Earlier in the day I had chatted with a couple of German cyclists who had been bemoaning the high prices of the campsites in Sweden. Gulp. I asked the model/receptionist if I could see where I would be pitching the tent. In reality I wanted a few minutes to think and compare prices with other sites online.
The good news was that the area allocated for small tents was much quieter than elsewhere on the site and offered lots of luscious grass upon which to pitch the tent. Online, however, a horror story was unfolding. I found the price list of the next campsite north. It was charging only 240SK per night per tent – except for the midsummer weekend, when the cost would be (I hope you are sitting down) 1,140SK. That was over £90. I returned to the reception desk to give them the good news.
'Where are you cycling?' asked an older man standing behind the woman who was dealing with me. I assumed him to be the boss.
'I'm on my way to Nordkapp,' I explained. His eyebrows flicked upwards and a look of admiration pushed his bottom lip forward. He too was a cyclist and was impressed with my efforts to cycle across the continent from bottom to top. Our short conversation and my cycling efforts paid dividends.
'Just charge him two hundred kronor,' he instructed the woman.
The money saved was spent on food and a couple of cans of beer at the campsite shop. My modest investment in alcohol paled into insignificance compared to that of the other campers who, in their extended family groups, were knocking back beer and wine in a manner that implied Prohibition was only hours away. The downside of my somewhat secluded spot on the grass was that I received no invites to join in the festivities. Instead, I kept myself amused by entering full Desmond-Morris-people-watching mode. As they partied well into the midsummer evening, I questioned whether I would ever be able to cut it as a Swede. I didn't have the looks, I couldn't afford a Volvo and I was normally nodding off after a couple of glasses of red. I would have to content myself with a decent knowledge of the layout of IKEA and an ability (if pressed) to knock out a few Abba classics on the guitar. Not bad for a Brit.
The longest day of the year was now upon me: Sunday 21 June. It wouldn't be the longest one of the entire journey to Nordkapp, however, as the days would continue to lengthen as I travelled further north. There was still even a chance that I might arrive at my final destination in time to witness the fabled midnight sun. If nothing else, it would be a motivating thought to keep me pedalling. As I approached the fifty-seventh degree of latitude, I had Gothenburg in my sights and the final 200 km of the Kattegattleden would hopefully get me there as effortlessly as it had brought me to Ugglarp.
THE TWENTY-SECOND DEGREE
57°–58° NORTH
21–23 June
At some point close to the fifty-seventh degree of latitude I paused and stared at a tree. Its trunk stood at an angle of around 20 degrees from the vertical and most of the branches were arched towards the south. The tree had clearly grown in an environment where the wind was pushing it from the north. Constantly. It was a small yet sobering display of nature at work and, on a more personal level, visual evidence of what I would be fighting against in the coming weeks. I turned into the wind and continued cycling.
Food had been on my mind for much of the morning. Being Sunday of the midsummer weekend, I had struggled to find much to eat since leaving the gates of Ugglarp Camping. A newsagent in the main square of Falkenberg had supplied coffee and a couple of small pastries for breakfast but battling as I was against the northern gusts, their calorific value had been quickly expended and my stomach was again left bereft. This was never a day destined to be shortened by lack of light, but it could feasibly be curtailed by a lack of fuel.
The impeccable Kattegattleden continued to allow me to focus upon the sights rather than the route and my mind pondered the minutiae of Swedish life. Roof thatching had all but disappeared, replaced by more practical red tiles or often by copper, which, after years of weathering, had turned green. Were the owners disappointed that their houses had changed from gleaming constructions to ones of oxidised green or was that the plan from the start? The houses themselves had no letterboxes. Instead, at the end of most side roads was a long row of plastic bins, one for each household. All the postman had to do was drop the mail into the box. No dogs to fight off. No grannies with whom to pass the time of day. No Christmas tips? Postman Pat wouldn't have had many tales to tell if he had lived and worked in Sweden. And the cars. Yes, inevitably lots of Volvos, but also many old American cars parked up next to the houses. A little digging later revealed a Scandinavian subculture called raggare; its members, in the post-war years, had a penchant for buying old American cars and, even now, around 5,000 vintage American cars continue to be imported into Sweden every year.
