papa’s beer stash, the table groaning under plates of open sandwiches and pastries, the air full of laughter and the faint hum of the radio in the kitchen. Petra stayed close to Tim’s side, their heads leaning in to share quiet words between bursts of conversation.

By the time the lamps were switched on and the last crumbs had been chased from the plates, it already felt like Tim had been there all summer. And in a way, it was as if he always had.

The next morning, true to their promise — and to our slight horror — Vinka and Marlin were already lacing up their trainers before we’d even finished our coffee. Tim was leaning back in his chair, looking far too relaxed, while Petra was perched on the arm beside him, sipping tea with a knowing smile.

“Thought you two were Royal Marines in training,” Vinka said sweetly, her eyes locking on me and Johan like she was issuing a duel challenge. Petra, not missing a beat, added, “And Army boys, too,” giving Tim’s knee a pat.

That was it — no more excuses. We were off.

The route was “just a short jog” according to Vinka, which turned out to be Nordic for “half-marathon through gently undulating hell.” By the end of that first session, Johan was clutching his ribs like he’d been shot in a spaghetti western, while I discovered muscles I didn’t remember ordering. Tim, despite his Army Cadet pride, was muttering something about farm work being a different kind of fitness entirely.

Vinka barely broke a sweat and even managed to jog backwards for a bit, grinning at me while asking if I needed “a little sit-down.” Marlin, ever the quiet assassin, didn’t say a word — she just kept pace like she was out for a scenic stroll, casually humming an ABBA tune while Johan turned progressively more crimson beside her. Petra didn’t join the run, but she was waiting outside the house when we got back, leaning against the fence with a smirk and a bottle of water for Tim. He took it with a grateful “cheers, love,” and she gave him a kiss on the cheek that was definitely not in the cool-down manual.

Later, back at the house, Olaf offered us both a slice of dense rye bread and a knowing smirk. “You boys look like you tried to outrun a moose,” he said, biting into his own breakfast like a man who’d once done exactly that. Tim, sprawled on the sofa beside Petra, grinned. “Feels more like the moose outran us.”

We grinned through the pain, but inside, our pride was bruised, our thighs were staging a mutiny, and somewhere deep down, we knew the girls were already planning round two.

Still, there was something exhilarating about it all—the shared sweat, the challenge, the sense that this wasn’t just a reunion but the start of a new rhythm. Our grand tour had toughened us up, sure, but the girls had quietly levelled up too. This wasn’t a holiday anymore—it was a proving ground.

That evening, as we collapsed onto the sofa with aching limbs and triumphant smirks, Vinka leaned in close and whispered, “Welcome back, marine.” I didn’t even mind the teasing tone—because, aching legs and all, I was exactly where I wanted to be.

That first weekend hit us like a glitter bomb of tradition, emotion, and unapologetic Swedish chaos: the girls’ high school graduation extravaganza. Now, in Sweden, graduation isn’t just a handshake and a lukewarm cup of squash in a gym hall—oh no. It’s a full-blown national spectacle. Think: folk costumes worthy of a Viking opera, flag-waving euphoria, and cake in quantities that could down a battleship. Keen to blend in (and possibly impress), Johan and I gamely squeezed ourselves into traditional attire—embroidered waistcoats, knee-buckled breeches, and socks so tight they threatened to cut off circulation. We looked like time-travelling extras from Abba: Ye Olde Tour.

But what we lacked in authenticity, we made up for in enthusiasm. There was singing, toasting, wild whooping, and so much cake we started hallucinating marzipan. The folk dancing, meanwhile, was less “delicate footwork” and more “controlled stampede.” We stomped like men possessed, sending shockwaves through the floorboards and accidentally launching a great-aunt’s sherry. One poor uncle caught a flailing elbow and wore a heroic black eye for the rest of the weekend like a badge of honour. But the cheers, the laughter, and the sheer joyful absurdity of it all made it the perfect, bruised-and-bedazzled start to our Swedish summer.

