Desperately Seeking Sweden

So I took the 40-minute train ride from Uppsala to Stockholm. Course I did. I blame Bill Bryson. And if I cheated, it was well worth it. But before leaving the capital to head for Gothenburg, and an evening in the company of around 50,000 others as well as Bono, I had to show the city to my new travelling companion. The one that I picked up in Borlänge, remember?

The tour of Stockholm begins

Old Town blues

Souvenir shopping

Changing of the guard

Chilling at Stureplan

Tribute to Stockholm Pride Week

Making friends with fellow tourists from Huddersfield, Yorkshire, UK

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It was on page 222 of the book ’Notes from a Small Island’ that I fell out with Bill Bryson. He’d been sampling some of the fine curry houses of Bradford on his last trip around Britain before declaring the following.

”For some reason I had it in my head that I would be cheating to go home now with the trip half-finished, but then I thought: Sod it. I’m cold and lonesome and I’m not about to spend a night in a hotel 20 miles from my own home.”

I felt cheated, Bill.

So I stop off in Uppsala and it’s time for dinner. Curry sounds good. It’s a bit chilly. And I’m eating alone. It’s not my first visit to this university city but I rather like the place. I’ve already seen Linnaeus’ botanical gardens and perused his 1,300 species of plants. I’ve also been to Celsius’ Observatory and…errr….observed things – science was never my strong point.

Indeed, Uppsala has many notable connections and natives which would make for an dream dinner party guest list. It’s the birthplace of film director Ingmar Bergman, eminent diplomat Hans Blix and world famous photographer Mattias Klum. I forgot about E-type (long-haired Swedish Eurodance sensation). Just think of the ethical discussions they could tackle over three-courses.

But I had my own moral dilemna to deal with. After taking a stroll to Scandinavia’s largest cathedral I found myself quite liking Bill Bryson again. The question is do I take the six-kilometre hike to the hostel or do I choose the 40-minute train ride back to Stockholm for a comfortable night at home?

Find out when part two of the journey begins in Gothenburg on Friday. What a cliffhanger, eh?

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I’m blessed with the talent of being a fairly good traveller and the ability to sleep well in a upright position. So I generally like to use train, bus or plane journeys as a nice excuse to relax.

I also think I’m pretty adept at talking to most people and happy to exchange a few opening pleasantries with the stranger I’m sat next to. But when it comes to travelling, I become Swedish. If I don’t know you I want you to leave me alone and please don’t try and engage me in uneccessary small-talk. Tack!

Saying that, it also seems I’m blessed with an unintentional talent of sitting close to the person with the world’s most irritating cough, a professionally loud mobile phone addict or a rhythmical seat-kicker.  

This time his name was Börje. From the moment I took my seat on the train to Gävle, Börje wanted to be best friends. I tried playing a few trump cards. Number one: speak English. Börje was keen to practise his foreign language ability. Number two: get a book out. Börje started reading over my shoulder, announced he had read it and even went out of his way to share the ending. Number three: pretend to go to sleep. Börje prodded my arm to show me a view of a nice lake.

Now Gävle sounds similar to a Swedish swear word and non-Swedish speakers will get the gist if I put it as follows: ”For Gävle’s sake Börje, shut the Gävle up.”  In typically Swedish form, I said nothing and instead went and sat on the toilet for ten minutes. 

We parted on friendly terms and I soon hooked up with a few Danes and Germans, who were equally confused as I was as to the whereabouts of the tourist information office. Shut away in the corner of a shopping centre, it resembles a cigarette kiosk, and the employees must have been out the back having a crafty smoke.

It’s rather fitting for a place which is famed for its flaming attempts to set fire to the enormous Christmas goat. The record holding world’s biggest straw goat (where else would you find one) has been erected in the city centre during yuletide season since 1966.

When the tourist information lady appeared she tried to flog me a cut-price copy of a DVD about another Gävle claim to fame. In December 1998, a snowstorm basically buried the town and the film invites you to watch two hours of raw weather footage. This version, a second edition, is dubbed ”now, with even more snow.”

