Yesterday, going for my usual walk, I took a left turn rather than a right (which I usually do), curious what I would find further down the stream. And instead of going back to civilisation, busy streets and trains rattling over the bridge, I walked straight into my own novel.

Well. In a manner of speaking. I have written it with several places in my head; most importantly my grandparents’ gorgeous house that they moved from about ten years ago, and the small stream down behind my parents’ old house.

Until I walked down a small path, following the river, taking me here.

There’s still some pavement and concrete and they have tried to tame the river with sleuces, dams and such, but it’s still very easy to see the place I am writing about. Sitting on the grass near the water, hearing it run through the dam that is supposed to hold it back, I closed my eyes and breathed. I am a country girl at heart, and at times like these I am very okay with that.

And next to me Liv and Danah, two of my main characters, stripped down naked and threw themselves into the freezing water to fight off that pesky fire that they can’t seem to get under control.

(Possibly there was snogging as well. I’m not sure. I didn’t peek.)

Going into my grandparents’ summer house is like going back in time. The kitchen is minimal, with green doors to each cupboard, and there is no running water. We bring it inside in a bucket, and heat it on the stove to do the dishes. There is a fridge and a freezer, but no microwave or other things that you get used to living in the city.

The toaster looks like this. You slip two slices of bread into it, one on each side, watch it for a couple of minutes, open it, flip the bread over to toast the other side, and do not walk off to fetch the jam until you’re done. There is not off button and no automatic turn off button. You unplug it when you’re done, but holy hell, don’t tug on the cord. It’s not exactly childproof.

Another machine they have is this little thing you put potatoes in with water, and turn a lever a few times, making the insides spin, and the peel to scrub off. When it’s done you have to peel them properly, which my Mum always do sitting on the porch, where the sun always is, but most of the work is done.

There are three channels on the TV, no VCR or DVD player, and computers? Ha!

Coming back there is always strange. The garden is much smaller than I remember it, the small path down to the lake is narrow and the beach over on the other side is tiny. Some of my best times were spent right here, but these days I simply can’t feel comfortable here. I have lots of memories, but somehow going here just reminds me of what I used to have.

When my grandfather wasn’t 88 years old and so hard of hearing and seeing that he spends most of his time sulking. One of my first memories of him is him proving that he used to be a gymnast, by standing on his hands against the wall. I think I was five or six years old, and I remember that he wore white trousers that day. I remember this because they split, spectacularly, at the seams, right down his bum, when he did his demonstrations.

When me and my cousins and siblings could spend hours and hours playing cards during rainy days. Grandma had collected a cup of tioöringar (equivalent – pennies) when they became useless as change, and we used them to play poker, rummy, plump (my favourite!) and a million other card games.

When the summers were mostly sunshine; I remember the grass being yellow and crisp, after six or eight weeks without a single drop of rain. These days rainy summers are far more common, and I eye the sky warily, waving the ozone layer goodbye.

Oh, nostalgia, how I love you.