“Have you seen my rain-jacket?”, I ask the First Mate. “I took it with me into Umeå on the bus yesterday, and I am worried that I might have left it somewhere. It’s just a new one, and it would be a pity to lose it.”

“No, I haven’t seen it”, she says. “Have you looked in your rucksack? You normally keep it there.”

“Of course I have”, I say. “It’s the first place I looked.”

We are still in Umeå, waiting for favourable winds to continue our voyage north. Southwest winds are forecast for the morning, so we are planning to leave then.

We search for the jacket everywhere in the boat, but there is no sign of it. I can’t even remember where I saw it last.

“It’ll turn up”, says the First Mate hopefully. “Anyway, you’ll never guess who I met this morning in the club house.”

“A German couple, Axel and Carmen”, she continues. “They are friends of Axel & Claudia who we met in Dover all those years ago, and whom we last saw in Kalmar last year. They saw our name on the list of boats staying here and recognised it from something that Axel & Claudia had said. Isn’t that a coincidence?”

“It’s certainly a small world”, I agree. “But when you think about it, it is probably not so much of a coincidence, as there are only certain places that sailors can go, and the chances are that you will meet someone you know there, or at least someone who knows someone you know. It’s like a large network. It’s quite nice in a way.”

“They certainly have been very helpful”, she says. “Look, here’s a list of all the nice places that we have to visit as we go north from here. And lots of information about each, too.”

The winds in the morning are from the southwest, and we prepare to leave. My rain-jacket still hasn’t turned up.

“I’m sure it will be on the boat somewhere”, says the First Mate. “I don’t remember you wearing it in town, and I can’t see how you would have left it on the bus. You just haven’t looked hard enough.”

She’s probably right.

“I’ll just go and pay our marina fees”, I say.

The first thing I see on entering the clubhouse is my jacket hanging on a peg. Then it all comes back. I had put it on to brave the winds and rain a few days ago, and had hung it up hoping it would dry. And had forgotten all about it.

“Do you think senility is setting in?”, says the First Mate as we leave. “It happens to people your age, you know.”

“Well, I can still do the crossword every morning”, I say. “When I can’t do that anymore, I’ll know that I am past it.”

We reach the small harbour of Ratan in the afternoon and tie up alongside to a wooden wharf.

One of Ratan’s claims to fame is that it was here that the scientists Anders Celsius and Carl Linnaeus measured the change in sea level in1774 over a period of time and calculated the rate at which the land was rising due to isostatic rebound. An inscription on a lichen-covered rock, now some 2½ metres above the waterline, still remains. Their only error was that they thought that the water level was decreasing due to evaporation, rather than the land rising.

“Anyone can make a mistake”, says the First Mate.

Ratan was also the site of a battle between the Russians and the Swedes in 1809. Even though the Russians had technically won, their forces were so depleted that they withdrew, which gave the Swedes a stronger bargaining power in the negotiations. This had the result of the border between Russia and Sweden being drawn where the present day border is between Sweden and Finland, rather than further west that the Russian Tsar had originally demanded.

We seem to have synchronised our passages with Gavin and Catherine of Saluté whom we had met several times before on the trip up to Umeå. They are also aiming for the north of the Bay of Bothnia, so we decide to travel together where possible. It’s nice to have company.

The next few days we wend our way up the coast north of Umeå heading for Luleå, sailing in the afternoons, finding the next small harbour to stay in overnight, then exploring where we are in the mornings. Then repeating the pattern.

“What a fantastic view”, says Catherine, as we puff our way to the top of a hill with a lighthouse perched on top. “I wouldn’t mind coming back here sometime.”

We have overnighted in the tiny harbour at Bjoröklubb. At least, Saluté has, but it was borderline depth for Ruby Tuesday and we had tied up to the SXK buoy further into the bay.

“I know a lighthouse keeper’s job is a lonely one” says the First Mate over lunch in the small restaurant at the base of the lighthouse. “But at least the view would have compensated a bit.”

We reach the industrial city of Skellefteå, with its skyline of chimneys belching steam and worse. In the evening we have dinner at the marina restaurant and listen to a live band singing Irish ballads. Apparently the owner is Irish.

In the morning we push on and reach the Piteä archipelago. We find a sheltered bay on the south coast of the island of Vargön and drop anchor. It comes on to rain. After dinner, I start reading my new book, Being You: a New Science of Consciousness, by the neuroscientist Anil Seth.

In it, he argues that our perception of reality is in fact a ‘controlled hallucination’. Our brains are ‘prediction machines’, constantly generating ‘best guesses’ of what causes its inputs from the senses. From these, it constructs a ‘reality’ that is continually tested against new sensory information and modified if necessary. Our emotions don’t, in fact, control our reactions to something, instead it is the other way round – our reactions cause the mind to construct an explanation for them. Feeling sad doesn’t make us cry, for example; instead we cry, and the brain’s explanation for this is that we are sad.

It’s compelling stuff. Seth has researched this area for several decades, and has come to these viewpoints from the various phenomena he has observed. One example he uses is the photo of “The Dress” that swept the internet some years ago, and which some people see as white and gold, and others as blue and black. Which is real? In fact, neither, says Seth. Objects don’t have specific colours – they are just something that our brains have constructed based on our personal history and previous experiences.