In the early afternoon, far too many hours after the minimal breakfast in Falkenberg, I eventually found somewhere to buy a more substantial meal. It was a rudimentary but achingly pretty shack next to the picturesque bay at the excessively umlauted Träslövsläge. The sign on the shed read, in English, 'Taste of Sweden'. A couple of small blue-and-yellow Swedish flags had been attached to two corners of the hut, a fishing net strewn across its gable end, and a handful of wooden and metal chairs set up on the rough grass. I ordered a cold drink and a large shrimp sandwich, which I devoured within a minute before returning to the counter for a second.
Examining my CatEye cycling computer, I noticed that I had already cycled some 50 km. If this were to be a two-day journey to Gothenburg then I would need to be looking out for somewhere to stay within the next few hours. For a moment my mind lingered over the thought of continuing all the way to Gothenburg but, after a hearty lunch, lethargy was setting in so I remounted Reggie and continued my slow plod along the coast. Aside from the wind, the environment was perfect for cycling: predominantly flat, rural (but not isolated), a band of wild flowers blurring the transition from land to sea and a coastline as placid and unthreatening as a Swiss marriage guidance counsellor.
In Varberg the route was blocked by triathletes. I watched as they ran barefoot beside the high walls of a coastal fortification and entered the 'transition zone' before speeding off on their bikes for a long circuit around the town. Was I being subconsciously shamed by their speed and desire to get to the finishing line in good time? Perhaps, for as the kilometres stacked up, the thought of continuing to Gothenburg returned over and over. Most of my daily cycles since leaving Tarifa had been less than 100 km and I was continuing to maintain an average a whisker above 75 km per day. Cycling day ten from Plasencia to Salamanca, through the storms of Spain, had been the longest yet at 133 km but I had still to cycle a truly epic distance in one day. Could today be the day to rectify that?
I saw my first sign for Gothenburg near Kungsbacka. It told me that I would need to cycle another 61 km along the Kattegattleden to get there. It was 6 p.m. and that wasn't going to happen. However, from Kungsbacka I could see that the cycle route doubled back on itself to take in a small peninsula. The direct route to Gothenburg would be much shorter: 28 km according to Google Maps. That was tempting. The sky was dark with rain clouds that were yet to release their payload; it could be a very wet 28 km. On the other hand, the only campsites I had seen near Kungsbacka had been rammed with white motorhomes, with barely any visible green patches for even a small tent. Pushing on to Gothenburg and booking into a hotel for a couple of nights was too tempting. The decision had been made. I abandoned the cycle route and continued north along the road.
For the final two hours I chased the trains as they sped past me on the nearby track. The clouds were increasingly black but, whatever forces of nature were at work, they were doing a remarkable job of hanging on to their moisture. As the minutes passed and as the fields gave way to housing estates, factories, offices and shops, I approached the centre of Gothenburg, pulling up in the large square outside the train station a few moments before 8.30 p.m. I had been riding for most of the day and had covered 169 km at an average speed of 19 km/h. Not a bad midsummer's day'
s work.
The Ibis 'Styles' hotel had one attraction that outweighed it being an Ibis hotel in the first place: it was a boat. Well, I had my suspicions whether it had ever seen action on the high seas (think barge with hotel constructed on top), but its location on the river was perfect; to the south of the river Göta was the centre of Gothenburg and to the north the dock where the yachts of the Volvo Ocean Race were, in an act of breathtaking serendipity, about to arrive in town.
My first destination on Monday morning was the tourist office located inside the large Nordstan shopping centre. After nearly two weeks in Scandinavia I had yet to come into contact with anyone who didn't speak English, yet I remained reluctant to do away with the inevitable question.
