THE WINNER
So much space even the kids fell silent
It started with an egg. Hard boiled, cut lengthwise, dosed with masses of cayenne pepper, Worcestershire sauce and mustard. Placed in the mouth. A sharp breath through the nose and then swallowed as close to whole with a shot of vodka. It produces a rather delicious burning sensation and a surprising after-taste of sweetness. Yes, your eyes water. But after eating one, and liking it, you can be pretty sure a Swedish family will love you forever. And so it was with us.
Having met our new Swedish friends on the first day of our children's school in suburban London, it was only a short skip of time before we were visiting their "summer" house, deep in snow in far northern Sweden. Vast, untouched landscapes of frozen rivers, pine trees and white clapboard churches. Gorgeous timber houses with lacy fretwork iced in pure, white snow. It was Easter time, so more eggs.
Åre, with its chi-chi set of international types, was a 15-minute drive away. Buzzy and fairy-lit and held together with the beating heart of the Hotel Diplomat Åregården, Åre is home to a cluster of glam boutiques, the Holiday Club water park and probably the most expensive supermarket in Sweden. And, of course, a reputation, bestowed by Condé Nast Traveller in 2008, as one of the world's best ski resorts. (No one in England will believe you when you say this. I didn't when our Swedish friends told us. Google proved it true.)
With 10 children between three families, all with varying degrees of competence on the slopes, we opted for low-key Duved. The poor-man's Åre, Duved, is in fact the perfect place for families. No queues for ski lifts, a car park that was never full and just 10m from the slopes, Duved ticked all our boxes. A quaint chalet serving Irish coffees (a staple of Swedish ski life), hot chocolates and lots of Ikea-style food was nestled into the bottom of the mountainside. Yet with blue, cloudless skies and pure white sunshine the free barbecues were our first choice. After a morning spent in ski school the children could ski right to the barbecues, complete with picnic tables, and fill up on sausages and marshmallows toasted over the fire.
The tiny town of Duved doesn't hold much to distinguish it. Yet step inside its Gothic timber church and the town becomes a must-visit: scaled down, timber-framed, hand-painted and divinely humble. But 10 children don't last long in churches. That's where Sweden comes into its own. This was wilderness like our children had never seen before. Forget snowball fights. The children can have full-blown snow wars – for days. Afterwards they can thaw out in the sauna. Our house had two, and the novelty didn't wear off for any of us.
Just beyond Duved is Tännforsen, one of the largest waterfalls in Sweden. Come winter it is a frozen rush of water suspended in mid-air. The silence is eerie and the light reflects rainbows off the ice. There is so much space, snow and ancient landscape that even the kids held their breath. Though the majesty of the falls was matched (pretty much equally in their eyes) by the giant taxidermy bear in the tourist centre near the car park.
And if a 6ft stuffed bear doesn't do it for you, the men of Sweden will. This is a country of men straight out of a Ralph Lauren catalogue – the rugged good looks and preppie styling make for rather diverting eye candy.
But what truly blows the mind is seeing equality in action. Swedish men make dinner, wash up, change nappies, bake bread and distil their own vodka (without needing anyone to clap, congratulate or generally acknowledge their contribution). To my husband's eternal regret, I have seen the future, and it is Swedish.
Note: You can never have too many eggs in Sweden. Come Easter Sunday everyone must take a hard boiled egg (with shell on) and tap it against their neighbours egg. Keep tapping. The egg which remains unbroken wins. All the rest are peeled, dosed in cayenne pepper, Worcestershire sauce, mustard and swallowed whole with vodka.
Hotel Diplomat Åregården: diplomathotel.com. For chalets and other accommodation in the area see see 360.com. Further information: tannforsen.com/en
Alex lives in Ramsbury, Wiltshire
The judge: Emma Kennedy, author of Wilma Tenderfoot and the Case of the Fatal Phantom (published this month by Macmillan, £5.99) from the children's series, said: "I've chosen Alex as the winner because she brought a dynamism to her piece that set it apart. She conveys atmosphere extremely well and I came away with a real sense of place, which is what all good travel writing should aim to do. Not only that but she managed to get an egg recipe in. Impressive."
