There's Something Nasty in the Woodshed

There's Something Nasty in the Woodshed

Sun, daffodils and an off-duty sheepdog

At Stansted Airport a couple of weeks ago, a man on the Liz Earle concession in Boot’s asks: ‘How are we today?’. Me: ‘We is fine.’ Ignoring the grammatical boomerang, he persists: ‘Can I help you? What type of skin do you have?’ Me: ‘Medium.’ Slight furrowing of the brow. ‘I don’t know what that means.’ Me: ‘It means I’m normal (sotto voce) you moron.’ To be honest, I don’t actually need any Liz Earle Superskin Moisturiser with Natural Naroli because my pores will be clogged with mud and dog hair until mid-March, the reason being, I’m in Limousin playing housekeeper on a farm during the very hectic lambing period.

Is that afterbirth the dog’s eating?

For almost three weeks, I am Betty, Maid of All Works, aka domestic drudge. My daily duties are legion: I make breakfast for aged Ps, let the chickens out and collect the eggs, make breakfast, make cake, make busy with the hoover, put on a big load, bottle feed a lamb with a death wish, haul a tonne of logs in from the woodshed, make lunch, wash the boot room floor, clean the bathroom, assist with sheep tagging and vaccinating, fluff up the hay, stop the dog eating sheep’s afterbirth (it gives her the runs), make dinner, put aged P in the shower, and finally, put myself into bed, perchance to have nightmares about wiping my arse with Izal toilet paper.

The mole man cometh

Life and death are ready to smack me in the face whichever way I turn. For example, this morning, the mole man (squinty eyes and a long nose) gaily bonjoured me then skipped out into the field for a spot of killing. Then, I was interrupted during my morning mopping to help drag a dead sheep out of its pen ready for the knacker man to pick up. Meanwhile, next door, H. was elbow deep in a ewe’s fanny (big lamb, tight vagina). It eventually plopped out and I sang ‘Isn’t she lovely?’

Poor lamb thinks I’m its mother. Must be the Icelandic jumper

Yesterday, there was an ugly incident at the chicken coop. I was feeding the chickens when a 15-strong herd of hungry rams came at me from the next door field. They galloped into the feed shed and cornered me and my bucket. One particularly aggressive Suffolk flew at me with its ugly head. I shouted ‘fuck off’ and lunged at it with a kung fu style kick (not easy when you’re wearing Wellington boots two sizes too big), and the ram retreated with a poo/wee combo. Talking of poo, after my ram roasting, I had to go with H. to collect some sheep dung for worm analysis at the vet’s. H. only had one rubber glove on him but luckily, I had an old dog poo bag in my coat pocket so he was able to fashion a mitt and complete the dung collecting task (somewhat of a challenge as the dung was a bit sloppy). The receptionist at the vet was less than impressed when he plonked the poo bag down on her counter next to a complimentary bowl of lollipops. ‘Zut alors’, she seemed to be saying with her eyebrows but H. simply laughed. Farmers eh!

Larry, the he/she llama who thinks it’s a sheep. Duh…

New-to-me fact: llamas are exceedingly stupid. One on its own in a field of sheep will think it’s a sheep and adopt stupid herd behaviour. But put another llama in there and it will wise up and know that it’s not a sheep and start behaving like a llama. Fascinating! The farm’s resident llama, Larry, is a singleton and so believes itself to be one of the flock. Larry isn’t the only one that’s confused. For six years, H. & M. have been convinced Larry is a girl (despite having a boy’s name – given to her by previous owners). Then, one day recently, M. saw a winky-like protuberance emerging from Larry’s undercarriage. So, Larry would appear to be male after all. Whatever, he’s a bit miserable right now. With all the sheep residing in the farm’s maternity unit for at least two weeks, Larry doesn’t know what to do with himself. He spends his days wandering around the farm yard or standing mournfully by the barn entrance.

It’s turning out day

The lamb mobile has a funny looking occupant

On my final day down on the farm, I help M. mark and tag the lambs. This involves dangling the lamb while using a staple gun to attach two plastic tags to its ears, weighing it, attaching an elastic band to its tail so that it drops off and, finally, spraying it with its ID number. M. does the dangling and I do the rest but when it comes to the spraying, the lamb is wriggling and I’m all of a dither with the can. The poor lamb’s number 35 ends up as a big blue blob while poor M. is left looking like a Smurf. Oh how we laugh! And finally, we pile all of the off spring into the lamb mobile and transport them to the fields for their very first taste of grass, closely followed in the cattle truck by their anxious mothers. Bye bye sheep, I’ve learnt a lot about you, your water bags, your afterbirths, your four stomachs and your prolapsed vaginas. It’s been a pleasure.

