As the Swedish summer holidays draws to a close, and the balmy nights, almost Mediterranean in character, are filled with the sounds of Swedes having crayfish Parties.

After so long an absence, almost a month, there’s so much to mention I don’t know where to begin. Actually that’s not true, being English I always begin with the weather, which has been gloriously hot. For the last fortnight we’ve had temperatures in the low thirties [degrees centigrade]. It’s been so hot that in an afternoon it’s been necessary to retire to the shade with copious amounts of cold drinks. The gelato machine has never done so much work but who can complain about such weather.

It’s not often I’m prompted to put pen to paper [figuratively if not literally in this electronic age] but I was so impressed with Buhres that I am going to do so. Everyone who knows me knows I love my food so impressing me in a restaurant isn’t always easy. Buhres did this in spades.

So two years on, how do I feel about the move? I can honestly say I don’t regret it. We have a life here we could only have dreamt of affording in the UK. We have ducks, geese and chickens for eggs and meat. We have the bees for honey and the goats for milk, yoghurt and cheese. We forage the hedgerows for hazelnuts, sloes and wild raspberries. We grow our own vegetables. If it sounds like an idyllic Thoreauvian lifestyle, there’s a good reason for that. For the main part it is.

What happens when you make a deal with the devil? When there's ill-gotten wealth intermixed with a Faustian bargain?  It’s hardly a scenario you associate with beekeeping which for generations has been one of the most genteel of pastimes, a world of flower meadows, village fetes and white-veiled enthusiasts pottering around, puffing smoke into hives.