With SWB in Poland!
You sometimes see jokes on Facebook about how boarding schools didn’t exist when we were kids, so there’s no proof of the mischief we got up to back then.
Hmm… I actually had a camera and used it quite a bit, even though developing photos was expensive. But I thought it was worth it—and I really don’t regret that today. So yes, we could definitely be cheeky even without mobile phones to film everything!
The story I’m about to share involves some big names in the equestrian world at the time. Sadly, many of them are no longer with us, but I hope their children and grandchildren can have a good laugh and not feel embarrassed—because we sure knew how to have fun back then.
I can’t remember everyone’s names, but I still see their faces and hear their laughter. That’s what made this trip one of the most memorable of my life.
I remember when Gullvi Borsits asked me if I wanted to join a trip to look at horses. She organized several tours with SWB and put an incredible amount of time and effort into them. I didn’t hesitate—I really wanted to go! But could I afford it?
I was living alone on my farm in Mörrum and didn’t earn much as a saddler. Gullvi convinced me it wouldn’t be too expensive—at the time, Poland was incredibly cheap.
I arranged for people to stay at my place while I was gone—after all, I had dogs, cats, chickens, and horses to look after. I had no idea who else was joining the trip, other than they were from SWB, so it could have been anyone!
I drove to Gullvi’s, where the bus was set to pass by in Vinslöv, and we were among the first to board. I was relieved that Lollo was coming too—I knew her a little, and we were about the same age. That felt like a huge advantage, especially as we watched the rest of the group board.
Lollo and I exchanged looks—we were both a bit disappointed. We agreed the local retirement home must have burned down, with all the old folks who showed up. “Pensioners’ trip,” I thought, sighing. Oh well, we were going to look at horses—how bad could it be?
Let me tell you—it turned out to be amazing!
Those “pensioners” had no filters. They were simply too old to care what others thought. They took turns grabbing the mic to talk about their studs, stallions, and all sorts of wonderful horsey topics.
And when they ran out of stories? They started telling dirty jokes—we were crying with laughter.
The first day was spent on the bus and ferry. I was glad I brought seasickness pills, because the waves were intense.
When we arrived at the first hotel, we had a lovely dinner together. Then someone suggested we introduce ourselves one by one.
Panic hit me. I was shy back then (it fades with age!), and I spent the whole time trying to figure out what I’d say. I didn’t hear half of the others’ introductions. There were around 50 of us.
When it was my turn, I managed to stammer out that I was a saddler from Mörrum and had a yellow stallion by Gullvi’s Pegasus.
After dinner, we headed to the bar. I rushed to get a drink to calm my nerves.
Then a man came over and started talking to me.
“Oh, so you live in Blekinge?” he asked.
“Well… yes,” I admitted.
“How’s…”—I can’t remember the name—but he referred to one of the stallion keepers in Blekinge at the time.
I said I didn’t know him well, but it was a shame he had the wrong stallion.
“What do you mean?” the man asked.
“Well,” I said, “maybe there’s nothing wrong with the stallion, but he doesn’t match the mares in Blekinge. His foals have no movement, no charisma, they’re pony-sized and all solid brown.”
The man looked at me, puzzled, and said,
“Well, we sent him another stallion, but he didn’t want it. He asked for Neapel back—he could handle that one!”
I couldn’t breathe—we sent? Who was this guy?
Turned out, it was Gunnar Henriksson, one of the big bosses at Flyinge back then.
He looked at me and realized I was terrified I’d said too much.
“That’s good to know,” he said. “No one else dares tell us things like that. Thank you!”
We became great friends after that and talked a lot about horses during the rest of the trip.
Then it was time to find our rooms. Our guide was very kind and offered to carry our bags. I was walking along with mine and said, “That’s kind of you.”
I handed him my suitcase—and it dropped like a rock to the floor. He looked at me in shock:
“What are you carrying… machine guns?!”
I was strong back then and hadn’t really noticed how heavy it was. I may have also smuggled a bottle or two of vodka onboard during the ferry ride…
We had a wonderful bus—new and well-equipped. But Poland’s roads weren’t quite as modern, so we spent long hours traveling.
The poor bus driver struggled to find some of the places—GPS didn’t exist yet, and many of the stud farms were deep in the countryside.
At one point, we almost had to turn around because the trees grew so close over the road that our big bus could barely get through. But we made it!
We got to visit some amazing stud farms, and the people working there went out of their way to give us a great experience. They showed off their stallions, harnessed horses, and performed driving demonstrations for us.
Unfortunately, some visits were delayed, and we arrived after dark, making it hard to take photos. Still, I got a few!
The Polish hosts were incredibly kind, and everyone wanted to serve us their best dish—schnitzel. I love schnitzel, but after eating it four days in a row, I was starting to dream of crispbread.
The worst part was when we had been on the road all day and were nearly at the Russian border. We arrived at 10 p.m. instead of 6, and they served schnitzel that had been sitting in grease for four hours. I couldn’t eat it.
But no worries—I had backup supplies (aka vodka) in my suitcase. One little shot on an empty stomach had quite the effect. Suddenly, I wasn’t shy anymore!
I started singing and got the others to join in. There were a few Polish guests in the restaurant—they each got a shot too and soon started singing Polish songs.
The room came alive, and all our tiredness vanished.
But where there’s income, there are expenses—and I needed a toilet. No one knew where it was, so I went into the hallway where a stern-looking babushka was sitting. I asked in English, and she said something in Polish.
I thanked her and went down the stairs, right, then left—and found the bathroom.
While sitting there, I realized that a shot of vodka really does help—suddenly I had no trouble understanding Polish!
One of the days we visited a racetrack where Arabians were racing—fast ones! You were allowed to bet, but only small amounts.
I placed the maximum allowed on a beautiful Arabian that I liked and felt like a millionaire. The betting limit was about 10 zloty.
My horse won, and I made around 70 zloty—I just wished we’d been allowed to bet more!