Going Nuts for Brazil – an Odyssey of Five Parts

Part Four – The Big Trek

It’s 7am and I’m rendezvousing with my trek group for a three-hour drive into the Chapada Diamantina National Park. It’s an all-French-speaking group. There’s one Belgian – let’s call him Hercule, one Quebeccy (or is it Quebecian?) – I’m going to call her Butch, and a French couple – Philippe and Marie-Claude. Butch, a PHD chemist and part time pole dancer, has very short arms and legs and a voice like gravel. Hercule is exceptionally brown and an ear surgeon. He once spent time in Eastbourne! Philippe and Marie-Claude are having an early life existential crisis; they think starving themselves of good quality cheese and wearing the same pair of socks for a week will help them pinpoint the exact meaning of their shallow existence (at some point, I will tell them it won’t). Meanwhile, our guide, whose name is unpronounceable to me but means ‘Little Willy’ in Portuguese, has a habit of gobbling his words so although he’s apparently speaking pigeon-English to me, his unenunciated words are lost on the breeze. We’re rammed into a small jeep driven by a gormless middle-aged man in board shorts and flip flops who insists on swapping my smallish backpack for a bigger one (more of this later). As promised by the trek organiser, en route we stop in a small town where there’s a bank which has actual cash in its ATM. Glory be! I replenish my wallet with Brazilian Real while Little Willy visits the market and buys all our food for the next three days.

We’re dropped off at the foot of a steep climb and Little Willy shares out the food. Apparently, ours is a basic trek, i.e. there are no sturdy porters, not even a small donkey to carry our bags. We are the donkeys. Rather conveniently, Butch and Marie-Claude have very small packs so can only fit in a few cheese balls and a couple of bags of pasta. Courtesy of our driver, I have a much larger pack and so end up with three days’ worth of potatoes. I’m also carrying 1.5 litres of water! We start climbing almost immediately. It’s two kilometres straight up, the sun is high in the sky and there’s no shade. After three hours, my spuds are taking their toll. I’ve got waggy legs and my head is on a rolling boil. Hercule, with his medical training, sees that I’m probably going to pass out and drop off the edge and comes to my rescue. He masterfully takes charge of my pack, carrying it up the last few remaining metres. At the top is a flat, scrubby plateau where I collapse. Little Willy gives me a banana and pats me on the back. For the rest of our trek, he will constantly ask me ‘tudo bem?’, which roughly translates as ‘don’t you dare die on me you lanky bitch.’ At first, I’m grateful for his concern but after a while I want to punch him.

There is precious little evidence of humankind in the Chapada Diamantina. There are no roads and only a handful of homestays dotted around. There aren’t even any other trekkers. Imagine, a beautiful, wild landscape of dramatic rocky outcrops, colourful orchids and deep forested valleys where the only sounds are the gentle rustle of the wind in the trees and the chirp of birdsong. And then, rudely puncturing the serenity is le blah le blah le blah of my four Gaulish companions. They never shut up. In their late 20s, and seemingly super fit (especially Butch), they can skip up a steep incline of switchbacks, with a backpack, in searing heat, and still have enough breath to guffaw and titter at each other’s travel deprivation stories. ‘Marie-Claude, cherie, do you recall the time in Umpalumpaland when we got lost in the jungle for three weeks and had to eat our flip flops?’

I catch up with Little Willy who’s striding on ahead – no doubt, he’s also desperate to get away from the eternal blether. At our first homestay (think 1970s youth hostel but without the lightbulbs and hot water) we rinse the sweat out of our smalls under a cold tap in the yard while Little Willy cooks our dinner, a strange combo of rice, fried potato, cheese balls (naturally), tapioca flatbread (too much chewing) and stewy stuff – all washed down by the local beer. By the time we’re done eating it’s dark. I leave the rest of the group to get pissed on the local cachaca (rustic rum) and retire to my 20 bunk room, of which I am the sole tenant.

The next day, after a thick slurry of porridge and black coffee, we’re off up the ominously named Prefecture Slit. It’s another vertiginous climb involving lots of scrabbling around on rocks and a hazardous crawl through a dripping cave. Marie-Claude is afflicted by claustrophobia and Philippe has to cover her head with a travelling tea towel so she can’t see how low the ceiling is and freak out. We make it through to the other side and the trek culminates with some staggeringly scary views down a sheer cliff face. Under Little Willy’s direction, we inch on our bellies to look over the edge. Apparently, a few years ago a freak gust blew a trekker off the edge so he’s taking no chances. And knowing my propensity for falling over, neither am I.