“Fascinating”, says Spencer, reading over my shoulder. “But have you considered that there are other types of consciousness besides humans? We animals have it as well, you know. I, for example, am self-aware, can perceive the outside world, have subjective experiences, and construct narratives about all these things. Octopuses also seem to have a sense of self. This was well known in the Middle Ages when animals were prosecuted, convicted and punished for doing something wrong (according to human laws!). Their only thing the people then didn’t realise was that animal minds are very different from human minds. You have absolutely no idea what it is like to be a spider, or an octopus, or a bat, for example.”

“Or another human, for that matter”, I say. “But I have to assume that other people think more-or-less the same way as I do, or else I wouldn’t get very far.”

“Ah, social consciousness”, he says. “True. It’s called the Theory of Mind. You have perceptions of how other people perceive you. But some animals have that too.”

We reach Luleå the next afternoon. Two massive ice-breakers greet us as we enter. Strong winds and rain are forecast for two days, so it looks like we will have to stay put for a while.

“We should go and see the old church town while we are here”, I say, consulting TripAdvisor. “It’s designated as a UNESCO World Heritage site.”

We catch the bus out to Gammelstad to the northeast of Luleå. Gammelstad used to be Luleå and was a bustling port, but due to land rise the port disappeared so it was decided to build a new port and call it the same name of Luleå. The old Luleå was then called Gammelstad, or Old City.

“Could you run that past me again?”, says the First Mate. “You lost me at the ’used to be Luleå’ bit.”

“Don’t worry”, I say. “Suffice to say that Gammelstad was an old church town, or kyrkstad. Because people lived in remote areas, they couldn’t travel to church on a regular basis, so the churches set up a cluster of small cottages around them for people to come every so often to do their churchy business, such as baptisms, marriages and the like, and they would stay in the cottages. It was one of the conditions that the cottages couldn’t be lived in permanently. Apparently there used to be 71 kyrkstad in Sweden, but now only 16 are left. Gammelstad is the best preserved.“

“I bet the young people also saw it as an opportunity to meet future partners”, says the First Mate.”

We wander around the small village. Judging from the lavish furnishings of the church, there was obvious wealth in the area from fur trading and salmon fishing. In typical fashion, there is even a Separatists cottage, where those who disapproved of the new church books worshipped separately from the rest of the congregation, and eventually split away completely.

“I think we should hire a car tomorrow”, I say over breakfast the next morning. “We can drive up to Jokkmokk to see the Sámi museum there. We can also cross the Arctic Circle.”

“Good idea”, says the First Mate. “There’s also the Storforsen Falls which are worth seeing, apparently. They’re on the way. I’ll see if I can find a car rental place near here.”

We set off early the next morning in a hired Citroën C5. Everything is electronic. It can even work out when I get too close to the centre line or the hard shoulder line and flashes a warning. The one-lane highway means that it happens often.

“It’s a bit over the top”, says the First Mate. “It’s almost as though they have to keep on thinking of new ideas to stay ahead of the competition. Anyway, nagging you is my job. Hey, watch that pothole. You’re far too close.”

Despite the constant flashing warnings and the stream of instructions from the First Mate, I somehow manage to get us to Storforsen Falls.

They are impressive, especially as there has been a lot of rain in the last week.

“The book says that they drop 82 metres and are one of the largest in Europe in terms of water volume”, says the First Mate. “Their average flow is around 200 cubic metres per second, but it can get as high as 1200 m³/s, especially in midsummer. Come on, let’s walk up to them.”

We stand on the safety platform and look over at the raging torrent as it thunders over the rocks, the air moist with the spray. A forlorn life ring hangs nearby, but it is a token gesture – anyone falling into the maelstrom would be carried downstream in a flash and smashed against the rocks. They used to float logs downstream on it, but it is difficult to see how they would be anything other than matchwood when they arrive at the bottom.

We resume our journey.

“Stop, stop!”, shouts the First Mate suddenly. “There’s a mother reindeer and her calf crossing the road. Let me get a picture.”

We pull off to the side of the road. The car tells me to get back into the driving lane. I gain perverse pleasure in ignoring it. The humans are still in control. For the moment.

A little further on, we come to a large sign proclaiming that we are about to cross the Arctic Circle.

“We have to stop here”, says the First Mate. “And get the photo.”

“The Arctic Circle is the lowest latitude at which the sun never sets on midsummer day and never rises on midwinter day”, a placard tells us. “It is defined by the Earth’s inclination, which is influenced by the sun, the moon and the planets. It’s not constant, but moves northwards and southwards in a cycle of 40,000 years.”

“It must be a bit of a nuisance having to move this sign all the time to keep up with where the Circle is”, jokes the First Mate, as she takes the photo.

Her jokes seem to be getting better.

We eventually arrive in Jokkmokk.

“Jokkmokk comes from the Sámi language for ‘river’s curve’”, says the woman in the Tourist Information. “It’s an important place for the Sámi people of Sweden. The Sámi parliament has an office here, and the Sámi museum is just opposite the church. There’s also a restaurant, so you could have lunch there. The fish is good.”

It is. Well fed, we spend the following couple of hours learning about the Sámi people and how they cope with a demanding environment.

