Stockholm seemed a fitting place to see the film version of Mamma Mia! Julia and I saw the musical a few years ago in London and loved it. As it was raining yesterday I took the four children off in search of a cinema. We eventually found one and settled down with our popcorn to a real treat. We were in the middle of the front row, my favourite place to sit.

The film is brilliant; we all loved it. I particularly related to the plot because part of it hinges on who is going to give the girl away at her wedding. I had a similar conundrum at mine. By then my step-father and I had fallen out, so he was off the list. My real father seemed an obvious second choice (although he had practically nothing to do with bringing me up). So he was dragged along to Sweden, along with around 100 other guests.

The morning of the big day he left. He has still to fully explain himself but has said he finds weddings so “bourgeois”. So I was left with two major problems. One, who was going to do the Dante reading and two, who was going to walk me up the aisle. I asked my Italian aunt if she would do the reading.

“But I don’t know if my hat will go with Dante,” she said. Perfectly understandable. But she did it, and read beautifully. I asked my mother to walk me up the aisle and give me away. It was an emotional moment and fitting as my mother is the person who brought me up and the one closest to me by far.

I won’t tell you what happens in the film, but go and see it. I felt like clapping and singing, rather like we did in the musical, but being in Sweden I suppressed my desires for fear of arrest for unruly behaviour.

The kids loved it. “I sunged all the songs,” Leo told me. “Oh why is it finished?” wailed Olivia at the end. Meryl Streep was, as always, totally amazing. I read somewhere she wrote to the boys from ABBA and asked if she could be in any film version they made.

She was the perfect choice, rather like my mother was at my wedding.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

Rupert was lying in the sun having just enjoyed a swim when I broke the news to him. “Three weeks today you’ll be in an office,” I told him.

“It’s Sunday,” said Olivia.

“They work in a Sunday in Abu Dhabi,” I replied. Rupert seemed calm, in fact he didn’t even open his eyes. Maybe he was enjoying one of his last afternoon kips.

I cannot imagine what we will think of it. I know it will be very different to here where we are outside in the fresh air all day, swimming, walking, playing tennis, running out of petrol in the middle of the sea. Yes, my husband and boats. I should have known better than to get into one with him but I didn’t.

We rented a small speed boat for the day to explore the archipelago and its thousands of islands with. It started well. I was driving, speeding along (like you do in speed boats) enjoying the sunshine and the children pointing at various sights. This really is one of the most stunning places in the world. If you haven’t been then you should come. I have never seen so much beautiful nature.

Suddenly there was a splutter and we ground to a halt. In the middle of the sea. We didn’t have any spare on account of the fact that we’d already used that the first time we ran out. And do you know how many petrol stations there are in the Stockholm Archipelago? About three. And they’re miles apart. So we were on our way to one of them when we shuddered to yet another halt.

We started drifting into land and I saw some people along the coastline. I waved frantically and shouted. They just waved back as is the manner on the ocean waves. I picked up the empty petrol can and started waving that around to passing boats. Thankfully one of them, driven by what I can only assume was a Swedish football player and his WAG, understood. They towed us in to Vaxholm where we filled up. Rupert and Leo tried to leave with the WAG but we stopped them. We managed to get home without running out again, just.

I suppose it’s an improvement on the last time Rupert got in a boat, ran aground somewhere near Marseillan and he and Julia had to be rescued by the lifeguards which cost us over one thousand euros. And he is already talking about buying a boat in Abu Dhabi. Let’s hope the job keeps him busy for a while.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

So I show up, wondering if I should undress in my car before being greeted by the owners who are charming and fully dressed. Then they take me to my room. En route we pass one of the clients. I have only been to one other naturist in my life; Cap d’Agde, and there, as here, the naked truth (ha ha) is that these places do not attract the kind of people who look better undressed than dressed.

In fact it is now exactly ten years since I looked better undressed than dressed, but I don’t (normally) go around showing my buttocks to anyone who happens to be passing. Being a half-Swede I do get this nudity thing. I like wandering around starkers as much as your next Swede. In fact at our rented cottage I can often be spotted of a morning walking down to the sea and indulging in a bit of skinny-dipping. But here are the facts; the sun is shining and there are no other people about. What I don’t get about this B&B set-up, is how they can possibly find walking around naked with strangers RELAXING.