That night at the homestay, the Gauls are on the cachaca again and Butch demonstrates some of her pole dancing moves. ‘It’s not sexual’ she growls flinging herself into a Martini Spin around the corner pole of the veranda. The boys, evidently feeling a prickle in their testicles, then have a press up competition. I leave them to it. The next day, we have a long 24km trek across the plateau back to the beginning of the trek. En route, we see a humming bird bathing in a creek and some wild horses. Oh yeah, and I’m so tired, on one of our periodic rests, I narrowly miss sitting on a lizard. It’s time to go home. We descend the same way we came up (so much easier without the potatoes), meet up with our driver and make our way back to Lencois where we celebrate our safe return with a can of Coke. I’m gagging to get back to Paula’s Pousada for a big old lather but my backpack (the one I’d exchanged for a bigger one at the start of the trek) has disappeared, as has our driver. I have a row on WhatsApp with the trek organiser (very difficult as a. his English is shit b. the mobile signal keeps dipping out, and c. he’s not even sure who our driver is and I don’t know how to say ‘gormless’ in French). Needless to say, at 6am the next morning said driver turns up at Paula’s and thrusts my backpack at me with a scowl. There’s no mea culpa forthcoming, nothing. Time to move on I think; before I kill. Next stop – Salvador.

Going Nuts for Brazil – an Odyssey of Five Parts

Part Three…..the Bus to Lencois

At Brasilia’s interstate rodoviaria (why so many syllables – it’s only a bus station!) I’m bewildered by the vast concourse with its multitude of ticket desks, each one for a different coach operator. It takes me a few abortive attempts using a combination of pigeon Portuguese and charades to establish where to go to pick up my ticket to Lencois. Eventually, I find a jolly man in a Hi de Hi blazer who directs me to a self-service machine where I tap in my reference number and print the ticket. Bingo!

The ubiquitous Brazilian cheese puff

I’m feeling peckish so I cross the concourse to a Lanchette (that’s a caff) where there’s the familiar ‘brown buffet’, a long counter populated by cheese balls and a mass of insipid looking pies and pasties. As my body is now a meat-free temple, I go through the usual rigmarole of trying to negotiate something ‘sim carne’ but despite smiles and nods from the dollies behind the counter, I end up with a mouth full of ‘con carne’. I wince and swallow like a good girl.

Chapada Diamantina, Brazil’s number one trekking destination

I spend the next 22 hours on my arse on a coach heading north to the state of Bahia, home to the Chapada Diamantina National Park. The highway runs through a flat, sandy landscape; there are scrubby hills in the distance and scary looking roadside cacti. Huge birds of prey hover ominously and every so often there’s a dead dog to swerve around. Onboard, we’re kept entertained by a middle-aged mama who lolls across two seats while shouting into her phone and then playing us tinny renditions of her fave samba ditties. She sings along, loudly and badly, waving her phone in the air. Thankfully, as night draws in and we close the curtains, she runs out of steam, wraps herself in a blanket, and the coach heaves a collective sigh of relief. The next morning, bright and early, we roll into Lencois, an old colonial diamond mining town.

Nice colours but the cobbles are a killer

I get off the bus and, whether my legs have gone a bit waggy from all the sitting around or I’m delirious from lack of proper sleep (thanks loud bus lady), I somehow manage to immediately fall flat on my face in front of a man selling coconuts. He helps me up and while I dab my bleeding knees he directs me to the centre of town. Lencois is a pretty town of shady squares and brightly coloured houses. I hobble up the cobbles in search of a hostel before alighting on Paula’s Pousada, a somewhat down-at-heel terraced house with multi bunk rooms and a small, windowless dining area. Paula is a chirpy young woman who dresses like a rapper and has a dicky eye. We converse via Google Translate and she shows me my room – clean but basic. Within a few minutes, following a major evacuation, I’ve broken the toilet flush but on the plus side, Paula has made me scrambled eggs for breakfast. Never mind her brioche is stale – I’m eating my first eggs since leaving the UK. Bloody marvellous! I spend the day booking a trek and trying to get cash out of the town’s solitary bank; the ATM says NO and the trekking company doesn’t take plastic but I’m informed by the French dude in charge that there is one bank in another town that has cash on a Monday! And since this bank is en route to the park and tomorrow is Monday, I should be able to draw some money out so I can pay the trek guide. Allebloodyluia! My evening is spent celebrating in a pavement cafe singing along to Bob Marley’s greatest hits while nursing a pint of caipirinha. I scan the menu – it’s very meaty but I’m heartened to see that the cheese is ‘artisanal’. I do love a bit of culinary bullshit. That night as I lie on Paula’s rock-hard bed looking forward to another egg dominated breakfast, I wonder: Will the bank really have cash tomorrow? And do I come clean with Paula about my toilet incident? And if I do, will I mime it?