“The Sámi are the only indigenous people in Europe”, a display board tells us. “They are thought to originate in the Upper Volga region in present-day Russia and to have spread along the Volga River to northern Scandinavia. The region they live is often called Lapland, but the Sámi themselves prefer to call it Sápmi. It stretches across Norway, Sweden, Finland and Russia.”

Traditionally, the Sámi have lived by semi-nomadic reindeer herding, as well as fishing and hunting.

“It says here that reindeer husbandry is legally protected as an exclusive Sámi livelihood”, says the First Mate. “Only persons of Sámi descent with a linkage to a reindeer herding family can own, and hence make a living off, reindeer.”

In the last room we come to, panels describe the status of Sámi in Sweden. Historically, they were considered to be backward and primitive, and in the 1800s were subjected to forced assimilation with the rest of Sweden, with compulsory education and pressure to convert to Christianity. The Sámi language was even forbidden in schools. Coupled with Swedish settlers being encouraged to move north, and mining of oil, gas and precious metals, traditional Sámi reindeer grazing grounds and culture were under threat. Compensation was promised by the government for Chernobyl radioactivity in their grazing lands, but was never given.

“They seem to have had a bit of a raw deal”, says the First Mate.

Now there is some effort to redress these wrongs. A Swedish Sámi Parliament was established in 1993, and in 2021, the Church of Sweden apologised formally to the Sámi population for its role in forced conversions.

“It reminds me of the discussions that we had with Peter and Joanne about the Maori in New Zealand”, says the First Mate on the way home. “It’s a tricky one – to try and fully integrate indigenous people into western culture and its benefits, or to let them remain in their original state and a more sustainable way of life.”

“Perhaps both cultures can learn from each other”, I say. “Without being dominated by one or the other.”

“Strong winds are being forecast for the weekend”, says the First Mate. “I think we should get to Umeå and find somewhere safe where we can wait it out, and at least we will have something to do. Joanne and Peter can also catch the ferry across to Vaasa in Finland.”

“Good idea”, I agree. “I’ll plot a route.”

It takes two days to reach Umeå. We break our journey at the tiny harbour of Järnäsklubb, an old pilot station, before continuing on the next day. We eventually tie up at Patholmsviken sailing club marina in Holmsund, 15 km south of the Umeå. We can’t sail closer as there are permanent bridges in the way.

Peter and Joanne leave the next morning. It’s been good to see them. The time has flown since they arrived, but now they have to catch the ferry over to Vaasa in Finland, and from there the train down to Helsinki. A taxi has been booked for 0700 to take them from the club marina across to the ferry terminal on the other side of the harbour. We wait at the club house for it to arrive. At 0710 it still hasn’t turned up.

“There’s a barrier across the entrance to the marina”, one of the club members tells us. “Cars can’t come in unless they know the code. He’s probably waiting there. You’ll have to walk down.”

We rush with the suitcases and their other luggage to the entrance. It’s quite a long way. Precious minutes tick by. Luckily the driver is still waiting.

“Phew”, says Joanne, panting. “I was worried that he would think it a hoax call and leave. I didn’t fancy walking around to the ferry terminal with all this luggage.”

In the afternoon, the First Mate and I catch a bus into the city centre. We decide to have lunch in the MVG-Gallerian shopping centre. We both have the salmon.

“It says that Umeå has a population of 130,000 people”, says the First Mate, reading from the guide book. “Apparently the name comes from the Old Norse for ‘roaring river’. It was burnt to the ground by the Russians in their Pillage of 1719-21, and again in 1888, the same day that Sundsvall was burnt down. Rather than rebuild the city in stone as Sundsvall did, the Umeåns decided to construct wide avenues with birch trees along their sides to stop future fires from spreading. Nowadays, the city has two universities, and the CRISPR gene-editing technique was developed here. In 2014, it was named as the European Capital of Culture.”

“I wonder if they called the gene technique CRISPR because of all the fires?”, I ask.

“Was that supposed to be one of your jokes?”, says the First Mate.

“Not really”, I say with a sigh. “It was pretty marginal. Not everyone will get it.”

The strong winds and rains arrive that evening from the south. We batten all the hatches and put double lines on the moorings. It feels cosy inside the boat with the wind whistling in the rigging above and the rain pelting on the windows. The instruments show that the winds reach 45 knots.

In the morning, the rain has stopped, but the winds continue.

“Let’s take the bus into town again”, says the First Mate over breakfast. “You can go to the museum, and I can browse the shops.”

I get off at the Fridhem bus stop and walk the few hundred metres up to the Västerbottens museum. Its remit is to preserve the cultural history of Västerbotten County.

“It’s all free”, the young man at the reception tells me. “There are various exhibitions inside, and an open-air display of reconstructed aspects of life in Västerbotten County. They are even making traditional bread today. One of the exhibitions is on Sámi culture.”

I start at that one. An intelligent-looking stuffed moose greets me.

“I prefer to be called an elk”, she says. “We are in Europe after all. But you can call me a moose as well. I don’t mind. And while you are here, don’t forget to see the skis. They are the oldest in the world.”

