Trains, teas and retreats

On the joy and wonder of shifting patterns

The ladies’ nude bath.

Hello, I'm Josefin, a spinner of wool and crafter of words. I take daily baths all year round in the nearby lake in my home in Stockholm, Sweden. In this space I practice being brave with my words and molding them into beauty. If you enjoy evocative writing about the little things in a big world, this is for you.

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I'm on my way to a solo writing retreat to work on my copyeditor's comments on my book manuscript. It’s my third writing retreat and I know by now what I want; somewhere I can reach by train, a body of water, and a spectacular view. If possible, access to a bike. For this trip I decide on a town on the Swedish west coast, a five-hour train ride from my home.

There is something about train rides, about moving slowly across the country to new possibilities. A transformation of landscape, inner and outer. I often look forward to the ride almost as much as the destination. I buy myself a salmon bowl at my favourite train station takeaway. At lunchtime I catch myself doing a little dance in my seat to celebrate my lunch fortune as I’m rocked to my destination.

When I get off the train, I go straight to the local tea shop. I love a breakfast buffet, but I am particular about my tea and won't take any chances. The tea shop website has a kind note saying that the web shop is closed, to focus only on the unique experience of the physical visit. When I lift my suitcase up the steps to the tea experience, I am welcomed by the friendly shop keeper: "Hello! How can I help? Oh, and the dog is kind and won't bother you", she greets as she makes sure the previous customer gets down the steps safely. I hadn't even noticed the dog. I ask for green tea and the shop keeper immediately waltzes out from behind the counter to four large tray tables full of metal jars with hand-written labels across the transparent lids. "You're more than welcome to sniff, taste and poke around" she tells me in the local dialect, and explains the difference between Chinese and Japanese sencha (it’s the taste of umami). After some poking and pondering I go for fifty grams of the Chinese. She unfolds and fills a paper bag and tells me about the appropriate temperature and drafting time for different harvests. Elated by her passion I buy some of the Japanese too. I thank her and place the labeled bundles in my knitting pouch. The doorbell chimes as I walk out of the shop, and I can't wait for a cuppa. 70 °C and 45 seconds for the Chinese, 60 °C and 45 seconds for the Japanese. Give or take.

I smile at the adventure I have invited myself to as I walk the cobbled streets to my lodgings. I have rented a B&B room in a villa from 1913. There is a seven-minute walk to the sea and the B&B has bikes for rent. The house is densely furnished and decorated, and every inch of the walls is covered with paintings. Nothing is out of place, though, everything has been carefully chosen to fit the age and style of the place. Five paintings with women reading or writing and one in my room of a woman sewing make me feel in the exact right place. I should say there is also half a stuffed ostrich above the kitchen door and a buffalo head above the entrance. Still, I am fascinated by this place.

The painting (by Ole Søndergaard) hangs on a wall in another room and has been photoshopped to my room. It has also been mirrored (the girl is sadly not a leftie).

The next morning I write for an hour or so before I go down to the sea for a dip. There are four potential bathing spots and I choose the spacious nude bath for women, with benches, sun decks, and two sturdy ladders into the ocean from the concrete dock. I step into the water and let my shoulders sink. After the onshore winds it’s slightly warmer than at home, perhaps 8 degrees, and I soak in the smell of salt and seaweed. The ocean spreads before me like a ballroom floor – it's unusually calm this morning. I don't know whether to watch the wonder of the vastness in front of me or the seaweed swaying at my feet. I do both and linger longer than usual.

Five other ladies are there when I arrive and more come walking or riding their bikes. Women of all ages and walks of life come, drop their clothes and walk out to the dock wearing nothing but their bathing shoes and perhaps a hat. I have mittens on too. This is a bathing community and there is a warm connection between the bathers. I talk to one of them who describes the genuine conversations and companionship she has had here with friends and strangers. I think of my own bathing community and know exactly what she means. This is just another such hearty encounter.

There is a spring in my step when walk back to my writing desk. Only a year ago I didn't know what a writing retreat was, let alone a solo writing retreat. This is a space where I chisel out my own writing experience from materials I don't have access to at home – surroundings that need nothing from me, no one to answer to, no garden chairs to let out of their tarp hibernation, just me and my writing and whatever I choose to do when my writing day is over. I write and I dance. Write some more and step barefoot into the garden to greet the grass with my toes. When my energy fades in my third session I ride my bike to the 17th century fortress for a soup lunch. I stop at a bakery to buy chocolate cake before I go back to the B&B for the afternoon session. I am deeply focused on what I came here to do, still, the absence of everyday things and the presence of silence and fresh air is deeply nourishing. Body and mind feel light and at ease, like the morning dance of that seaweed. For just a few days I shift my patterns and take in the world from new perspectives.

Treats and retreats.

When I call it a day I ride my bike south along the coast, the ocean beaming to my right, my lungs filling with the spirit of the ocean. A shiver of giggles finds its way into my body as I treadle through the coastal landscape. After fifteen minutes I park my bike by a wooden bench in a grassy dune overlooking the sea. I feel the wind smiling on my face as I watch the waves quietly going about their business. It's a low tide and the seagulls wander on the flat and soaked seabed. All I can hear are the birds, the water and the wind toying with the papery grass tufts. I unpack my chocolate cake (with an extra jar of whipped cream), a flask of hot water and a bag of Japanese sencha and settle on the sun-warmed bench. After only the first day of five I know I will be coming home a new writer.

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Thank you

Beth Kempton

for your virtual writing retreat and for introducing the very concept of solo writing retreats. My book Listen to the Wool will be published in November 2025.