Wild Flower

As a child my father worked the land. Growing up in England’s small rural villages, I spent my days playing in the surrounding pastures. Sometimes I would lie on our lawn, sucking the sweet nectar from little red clovers, other times I would wander through the meadows alone, picking cowslips, dog roses and other wild flowers for my mother. Often she would join me on my excursions, as we walked she would point out the most beautiful weeds, round headed rampion, mallow and foxgloves, or warn me against the danger of deadly nightshade and yew berries.

Moving to Sweden has brought back many childhood memories, the security that one feels within such small communities and an inherent closeness to nature. As developments destroy the British countryside, I feel privileged to, once again, be surrounded by such beautiful landscapes. As I look out from the terrace over Pildammarna and its verdant backdrop, or taste the sweet leaves that Titti has plucked from the wilderness - as I once did - I am transported back in time to the bright sunny days of my childhood.