Also, it was so cold my instinct was to put more clothes on rather than take them off. But as you will see from the picture taken by the lovely and talanted (and fully clothed) Teri Pengilley, I got into the swing of things. Having said that, I was mightily relieved to get into my M&S cashmere jumper and jeans and head off the following day.

One strange side-effect was that I kept imagining all my fellow travellers on the train to Stockholm naked. There at least there were a couple of people I wouldn’t have minded breakfast with. They’re a nice-looking bunch these Swedes, as long as you like blond hair. Rather like it’s a nice place to live as long as you like yellow or red houses, and a nice place to drive as long as you like Saabs or Volvos and a good place to eat as long as you like Salmon or Meatballs. I could go on but have to have my tea now. It’s a Kanel bulle (cinnamon bun) or, er, that’s it….

Copyright:Helena Frith Powell 2008

I am on a train speeding through the Swedish countryside en route to yet another tough assignment. I am going to write an article about Scandinavia’s first nudist B&B for The Times (www.hyltebergagard.se). I have covered (being the operative word) some weird and wonderful things during my journalistic career but this promises to be one of the more unusual.

Packing was tricky. “Why the bag?” was Rupert’s first question. I cannot begin to imagine what it’s going to be like. Will I be able to have a normal conversation with a total stranger while he is naked? Will I be able to stop myself from looking ‘down there’? Is looking ‘down there’ encouraged or frowned upon? What about my own ‘down there’? How will I cope with people who’s names I don’t even know casually assessing it. Whatever else, it’s not an ideal time to have a bad hair day - anywhere.

The weather in Sweden has been amazing for once. But despite that Leonardo asked me this morning why it is always cold. “Because we’re in Sweden,” I told him. There was a slight pause. “Then why are we here?” he said.

This is a fair question and one that I can only answer with the excuse that having been born here and lived here for several years, there is something that draws me back again and again. Luckily Rupert seems quite taken with it, although he is now also sick of meatballs.

Which brings me neatly back to the theme of the day. “I have one ball with my willie,” Leonardo told me proudly yesterday. “Yes,” I replied. “And one day you will have two balls, like Daddy.” He looked at me rather questioningly and then asked; “Yes, but will they be tennis balls?”

Here’s hoping they won’t, and more crucially that any balls I happen to catch a glimpse of during this assignment are not enough to put me off my breakfast. Bed, Breakfast and Balls. It could catch on….

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

Although I lived here as a child and teenager, there is much I had forgotten. Here are some of the more remarkable things about this country.

In the summer it gets light at 2 in the morning

In the winter it gets dark at 2 in the afternoon

Most people in the countryside will say ‘hej’ to you; but you can’t be sure whether they mean hello or goodbye

If you sit in a car in Stockholm and watch 40 people go by as Julia did yesterday, half of them will be blond

Everyone drives with their headlights on all the time

The countryside is empty and stunningly beautiful

When you go into a Swedish home you take your shoes off

They are opening an ABBA museum in Stockholm in June 2009

Beer comes in three strengths; low, medium and high alcohol content

Almost everyone has a Swedish flag in their garden (which Leo thinks means there is a branch of IKEA there)

Talking of IKEA, I have discovered that there is one in Abu Dhabi. After four days in Sweden I don’t think I can ever face another meatball as long as I live, but it will be nice to know it is there in case I start missing Sweden.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

We have embarked on the next leg of our European tour. As I write I am looking out over silver birches, pretty red wooden houses and the sea in the distance. We are in Sweden in our rented house in the Stockholm archipelago. As we were settling in here last night, another family was settling into Sainte Cecile. I am getting quite used to this nomadic lifestyle (probably just as well as we’re moving to the desert).

London was great. Rupert’s book launch went very well; Stanford’s book shop sold lots of copies, his charming publisher made a lovely speech and lots of friends and family came. Leonardo enjoyed himself, playing cricket with Hugo and Julia across the shop with rubber balls depicting the world. Surrounded as I was by maps I finally worked out where Abu Dhabi is. Great neighbours….