Next up is a replica Sámi tent. The accompanying sign tells me that the Sámi were traditionally semi-nomadic reindeer pastoralists, but also made a living from coastal fishing, fur trapping, and sheep herding. Their homelands stretch across the northern parts of Norway, Sweden, Finland, and the Kola Peninsula of Russia. I crawl into the tent and try to imagine what life inside would have been like with a blizzard howling around me. But the lustrous perfumed reindeer skins on the floor somehow don’t quite convey the full experience.

In another room, there is an exhibition on the National Forest Inventory, the aim of which was to count and measure every tree in Sweden to get an idea of how much timber there was. Apparently the results showed there was more than they thought at the time, so the country breathed a great sigh of relief. And went out to cut some more.

In the open-air part, I come to the old bakehouse. A man and a woman in traditional dress are making bread.

“We are making tunnbröd”, says the woman. “Traditional northern Swedish bread. We are husband and wife, so it’s a team effort – he does all the mixing and kneading of the dough, and I do the baking.”

“It’s made from barley flour”, explains her husband, as he rolls out some dough into thin flat pancakes. “You can also add some rye flour or wheat flour if you like. Some people even add mashed potatoes. Then I add water, bicarbonate, yeast and salt.”

Much the same as what I do when I make bread at home.

The woman picks up the pancakes and places them on a long-handled board. She pushes the board into the oven with logs burning at the back and sides, and with a deft flick of her wrist, deposits the bread onto the hot tiles in front of the logs.

“We need to keep the tiles hot”, she tells me. “So when we have a break, we pull the burning logs forward over them to heat them up again.”

The aroma of baking bread fills the small room. My stomach starts to rumble.

“Here, this one is for you”, she says, folding one in half. “Try it.”

I break off a bit of the bread and taste it. It is warm and soft, and delicious in the way that only freshly-baked bread can be.

“This one has a few fennel seeds in it”, she says, noticing the look on my face as I try and recognise the flavour. “Here’s a pamphlet with the recipe. You can give it to your wife.”

“Ha, I am the bread maker in the family!”, I say with a smile.

As I walk back to the museum building, I see a group of people pointing and talking excitedly. Curiosity piqued, I join them to see what they are looking at. From our vantage point on the hill where the museum is located, we can see plumes of thick black smoke coming from somewhere in the city.

“There’s a fire in the city centre”, one my fellow observers tells me. “The police and fire brigade are there and they are trying to put it out.”

I try and call the First Mate, but she doesn’t pick up.

The next bus into town leaves in twenty minutes. Before long, I am at the central bus station.

“There’s been a fire here”, says the First Mate when we meet. “It’s the same building that we had lunch in yesterday. There’s been smoke everywhere. They have cordoned it all off. It’s a bit of a nuisance as I had hope to do some shopping for food for tonight, but you can’t get to it.”

We watch one of the fire engines lift firemen up to spray the building with water.

Later we hear that one of the fans in the ventilation system of the building had caught fire. Luckily everyone in the building had been evacuated and no one had been injured.

“I bet the salmon they are serving in the place where we had lunch yesterday will be CRISPR today”, I say on the bus back to the marina.

“Don’t push it too far”, says the First Mate. “It wasn’t very funny the first time.”

“Well, at least the birch trees seemed to have worked”, I say. “The fire didn’t spread to any of the other buildings.”

“It’s rather amazing that we should be in a city that is famous for having burnt to the ground in 1888 on the very day that there is another fire in the city centre”, says the First Mate.

In the evening, we cook dinner in the marina clubhouse. I get talking to a woman from Lithuania. The conversation predictably turns to the war in Ukraine.

“Most Lithuanians strongly support Ukraine”, she says. “We know what it is like to be under the control of the Russians, and it is not something we would willingly go back to. We are part of Europe now, and we want to stay that way. The Ukrainians are the same. I really hope that they win.”

“Are people in Lithuania worried about Russia invading?”, I ask. “To try and recreate the old Soviet Union, I mean?”

“Not really”, she says. “As individuals, there’s not a lot you can do. Most people just get on with their lives. There’s no point in worrying. And we are part of NATO. As are Finland and Sweden now. That should help protect us against any aggression.”

She is sailing with three other friends around the Baltic.

“I like travelling”, she says. “When I was younger, I was interested in learning about different religions to see what each had to offer. I lived in India and the Far East for a while. While I was in India, I stayed in an ashram.”

“I thought that most people in Lithuania were Christian?”, I say.

“They are”, she says. “But Christianity was never really accepted in Lithuania as a national religion. It is seen as a foreign one forced on us by the Catholic Church in Europe against our will. Lithuania was really only Christianised in the 1600s, one of the last countries to be so in Europe. Often the conversion process was pretty violent, in that if you didn’t accept Christianity, you were killed. A lot of people see it as a foreign religion from a hot, dry, far-off land that doesn’t have any connection to our culture.”

“I read somewhere that there has been a resurgence in Lithuania in the old pagan religion before Christianity came”, I say.

“Yes”, she says animatedly. “I am impressed you know about that, not being a Lithuanian. It’s called Romuva. It is closely linked to nature and the culture of Lithuania, and tries to bring together our old songs, dances and rituals that existed before Christianisation. The Communists tried to stamp it out, but there’s been a resurgence since the breakup of the Soviet Union. I often attend the rituals – sometimes in a grove or place that has been sacred since ancient times. We see the cosmos as a great mystery, and celebrate it and nature as we see ourselves as part of them. It’s somehow awe-inspiring and beautiful to think that we have risen from nature and will one day go back to it.”

