Dipped in Red
Dipped in Red I cling onto the dreamy days of my month-long Scandinavian summer. An August of cold sea swims in the Baltic, ambling through grassy green parks and devouring cardamom buns in the sun. I met Sweden in her prime, her summertime. Along with my bulky red suitcase, I landed in yet another new country, at the threshold of yet another new month: August. My new home lies in the green suburbs north of Stockholm, a calm neighbourhood nestled in the verdant archipelago. Most days I trace along the same winding path beside the gentle, lapping sea, shaded by a canopy of green-leaved trees, until I reach a small train station. From there, a blue and white train whisks me away to the city of islands, gliding through golf grounds and woodlands home to copious red squirrels, frolicking deer and russet foxes. A few weeks after my arrival, I noticed many dried leaves carpeting the pathway below me on my daily walk to the station. These leaves hugged the floor in a ...