But back to Leo. It was a little like I imagine travelling with George Clooney must be like. Every place we went in to everyone stopped what they were doing to talk to him and fuss over him. He was at his most charming. Every evening at the Connaught he would say goodnight to every member of staff and say “see you in the morning”. He even managed to get a free breakfast at Pret a Manger, something I have not achieved in 15 years of going there.

But here in Sweden sadly he looks just like thousands of other little blond boys so he may have to get used to a little less attention. And start paying for his own breakfast.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

We are in London, it’s great to be back. Yesterday I visited my favourite haunts; the Blink Bar at Harvey Nichols and HB Health where Botox Brenda worked her magic needle. On the way back to the hotel (Rupert has managed to get us into The Connaught, a more civilised place is hard to imagine, Leo has his own bed, dressing gown, slippers, teddy bear, London map etc) I was walking up Park Lane feeling jolly happy when I saw a familiar figure walking towards me.

It was David Cameron, the leader of the opposition conservative party. I have always rather liked Dishy Dave as I call him because he’s, well, quite dishy. He is an Old Etonian which is a good start (in my experience they are usually charming, clever and amusing) and he just looks so good compared with the Prime Minister Gordon Brown. This week Brown compared himself with my all-time hero (only downside is he’s not an Old Etonian) Heathcliff. Well, I mean, really. He is about as reminiscent of Heathcliff as a sack of old potatoes, in fact less.

Dishy Dave looked so bright, handsome and fresh faced that I smiled broadly, praying silently that the blood left by Brenda’s needle had left my forehead. He smiled back and said “hello”. Rather annoyingly when I said hello back my new Tom Ford glasses decided to do that trick of moving up and down on my face so I must have looked like a mad woman. Still at least he’ll remember me.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

The life of a goldfish is not an interesting one, even if you happen to be Olivia’s goldfish and more perky than most. But Sushi Sam, as he is called, has now discovered a whole new world.

Deciding what to do with the animals was one of the most difficult things about the Abu Dhabi move. The day I tried to put Wolfie into kennels he (predictably and cleverly) vanished. When Rupert went back recently he was nowhere to be seen. If I know him, he’s wandered off to Mme Fontenon’s up the road where he is always welcome. Max is still at the house and fiercely possesive of his domain as our tenants saw when a stray dog arrived and Max chased him off the terrace. Whoever ends up renting Sainte Cecile will have to look after him, that’s just part of the deal.

Sushi came to the Savoie. Our friends had told us about a cattle trough close to them where another goldfish lives. It is a constant temperature, full of good things to eat and has a nice view over the hills. We deposited Sushi Sam there rather anxiously. The other fish is at least three times as large as him. I was worried the change of water would kill him instantly and he would float slowly to the surface and the children would cry for days.

Sushi swam around for a bit then hid. We left him to it. Later that day we went back to check on him. He and his new best friend, now named Sausage John by the children, were racing up and down the trough. As soon as Sushi spotted us he hid, probably worried we were going to put him back in his goldfish bowl.

He has been there for almost three weeks now and we get daily reports from Norrie and Mary; he seems perkier than ever and we may even find that Sushi Sam is actually Sushi Samantha and she and Sausage John start a family.

We are in Surrey, staying with our friend Jonathan. Today we take Leo to London (the girls are both in Italy) and tomorrow night is the launch party for Rupert’s new book; Take me to the Source - In search of water. We didn’t need to look far for water last night, I haven’t seen so much since I went swimming on Tuesday, but this morning the sun is almost shining, as I’m sure it is on Sushi Sam too.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

Jean-Claude Benguigui aged five, Albert Bulka aged four and Paula Mermelstein aged 10 have one thing in common. They were three of 105 Jewish children, rescued by a Polish lady called Sabine Zlatin and bought to a country hideaway high in the hills above Chambery during the war.

