November is traditionally a very grey month here in Sweden. The buses are full of morose Swedes, who look depressed and even downright suicidal. People defend themselves with newspapers or burrow themselves into their scarves, no longer capable of delivering a little smile or nod of the head. Frowns and wrinkles abound.
The winter Swede is here to stay until the spring arrives in an explosion of colour and blossom.
The winter Swede is affected by the dwindling hours of sunlight, and becomes fairly anti-social. The streets become deserted, the swings remain silent. Everyone seems to go into hibernation in their cozy little houses where they keep the feelings of sadness at bay with masses of candles and saffron buns. (The summer Swede is the complete opposite.)
The winter Swede complains about the greyness, the rain, and the lack of colour. Which is strange really.
Because there – where you least expect it – is a riot of colour. This tree blazes on the street above ours in glorious orange, burning as bright as a crackling fire.
And in the dripping woods, the moss, the heather and the blueberry bushes are still green.
And surely it is worth keeping a slight smile on your face, because who knows? There, just around the corner, the golden embrace of a tree might be waiting to greet you.
(Other pictures taken with my mobile phone.)