The storm didn’t dampen the arsonists spirits that year and the goat was burned down on December 11. A city centre plaque chronologically charts its rise and fall over time:

In 1976 a vehicle drove into the goat and demolished it.
In 1979 the goat was set alight before it even got to the square.
In 1988 it survived but British betting shops starts offering odds on the goats’ fate.
In 2001 the goat was set alight by a 51 year old American who was caught and fined.
In 2006, the goat was sprayed with flame resistant chemicals to survive its 40th anniversary.

Rather than a snowstorm thriller or a goat burning comedy, there’s a 1971 movie I’d like see about local man Johan Hägglund. Born in Gävle in the late 1800s, he was a fairly normal bloke until he moved to the US and became a prominent labour activist. He changed his name to Joe Hill and is remembered as a working-class hero.

His story comes to a bitter end when he was allegedly framed for murder and executed. The tourist information lady advised me to find out more at the museum in his memory but it was closed.

Joe could have ended up in the county jail, another place I went to visit. Not under arrest for verbal abuse to blokes called Börje but by recommendation again by Ms. Tourist Info and it was even open. Now it’s a museum charting criminal life from the 1500’s onwards, demonstrating how Swedish prisons have gone from gruesome torture houses to holiday camps.

A man could have his nose cut off for being a 16th century gigolo. If you were caught drunk on a Sunday in the 1700s you faced three consecutive Sabbaths in the stocks outside church. And you could be sentenced to death by hanging in 1830 for carrying forged money.

Now, I can empathise with the injustice apparently served upon Joe Hill. Maybe not to the same extent but I, an innocent traveller, was sentenced two hours of being Börje’ed – a 21st-century-style punishment in Sweden today. 

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It really helps to have a local on hand to show you around. And be your bodyguard. Especially in Borlänge, an industrial work-horse of a town and the biggest in Dalarna.

Had it not been for the lovely Anna-Maria, friend of a friend and voluntary tour guide for the weekend, I would have probably missed the opportunity to drink the pure spring water, said to be the best in Sweden, at Frostbrunnsdalen.

I might have also overlooked Ornässtugan, the house where former Swedish king Gustav Vasa escaped from the great Danes down a toilet in the early 1500s. And I definitely wouldn’t have seen the remnants of the world’s biggest ostrich egg at a local farm, which weighed in at 2589 grams.

Super-size egg-layer supreme

I probably would have made it the Jussi Björling museum to listen to the life and sounds of the internationally famed tenor and Borlänge’s most famous son. But I certainly wouldn’t have heard the story of the town’s most famous living resident – Skogshuggarn – who lived in his cellar after chopping down his house and using it for firewood.

Most importantly, I doubt I would have plucked up the courage to go alone to MidnattsTravet, the horse racing event which happened to be in Borlänge on my arrival. Horses are big in this county and the Dala Horse, once a simple carved and painted toy, has not only become a symbol of Dalarna, but Sweden too. So I felt obliged while in these parts not to eat horse sausage or an ostrich burger for that matter.

The races are an annual family outing with a fun fair, a flutter and a good few beers to boot. I had to watch my purse strings when I was on a winning roll. But I also had to watch my back from being whacked by kids with various inflatable items they won at the fair.

Now I’m not a gambling woman myself and chose my horses with careful analysis and strategy; on the basis of whether I liked their names or not. Coming from Classic Car Week in Rättvik I put my small change on Sandro Mustang in the 20.11.  Sure enough the stallion drove home smoothy in first place and I was already 179 crowns up for the evening.

In the 21.00, I opted for a horse named Hot Tub, because I enjoy a nice long soak and wanted to toast the youth hostel bathroom with the most enormous tub I’ve ever seen. But the filly ran out of steam at the final bend and my clean sweep came to an abrupt end. Still, with my 50 crown profit pocketed, I bought a burger which I fear was made neither from cow, horse or ostrich meat. Synthetic pig perhaps.