'Excuse me. Do you speak English?' I asked the woman behind the desk.
According to a 2012 survey by the European Commission, 86 per cent of Swedish adults feel confident enough in English 'to be able to have a conversation'. The figure is identical in Denmark and only beaten by the Maltese (89 per cent) and, of course, the Dutch (90 per cent). The overall percentage of EU citizens who can speak English as a good second language is 38 per cent, with the Hungarians (20 per cent) and, interestingly, the Spanish (22 per cent) being the least enthusiastic. One country has failed utterly to embrace the joys of second language learning: the UK. Just 19 per cent of us speak French and a paltry 6 per cent German. Was it any wonder that 52 per cent of the country voted to turn their backs on the EU in the 2016 referendum when so many of us have never been able to engage with our fellow Europeans in their own language? I blame the teachers.
Not only do nearly nine out of ten Swedes speak English, but they do so exceedingly well. In its annual ranking of English language proficiency, Education First place Sweden in top position. And they are getting better; their score for 2015 was up by 3.14 points on the previous year. It will come as no great surprise to discover that Sweden is in the EU's top three when it comes to spending on education.
So the answer to my question in the tourist office in Gothenburg was, naturally: 'Of course,' delivered with a slightly bemused smile.
Armed with a brochure outlining a walking tour of Sweden's second city, I set off in the sun for a wander.
Away from the docks and the busy commercial centre around the station, there was much to admire in the quieter cobbled backstreets, although first impressions were a little subdued. The oldest building in Gothenburg was the Kronhuset, or 'old city hall', dating from 1654. It was a rather austere red-brick building with ageing copper shutters and a sharp green roof. Despite the surrounding craft shops and cafés, I couldn't help but think that the real action was elsewhere so I didn't hang around and instead decided to keep walking.
I crossed the zigzag canal – reminiscent of those I had seen in Bremen and Copenhagen – in the direction of the Skansen Kronan fortress but never got that far. Instead, the long Haga Nygata in a former working-class district of the city was more my style. The street was lined on either side with low-level buildings, many constructed from wood and most of them converted into shops, cafés and restaurants. The absence of traffic allowed for aimless strolling and – with its subtle pastel shades, good-looking people in sweaters and inclusive, relaxed atmosphere – it was altogether the most 'Scandinavian' thing I had yet encountered.
The busy commercial thoroughfare of the wide Kungsportsavenyen brought me back to where I had started in the square outside the main train station. I would have been happy if this relaxing day in Gothenburg, complete with its contrasting districts of considerable charm, had ended there. But this was Monday 22 June 2015 and exciting nautical things were happening elsewhere in town.
Cast your mind back to southern Spain. You will remember that my journey had started two days before setting off from Tarifa at the home of my uncle, Ron, in Estepona on the Costa del Sol. He had always been a keen sailor and, as his career as a petroleum engineer took him from one sun-drenched sailing paradise to another, he honed his skills as a competent seaman. Now retired, he was in the perfect location to continue his passion for sailing and had spoken to me about having seen the yachts of the Volvo Ocean Race depart on their round-the-world odysseys from Alicante in October 2014. It was a nine-leg race ending with the vessels returning to Gothenburg eight months later. By sheer coincidence, the boats and their crews had arrived in Gothenburg after their journeys of nearly 40,000 nautical miles on the very same day as mine of 3,003 miles on land. Admittedly, they had set off six months earlier, but let's not quibble. It was still a coincidence, of sorts.
The long, high Götaälvbron spanned the river and linked the commercial centre of the city with its docks where the boats had only that morning moored. As I crossed the bridge, my elevated position provided panoramic views of the complex of marquees and prefabricated 'pop-up' buildings that had been arranged along what the organisers had named 'Main Street'. Champagne corks were popping, a TV helicopter was buzzing around overhead, beaming its pictures back to the big screen (and, probably, Ron in Estepona) and an enthusiastic English commentary was being blasted out of the speakers. It was distinctly bewildering but thoroughly good fun.
