Because we travel so much for work, Rupert and I have never really been on a proper family holiday until now. I can’t believe how nice it is. This is my routine: I get up, I do some writing (I am working on a novel), I do half an hour of yogo (as Leo calls it). Then Rupert and I go down to our ‘brygga’ or pontoon where we swim out around a boat called My Lady III, a mast-less sailing boat who is in more or less the same position every day.

We get back and have breakfast, then maybe play tennis, or read (I am reading Diana Athill’s Stet - an editor’s life, Rupert is reading The Riddle of the Sands by Erskine Childers), go to ICA the supermarket and buy strange Swedish food, listen to Mamma Mia!, go for a walk, check my amazon rating (2833 since you ask) go to a lake etc etc. In the evenings we often have a sauna, followed by a beer and dill-flavoured crisps.

We leave on Saturday and I have been grumpy all day at the thought of going. I am off to Austria for another book project (all will be revealed once I have the contract) and Rupes and the children stay in England with friends until we head to Abu Dhabi and our air-conditioned office.

But the good news is that, all being well, next year someone will actually pay us to come to Sweden and go swimming - one of the upsides of a job is paid holiday. I am already planning how to spend it. I think we might just come back here and do the same thing we did this year…..

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

Stockholm seemed a fitting place to see the film version of Mamma Mia! Julia and I saw the musical a few years ago in London and loved it. As it was raining yesterday I took the four children off in search of a cinema. We eventually found one and settled down with our popcorn to a real treat. We were in the middle of the front row, my favourite place to sit.

The film is brilliant; we all loved it. I particularly related to the plot because part of it hinges on who is going to give the girl away at her wedding. I had a similar conundrum at mine. By then my step-father and I had fallen out, so he was off the list. My real father seemed an obvious second choice (although he had practically nothing to do with bringing me up). So he was dragged along to Sweden, along with around 100 other guests.

The morning of the big day he left. He has still to fully explain himself but has said he finds weddings so “bourgeois”. So I was left with two major problems. One, who was going to do the Dante reading and two, who was going to walk me up the aisle. I asked my Italian aunt if she would do the reading.

“But I don’t know if my hat will go with Dante,” she said. Perfectly understandable. But she did it, and read beautifully. I asked my mother to walk me up the aisle and give me away. It was an emotional moment and fitting as my mother is the person who brought me up and the one closest to me by far.

I won’t tell you what happens in the film, but go and see it. I felt like clapping and singing, rather like we did in the musical, but being in Sweden I suppressed my desires for fear of arrest for unruly behaviour.

The kids loved it. “I sunged all the songs,” Leo told me. “Oh why is it finished?” wailed Olivia at the end. Meryl Streep was, as always, totally amazing. I read somewhere she wrote to the boys from ABBA and asked if she could be in any film version they made.

She was the perfect choice, rather like my mother was at my wedding.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

Rupert was lying in the sun having just enjoyed a swim when I broke the news to him. “Three weeks today you’ll be in an office,” I told him.

“It’s Sunday,” said Olivia.

“They work in a Sunday in Abu Dhabi,” I replied. Rupert seemed calm, in fact he didn’t even open his eyes. Maybe he was enjoying one of his last afternoon kips.

I cannot imagine what we will think of it. I know it will be very different to here where we are outside in the fresh air all day, swimming, walking, playing tennis, running out of petrol in the middle of the sea. Yes, my husband and boats. I should have known better than to get into one with him but I didn’t.

We rented a small speed boat for the day to explore the archipelago and its thousands of islands with. It started well. I was driving, speeding along (like you do in speed boats) enjoying the sunshine and the children pointing at various sights. This really is one of the most stunning places in the world. If you haven’t been then you should come. I have never seen so much beautiful nature.

Suddenly there was a splutter and we ground to a halt. In the middle of the sea. We didn’t have any spare on account of the fact that we’d already used that the first time we ran out. And do you know how many petrol stations there are in the Stockholm Archipelago? About three. And they’re miles apart. So we were on our way to one of them when we shuddered to yet another halt.

We started drifting into land and I saw some people along the coastline. I waved frantically and shouted. They just waved back as is the manner on the ocean waves. I picked up the empty petrol can and started waving that around to passing boats. Thankfully one of them, driven by what I can only assume was a Swedish football player and his WAG, understood. They towed us in to Vaxholm where we filled up. Rupert and Leo tried to leave with the WAG but we stopped them. We managed to get home without running out again, just.

I suppose it’s an improvement on the last time Rupert got in a boat, ran aground somewhere near Marseillan and he and Julia had to be rescued by the lifeguards which cost us over one thousand euros. And he is already talking about buying a boat in Abu Dhabi. Let’s hope the job keeps him busy for a while.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

So I show up, wondering if I should undress in my car before being greeted by the owners who are charming and fully dressed. Then they take me to my room. En route we pass one of the clients. I have only been to one other naturist in my life; Cap d’Agde, and there, as here, the naked truth (ha ha) is that these places do not attract the kind of people who look better undressed than dressed.