Tragically on April 6th 1944 two truckloads of Gestapo soldiers arrived under the orders of Klaus Barbie and rounded up the three mentioned along with 41 other children. “Are you their parents?” they asked the seven adults looking after them. “No, but we will stay with them,” they said. On the journey the children sang defiantly  “You’ll never keep Alsace and Lorraine.” They were all in Auschwitz 10 days later, where they were gassed. Out of the adults one survived but the rest were taken to places as far away as Estonia where they were shot.

Our visit to the beautiful house where these children lived their last happy, tranquil weeks before deportation just outside the village of Izieu was prompted by Bea. She saw a picture of a concentration camp in the museum in Chambery and wanted to know all about the war. We told her as best we could, we drew maps showing how the Germans swept through Europe, explaining that it was a little like her taking over Olivia and Leo’s rooms. Hitler was hard to explain. “Is he more evil than Captain Hook?” asked Leo. “Why did he kill all those people?” asked Bea.

I had heard about the house before and always wanted to visit but never had the courage. Once I had children of my own, anything sad involving any children makes me weep. I did weep. I wept at the little innocent letters written by the children to their parents (who were in camps heaven knows where), to their adored teacher, the wonderful drawings they drew. But it was also an inspirational visit. I was inspired that there are people who will risk their lives for others, who rather than hiding from evil fight it. And I loved the idea that whatever horrific fate awaited the children, they had been rescued from certain death (mainly from the Herault, where we live) and had some weeks of security, peace and loving in the most beautiful surroundings beforehand. And let’s not forget the 60 or so, who thanks to Mme Zlatin, did survive.

We walked up the hill behind the house after our visit, still talking about the war. Bea went to bed reading the Diary of Anne Frank. This topic seems to have gripped her like no other. If you are ever in this region then do visit the Maison d’Izieu. And take your children. I think the house rather enjoys the sound of small feet running around it and laughter.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

Remind me to avoid Geneva airport in the future. Coming back from a meeting about an exciting new book deal in London (which I will tell you all about once it is signed) I flew into the scene of my handbag abduction episode. When I parked that morning (at 6am so I was a little bleary-eyed) I opted for the unlimited car park. I carefully wrote down Red 17 so that I would be able to find my car again.

I trudge towards the car park in my pink heels which after a day in London are hurting like hell. It is odd, I think to myself, that when I arrived the car park seemed so close, and now it seems so far away. I finally get there, heave a hugh sigh of relief and put the ticket in the machine. “Your ticket is not valid in this car park” it tells me. I look at my ticket. Unlimited Car Park number 1 it says. I am in unlimited car park number 51. This could explain it.

So I trudge back, swearing at my own idiocy, unaware that this episode is totally minor compared with the self-inflicted suffering I am about to come up with.

It is now ten to nine. I landed at 8.20 pm. I have an hour and a half drive ahead of me. The children are waiting up to say goodnight. I am about to throw my shoes away they hurt so much. To say I am keen to get home is an understatement.

I finally get back to the right car park and put my ticket in. It won’t let me pay with a card and I root around my newly-found handbag for any Swiss francs in a total blind panic before I realise the machine takes euros. Phew. I find Red 17 without any further mishaps and sink thankfully into my car. I set Titty (the GPS navigator) to my beloved Blanchiniere and plug in my phone. Ready to go!

Now all I need is the car parking ticket. It has vanished. Much like my handbag days before, it has been abducted. I literally turn everything upside down. I even crawl under the car, cursing and shouting at myself. I am in total disbelief. It HAS to be here. But it’s not. So I look for the office of the car park, there is none. I decide to drive to the exit and explain what has happened.

But when I get there and the man asks me where my ticket is I am just too ashamed to tell the truth, to tell him (even if he is hidden inside a machine) that I have no idea, that somewhere between paying for it and getting to my car I lost it. He’d think I am a fool, which I am, but why should he know that? So I lie. I cross my fingers and tell him the machine ate it. I get very Italian and shout about the machine. And the fact that my handbag was stolen last time I was here, and that I just WANT TO GO HOME. Eventually he releases me. I blow kisses to the invisible man in the machine and head for the motorway.

At home the children are asleep but Rupert is waiting with candles and a glass of red wine. I am so relieved to be there I almost weep. On Wednesday we go back to Geneva Airport to drop Bea off. I think I might stay in the car.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008