“It seems very relevant to the modern day efforts to preserve the planet”, I say.

“Absolutely”, she says. “We have respect for the Earth and every living being on it, whether they be microbes, plants or animals – they are all symbols of life. Rivers are also important – they are seen as a boundary between life on one side and death on the other, and therefore must be kept clean.”

“I recently saw an old Michael Palin documentary about fire-walking in Estonia, I think it was”, I say. “It was one of the rituals of the Old Baltic religion.”

“Yes, we see fire as the representation of the Divine and the ultimate purifier”, she says. “Some people believe the flames carry their prayers and offerings to the gods.”

Later I discuss the conversation with Spencer.

“Yes, it’s interesting isn’t it?”, he says. “Apparently the old Baltic beliefs derive from the ancient religion of the Proto-Indo-European peoples from between the Black Sea and the Caspian Sea. It is polytheistic, meaning that there are many gods, often for specific things such as the sky, the Earth, the sun, forests, the sea, and so on. There are even links with Hinduism in India, which also evolved from the PIE religion, and much of the cosmology, and many of the beliefs and rituals between the Balts and Hindus are similar. Some of the gods’ names also sound the same. So much so, the Lithuanians have even invited Hindu sadhus to participate in their rituals. They take pride in their religion being so ancient in comparison to newcomers like Christianity.”

“Almost as though it was the true religion of Europe and Asia”, I muse. “I wonder if that was why she spent some time in an ashram in India?”

“Quite possibly”, he says. “But I am not sure why you humans think there has to be a ‘true’ religion. I am just a lowly spider, but to my mind all religions are just a way of helping you make sense of the world around you and to provide comfort in a hostile world. You create gods or a god who is supposed to have created the cosmos and you, who cares for you while you are alive, and whom you will eventually join again when you die. Is there any evidence whatsoever of these gods? None whatsoever! How then can you talk of a ‘true’ religion? Surely they are all just something you make up to provide an explanation for something you don’t understand, or myths that are not true but allow you to share the experiences of your ancestors in the past?”

“Come on”, calls the First Mate from the cabin. “You should get to bed. We have an early start tomorrow. And tell Spencer to go and catch some flies.”

I say goodnight to Spencer and go downstairs, making a mental note to explore these ideas in more detail when we sail to Lithuania next year.

“I’ll try and get some fuel here”, I say to the First Mate, as we arrive at the small marina at Docksta and tie up alongside to the outside pontoon. “Apparently there is a filling station in the village. If the marina has a trolley I’ll take the jerrycans up there and fill them up.”

We had tried to buy diesel in Härnösand, but even though the machine had accepted our cards, no fuel came out of the nozzle despite repeated attempts.

“It must have run out”, the First Mate had said. “Never mind. We can try and get some at the next place that has a filling station.”

Luckily, the Docksta marina has a small trolley. I tie the three empty jerrycans on using an ingenious criss-cross system of rope fastened by knots hitherto unknown to mankind.

“I don’t think that they are going to come off”, says Robert, tied up next to us. “But I’ll be interested to see how you manage to bring three full jerrycans back on that small trolley. It’s almost a kilometre to the filling station, and some of that is uphill.”

He’s right. Pushing 50 kg of sloshing liquid on a small trolley is not easy. Especially uphill along a shingle track. With one of the tyres flat. But I eventually make it.

“Your face is looking very red”, says the First Mate. “I hope you don’t have a heart attack.”

In the evening, my sister Joanne and her husband Peter arrive by bus from Härnosand. They have flown from New Zealand to Stockholm, and then have taken the train from Stockholm to Härnosand.

“It’s been a long journey”, says Joanne. “But it’s great to be here.”

We had sailed together several times before – in New Zealand, Wales, the Mediterranean, as well as last year in the Stockholm Archipelago. It’s nice to see them again.

“I think we need to have an early night”, says Peter after dinner. “I am not sure we will be able to sleep well anyway with the hours of darkness so short.”

It’s true. At this time of year, it is still light enough to read well after midnight, then again in the morning at about 0300. Even the one to two hours in between are light enough to see from one side of the marina to another. But they are exhausted and sleep well.

The next afternoon, we decide to walk to the top of Skuleberget, the 295 m high mountain overshadowing Docksta.

“It’s funny that they call it a mountain”, says Joanne at breakfast. “It’s not even 300 m high. In New Zealand we would think of that as a hill.”

“It reminds me of a person we used to know from Holland”, I say. “His name was Marco van den Berg, which means ‘Marco from the Mountain’. He used to say that you could see over the ‘mountain’ near where he lived if you stood on top of your car!”

“Well, this is a bit higher than that”, says the First Mate. “Come on. Let’s get going. We can buy some sandwiches from the shop and find somewhere on the trail to eat them for lunch.”

On the way, we swing past the Naturum Höga Küsten Information Centre.

“Well, that was very interesting”, says the First Mate after we come out. “It’s amazing to think that just after the Ice Ages, Skuleberget was a small island only 9 m above sea level. Then as the ice receded, the release of its weight allowed the land to rebound back to its previous position at the rate of around 10 mm per year. It’s still rising, apparently.”

