In the middle of Skeppsbron sstands a post with a lot of signs. It is like this tourist thing that places Åhus on the world map showing Åhus is the centre. Vancouver -9 hours, Lima -6 hours und Sydney +9 hourssome of the signs say to show the time difference. Surely time makes no difference. For here in Åhus Gästgifvaregård it sometimes feels as if the time is standing still; when I enter the stone stairs from Skeppsbron, open the door and enter, I couldn’t care less about a windy city in Canada or the capitol of Peru. I am actually indifferent to the world outside. It can’t really be any other way when I’m met with a welcoming from the heart and a smile that says, “Ah how delighted we are to have you here.”. to the right in the foyer, sitting with a single malt whiskey a unique feeling is growing, making my shoulders sink, that sickening stiff neck from way too many long nights at the computer is loosening up and for once feels normal, and my heart is beating unusually pleasant. Once in a while, when my thoughts have flown delightfully freely, like they only can in such a peaceful calmness, I have wondered if Lasse Bylin has a sort of calming gas circulating in the ventilation system? No, seriously, the explanation is as simple as it is unique in our overachieving, stressed to the bone society, where no poor devil dares to be human for real. It is peaceful here. It just is. The peacefulness lives in the walls, which if they could speak, would tell stories of wild sailors, who got drunk here in the 18th century, of the Brandywine King and the Eel King. Of laughter. Discussions. Fights. Of love and broken hearts. It is within the waiters, who from the first moment treat you like an old friend. In the food. In the personal rooms. I cannot but be happy at Åhus Gästgifvaregård. Like that night in November of 1999. We were going to a goose feast. We were to arrive late at night, and I called Lasse to ask if he could arrange a cosy midnight snack with some smoked eel. When we entered the small dining room he had set the table with smoked eel, cured ham, delightfully coarse bread and lager. A bottle of Åhus Bitter was on ice. We never wanted to go to bed. Like in august of 2001. It was around seven in the morning. I took my breakfast tray, which I of course had supplied with that magnificent homemade liver paste and went to sit at the outdoor tables. The sun carefully broke through the morning mist. Some sea gulls cried a little way off. A boat with two-stroke engine throbbed past me on Helge Å. Sometimes time stands still, and the world outside disappears. STEFAN JOHANSSON Food and travelling writer at among others Aftonbladet and Euroworld.