Away from the course, a danceband spectacular saw veteran group Sven Ingvars getting the audience swinging to ’Sommar i Sverige igen’ (Summer in Sweden again) as the umbrellas went up and the rain lashed down.

Me and Peter Larsson from Larz Kristerz: And yes the chest hair is real

Meanwhile, local musical heroes Larz Kristerz proved such a popular hit that fans stalked them off the stage and I followed suit in earnest, successfully scrambling through the crowd to get a picture with guitar-player Peter Larsson. I did, however, turn down the chance to have his signature scribbled on a bodily part.

Against all odds, I woke with a fairly clear head the next morning but soon realised I wasn’t alone. There was something big and squashy lying next to me. No, not Peter from Larz Kristerz but rather a large inflatable electric guitar I won at the fair.

I’ve become rather attached to it, quite literally, and have buckled it to my backpack as I venture onwards from Borlänge. My new travelling companion could prove to be a rather useful instrument in my forthcoming travels, I’ll bet. 

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I didn’t end up in Rättvik by choice. I nearly went back up north thanks to some platform confusion in Östersund, when the the 7.20 to Mora actually revealed itself to be the 7.15 to Gällivare.  A mad dash ensued and in the midst of the great train swap some travellers resorted to a spot of backpack rage. My 15-kilo rucksack and rugby skills gave me a reasonably good advantage in the scuffle.

In Dalarna, there was no room at the youth hostel inn in either Orsa or Mora.  And lucky for me there wasn’t, otherwise I would have missed Rättvik revving up for its annual Classic Car Week, which I really wouldn’t want to have missed.

Thousands of enthusiasts and their American autos assemble to cruise around and inspect each others engines, which all sounds rather suspicious to me, but that was the official version I was given on inquiring as to the point of it all. I posed the question to my camping neighbours Urban, Roger and Håkan from Hälsingland who had driven down especially for the event. These trio of likely lads are classic car fanatics; Urban has a Cadillac, Håkan has both a Buick and Mustang and Roger tries hard but has a Toyota. 

My room mate was so excited about Classic Car Week she decided to extend her stay for another two days especially. That would be Trudy, a vibrant German pensioner who is inter-railing around Europe this summer. While I retired for an early night, Trudy was on her way to a folk music evening and must have had a good time, rolling back in at 3am in the morning, singing and jigging around for ten minutes before finally and thankfully collapsing into bed. 

I was also quite thankful for classic cars as they they gave me something to look at, aside from caravans, and the only other attraction I could find – Rättviks resident accordian-playing busker who’s reportoire solely consists of The Birdie Song.

Cadillac from '64, driver from '76

As sweetly as I smiled, I couldn’t persuade Urban et al to give me a lift to Borlänge. However, I did persuade him to let me do two laps of the camp site in his 1964 classic. 

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Not long after I moved to Sweden, someone told me their friend had a pet moose and I believed them. They also said that it liked to be taken out for walks on its lead through the middle of Stockholm. I beleived that too.

Because I’d never seen a moose before. It’s like Mr Moose explains: ”To foreigners, the moose is a bit like Jesus – they’ve heard a lot about them but don’t really know if they exist or not.”

Mr Moose and propspective Moose Academy student 2010

Mr Moose is the most wonderful Sune Häggmark who owns and runs Moose Garden in Orrviken, a village close to Östersund. Since leaving his job a a top level civil servant 12 years ago, he instead entertains 45,000 visitors a year who come to see his of herd of 15 and marvel at his empire made from moose crap.

Indeed, Sune has turned poo into a lucrative business, recycling the droppings to make paper. Just one crap equals 15 sheets. It’s pretty impressive. He is also a self-taught moose-milker and has been visited by world’s media to taste his homemade delicacies including moose milkshake, moose waffles and moose cheese.

If you can’t manage a visit in person, you can view all the action from the moosecam where Sune regularly appears demonstrating his international moose greeting. It’s worth it. Honest.

