A porch and a pack of cards

The ghost of summers past

Growing up in Sweden, the concept of a “summer house” isn’t that farfetched for most. I’m not talking about a huge mansion filled with balconies and terraces and jet skis and boats in plural and a maid. No no no, I’m talking a small cabin that might be a couple of rooms but sometimes is also literally one room where everyone sleeps, eats and hang out. Well, most of the hanging out is done outside on the grass, on a dock, on bikes, by the ice cream shop. The actual house will often be an old family heirloom passed down through generations, where the first generation (and also probably the second, maybe even third) actually lived there all year round. As more and more people went to live in the cities, these houses went on to become an extra home where one could spend their free time and reconnect with nature.

I grew up with a summer house in my family, beautifully located on the archipelago just a couple of hours from Stockholm. I was always so proud of this little cottage, not because other kids in my class didn’t have cottages of their own, but because mine felt extra special. My dad always helped out with any activity we wanted to do, whether it was planting, boule, badminton, swimming, sailing, canoeing, painting, camping… (thanks dad). Again, we didn’t always have everything needed for these sports or activities but we made it work. A tennis racket can be any kind of racket. The sleeping bags were probably from the ‘60s but the kept us warm enough during summer nights. And my mum would make everything feel cosy and beautiful, with handpicked bouquets from the field a little further down the road, linen fabrics bought at flea markets, pitchers of “saft”, freshly baked rhubarb pies and lit candles every single evening as we played Yatzy for the 200th time.

Oh and the sun was always shining, of course.

This summer house is now being sold (for reasons I won’t get into here)(family drama). I feel kind of okay about it, even though it is a shame, because I still have those memories. And being there now isn’t really the same, it just isn’t. But the feeling of arriving at our little cottage, knowing there’s an entire endless summer just waiting to unfold still holds a special place in my heart. It’s something I hope to pass on to my nephew. My cousins (who have their own little cottage in the north of Sweden). And my own kids one day. I want to be a part of these kids memories, helping them set up different activities, preparing snacks, saying yes a whole lot more than I say no. Playing Yatzy more times than anyone knew was humanly possible.

I also can’t wait to have a summer house of my own some day. I want to fill it with colourful pillows and woven lamp shades and board games and really fluffy duvets. I want everyone to know they’re always welcome and there’s always a bottle of wine waiting. I want the kids to come sit in someone’s lap at the dinner table at night when they can’t sleep. I want there to always be paper and pens ready and waiting for a rainy day. I want there to be pots of random flowers and herbs all around the house. And bikes of all sizes in the shed, for when we all go get ice cream together. Towels hung out to dry. Flipflops left in a hurry in the grass. Dogs galore.

*All images from Pinterest, please let me know if you know the original source.