I have a soft spot for Scandinavians. I can trace the roots of this back to one night in March in the early Eighties; somewhere north of Bergen a teenage boy and a Norwegian girl are secretly meeting after lights out. Matters inside are rather warmer than the below freezing, snow covered scene just outside the dormitory. For days this has been building; a hand held at the ham trays at breakfast; a seductive look at the sauna door; a knowing glance as the grip wax got applied. A loud voice of authority demanding the door be opened brought matters to an abrupt halt, the bundled barefoot (and nearly bare-arsed) exit through a window and back to the first floor via the obligatory bed sheet rope closing the door on what might have been.
It's March and the memories flood back as birds, soon to be returning to the shores of dashed desire, cavort playfully in the spring sunshine, just like our star crossed teenagers all those years ago.
There you go, that's why you keep coming back, because rather than just tell you I've had a Jackdaw that might have it's origins in Scandinavia, though it could equally be further east; or ramble about the loose group of Scandinavian Rock Pipits that the increasing daylight and north west winds have deposited at Beacon Point, I've shared something of myself, I've given you a moment of my past, taken you to another place and brought you back to now, to the present. Now the bit of Scandinavian I promised.