I made a new friend in six-year-old Hälge (pictured above) who would in fact make a considerably loving pet. Hälge took a particular shine to me; so much so that Sune invited me to return one day to study at his Moose Academy. He also sent me off with a token reminder of the adorable Hälge and some of his finest produce. Cheese. Not crap.  

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I never told my guide Jonas that I had a pretty dire phobia of waves. Monsters, however, don’t scare me. The weather in Östersund was a complete wash-out so I decided it could only get wetter and went in search of Storsjöodjuret, the Great Lake Monster. On a water scooter.

Like Scotland’s Loch Ness legend, there lives a huge serpent creature, 14 metres long, with a head like a cat in Sweden’s fifth biggest lake – so the story goes. The first recorded sighting dates back to 1635 and since then around 500 people reckon they’ve seen it too.

Orange monster on scooter ready for action

Including Jonas. Last year he was out on the lake and from a distance saw what he believed to be two small boats in the water which mysteriously disappeared as he drew closer.

Further investigation lead Jonas to agree with me that the boats could have just sailed away. I found his testimony less than convincing but the monster scooters were the real thing – notching a nifty 80 kilometres per hour – and I was keen to start the test drive.

Jonas’ 84-year-old grandmother had ventured out on one of these machines so I figured I was in for a fairly smooth ride. She did, however, demand a double whisky on returning to dry land. Our route was to take us 18 kilometres out to a small island, passing the places where the monster had apparently been seen. But not today.

In 1894, Norwegian hunters tried to capture the creature using a dead pig as bait. I had saved a bit of ham from my lunchtime sandwich and threw it in the water. Again, the monster didn’t bite.

Ten kilometres out and I was concentrating more on the steering than monster-spotting as the wind took a turn for the worst. My backside hadn’t quite recovered from the previous day’s Tour de Härnösand and was getting another beating, so to speak. Still no monster.

At one point I closed my eyes as we thrashed through some high and mighty waves while the rain continued to lash down. Probably not a good idea, especially since I was looking for a you-know-what. As we reached the island, the score was still one-nil and I was losing but glad for a bit of respite ashore. A double-whisky would have been ok too.

Calmer waters on our return trip allowed me to perfect some cool scooter moves before my red warning light started flashing and beeping. I was hoping it was the monster GPS signal but unfortunately it was just a necessary refuel.

As I returned to shore, soaked and monster-less, I set my sights instead on finding a 13-metre high horse somewhere in the midst of my next stop – Dalarna. 

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A small-scale Stockholm. With hills. That’s how I’d describe Härnösand, at the heart of Sweden’s High Coast. The place has an air of grandeur about it with the waterside walkway looking remarkably similar to Stockholm’s Skeppsbron. Here it’s also called Skeppsbron and, yes, there’s a Storgatan and Stora Torget too. You get the idea.

Finally balancing the banks on the opposite side, however, is a McDonalds and a Lidl supermarket which slightly detracts from the overall view. But amid the architectural beauty at least you can get an egg McMuffin breakfast and a bargain pack of toilet rolls so it’s not all bad.

Also out of character is Paul’s tattoo shop, with its window display of tribal patterns and skull designs, set against the back drop of Östanbacksgatan – the oldest part of the town with it’s otherwise pretty row of wooden houses from the early 18th century. 

These were built after Russian forces torched the whole place down. Indeed, fire-flighting and house-building were flourishing trades of the 1700’s as Härnösand suffered two further fires, allegedly started by drunken churchgoers and juvenile deliquents.

Perhaps that’s why they also built a prison and decided to house the county court here. I found some historical reminders at the youth hostel where all electric appliances are strictly governed by a timer – both fire and energy-saving precaution. Moreover, security is high here – I was given two key cards and a code just to gain access to my room on A wing.

Now, I knew the Russians had invaded but I never knew the Spaniards had graced these shores. Turns out they haven’t but as the clock struck 3pm on Saturday, Härnösand shut down for the day siesta-style. Shops closed, cafes ushered customers away, the tourist information office sent me packing and the place became deserted. Seems the only thing you can do come late afternoon of a weekend here is get a tattoo. I didn’t but instead followed suit, going for a kip and later joining my roommates in the TV area to watch some synchronised diving. The television only had one working channel.

