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.
Closed at 3pm!
Yes …that’s seems to happen even as far south as us (Vara, Västra Götaland). Was a bit disconcerting when we first moved from Nottingham, where like most places in the UK everything opens late. But… I quickly came to thinking that it’s actually quite nice living in a less commercialised society where people are actually allowed to have time off with their families. What’s the rush, eh!?
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