In fact it is now exactly ten years since I looked better undressed than dressed, but I don’t (normally) go around showing my buttocks to anyone who happens to be passing. Being a half-Swede I do get this nudity thing. I like wandering around starkers as much as your next Swede. In fact at our rented cottage I can often be spotted of a morning walking down to the sea and indulging in a bit of skinny-dipping. But here are the facts; the sun is shining and there are no other people about. What I don’t get about this B&B set-up, is how they can possibly find walking around naked with strangers RELAXING.

Also, it was so cold my instinct was to put more clothes on rather than take them off. But as you will see from the picture taken by the lovely and talanted (and fully clothed) Teri Pengilley, I got into the swing of things. Having said that, I was mightily relieved to get into my M&S cashmere jumper and jeans and head off the following day.

One strange side-effect was that I kept imagining all my fellow travellers on the train to Stockholm naked. There at least there were a couple of people I wouldn’t have minded breakfast with. They’re a nice-looking bunch these Swedes, as long as you like blond hair. Rather like it’s a nice place to live as long as you like yellow or red houses, and a nice place to drive as long as you like Saabs or Volvos and a good place to eat as long as you like Salmon or Meatballs. I could go on but have to have my tea now. It’s a Kanel bulle (cinnamon bun) or, er, that’s it….

Copyright:Helena Frith Powell 2008

I am on a train speeding through the Swedish countryside en route to yet another tough assignment. I am going to write an article about Scandinavia’s first nudist B&B for The Times (www.hyltebergagard.se). I have covered (being the operative word) some weird and wonderful things during my journalistic career but this promises to be one of the more unusual.

Packing was tricky. “Why the bag?” was Rupert’s first question. I cannot begin to imagine what it’s going to be like. Will I be able to have a normal conversation with a total stranger while he is naked? Will I be able to stop myself from looking ‘down there’? Is looking ‘down there’ encouraged or frowned upon? What about my own ‘down there’? How will I cope with people who’s names I don’t even know casually assessing it. Whatever else, it’s not an ideal time to have a bad hair day - anywhere.

The weather in Sweden has been amazing for once. But despite that Leonardo asked me this morning why it is always cold. “Because we’re in Sweden,” I told him. There was a slight pause. “Then why are we here?” he said.

This is a fair question and one that I can only answer with the excuse that having been born here and lived here for several years, there is something that draws me back again and again. Luckily Rupert seems quite taken with it, although he is now also sick of meatballs.

Which brings me neatly back to the theme of the day. “I have one ball with my willie,” Leonardo told me proudly yesterday. “Yes,” I replied. “And one day you will have two balls, like Daddy.” He looked at me rather questioningly and then asked; “Yes, but will they be tennis balls?”

Here’s hoping they won’t, and more crucially that any balls I happen to catch a glimpse of during this assignment are not enough to put me off my breakfast. Bed, Breakfast and Balls. It could catch on….

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

Although I lived here as a child and teenager, there is much I had forgotten. Here are some of the more remarkable things about this country.

In the summer it gets light at 2 in the morning

In the winter it gets dark at 2 in the afternoon

Most people in the countryside will say ‘hej’ to you; but you can’t be sure whether they mean hello or goodbye

If you sit in a car in Stockholm and watch 40 people go by as Julia did yesterday, half of them will be blond

Everyone drives with their headlights on all the time

The countryside is empty and stunningly beautiful

When you go into a Swedish home you take your shoes off

They are opening an ABBA museum in Stockholm in June 2009

Beer comes in three strengths; low, medium and high alcohol content

Almost everyone has a Swedish flag in their garden (which Leo thinks means there is a branch of IKEA there)

Talking of IKEA, I have discovered that there is one in Abu Dhabi. After four days in Sweden I don’t think I can ever face another meatball as long as I live, but it will be nice to know it is there in case I start missing Sweden.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

We have embarked on the next leg of our European tour. As I write I am looking out over silver birches, pretty red wooden houses and the sea in the distance. We are in Sweden in our rented house in the Stockholm archipelago. As we were settling in here last night, another family was settling into Sainte Cecile. I am getting quite used to this nomadic lifestyle (probably just as well as we’re moving to the desert).

London was great. Rupert’s book launch went very well; Stanford’s book shop sold lots of copies, his charming publisher made a lovely speech and lots of friends and family came. Leonardo enjoyed himself, playing cricket with Hugo and Julia across the shop with rubber balls depicting the world. Surrounded as I was by maps I finally worked out where Abu Dhabi is. Great neighbours….

But back to Leo. It was a little like I imagine travelling with George Clooney must be like. Every place we went in to everyone stopped what they were doing to talk to him and fuss over him. He was at his most charming. Every evening at the Connaught he would say goodnight to every member of staff and say “see you in the morning”. He even managed to get a free breakfast at Pret a Manger, something I have not achieved in 15 years of going there.

