Hult and a canoe

Small lake, big cinema – this time without an audience

Hult, then. A place that sounds like a clearing of the throat and causes just as much excitement. It's located somewhere in Småland, where the roads end and the forests begin to tell each other that perhaps humanity isn't in such a hurry to return after all.

And in the middle of it all: a lake. Nameless, like so many here. One of over 100,000 – as if God had accidentally clicked the "lake" button on the world construction kit and then had to make a quick phone call.

Canoe in, world out. No noise, no people, no mosquitoes – they all drowned this year. Sweden has rarely been so merciful. No itching, no running. Just water so calm, it's as if it's been given a sleeping pill.

The shores dream of moss and granite. A fish splashes because it's bored. The sky hangs low and acts as if it's never heard of climate change.

You don't paddle, you glide. Thoughts become quiet, conversations become unnecessary.

In Hult, the world hasn't stopped. It's just decided to stop moving for a moment.