“It’s also one of the few places that has glacial till on its summit”, I add. “All the other hills in the area were under water at that time.”

“Look at that garage there”, says Peter. “You can see how the land is rising. It’ll disappear in a few years or so.”

We climb the rocky path through the trees, and eventually reach the top. The view is superb. We try and make out where Ruby Tuesday is lying far below. I get the wrong bay.

“I hope your navigation is better tomorrow”, says Joanne. “We are trusting you to keep us safe.”

“Come over here”, calls out the First Mate. “There’s a band here showing where the shoreline was 10,500 years ago.”

As we peer over the sheer cliff, it brings home just how much the land has risen in the relatively short time since the Ice Ages.

The next morning we decide to sail to Mjältön, a small island to the east of Docksta. The wind is little more than a breeze, but we manage to make a sedate two knots.

“Don’t forget that it is supposed to rain heavily this afternoon”, says the First Mate. “We need to make sure that we get there before it starts.”

We head for the small teardrop-shaped bay of Baggviken on the south-east corner of Mjältön. The entrance is narrow, but it opens out wider with staging for mooring on the northern and eastern shores. Already it is reasonably full with other boats. We find an empty berth, drop the stern anchor, and edge forward gently until the First Mate and Peter can throw the bowlines to a waiting neighbour.

“Only half the island is a protected nature reserve”, our neighbour tells us as we tie up. “The other half is privately owned and used for agriculture. But they have made a complete mess of it. The trees have all been chopped down and it looks like the surface of the moon. The soils are no good for growing crops. If you ask me, the government should have made the whole island into a nature reserve. But at least there is a nice beach you can walk to through the nature reserve. Now, if you will excuse me, I need to get the canopy up. It’s starting to look like rain.”

Sure enough. a few drops begin to fall, then the rain cascades down. It’s monsoonal. All we can do is to sit inside the cockpit tent and have lunch until it goes off.

“We’ve got a new holiday in New Zealand”, Peter tells us, cutting a slice of cheese. “It started officially last year. It’s called Matariki, and it celebrates the Māori New Year, when the Pleiades constellation rises above the horizon. It is supposed to be a time of endings and beginnings, coming together, remembrance of the dead, and the planning of crops and planting. But a lot of employers aren’t happy about it, as they think that it is just another excuse not to work and cut into their profits.”

“I suppose it depends on how many public holidays in total you have”, says the First Mate, getting out her phone. “It says here that New Zealand has twelve compared to around ten in the UK. But most countries have a lot more than either of these. Nepal has 35. Can you imagine?”

“Māori believe that you can understand just about everything in the natural world from the positions of the stars and the moon”, says Joanne. “But a lot of that knowledge was lost or suppressed when the Europeans arrived. Nowadays, there’s quite a resurgence of interest in indigenous knowledge. But in my view, Matariki is really more about giving more prominence to Māori culture in everyday life.”

“There’s a real drive to redress past Māori grievances”, explains Peter. “Especially to do with land, but also culture. That’s not a bad thing in itself, but many people fear that it has gone too far. Māori seem to have more rights than Europeans these days. And you only have to have one-eighth Māori ancestry in you to claim to be Māori. A lot of people are trying to find a Māori great-grandparent in their lineage so that they can claim the benefits.”

The rain stops, the clouds clear, and the sun returns. The smell of wet soil pervades the small bay. Mist rises off the forest canopy as the sun evaporates the water.

“Come on”, says the First Mate. “Now that the rain has stopped, let’s go and find that beach our neighbour was talking about.”

We find the track leading up from the back of the beach, and trudge through the drying woods. Eventually we come to a branch in the path to the left.

“This is probably it”, I say. “The other way looks like it is going over to the other side of the island.”

We take the path to the left. A little bit further on, we come to a pile of pear-shaped droppings. And another. And another.

“They look like deer’s”, says Peter. “We might see one.”

We eventually reach the beach without seeing any deer. It’s a beautiful long stretch of sand and we have it to ourselves apart from two kayaks and a tent about halfway along. But no people.

The next morning we sail from Mjältön to Ulvön, another island further to the east. The wind is from the south-east and we need to sail close-hauled, tacking once to reach the narrow entrance between the two halves of Ulvön. We pass Anna heading in the opposite direction, hands waving wildly.

Ulvön is crowded. There doesn’t seem to be any room at the gästhamn for us to tie up. The First Mate’s phone rings. It’s Catherine from Salute.

“We saw you coming on the AIS and saved a place for you to squeeze in next to us”, she says. “It’s where Anna was, but they left this morning.”

We had somehow not seen Salute in the throng of boats.

“There’s no way we can get in there”, says Peter, looking at the tiny gap of less than a metre between Salute and the next boat. “Far too narrow.”

We drop the stern anchor and inch forward. Hands on the boats either side guide us in. Fenders squeal as both boats move sideways to accommodate us. It’s a snug fit, but we are there.

“Our neighbour on Mjältön said there used to be wolves on the island”, says the First Mate, as we tie up. “The name Ulvön means Wolf Island in Old Norse. I’m glad they aren’t around anymore.”