Going Nuts for Brazil – an Odyssey of Five Parts

Part Two….Going Solo

I’m all omm’d out

I float away from my hillside yoga retreat full of bon homie and wind. This is the new Anna. I embrace serenity; I shun cheese on toast. When I close my eyes, my internal chatter is gone; all I hear is the low rumble of a didgeridoo entwined with the ‘orchestra of nature’. FOR GOD’S SAKE, WILL SOMEBODY SLAP ME?

I prepare to come down to earth for some good old fashioned trekking. But where am I going to stay for the next couple of days? Diaine, my friendly pigeon-English-speaking taxi driver has a suggestion. She picks me up in her clapped out Vauxhall Cavalier and takes me to Donna Didi’s (pronounced GiGi), a pousada on the outskirts of town. Didi, a plump Grannie type with a twinkle in her eye, has clean but VERY basic rooms. The socket flashes when I try to plug in the TV and the sink tap has just two settings: irritating drip and flash flood. I elect to wash my pants in the shower. It’s all mod cons here; there’s a bin for bum wipes, a fridge and a picnic table with plastic flowers. There are also three beds, plenty of room for an orgy but Didi tells me no men are allowed in the room; with this she winks and blows me a kiss. I think Donna Didi may be verging on lesbiana. She certainly can’t be getting much action from Signor Didi, a snowy-haired indolent individual whose arse seems permanently glued to a rocking chair by the front door.

Having spent the last week screen-free and alcohol free, I decide to go crazy with a beer and a spot of tele-visual low-culture. This being a Sunday evening, Brazilian TV delivers meagre choice. There’s a spiritual smorgasbord of preaching ranging from Evangelical i.e. delivered by men with slimy hair and ill-fitting suits to Catholic i.e. delivered by men in fancy hats and dresses. I flick channels to watch a teary-eyed young woman and her mother talk to camera about how she’s been cured of a hideous dermatological condition by the power of heavenly belief (well I’m guessing it was Jesus not steroid creams that had done it for the scabs). She looked pretty peachy now but boy does she bang on about her boils. Strangely, I also discover three channels devoted to cattle, that is lots of humpy white cows with excess neck skin wandering around in a field. I keep with it for a good half an hour but there doesn’t seem to be a storyline and there were no people or other animals, just cows, just hanging, in a field.

It’s a bigger drop than it looks

The next day, I’m fancying a bit of a yomp so Diaine hooks me up with her mate Lady, an English-speaking guide who sidelines as a yoga teacher. Lady offers me a day trek and vinyasa combo and we set off for the nearby Chapada Veideiros national park. In searing heat we hike through the rocky, scrubby terrain to two canyons where we eat bananas, sing the praises of Greta Thunberg and slag off Bolsonara and Prince Andrew. Then I cool down with a swim in a beautiful waterhole while Lady strips down to her bikini and goes through her flow on the rocks above me. I decline her invitation to join in the dogging. The water is super refreshing plus my hard skin is getting a chomping from some tiny but very hungry fish. I could do without the leeches joining in the party but this is Brazil after all; there’s always something around the corner ready to eat you.

At this point I am oblivious to the leeches swarming around my downstairs

The next morning I pay Donna Didi (who, despite advertising that she DOES take credit cards, in fact DOES NOT take credit cards at all which means I am now down to the last of my cash). Luckily, I have enough to pay for my shared taxi back to Brasilia and have used my credit card for my onward bus ticket to Lencois in the neighbouring state of Bahia. And so, at the crack of dawn, I find myself wedged into a very small taxi with three strangers. My knees are around my ears and the middle-aged man next to me keeps making heaving noises with his Eustachian tube. The most ominous part is when everyone crosses themselves as we lurch from the dusty high street onto the Brasilia highway. My seatbelt doesn’t work so I’m already visualising us in a head-on collision with a juggernaut whereby I’m catapulted forwards pushing the dolly on the front seat through the windscreen. Thankfully, after three hours ploughing the busy highway punctuated by a visit to a roadside caff for a breakfast of vile coffee and yellow things, I’m despatched at Brasilia’s rodoviaria, ready for my 22 hour mammoth coach journey north. Bahia here I come…

