Desperately Seeking Sweden

So the Swedes have more holidays than your average Europeans. Brilliant. At first I had trouble adopting this Swedish-ism and at least doubling my summer fortnight that comes as standard in the UK.

I now have difficulty understanding how friends, living a frenzied life in London, can cope with only 14 days of freedom when I have three weeks of eight left to go. Then again, they think travelling round Sweden is a bit of a daft thing to do but it all makes for an interesting talking point.

Meanwhile, us and them – the Swedes and Brits – make discussing the weather a part-time occupation. This week, I see the front pages of the Swedish tabloids are flagged with headlines to the effect of: ”it’s only going to get hotter.” And when you turn to page 14 for the prognosis you can also read a column of advice on how to cope with going back to work.

Swedes also like numbers. Knowing the daily temperature to the nth degree is as important as being able to recite the size of all your friends’ apartments in square metres. This is another Swedish-ism I now practice rather well.

I haven’t had much luck with the weather on this trip; one sunny afternoon in Härnösand and and few hours of morning rays in Örnsköldsvik. Other than that, its basically been bucketing down most of the way.

So I was in full on holiday mode when I arrived in Falkenberg. The sun brings out the best in people, or bus drivers at least, as I enjoyed a total of four bus journeys during my stay for the price of a smile and an English accent.

It was 25 degrees. My room for the night was 15 square metres but the psychedelic wallpaper made it feel much smaller. I dumped my bags, suffered an acute hallucinogenic trip involving the room caving in on me in colours of turquoise and orange, and then headed off to the beach. An afternoon of relaxation was in store along with the odd bit of frisbee dodging and a sand-side serenade by a Johnny Cash tribute artist.

I stayed for Ring of Fire but only because a couple of Germans got up and did some impromptu country-style moves. They were far more appreciated by the audience than blonde Swedish Johnny during his big song finale. The German cowboys even got an encore. Johnny didn’t.

On the way back into town I came accross a traditional red telephone box donated by the good folk of Oswaldstwistle in Lancashire – a twin town. And there’s more British influence around – with Falkenberg being a tourist destination for the upper classes in the 1800s. Perhaps that explains the VIP treatment I received on the buses.

I eventually found some solitude by the banks of the River Ätran. It was here a group of posh Brits found a perfect spot for fly-fishing in the 19th century. One of them, London lawyer William Wilkinson, wrote his memoirs and the book ’Days in Falkenberg’ was published in 1884.

Wilkinson was obviously a clever lad who didn’t mince his words and wrote favourably about the place: ”Salmon fishing always brings one to beautiful water and in that respect Falkenberg is more of an example than an exception. For its rapids among granite rock not only delight the eye but have all the exquisite music that brings peace and rest to a worn out Londoner.” 

Before coming to Sweden then, I would guess Wilkinson was only used to a having a fortnight’s package deal in Zakynthos.

Report abuse »

On the kitchen table in the Gothenburg youth hostel there lies The Book. As the opening page explains, staff have collated their top tips on things to see and do in the city and have left the rest of the pages spare for guests to share their own memories and discoveries.

It all starts well with some highly recommended eateries and a pick of the best museums. Then comes a few pages of mindless doodles and illegible scribbles followed by ”Brad Pitt, if you read this, you’re gorgeous.” I haven’t passed him in the corridor but if I do I’ll be sure to mention it to him. On the opposite page someone has trumped the Pitt admirers’ declaration with ”Johnny Depp is best.”

The leading Hollywood man debate sets some kind of precedent for what’s to come. It all starts fairly low key with a couple from Budapest who state diplomatically that they had a nice time in Gothenburg, but they liked Stockholm too. A pro-Gothenburg traveller takes unusual offence to this and blasts the Hungarian duo with the undiplomatic response ”Stockholm sucks big time.”

An unmighty war of words begins to rage when an Austrian bloke pipes up with:”You are wrong, I don’t like Gothenburg.”

As they failed to back their arguments with reason, I did a small qualitative survey in my mixed dorm since all of them, a French couple, a British girl and a Dutch bloke, had visited Stockholm prior to arriving here.  The capital took a 3-1 victory with only Simon from Amsterdam vying for Gothenburg on the basis of the nearby Volvo museum. I had my suspicions when I saw that he was wearing a 2007 Rättvik Classic Car Week t-shirt.

The debate among Swedes over the two cities usually rests on Stockholm being more beautiful and Gothenburgers being more friendly. As I took a long walk in the rain through the city, taking in the old town of Haga, Avenyn and on to the harbour, Stockholm undoubtedly gets my vote in the aesthetically pleasing stakes.

But as I make my way back to the hostel, a car whizzes around the corner and splashes through a huge roadside puddle, giving me an unintended shower in the process. The driver pulls over, gets out of his car, apologies profusely and we have a chat about my travels.

I ask, just to make sure, and yes, he’s from Gothenburg. 

Report abuse »

I feel quite at home in Gothenburg. This great sea-faring city with it’s old fishing heritage is something of a throwback to my home town of Hull on England’s north-east coast where boats used to ferry between at one time.

Now, Hull has probably never been described as great before but I’m rather partial to the place, so great it is. And I know my history-loving and nautically knowledgeable Uncle Eric, who is reading this, will be interested to know that Gothenburg’s famous son, singer and artist Evert Taube, wrote a song about a sailboat in distress named Bluebird of Hull and the rescue boat which came to its aid was from Smögen. 

So after having the pleasure of seeing a rocking U2 at Ullevi on Friday, or rather catching glimpses of Bono & Co. whilst standing behind a man who must have been nearing seven foot, I decided to take temporary leave from the city preparing for take two of the concert and another ambush of fans.

Instead I headed out to Smögen, one of the most popular summer tourist destinations on the west coast, for a bit of weekend respite from all the revellers. Or so I thought.

On first impressions, it is a picture postcard village town with it’s long wooden pier, small fishing huts in an array of colours and sumptuous seafood on tap in the waterside cafes.

Boats lay bobbing by the harbour with crews of family and friends enjoying sunny afternoons, lounging on deck and enjoying the good life with a bottle of rosé. In Smögen it seems no one has a care in the world and the feel-good factor is a natural high. 

But, when I returned to those so parts a few hours later I was hit by the feel-old factor. Smögen by night transforms itself into a mediterranean resort fit for the most hardened teenage holidaymakers. It’s a clubber’s paradise where the music pumps, the dancefloor sweats and the booze flows freely.

And this, apparently, is mild compared to the annual week in July where an entourage of happy youngsters sail along the west coast for a the ultimate three S’s holiday.

This year around 200 boats turned up and the locals are getting more than a bit miffed about this quaint seaside dwelling being used as an Ibiza-style stopover. And I wholeheartedly agree with them but felt compelled to sample the experience all the same, solely for research purposes you understand.  

Report abuse »

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

Report abuse »

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?

Report abuse »

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. 

Report abuse »

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. 

Report abuse »

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. 

Report abuse »

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.  

Report abuse »

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. 

Report abuse »