Leg 3 - Scandinavia

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I have calculated it will take me in the region of 5 million turns of the pedal to complete this little jaunt. Admittedly I cannot guarantee total accuracy, as I lost count at 736 somewhere outside Croydon. So I have had to apply a few assumptions, allowing contingency for terrain, wind, road surfaces, etc. And I'm rarely alone on the road. There is an intermittent stream of fellow cyclists passing on the opposite side of the road. We wave at each other or ting our bells in the same way VW van drivers wave at each other or flash their lights. We're one big family of anonymous somebodies going to wherever it was the other one just came from.

Let's start Leg 3 where we finished Leg 2. Poland. It has been afforded a slight overlap as I received a number of complaints claiming it did not get much air time at the back end of the previous blog. So here we go:
I arrived at Swinoujscie on the north coast of Poland, was not able to find any reasonable accommodation, spotted fairly rapidly that the town held little attraction, and I figured I would get the overnight ferry to Sweden that night. Happy?

Docking at Ystad, on the southern tip of Sweden, at 6:30am, the first thing I needed was breakfast to kick start the day. The grubby cafe at the ferry terminal had a Coffee & Sandwich promotion for 20 Swedish krones (about £1.50). Perfect, so I ordered it. The resulting “sandwich” turned out to be a choc-ice. Not traditionally my first choice of breakfast fare, that's for sure. Though it did freeze my brain into action and give me that much-needed energy boost just the same
I reached Malmo by lunch (You might have already noticed how my accounts are mainly revolved around feeding times). I was only planning on spending a few hours visiting Malmo before crossing the impressive Oresunds bridge across the “Sound” that links Malmo to Copenhagen - in time for dinner. But a few factors kept me in Malmo. The city was just pleasant to be in and around. Many cities are incredibly interesting from a touristic perspective, but despite having little of out-and-out sightseeing worth, I felt a personal affinity with Malmo. Other than the view of the bridge, Malmo's only other real point of note is the Turning Torso tower. Designed by the Spanish architect Santiago Calatrava, the 190 metre high skyscraper twists 90 degrees from the base to the top. So it was I had a day of relaxation - beside the harbour, beside the castle, amongst the cafes of the plazas, parks and parades, all exemplified by the splendour of the Swedish summer sun splashing colour onto the city. And that colour is green, it would seem. Just a couple of days earlier I had seen a report on CNN, squeezed like an unwanted blackhead between the blanket coverage of Michael Jackson's death, that ranked Malmo as the fifth greenest city in the world (Rekjavik was Mother Earth's number 1 favourite son, for what it's worth). Obviously it was a fairly arbitrary list, but it did indicate that Malmo would be a pleasant place to hang around in. And so it proved.

Sweden is a world-leader in climate friendly fuel solutions, with most of the country's electricity coming from nuclear and hydropower. Malmo, in particular, is taking the lead (the lead-free lead, one presumes). The Western Harbour community runs entirely on renewable energy sources, including solar, wind, and biofuels; the world's first emission-free trains run in the city; and there are numerous botanical rooftops that not only provide an energy source, but also insulate the buildings in winter and keep them cool in the summer. Impressive biostats.

Before I became too entrenched, I set off early next morning to Copenhagen. As luck would have it - Luck, and the power of online social networking sites - I unbeknowingly had a couple of friends living in Copenhagen. I met Jamie and Cheryl in Nicaragua a couple of years ago, and they spotted that I was nearby - using that groundbreaking internet revolution; the Facebook status.

Such has been the circuitous nature of my trip to date, by crossing to Copenhagen, I was now heading back in the direction of where I started out (ie. Englandwards). By the time I reached Copenhagen, over 2,000 km into my ride (2,214 to be precise, not that I'm counting. Well, er, I am), I was only a few hundred miles due east of Newcastle, and that's mainly just the North Sea.