“It’s a bit like the island of Ulva in the Inner Hebrides in Scotland”, I say. “That also comes from the Old Norse for Wolf Island. They say that wolves used to be there too.”

“Haven’t seen any wolves here”, says Gavin from Salute. “But it’s a pretty little place. There is an interesting church with painted scenes, and there is a nice walk to the old pilot station on top of that hill. Both worth a visit.”

On the way back from the pilot station, we stop off in the little fishing museum with its eclectic collection of fishing gear.

“It’s a pity that we can’t taste the surströmming” says the First Mate, pointing to a tin. “It says that it isn’t ready until the middle of August.”

“Phew!”, I say, relieved. “That gives me an excuse not to try it, at least.”

Surströmming is Ulvön’s special delicacy. Known as the world’s most putrid-smelling food, it is made from herring allowed to ferment for between three and six months.

“Only herring caught before spawning in April and May are used”, the woman in the museum tells us. “They are covered lightly in salt to prevent them from rotting, then they must ferment for three months. They shouldn’t be sold until the third Thursday in August, Surströmming day. You can eat them with tunnbröd with potatoes, onions, tomatoes and cheese. But I have to warn you that they are an acquired taste.”

There is a blast of a ship’s horn, and a crowd of youngsters rush past us clutching suitcases and rucksacks, heading for the ferry dock. One or two look a bit queasy. They’ve probably had some surströmming, I think. Before long, the ferry edges away from the dock to take them back to the mainland, their brief stay on Ulvön over.

At dinner, the conversation continues from yesterday.

“There’s a lot of discussion at the moment about the first people to come to New Zealand”, says Peter. “Europeans have growing angst about being newcomers and displacing the First People. Hence the trying to put things right. But it’s not so simple. No-one really knows where the Māori come from, for example. Their mythical homeland was Hawaiki, but it’s not clear where that was.”

“I thought that it was generally thought to be Tahiti”, I say. “But even if it wasn’t, perhaps Hawaiki referred to an area rather than a specific island.”

“And then there’s the question of the Moriori”, says Joanne. “They were in New Zealand before Māori. Perhaps they were the First People, and not Māori?“

“I know that was what we were taught at school”, I say. “But I thought that the modern view is that they were Māori who had arrived earlier than the main waves, were almost wiped out by the latter due to their pacifist nature, and then escaped to the Chatham Islands where their language and culture evolved differently.”

“Does it really matter anyway?”, says the First Mate. “There seems to be little doubt that Polynesians of various types were the First People of New Zealand, and that Europeans were the newcomers.”

“It matters”, says Peter, “as whoever is designated as First People get rights that the others don’t.”

The problems between indigenous peoples and the colonisers are similar the world over, I think as I climb into bed that evening. I make a mental note to check what the relationship is like here in Sweden between the Sámi people and the rest of the country.

Another day, another Högaküsten island, another Gävle fishermen’s church, and more picturesque red-painted fishermen’s cottages. This time it is Trysanda, reputedly the most beautiful of the Högaküsten islands.

We join Gavin & Catherine of Salute and Holger & Annette of Anna for a walk around the island. We come to a long sandy beach and strip off for a swim. It isn’t as cold as I thought it would be.

Holger and Annette have decided to make this their northernmost point and head back south. They need to be back in Stockholm to meet family. It’s sad to see them go. We had first met them in Öregrund nearly a month ago, and had travelled more-or-less continuously with them since then. Back at the harbour, someone suggests a barbecue for the evening.

This time Holger doesn’t burn the halloumi. “My secret is to get someone else to look after it!”, he says, meaning me. I manage to char it. But not too much.

“I’ll miss them”, says the First Mate. “They have been good company.”

“We can keep in touch with them”, I say. “Hopefully we’ll meet them again.”

“It’s a bit scary”, says the First Mate. “We can hardly see anything. I just hope that there’s nothing else coming our way.”

We had left Mellanfjardin earlier in the morning, and for about an hour or so we had had a good sail in ten knots of wind. Then it had died to three or four knots and fog had rolled in. At first, it was light, and we could still see several hundred metres. But then it had thickened, and our visibility was down to a few tens of metres.

“We should have got the radar working”, says the First Mate. “I keep telling you to look at it.”

“We’ll be fine”, I say, trying to sound more confident than I felt. “We can see any big ships in the area on the Automatic Identification System. There’s none around at the moment. It’s the little boats that don’t have AIS that we have to worry about. But I think we should be able to see them if they get too close. I’m staying off the main fairway just to be sure.”

I renew my efforts to peer into the gloom in front of us.

“But what about rocks and islands?”, says the First Mate. “We will have to be careful not to hit any of those.”

“I can see where those are on the chart-plotter”, I say. “So we should be able to miss them too.”

The wonders of modern technology, I think to myself. In the former days of sail, when knowledge of a ship’s position had only been approximate, fog had been a real killer. Now we have instruments that can tell us where we are with pinpoint accuracy, with the ability to see where our own eyes can’t, warning us of any dangers that lie ahead. If you trust them. There is still no place for complacency.

Hour after hour we sail along in our own little fog-world. Sea and sky merge into one, disorienting our senses, reminiscent of the whiteout I had once experienced on the top of Ben Nevis. Up and down and left and right cease to have any meaning.

