Sunrise arrives stolen and silent, yet it belongs to Stockholm and is golden. A stillness reflected in 9am pools of shimmering light envelops the city of sea. Romantic solitude is spent strolling along cobbles and concrete; cotton caresses protect my Celtic foreign skin against the crisp, nearly winter wind. 

Thank you Stockholm, for your unbidden quiet, for the serenity I was sure I did not need. 

Glowing embers are smudged, across the cornflower blue sky. Dark depths of the chilly Baltic creep into the expanses between islands, adding layers and layers to the city’s mystery. And  yet, it is like we have met before; shaken clammy post-Airport hands and relaxed in each other’s presence. 

Thank you Stockholm, for six days of adventure, recovery and stability, you felt like home to me. 

Majesty in the frescos, royalty in the pavements. A city steeped in jewelled, fiery history. The Palace’s stairwells opening passages to the heavens, coloured with Renaissance pinks, greens and gilded in gold. Whilst, Drottingholm’s dust sheets remind us of a monarchy whose story is not yet fully told. 

Thank you Stockholm, for the lessons I learnt, both about you and I. 

A tale of one city where islands float and worlds collide. Office blocks, golden arches and pristine parks coupled with chocolate shops, burnt orange next to mustard yellow architecture and the skeletal, medieval steeple of Riddarholm. 

Thank you Stockholm, for the deep seated desire to visit you and to fall in love with you, again. 

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