Last time I crossed a strait of water, over the Dutch dyke of Afsluitdijk, it was with such wind-assisted smugness, that the weather gods were ready to reap their revenge with the waiting westerly wind (which blows eastwards, confusingly). They were just about to get their opportunity to serve their best cold dish, when I reached the toll-booth;
“No bicycles allowed on the bridge”, I was informed in an accent so close to English it was befitting of a native of Colchester, let alone Copenhagen.
“So how do I get me and a bike to Denmark?”
“Train, bus, ferry. You chose. Just don't cycle on my bridge”
Train it was. By no means did I feel I was cheating, as I was heading back on myself and actually giving myself extra miles to cover. But I was disappointed nonetheless, as I had been looking forward to riding across the concrete megastructure since day 1 of the trip. The Norsk gods would have to wait for their vengeance.

Not long later I was in Copenhagen and found Jamie working in “The Scottish Bar” smack-bang in the city centre. Having crossed probably the best bridge in the world to Denmark, I sat at the bar drinking probably the best beer in the world, in the country that brought us probably the best bacon, best pastries and best plastic brick-building children's toy in the world. Probably.

Jamie was mid-shift, so Cheryl took me on a mini-bicycle tour of Copenhagen (the tour was mini, the bicycles were normal sized, just so we're clear). This mainly incorporated her favourite drinking holes, including a liquid visit to the quasi-legal hippified Christiana area of Copenhagen.

A few hours later, we wobbled back to the bar, where upon Jamie rounded off my Copenhagen experience with one last Carlsberg, before I said my goodbyes and tipsily toddled off to my next stop. Cycling whilst drunk is not recommended. As the heartbeat increases, the blood pumps faster, and the resulting effects come on quicker and more pronounced. In fact, the whole cycle is condensed, and by the time I reached Helsingor 2 hours later, I was nursing a hangover.

Next day, from Helsingor it was back into Sweden to Helsingborg, this time by ferry. For the next 5 days I worked my way north along the jagged west coast of Sweden. The only city of any significance on this route is Gothenburg - or to give it it's Swedish name, Goteborg. I have never understood what right foreigners have to call a city by any name other than its local name. My name is Tim, whoever I'm with and wherever I am. Naturally some people struggle with the pronunciation, but they at least try. The French call Koln, Cologne, the Spanish name for London is Londres, and we refer to Myanmar as Burma. It really is enough to make a cat despair.

To liven up my journey, I tried to travel via places with amusing or catchy names. From Boo to Butt to Aas to Orjy. As such, I decided it was only right and proper that I stopped at Bastad for the night. It never failed to tickle me each and every time I saw the signs for it. In the same way that Alan Bastard in The New Statesmen never stopped being funny. You wouldn't believe I was 31 sometimes.

There were huge crowds in Bastad that evening and the following day. I could not imagine they were all in town for slightly humorous nomenclature reasons alone. I soon discovered Bastad was hosting the Swedish Open tennis tournament. Today, Sunday, was the final, and local hero Robin Soderling was in the final. Against an inconsequential French guy. Soderling reached the French Open Final a couple of months earlier, so his stock was at an all time high, and tickets were being sold faster than a reindeer on a skijump. Being in the right place at the right time - or just some place at some time - I managed to acquire a ticket, and saw the famous day that tennis finally came home to Sweden. i.e. Soderling won.