The next morning dawned with all the subtlety of a hangover wrapped in sunlight. The house was unusually still, save for the occasional creak of timber and the low hum of someone snoring behind a closed door. A few paper streamers still clung to the lampshade, wilting like forgotten party guests, and the faint aroma of cake, sweat, and schnapps lingered in the air like ghosts of revelry past.

I padded into the kitchen barefoot, still in my borrowed breeches—now rumpled and askew, like they’d been in a bar fight with my dignity. Vinka was already there, perched on a stool in one of Olaf’s oversized jumpers, hair bundled into a messy halo, hands wrapped around a steaming mug. She looked over the rim of her cup and smiled, that slow, knowing kind of smile that made your heart forget what it was doing.

“Sleep well, marine?” she teased softly, her voice still hoarse from a night of singing and laughing.

I nodded, then winced. “My knees disagree.”

Johan slouched in next, hair sticking up like a startled hedgehog, blinking at the daylight as if it had personally offended him. Marlin followed, alarmingly fresh-faced, and handed him a glass of orange juice without a word—proof, if ever there was, of deep affection.

We sat together quietly, sipping, munching on rye toast and leftover strawberries, speaking only in half-formed murmurs. Outside, the lake shimmered in the early light, and the world felt like it was holding its breath—recharging, resetting.

There was no need for grand plans that day. Just rest, recovery, and the gentle hum of contentment. After all, even adventurers needed the occasional pause. And in that stillness, wrapped in the warmth of friendship and the afterglow of joy, it was easy to forget the world beyond the window.

At least until Olaf appeared and declared it was time to “clear up the battlefield.” Spoons clattered, chairs scraped, and just like that, the lull gave way to another day.

Meanwhile, Ronnie—the unofficial fifth Beatle of our crew—was off being a grown-up. Olaf and Erik had sorted him an apprenticeship at the Hallberg boatyard, which thrilled him no end, even if he did claim that missing the Grand Summer Tour made his soul weep into his overalls. Having already knocked out his national service, and with military training reduced to six weeks of bootcamp followed by a few months at a unit, Ronnie was already carving out a future of boat-building and being mildly smug about his steady income. We toasted his noble sacrifice with glasses of lingonberry juice and promised him postcards. What we didn’t mention was how utterly absurd Johan looked squeezed into those traditional breeches. Ronnie would have been jealous—and we simply couldn’t have that.

Since Ronnie was chained to the boat factory like a Viking Prometheus, bravely enduring the torment of full-time employment, the rest of us—Johan, Marlin, Vinka, and yours truly—prepared to launch our great Swedish adventure. Only this time, we weren’t four. Tim and Petra, having endured the graduation mayhem and survived the morning run, weren’t about to miss out.

Olaf eyed the six of us with open amusement as we crammed into his trusty Volvo like a travelling circus. Backpacks bulged, boots dangled, Petra was wedged happily at Tim’s side, and Marlin kept scolding Johan for elbowing her every time he shifted gears. Olaf just hummed, tapping the steering wheel as though chauffeuring a squad of doomed explorers to the end of the world.

The road wound out of Ellös into the green heart of Bohuslän, past glinting lakes and thick stretches of pine. Conversation bounced around the car—Stephen boasting about compass skills he definitely didn’t have, Johan warning about wolves, Marlin pointing out every bird she saw, and Vinka casually suggesting that moose tended to charge without warning. Tim, for all his newfound confidence, wore the look of a man privately wondering if Army training covered “death by elk.” Petra, though, seemed perfectly content, her hand snug in his and a smile that refused to leave her face.

At last, Olaf rolled the Volvo up to a weather-worn cabin by the treeline, its timber walls leaning like an old soldier but still standing proud. He gave us all a final once-over, eyes twinkling with mock severity.

“Two weeks,” he said. “If I come back and find only bears wearing your boots… I’ll know you tried.”

We laughed, but when he drove off down the gravel track, the silence of the forest settled over us, thick and absolute.

That night, the six of us huddled inside the cabin, its beams creaking with age and its small stove fighting valiantly against the chill. Johan and Marlin commandeered one corner, Vinka and I the other, while Petra slid naturally under Tim’s arm in the narrow bedrolls, her head finding his chest as though it had always belonged there. There was no awkwardness—just warmth, trust, and the faint hum of the forest outside.