My knowledge of sailing was minimal to say the least, but as I examined them through the wall of rain, the yachts seemed remarkably similar. Their liveries were distinct but I couldn't tell their shapes apart. Had the yachting design fraternity finally agreed upon the ultimate hull that would keep the boats cutting through the seven seas like a dolphin fleeing from a Japanese fishing boat in search of tuna?
My question was answered by a nice chap from Volvo. He was no expert sailor himself but had volunteered to stand inside one of the main sponsor's marquees, guard the exhibit behind him and fend off questions from the uninitiated such as me. It was, perhaps, a nice change from designing the next generation of airbags.
'All the boats are identical. They are the Volvo Ocean 65,' he revealed.
He was now looking at the exhibit – a Volvo Ocean 65 – or rather half of one. The yacht had been sliced in two to give a cross-section view of everything inside the hull.
'This is the first time all the teams have used the same boat. It was to reduce costs and make the race fairer,' he explained. One of the 20 m yachts could be picked up for a mere €5 million.
Conditions on board were decidedly cramped for the crews of eight men, nine men/women or eleven women plus one 'onboard reporter'. This latter role seemed an attractive one: taking a few snaps and mucking around with a waterproof GoPro whilst everyone else laboured away on deck.
'Yes, but you'd need to be the cook and cleaner as well,' retorted Volvo airbag man.
I had done pretty well keeping myself going on the previous day with my emergency can of ravioli and a packet of digestive biscuits, but such culinary excellence might not go down so well with a crew of ravenous yachters. I decided to put my yachting career on hold.
I was to cross the Götaälvbron for a second time the following morning, as I restarted my quest to the north. Alas, the Kattegattleden had now finished and I was again required to put some thought into route planning. This wasn't helped by me entering the 'unmapped' zone. Having purchased 15 paper maps to cover the entire cycle from Tarifa to Nordkapp, I had discovered a gap. Between Marco Polo's 'Sweden South' and 'Norway South' maps was a 100 km slice of Scandinavia across which I had to travel without their assistance. It had started before Gothenburg but as the Kattegattleden had been so utterly faultless in its signage, I was rarely required to glance at a map in the first place. Now it was different. I did, of course, have Google Maps to consult but it would be a constant struggle to see the 'bigger picture' on the relatively small screen of an iPhone 6.
Several things came to my assistance: a long, easy-to-follow cycling motorway beside the real motorway for the first 10 km of the day, some sporadic signs for the very general Cykelspåret, or 'cycle track', a charmingly to-the-point Canadian cyclist whose abrupt opening words were: 'How far is Gothenburg?' but who rapidly morphed into an enterta
ining, chatting companion, and a newly appointed member of staff at the Kungälv tourist office who – despite trying to persuade me that the nearby castle had been built 400 years after the date given on the information board outside – provided me with a few general maps. And then there was OpenStreetMap.
I had known of OpenStreetMap's existence for some time but, up until this point of the cycle, had rarely used it. Over the remaining few weeks of the trip, it would prove invaluable. Run under the auspices of the OpenStreetMap Foundation, its aim is 'to create and provide free geographical data'. Think Wikipedia for map geeks like me.
In many places – the Netherlands for example – the cycle map layer of OpenStreetMap reveals an intricate lattice of routes linking the corner of almost every street. In other, less populated places, isolated red lines mark out the long-distance cycling routes of the EuroVelo network.
Swiping my finger down the screen of my phone, I followed the continuous red line north, not only across my cartographical gap but beyond and towards the border with Norway, to Oslo, to Trondheim, to Bodø, to Tromsø and to Nordkapp itself. For the first time since leaving Tarifa, the end of my journey was in sight. Just.
THE TWENTY-THIRD DEGREE
58°–59° NORTH
23–26 June
Spain to Norway on a Bike Called Reggie Page 19
