I once took an overnight train from Stockholm to Åre; didn’t sleep a wink in the toilet-sized rooms with their made-for-goblin beds and vowed never to do it again.
I did, however, arrive in Lund on the 8.31 from Halmstad all bright-eyed after a king-sized power nap. I’d been here before. For about 20 minutes. So was curious to see more of the place competing with Umeå for the title of European Capital of Culture 2014.
Home to one of the largest and oldest universities in Scandinavia, it’s leaning on its academic and intellectual heritage to win over the jury and market itself as a place of ideas.
I have an idea. Change your name. Lund. Might as well be called Bland. Just doesn’t have that ”must-see” ring about it to me. My mum would agree. No offence to any Paul, Dave, Lars or Hans, but she’s not a fan of the one-syllable moniker and I’ve picked up this line of thought in some kind of Freudian manner.
It also takes me ages to carefully inspect and select fruit and vegetables to find the most symetrically pleasing pepper or perfectly round red onion. I learnt that from mum too.
Back to Bland then and being a student town means lots of bikes to dodge but the cycle hire shop near the station has the right idea when it comes to names. Lundahoj – I like it. With a hat-trick of syllables, now that’s not what I call bland.
All aboard to Lundahoj - better than Bland
My first stop was a tour of the magnificent twelfth century cathedral with a Swedish guide whose impecable Queen’s English put my harsh northern tones to shame. At 3pm daily, the giant church clock puts on a holy Punch-and-Judy-like show. The mechanical Magi figures stutter out of their music box, bowing to Mary and child, rather than bashing them over the head.
I’d already signed up for a city tour, advertised both Swedish and English, and there was no lower age limit. But on turning up I was the only non-Swede and person under the age of 60.
One-syllable guide Lars came out to greet us: ”We have a foreigner with us today,” he said. ”So we’ll have to do the tour in English – who is it and can they put their hands up?”
I felt the intensity of 17 pairs of wincing eyes staring in my direction. I timidly raised my hand half-way and told him it was fine in Swedish before my fellow tourees were all smiles again.
Lars, with the unofficial title of ’strongest Skåne accent in Skåne’ really put my Swedish to the test. And his presentation style was rather unique; asking a question before telling us the answer.
”Do you know why the Archbishop’s wife wanted to knock the wall down? Well, because she wanted to. And what did the academics say to that? Well, they weren’t very happy. And then what do you think happened to the Botanical Gardens? Well, they were moved. And do you know why? Well….”
”And do you know what building this is?” (No Lars I don’t, but why don’t you just tell us) ”And can you guess where we are going next?” (No Lars, I can’t because this is your tour of your town so how the hell should I and why don’t you just take us there).
One thing about Lund that’s certainly unusual is its youth hostel. The disused train makes for a novelty stay but the no-sleep nightmare of Stockholm to Åre was about to relive itself.
A first class ticket to a bad night's sleep
At least I had a room to myself so my bags could be stored on the bunks above, giving me room to breathe but not move. That was until a Canadian girl turned up late with her five bags in tow making me, with my lonesome rucksack, feel like an international traveller of substance. She kept pulling things out of those bags like Mary Poppins. A pillow. She brought her own pillow.
On leaving Lund I’ll borrow the words of August Strindberg if I may: ”Lund, the secretive little town, that you never get wise to; closed, impenetrable; friendly, but not with open arms; serious and laborious like a convent, that you don’t enter willingly, and yet leave with regret; that you think you can flee, but which you nonetheless return to.
Lund isn’t really that bland. It is a pleasant medieval town, enjoyable to wander around. And students must feel rather important to attend lectures in a building that looks like the White House.
As to Mr Strindberg’s quote, I really couldn’t have fled even if I had wanted to thanks to Mary P’s luggage hindering my exit. I may well return but if I do I won’t be staying in carriage number 34.