From the country that blessed us with flatpacked furniture, safe cars, Sven, Ulrika, the Celcius temperature scale, Alfred Noble - him of Peace Prize fame - and Benny & Bjorn, my Swedish observations were thus:
The landscape suddenly became less flatpacked and more mounted. Dramatic climbs were rewarded with spectacular panoramic views of lake-laden landscapes.
As such, my vehicle became more Volvo-like than BMW-like; Safe, slow, steady riding over rolling hills, as opposed to the high-performance machine it handled like in mainland Europe. Getting there in a single piece was more important than getting there in a significant pace.
The temperature in Sweden was more up and down that a grasshopper on a hot stove and the weather more changeable than a chameleon playing Twister.
Peace and quiet is not easy to come by during Summer in Sweden. Half the country are on holiday, whilst the other half are trying to run the place. This working half seem to be predominantly comprised of school & college leavers. There are teenagers sweeping the pavements, gardening the parks, upkeeping the public buildings, manning the roadworks. Unless the country is recovering from teenage crime spree, they cannot all be doing Community Service. I'm not sure if Sweden enforces National Service, so perhaps they are just earning a wage whilst the other generations holiday. The vacationing half crowd into every corner of every campsite, hostel, town, and public space, and consequently push the prices up and the availability down. But I discovered camping in public spaces in Sweden is free.
So gimme, gimme, gimme a nice area of land in Sweden and I have a dream spot to set up camp for free amongst a woodland backdrop of pines and fern and open a beer, fire up a BBQ, put the burgers, chops and SOSsages on & on & on. Even though there's a danger of not cooking it thoroughly, I would always take a chance on meat. If camping with someone else, one of us would wash up whilst the other would ensure the BBQ was out by adding water loosely over the coals. Then we'd chill out and listen to ABBA tunes for the rest of the evening .

Nearing the end of the second of my three Swedish stints, I was not far from Oslo. Here I would meet my friend John, who was going to join me for the ride to St Petersburg. I had a couple of days to myself in Norway beforehand.

The Norweigans do like to think they have the number on the British. Not only did they win the race to the South Pole, many a Norweigan would also keenly remind me that they successfully invaded us - and will do so again at any sign of insolence. But the reality is Norway has been the Scandi-whipping boy for much of its history. Owned by Denmark for centuries, it was handed to Sweden in 1814, and only gained independence in 1905. To its credit, since that time it has developed into one of the wealthiest countries in the world. It has the third highest GDP per capita in the world (Just behind Qatar and Luxemburg), and with a cost of living to match.

So when I saw a fixed-price buffet offer at the end of a mountainous days' ride into Oslo, I thought I was quids in. Or krones in. I piled a pyramid of food on my plate to such an extent, that an ancient Egyptian would've asked me for the blueprint. I proceeded to the cashier, only for her to take the plate, weigh it and charge me 300 krones (£30). Note to self: Read the small print - even if it is in Norweigan. The offer was a price per 100 grams. What was supposed to be a great value feast had just become the most expensive meal of the trip. I felt cheated and abused, and didn't even appreciate the Giza like food fest in front of me. To make matters worse, I couldn't even finish it - which is bad buffet etiquette at the best of times. Were I thinking straight I'd have insisted on a doggy-bag, but my mind was all over the place, teeming with regrets and missed opportunities. But I slept on it, and the next day I went back - prepared. Firstly I found a smaller plate (less weight), had fluffy noodles instead of the denser potatoes, skipped any unnecessarily heavy salad foodstuffs and dined to my own content. It was still the second most expensive meal of the trip, but at least I'd wrestled back a modicum of control.

Oslo is a compact city located in a bay of the North Sea, and a day was enough time to see the main stays - the Viking museum, the Noble Peace museum, the Edvard Munch museum. Edvard Munch is Norway's number 1 artist, and the monster Munch of the entire Munch bunch is The Scream (“Shriek” in Norweigan). There are 4 versions and these have been subject to some daring art theft in recent years. In 1994, during the opening of the Winter Olympics in Lillehammer and in front of the world's media, thieves stole one from the Norway State Museum, leaving a note saying, “Thank you for the lack of security”. In 2004, a gang of thieves calmly walked out of the Munch museum with another version under their arms. Both have been since recovered and reinstated, but the details around the theft and recovery remain wrapped in mystery.

John arrived that evening and it was not long before we were on the road, cutting across the middle of Scandinavia. Crossing into Sweden (by now a regular occurrence for me) we needed to start looking for a place to stay that night. We reached the town of Arvika quite late, but I had it on good authority that there was a reasonably priced hotel there. However, upon finding it, the curtains were shut and the doors closed with a note saying,
“In emergenices, call this number”
We did not really have the energy to continue to the next town, so deemed our situation an emergency and rang. The guy who answered explained that he was away for a few days. But after a pause said we could open the back door using a given code, find our own sheets in a cupboard, and could we please leave some cash for the room rate in the deskside drawer. So we had the entire roam of this 30 room hotel for the night. It was all a bit surreal. But we were extra respectful, given the dudes ultimate trust in us. Not that we would have run around having pillow fights anyway, but just making sure everything was exactly where we found it.