The following day I set out to explore further afield and I was keen to get to the beach at Smitingen, five kilometres away. As there were no buses, before or after 3pm on Sundays, I rang the local bike hire company but their summer stocks were depleted. The woman must have heard my lower lip sink as she piped up: ”I do have one bike left but it makes a strange sound and the brakes are a bit dodgy. Other than that it works ok.” Brilliant. ”I’ll take it.”

Slightly more strenuous than the leisurely ride I was hoping for, and accompanied by a loud squeeking noise, I’d only made it 100 metres up the hill to the church when I could feel the lactic acid levels rising in my thighs.

The rollercoaster route continued but after making it up a particularly nasty incline, I enjoyed free-wheeling the rest of the way – I had no choice as the brakes really were all but done in. I gathered quite a speed and it was only after passing a small village that I realised my bikini top had somehow dislodged itself during the g-force descent. The residents of Gåsvik might have seen bit more than they bargained for on a Sunday morning.

The bikini was a bit optimistic anyway as a big black cloud loomed over the bay on my arrival. It wasn’t yet 3 o’clock but still there was no one to be seen. Even the lifeguides had retired to the cafe for a game of poker. Still, I took a windswept stroll, got my feet wet and created some sand grafitti, which I just managed to capture on film before the tide took it away.

I cycled back without baring too much flesh and made my way to the open-air museum at Murberget with it’s 80 or so buildings from yesteryear. They include the old church, the old farmhouse, the old school, the old blacksmiths and around 76 more which I never bothered to see but believe are also quite old.

Instead, I feasted on a large plate of herring and hung around for the main event of the day – a concert which drew a disappointingly small crowd. Probably due to the fact it started at 3pm. Ironically, one of the performing bands was named ’Sleep on Sunday’, which is what most of the local residents were probably doing.

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I like surprises. Maybe that explains why I have a guide book to Sweden that is nine years old. It adds to the adventure when you find the tourist information office is not where it used to be or the recommended restaurant has gone out of business. Such was the case with Örnsköldsvik. I call it adventure but others might say I’m just too tight to buy a new one and they’re probably right.

The book in question describes Örnsköldsvik as a “depressing experience.”  Like most Swedish towns and mid-sized cities it has the obligatory pedestrianised street called Storgatan and the equally predictable square known as Stortorget. No surprises there then.

But it was here I found great amusement in the seagull squarking wars until I was two metres away from being crapped on by the loudest of the flock. So I moved on to observe another duel between a group of youngsters using the horse statue as a climbing frame and their nemesis, a break-dancing crew who won over the locals with help from Ice T and Public Enemy. 

Övik, as most people call it, is the kind of place that raises a snigger among city-slicking Swedes who wouldn’t give it the time of day. Admittedly, 24 hours is probably all you need here and you don’t feel overwhelmed with things to see.

I was a little disappointed that the official Star Wars exhibition, which had previously toured Madrid, London, Brussels and then surprisingly chose Övik as its Scandinavian destination, had moved on. Chewbacca’s mask has also paid this place a visit so I was in good company.

They're not going to get an ice cream either

However, with it’s pretty harbour, it served as a reminder of the happy seaside trips from my youth, only without the fragrant smell of fish and chips. From the outside, my hotel was also a throwback to the 70s but, to my surprise, behind the ominous exterior hid a lovely welcome and comfy stay.

Back to the childhood memories and a waterside stroll with an ice cream was a must. Unfortunately, the kiosk had suffered a power cut and the owners were in panic mode dealing with melting lollies and loss of trade as the temperature reached 25 degrees.

The outside water park, however, was cashing in on the weather and I decided to cool off in the company of around 500 children and only one swirly slide. I was eager to notch as many goes as possible and was about to make double figures when I was cautioned by a teenager supervisor for pushing in. I considered offering a cash advance in exchange for access to the VIP queue but a group of eight-year olds appreciated my enthusiasm and let me go before them.  