But here in Sweden sadly he looks just like thousands of other little blond boys so he may have to get used to a little less attention. And start paying for his own breakfast.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

When I was a teenager living in Sweden my Italian aunt once asked me why I chose to live “in that periphery of the world”. She had a point. I could have lived in London or Rome and compared with either of those places, the Swedish countryside probably didn’t have much going on.

I am happy to report that this is no longer the case. Just last week an elk was rescued from a swimming pool in a town called Oskartrom, located in southern Sweden. The elk had wandered into the pool which had to be drained in order for special steps to be built so that it could walk out again.

I am not surprised the elk ended up in a private swimming pool. In Sweden we have a law called Allemannsratten, or Every Man’s Right, which means you have the right to walk anywhere you like, even on private land. The elk will have been well aware of this right and had clearly taken full advantage of it. Though I’m not sure it stretches to swimming in other people’s pools.

Anyway, even with the pool drained and the steps built, the elk was in no hurry to get out. Twenty-four hours later it was still standing in the pool. Probably waiting for someone to put the water back in. Eventually rescuers shot it with a tranquilizer gun and lifted it out using a harness.

“We initially held up a screen in front of the animal so that it wouldn’t jump back in the pool, but then she just lay down next to it,” said a local news reporter. After resting for an hour the elk wandered into neighbouring woodland and was reunited with its calf.

And you thought London was hectic?

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

So my Swedish fantasy has been fulfilled. This does not involve blond hunks or even meatballs; but my children playing in the Swedish woods and more importantly leaving the woods with dark blue mouths on account of eating too many blueberries.

The weather, it has to be said, has been dreadful. Cold, wet, windy and that was on a good day. But still that hasn’t stopped us having a good time. Although at one stage Olivia did say “you know mummy, the grandes vacances are meant to be warm”.

The Stockholm archipelago is as lovely as I imagined with beautiful houses, stunning nature and more blueberries than you could eat in several lifetimes. We are staying with my cousin Erika and her family in their house on a small island called Edlunda. There are 47 houses on the island inhabited by various eclectic types like Swedish diplomats and pop stars. In fact the archipelago is stuffed full of Swedish celebs. Not that I would recognise them. But apparently Tiger Woods’ wife comes from the nearest place you can buy milk; a ten-minute boat ride away.

Today Bea insisted on Rupert holding her upside down as she picked blueberries in the moss-covered wood. One upside to the rain is that the ground is like walking on a mattress, so if he’d dropped her on her head she would barely have dropped her blueberries. It was a scene I will remember for years to come. It’s a funny thing holidays with small children. Well actually most of it isn’t much fun if I’m honest, but some highlights make it all worth while. Like the blueberries and like Leo saying when he saw his first plate of meatballs: “This was a good idea.” Like Bea and I walking around Vaxholm castle and me showing her how you put a feather in the ground and make a silent wish and her saying; “I wish I knew what you had wished for.”

Obviously I wished it would stop raining. Fat chance. It occurred to me in the middle of the night that if I were a Swedish homeless person I would move to Montpellier immediately. But before I get any more comments about how marvellous Sweden is, I don’t mean that as a criticism of the country, just a reflection on the weather.

As a place to holiday with children it is top notch. And despite my misgivings about the place I still feel emotional every time I see the flag or pick a blueberry. I think I view her rather like a relation I’m allowed to be rude about but still love deeply.

Tomorrow we begin our journey back to France where the forecast for the rest of the week is 39 degrees and sunny. As we Swedes say; Borta bra, men hemma bast.Loosely translated: There’s no place like home.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

After three days of trawling around various sights, museums and shops in Stockholm there is one clear winner. She has strange red hair, odd stockings and a monkey called Herr Nilsson. Yes, it’s Pippi Longstocking, who as far as I can see is the most enduring Swedish character there has ever been.

She is from a children’s book written by Astrid Lindgren in 1945. On the back Pippi is described as “the strongest, the richest and the nicest girl in the whole world.” What’s not to like? On top of that she lives alone in a tumble-down house called Villa Villekulla with her horse (whom she can lift with one arm) and her monkey.

The great upside to living alone is of course that she doesn’t need to go to school, or to bed and she can also bake ginger biscuits on the floor. I think you have to be partly Swedish to understand the latter.

But my point is this. Pippi’s life is every child’s fantasy. She can do exactly what she wants, when she wants and there is no one to boss her about. No matter that her mother is dead and her father is off being a king on some remote island. She’s happy as anything. And children adore her. I adored her. So it’s nice to see my children do the same. Which I suppose is one good thing about getting older with children; you get to remember all the things you loved via them.

Now we are off to the Stockholm archipeligo so there will be no more blogs for a few days. But I expect you all to have learnt the Pippi song (in Swedish) by the time I get back. Hej hej!

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007