And so, the Great Summer Expedition began—not just the four of us this time, but six. Bound by friendship, love, and the stubborn determination to prove ourselves against whatever the Swedish wilderness dared to throw our way.

At dawn, we stirred into action—not because we had to, but because none of us wanted to miss the sunrise. The forest was still holding its breath, dew glinting on every blade of grass, the sky bleeding from purple into gold. It felt like the sort of moment you’d regret sleeping through for the rest of your life.

Our hike began with a “modest” ten miles, though calling it modest was like calling Vinka “quite pretty,” Marlin “occasionally clever,” or Tim “slightly competitive.” We were well-packed, well-fed, and already aching before the first hour was out. Tim discovered quickly that farm legs and marching boots weren’t quite the same, though Petra, bless her, kept up without complaint, offering him a grin every time he groaned about blisters.

Around mid-morning, we paused by a mossy outcrop for breakfast—flatbread, hard cheese, boiled eggs, and thermos tea with just a kiss of honey. The six of us sprawled like contented cats, boots off, socks steaming. That’s when I noticed Johan and Marlin had drifted just ahead on the trail, talking low, shoulders brushing with the kind of ease that didn’t need an audience. They weren’t just talking—they were leaning into each other, tethered by something that ran deeper than words.

I nudged Vinka and nodded toward them. She smiled—not a teasing smirk, but the soft, knowing kind that said yes, they’ve finally stopped dancing around it. She tucked herself under my arm, her head finding its place as naturally as ever, and whispered, “About time.”

Tim, chewing his bread with farmerly determination, followed our gaze. “Took ’em long enough,” he muttered, before Petra swatted his shoulder and murmured, “Darling, hush.” Then she settled against him, her hand slipping into his, a mirror of what Vinka had just done with me.

And just like that, it all clicked. There was no jealousy, no awkwardness—just six threads knotted together. What began as a hike was already something more: a reunion of hearts that had never really been apart, now woven tighter than ever by the rhythm of our boots and the hush of the pines.

That evening, the fire crackled gently beside the lake, throwing flickers of amber light across Vinka’s face as she sat curled into me, damp hair plaited loosely over one shoulder, smelling of pine smoke and river water. My heart thudded in rhythm with the fading day, and when she looked up at me with those ice-blue eyes—soft now, unguarded—I knew there was no going back.

“I meant it, you know,” I said, brushing my thumb along her cheekbone. “I’m yours. Forever, if you’ll have me.”

She smiled—not a girlish grin or a teasing smirk, but something deep, quiet, and ancient, like she’d already known this would happen since before we were born.

“I already do,” “You just hadn’t said it out loud yet.”

We lay down together as the last of the light melted into the treetops. Nothing rushed. No stolen moment. Just two souls wrapped around each other, in sync with the wind in the trees and the gentle lapping of the lake. The kind of closeness that didn’t need words, only warmth, breath, and the occasional muffled laugh when someone’s knee ended up in the wrong place.

Not far from us, Tim and Petra had claimed their own patch by the fire. She leaned back against his chest, her hair still damp from the evening swim, his arms snug around her waist. I caught them in a glance between flames—Petra tilting her head back, whispering something that made Tim grin, wide and unguarded, the kind of smile I hadn’t seen on him in years. It wasn’t boastful or smug this time. Just real. Content. The farm boy who’d always felt like he was chasing shadows had finally caught his light.

When Johan and Marlin returned well after dark, glowing in the way only a couple with equally tangled hair and untucked shirts can, we didn’t ask questions. We didn’t need to. Johan met my eye and gave the smallest nod, the kind passed between brothers who’ve just stepped through some invisible door into manhood.

No speeches. No fanfare. Just a shared understanding: we’d all crossed some quiet threshold, not just into adulthood, but into something rarer—chosen love. Built over years, not weeks. Carved out of trust, mischief, and moments like these.

Six of us, bound by firelight and futures we didn’t yet fully understand, but somehow already belonged to.