I spotted a few more adventurous types taking to the ski-jumping slope, which I never knew was a summer activity. Winter sport is what Örnsköldsvik is probably most famous for, having bred some of Sweden’s most notable ice hockey stars.

Now, I don’t know very much about ice hockey but I do know a lot about shoes. And my sandal fetish will come as no surprise if you have read my previous post. So on a similar theme, I hear that NHL legend and Örnsköldsvik’s most famous son, Peter Forsberg, is to blame for the most heinous crime against footwear, having returned to Sweden from Canada, probably, wearing those ridiculous plastic summer clogs and making them fashionable. In Övik anyway.

Unsurprisingly, I didn't buy a pair of these.

They’re a fairly common sight; I spotted one family of seven decked out in a whole rainbow of colours with granddad opting for yellow. This is the kind of thing any good guide book should warn you about. 

Speaking of which, my batttered old paperback advised me against visiting Skellefteå on account of the honesty of its marketing brochure stating: ”Don’t go to Skellefteå because it seems remarkable – it isn’t.” That was nearly a decade ago so it may well have reversed it’s unremarkable brand by now. On this trip I’ll never know. But I can say that Örnsköldsvik, in my book, was not so much a depressing experience. Rather more so a pleasant surprise.   

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Umeå is vying to be Sweden’s nomination for the 2014 European Capital of Culture. So I headed off to find the best sights in town and the day began well, spectating a beach volleyball match on a make-shift sand pit in the city centre. The sunny morning ensured visitors, and sports-casual sandals, were out in full force. You know the type – cushiony sole complete with velcro strap – worn by both world travellers and people with arthritis.

Joining 18 others, who had come as far as Australia, America and Sundsvall for the guided city walk, I counted no less than 14 donning the popular foot attire and the majority opted for socks as standard. In two hours, we were herded around the town to see some unmonumental attractions including the Scandic hotel, the Telia phone shop and the place where electricity was first produced in the city.

We were also given a concise history on wood-panelled architecture but here I lost concentration and was distracted by the ’The Claw’ – one of my fellow guidees who really should have gone with the sock option.

The Claw: Not a pretty sight

Slightly unenthused, I decided to find the sights and sounds of Umeå that could better entertain the big-wigs from the European Culture Committee.

First stop was the phallic-style flower wood carvings which serve as an inviting entrance to the park. Here, an impromptu folk music duo was serenading a sizeable audience with a catchy song called ‘Hip Hip Hurrah, för Kungens pung’ (Hip Hip Hurrah, for the balls of the King).

Indeed, what constitutes art and culture has become a contentious issue in Umeå. And here I have to confess, a certain design piece left me a little confused. Entitled ”Nobody puts baby in a corner” the neon sign was inaugurated in 2008 on the wall of the city’s Vasa Church. So far I can only conclude the church hall doubles up as a venue for salsa practice in paying homage to the second best line from the movie Dirty Dancing. I personally would have opted for ”I carried a watermelon” but each to their own.

The confusion continued back in the hostel kitchen where I met a Swedish lumberjack who becomes my first nomination for ’most-surreal-person-I-have-met-on-this-trip’ award. Looking like he’d just come from a ZZ Top concert, we engaged in a spot of small talk while the kettle was boiling. I don’t recall how we got onto the subject of philosophy but I do remember him saying, ”David Icke is an icon” and I simply couldn’t resist leaving it at that.

Nobody puts baby in a corner: Ok, but can anyone explain why?

Icke, a former English TV presenter turned proclaimed Son of God has since disappeared from British screens but is travelling the world with his conspiracy theory talks. He must have done a gig for the Swedish Wood-Cutters Association as I was lectured for an hour on the secret plots of the global elite and how we are being poisoned into passiveness by the evil that is fluoride.

All the excitement from the day’s cultural awakenings were starting to make me sleepy so I brushed my teeth and dutifully went to bed.

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