For another 5 days we snaked across Sweden's lake district to Stockholm. Leaving John to sightsee, I took an early ferry across to Turku, Finland, and then had a quick 100km dash up the coast to Rauma - a UNESCO World Heritage site and the oldest wooden town in Finland. By the sounds of it, any other wooden towns in Finland has been torched at one time or another by a string of foreign invaders. But come on, wooden houses? Did they learn nothing from the Three Little Pigs?

I was in Rauma for Phil and Maija's wedding. The wedding was an amalgamation of the groom from the east side of Glasgow with the bride from the west coast of Finland, and as such the ceremony and reception were conveyed in both native languages. To the untrained ear, it is the strangest, most incomprehensible language in the whole of Europe. But once I had started to get the hang of Scottish, I was still none the wiser to the Finnish!!
Finnish is supposedly one of the toughest languages to learn, with no common roots with other languages. The closest recognised similarities being in Mongol or Magyar. It was used to test the brilliant linguistic skills of savant, David Temet. He was tasked with learning Finnish in 10 days, and at the end of this successfully demonstrated his near perfect mastering of the language by appearing on a Finnish chat show. Finnish words seem unnecessarily long-winded - such as a roadsign to beware of passing moose, reading: Riisskkaa Paattyy. I'd say you could cut out half those letters and still get the gist.
The case in point was proven during the wedding ceremony. The vicar invited the congregation to recite the Lords' Prayer simultaneously in their own language. By the time the English speakers were Amening, the Finnish were still having their Daily Bread.
One Finnish word of global reach is Sauna. Or so you'd think. The receptionist in the hotel told us that Germany was currently in dispute with Finland as to which country invented the dry heat room. OK, so it's no exactly like disputing the West Bank of Jeruselum or the Khyber Pass, but it matters to the Finns all the same. Why the Germans can't let them have this one, I don't know. They already hold claim to inventing motor cars, engines, airships, thermometers, and Aspirin. All the Finns have to show for their efforts is the rights to Santa Claus.

Via Helsinki, where I met back up with John, we continued towards Russia. The last night in Finland, and indeed the EU, was in a small town near the Russian border. Having arrived a day early, we had reached a boundary. An arbitrary line on a map that I could not cross until my Russian visa became valid when the clock hit midnight. I am not a patient man at the best of times, but had to accept that waiting was my fate. Tick follows tock follows tick follows tock.
Man, I fancied a Guinness. Or given I was in sight of Russian soil, a vodka. But alcohol consumption is strictly limited in Finland. For whatever reason - climate, daylight, culture, boredom, whatever - the Finns have struggled to control their alcoholism, and the government has intervened by imposing limits on the strength of booze that can be bought in shops. So you can buy this brand called “Gin”, but it is a pre-mixed G&T at 11% ABV.

But given the only Rock'n'Roll in my current lifestyle is a description of a buckled wheel, I cracked open an Oranjina instead, before crashing out in preparation of the Big Red abyss that lay ahead.

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Photos

Entering Sweden
At 1802km, 1991km, & 2648km

Add your own caption
But few would disagree!!

Entering Norway
At 2501km

Entering Finland
At 3110km

Comments

[Alastair]

The KILTS in Rauma
Tim, you wouldn't believe it, but Helga and I are still waiting to see the pics from Rauma!! I'd hoped one, with all the kilted guys might have been posted......OK....just keep pedalling and stay safe!

[Vince]

Corrections
Its Alan B'Stard, and isn't there a common root from Finnish to Hungarian? However, to your credit, I don't think I could even name 8 Abba songs, let alone shoehorn them in in such wonderful fashion.