Nigella Lawson and I were clearly separated at birth. Not only from each other, but also from our spiritual mother.

And I have finally found her!

I am, of course, talking about Clarissa Dickson Wright. Just look at her! Give me another fifteen years and I could be her. She was fat, a cook, a country woman and rather mental.

As am I.

You see, in the eight years since I last worked on this blog, I have gone from being a somewhat atypical suburban wife in the northern outskirts of Stockholm to living in the depths of the Swedish countryside, just outside a tiny village in the north of Sweden.

And when I say tiny, I mean tiny.

Fewer than 300 people live here, and I reckon at least a third of them are, shall we say, characters.

It’s perfectly all right for me to say that, as I am most definitely one of them.

We are also a remarkably international bunch. Down our end of the lane, you are more likely to hear English than Swedish. Three of the four permanent households are English-speaking, including one occupied by a half-Irish chap and his Swedish girlfriend. Three of the five holiday homes belong to English speakers, too.

At the centre of village life is the shop.

It’s one of those wonderful little country shops where you can get pretty much anything. And if they haven’t got it, they’ll get it for you, usually within a day or two.

They deliver, too.

“Could we have some bread, eggs and milk?”

“Of course! We’ll be with you in an hour.”

“How about crocodile steaks?”

“That might take a little longer. Day after tomorrow?”

Should you ever find yourself in our neck of the woods (quite literally), do pop in, have a natter and buy something locally produced.

The shop is owned by Tommy, who knows absolutely everyone. He’s rather like the landlord of a proper country pub. He knows everybody’s business and can point you in the direction of almost anything you might need.

Sometimes the staff even know what you need before you do.

Which is rather handy.

Living here, it’s remarkably easy to feel close to nature and develop a slightly prepperish streak.

Every year, we buy 20 kilos of moose meat from a local hunter. We get our beef from a farmer in the next village and vegetables from another local grower.

It all gives me the rather satisfying illusion of self-sufficiency.

We originally bought the house as a holiday home, but promptly fell in love with both the house and the area. Within a year, we’d upped sticks and moved here permanently.

Our garden currently boasts redcurrants, rhubarb and damsons.

Naturally, being me, I am planning an enormous kitchen garden which will eventually provide us with all the fruit and vegetables we could possibly need.

Possibly with a little surplus for the neighbours.

Last year, we bought an apple tree, and thanks to our caretaker’s devoted efforts, we are already reaping the rewards.

This year’s magnificent harvest consists of one (1) apple.

At this rate, complete self-sufficiency is just around the corner.