Going Nuts for Brazil – an Odyssey of Five Parts

Part One….the Yoga

After a 1.30am start, 18 hours’ flight time, two manic lollops through Charles de Gaulle and Sao Paolo’s Duty Free zones (scattering perfume and giant Toblerones in a dash to connect with ongoing flights), I arrive in Brasilia.

Let’s get ready to yoga.

I meet my fellow yoga gals and we pile into shared cabs for a three-hour long journey north to the edge of Chapada Veadeiros and our hillside retreat – a large adobe villa that comes complete with tarantulas and hippies. There is danger and tofu wherever I look. What there isn’t is alcohol, fags or twiddling about with the virtual world. I gird my loins for random sharing and possible weeping.

Get your hair out of my kitchen!

Everything in the retreat is open plan – we can wander hither and thither, thinking, sharing, being – yeah! But – we’re banned from the kitchen for hygiene reasons. If we do feel the urge to stick the kettle on at 5am in the morning for an invigorating mug of boiling water, we have to wrap our head turban style to prevent loose hairs getting into the cabbage. As I’m permanently moulting, I take this as a sign from the Gods of Vegan to keep the hell out.

The shala is where we do our yoga. Three sides of the shala are open to the elements which means we share our practice with the birds (in the morning) and the chicadas (in the evening). At our opening ceremony we gather in the shala to get ‘smudged’ with sage leaves and to burn our ‘intentions’. This is less painful than it sounds. We have a mini post-it note bonfire then join in a spot of low wailing, and then there’s a kerfuffle involving a disorientated cricket who has probably got blown off course by the didgeridoo and rainstick symphony that we’re all grooving to (I use the word ‘grooving’ in a loose way as we’re actually lying comatose).

‘You are exactly where you need to be’. Yeah, in agony!

Twice a day we converge on the shala for our vinyasa and yin classes. We omm a lot and sit in tangled agony while trying to ‘let go’. No one trumps. This I find surprising because during our retreat we are sustained by a lot of beans and wind-inducing plant life. The kitchen hippies throw in a few cheese balls here and there (cheese balls are big in Brazil) but it’s not real cheese and the ‘milk’ has been squeezed from a cashew nut. In between yoga, we explore the surrounding countryside, splash around in waterfalls and swim in deliciously dark water holes. There are toucans in the trees and snails the size of cricket balls slithering across the road.

One day, I ramble five kilometres to the nearest beauty spot. It’s pretty scorchio so by the time I get there, my head is a big, red hot blob and my pants need wringing out. There are a few Brazilian tourists hanging around laughing and splashing. They appear to be holding their heat better than me. They are very casual in their tiny briefs and flip-flops, even the lardy ones. One man is so casual he’s eating a sandwich and admiring the idyllic view while having his back spots squeezed by his girlfriend. Nice!

It’s a jungle out there

Down town is hippy town

When we’re not down at the waterholes admiring Brazilian bottoms, we’re sampling the delights of the nearby town. The whole area lies on a bed of crystal which apparently, gives it ‘special’ energies (there have been several alien sightings). We amble up the main street with its parade of shops selling dreamcatchers and cardboard cut-outs of ET. We marvel at the bank that has no cash in its ATM because it keeps getting raided by the crystal meth brigade, and compete to try and find a single shop assistant that speaks English. We fail. Thank the lord for Google Translate!

Every evening we do our yin which basically means bending bits of us backwards and then holding it until the point of dislocation. I spend most of this class with my nose squashed sideways into the mat while the sweat runs down my cheek into my mouth. After that, we gorge ourselves on a feast of green things and then retire to our forest chalets hoping that nothing undesirable has crawled into our underwear while we’ve been out.

By the end of the week we have bonded – there have been tears, screaming (at spiders mostly), and lots of deep, meaningful conversations. I have been ‘ridden’ by one of the retreat masseurs and let everything go in an episode of ecstatic dancing. Time to move on…..