The prize: A one-week holiday to Orlando, Florida, for a family of four including flights, car hire, hang-gliding at Wallaby Ranch, a zip-line eco-safari at Forever Florida and a choice of attraction tickets to Universal Orlando Resort, Walt Disney World Resort or SeaWorld Parks and Entertainment, courtesy of Visit Orlando (visitorlando.com/uk).
THE RUNNERS-UP
Antrim's beauty and the bus
When Aunt Vera first mentions Rathlin, I think she says Rat Land. They talk fast in Northern Ireland. Mum and Dad have booked a cottage in Port Stewart for themselves, Aunt Vera, my partner, our two kids and me.
We do the obvious: fantastic empty beaches and the Giant's Causeway, then it's off to Rathlin, an island off County Antrim with two claims to fame: puffins, and that fact that its Manor House restaurant turned away Prince Edward and wife Sophie this summer – couldn't be arsed with all the security checks.
We take the ferry to lovely Church Bay. A red-faced man asks if we need the tour. He points at an old minibus that says Bertie's Bus on the windscreen.
It's four and half miles from Church Bay to the bird-viewing point. Dad, partner, kids and me decide to walk.
At the RSPB station, we're told the puffins left 10 days ago. There are other chicks – a fulmar and a kittiwake – but they're not the same. Partner buys coffee. Partner always buys coffee.
People start shouting from the cliff. It's the last bus, the only way we'll make the ferry, and Bertie won't wait. We run. The bus is pulling away, but someone persuades him to stop. Bertie's face is even redder. "What are you doing bringing coffee on my bus? Would you take drinks on another bus?"
We get off and throw the coffee away.
Jacqui Hazell, Twickenham
Wild camping in Mull
Blood spattered my face with the force of the blow. This was the 20th fish I'd killed in two hours: my 12-year-old landing them with distressing ease every time he lowered his rod into the dark waters of Calgary Bay. How many mackerel were we going to be able to eat at tonight's "bring-whatever-you-have" meal? This was our third night on Mull and we'd fallen in with a crowd of more experienced campers, happy to share canoes, tackle and wisdom.
Wild camping is legal in Scotland, which means you can pitch your tent nearly anywhere. We'd intended to stay one night, but the beach is clean, pots can be washed in the freshwater streams, and there's a public loo nearby.
The days took on an idyllic hue: rounders, kite flying, sandcastles. As the sun dropped on our last evening, I looked at the children running feral, women gutting fish, and men chopping wood and realised how, apart from the manmade fibres and wineboxes, we fitted in to a continuum hardly changed since prehistoric times. As Biblical swarms of midges made their dusk appearance, we slathered ourselves in Avon's So Soft moisturiser, recommended as a repellent by locals. It didn't stop the midges, but it helped conceal the smell of fish.
Jennie Walmsley, Brighton-cum-Sotwell, Oxfordshire
Shetland homecoming
It is the day after the summer solstice, and Lerwick greats us with near-zero visibility and autumnal temperatures.My wife and father-in-law are on a mission to find the remains of the Shetland Island birthplace of their ancestors, the Andersons.
Family records show Gideon Anderson arriving in New Zealand in the mid-1800s from a place called Avensgarth, which is not on any contemporary map. In the Shetland Archives we were thrilled to find an 1880 Ordnance Survey map showing a small two-house homestead called Avensgarth on the Eshaness peninsula in the northwest of Shetland.
It was also the time of the third Hamefarin (Homecoming), an event held every 25 years where Shetlanders from all over the world are welcomed back. Showered in Shetland hospitality, we made our way to Eshaness, where an elderly resident and his wife remembered when Andersons lived here. We walked the last half mile along the spectacular coast to the ruins of Avensgarth, where we found the walls of the cottage intact. My father-in-law stood in the very doorway his great-grandfather had walked out of in 1849, never to return, to start a new life in New Zealand. That's when the old man turned away, to hide the tears.
Ralf Ohlemuller, Durham