Stockholm Syndrome – Top 5 things to do in the Swedish capital

  1. Hurl oneself out of a high-rise apartment

This being Sweden, suicide is always top of mind. Our Air bnb apartment was on the 14th floor of a Soviet style tower block that smelled of drains. Its main feature, apart from the dust and dead plant, was that it had large, fully-opening windows – without any security bars. This gave us wonderful views of the city but also the chance to kill ourselves if we leaned over a bit too far. Needless to say, when taking in the gorgeous sunsets, Rosie had to hold my ankles.

  1. Join the Temperance Society

In Stockholm, as a foreigner, getting even a bit tiddly is a game for fools. On the terrace of an anonymous looking bar, we scanned the menu for affordable alcohol and ended up ordering the house red for the gargantuan sum of £14.50. Never before have I made a drink last so long (approximately two hours). Rosie suggested we could stretch it out with a bag of crisps – but they were £5.50. Sweden is definitely the place to go for the Go Sober October brigade.

  1. Talk politics with your Air bnb host

I had a strange feeling about our Air bnb host from the start. His profile photo showed a man in a motorbike helmet and dark glasses. What was he hiding? A strawberry birth mark? An extra ear? In the flesh, Alex had a lip ring and a nasty leaning towards the right, the Far Right. On the day we were leaving, he came to take his keys and, while stripping the sofa bed, launched into a tirade against foreigners, no doubt emboldened by the Sweden Democrats’ success in the previous day’s elections. He was of the opinion that Serbian immigrants were solely responsible for all his country’s killings while Kosovans did all the ‘rapings’. Before we left, I’d originally planned on giving him visitor ‘feedback’ – like suggesting he buy a new plant and water it, as well as invest in a pair of ‘curtains’ that were wider than 6″ so they actually met in the middle – but thought my top tips, coming from a foreigner, might go bad and result in us both being hurled out of the health and safety less window.

  1. Reject the ABBA museum

Everyone we knew who’d previously visited Stockholm, recommended we take in the ABBA museum but when we arrived at Djurgarden and saw that it was no bigger than a garage yet cost £25 to enter, we changed our minds. Instead, we sat outside on a bench next to the ABBA photo wall and ate a £7 cheese and lettuce cob while I regaled Rosie with all the fascinating facts I knew about ABBA, like the circumference of Agnetha’s legendary bottom, and the fact that Anni-Frid is not even bloody Swedish. Then we sang Chiquittita and took photos of each other with our heads in the ABBA photo wall.

  1. Swim naked in a lake

In the Time Out guide to Stockholm it suggested a sauna in the Hellensgarten, a nature reserve close to the city centre. It said nudity was compulsory in the sauna and that to cool off it was the Swedish way to jump into the nearby lake, also naked. We duly took a bus to the nature reserve, went into the sauna, stripped off and sat on a flannel in a small wooden box. At the point when the heat was singeing my nostril hair (about 10 minutes in), we decided to take the plunge, in the lake that we’d assumed would be right outside the sauna. It wasn’t. Red faced with panda eyes, bare feet and nothing but a towel around our lady parts, we stepped out onto a terrace full of middle-aged, fully-clothed Swedish men having a jolly. We nervously scanned the scene; the lake and its jetty seemed to be way over yonder by way of a cinder cycle path, a grassy knoll where people were picnicking, and a pine needle-strewn copse. We scurried off, gingerly picking our way through all the obstacles to reach the jetty which annoyingly, seemed to be the finishing line of a triathalon so was heaving with swimmers and their fully-clothed supporters. We murmured a few ‘excuse me’s’, threw down our towels and jumped into the icy water, screaming, as you do. We swam around for a bit until Rosie said her ‘lips’ were tingling and that she wanted to get out. Therein lay the rub. The jetty was way too high for us to lever ourselves out and there was no ladder. So, I directed Rosie to swim towards the rocky shore where  a young couple were playing with their children.  She swam over and, stark naked, climbed out onto the rocks, slipping over twice in the process. Then, careful to avoid eye contact, she circled the family, got back onto the cinder path, bounded over the grassy knoll and skipped through the pine needle-strewn copse to the jetty. She ran very, very quickly in a sort of hunchback stylie. It was only later, when I too had scrambled my way out of the lake onto the rocks – where Rosie was waiting with my towel – that we noticed the jetty that we should have headed for, the one with steps, only a short walk from the sauna! With our prudish English sensibilities, we imagined every one of those Swedish nature lovers was aghast by the sight of our wobbly pink flesh, dwindling bushes and coat peg nipples. Of course, in reality, no-one batted an eyelid. The Swedes eh – so modern!