Eventually we approach Sundsvall. The huge road bridge connecting one side of the inlet to the other looms out of the fog. High above I can hear the noise of the traffic, but can’t see it. I start the engine to motor the last little bit into the marina. Already the fog is clearing, and the sun is trying to peer through. Waiting hands grab our lines and we are secure.

We unload the bikes and cycle into town.

“There’s something about this town I really like”, says the First Mate, licking her ice-cream. “It’s quite different from the other places that we have seen along this coast. More substantial looking.”

We are sitting in the town centre of Sundsvall, one of the main towns of the Virgin Coast of Sweden, enjoying the sun after a visit to the museum.

Like many Swedish towns we had seen already, Sundsvall had originally been built of wood, making use of the plentiful supply of timber in the northern part of Sweden. But over the centuries, it had burnt down four times. Each time it had been rebuilt in wood. Then, in 1888, after it had burnt down yet once again because of a spark from a steamship, the town authorities had decided that enough was enough. This time the town would be rebuilt in stone, not wood. It had been expensive, but worth every kronor to make sure that their town would never go up in flames again.

“It’s just a pity that it was so expensive that only the rich people could afford to live in the town centre”, says the First Mate. “The poorer people who also used to live there were forced to live on the outskirts.”

Later I cycle to a boat accessory shop on the other side of town to buy a heavier stern anchor. The one that we already have from our previous smaller boat is too light to hold the weight of Ruby Tuesday in all but the calmest conditions.

“You’ll need some heavier chain as well”, the man tells me. “This five metre length of 8 mm chain should do the job. You can attach your reel tape to it. Both tape and chain have a breaking strain of 2500 kg. And you will probably need this container to hold the chain in. You can attach it to your stern pulpit. Oh, and these shackles to attach the chain to the anchor and the tape.”

It all costs a small fortune. I start wondering if it is all worth it, but the man assures me that many of the small harbours northwards from here require boats to tie up bows-to to a jetty and use a stern anchor rather than a buoy to keep the boat in line.

“And, of course, if you want to moor your bow to the rocks in the natural harbours, you also need a stern anchor”, he says. “You can’t tie up stern-to like they do in Greece, or else you run the risk of damaging your rudder against the rocks.”

The next problem is getting it all back to the boat. I load the anchor on to the small carrier on the bike, and tie it on with bits of string. The chain, its container and other bits and pieces I had bought all go into my rucksack. It’s all quite heavy and the front of the bike feels quite light. It reminds me of the ‘big shop’ episode in Flensburg two years ago.

I take it slowly, but eventually I make it.

“We didn’t think that you were going to manage all that weight”, say Robert and Helen next to us. “But we saw you peddling furiously with your head down, so we knew you were determined.”

The next morning, we leave for Härnösand, further up the coast. Strong winds are forecast in a couple of days’ time, and we need to make sure we are somewhere safe for them.

“At least there will be something to do in Härnösand”, says the First Mate. “We might get a bit bored stuck for two days in a small harbour somewhere.”

The winds come from the northeast in the early morning. The marina is not particularly well protected from the north, but at least it is better than being out at sea. I need to get up and re-tension the stern line to stop being blown into the boat next to us.

“I think I might go and visit the Bilmuseum”, I say over breakfast. “It’s only 15 minutes’ walk from here, and it is supposed to be the largest car museum in Sweden. Do you want to come?”

“I‘ll give it a miss”, says the First Mate. “It’s not really my scene. I’ll have a browse around Härnösand.”

I cross the bridge and search for the Bilmuseum nestled behind the Lidl store. Outside an American car stands impaled like a cherry on the end of a cocktail stick. It looks like it might be the right place.

I spend the next couple of hours in a petrolhead’s heaven. A fest of cars of every shape and size from all over the world. De Dions, Packards, Buicks, Plymouths and Rolls Royces stand next to each other, painstakingly restored to their original condition. Ferraris, Trabants, Model-T Fords, Renaults, Humbers and Jaguars all jostle for space in the vast halls. Mercedes, Volvos and Saabs vie for attention, as brightly polished as the day they rolled out of the factory.

And then I see her in all her glory. A 1973 MGB Roadster, one of my first cars, in immaculate condition. Except someone had painted her yellow; she was blue when I had her.

I press the accelerator to the floor. The car surges forward with a throaty roar, the wind blowing back the golden tresses of the girl beside me. Trees flash past us; houses come and go. Sheep grazing in the paddocks look at us bemusedly as we speed past. I flick the electric switch into overdrive, and the engine settles into a comfortable burble. The girl grins.

“Let’s go to the Port Hills”, she says. “I’ve never seen the city from up there before.”

“Your wish is my command”, I say.

We reach the base of the road leading to the hills, and I shift down a gear and gun the engine. Tyres slide around the hairpin corners as we climb the narrow road to the summit of the ancient volcano rim, only just avoiding the occasional car coming downhill.

“Please, please! Not so fast!” shouts the girl above the noise of the wind, gripping my knee. But the twinkle in her eyes tells me she is enjoying it.

The rev-counter climbs into the red and I change up again.

We park in the small carpark on the summit, the city sprawling out below us. To our left, the Pacific Ocean stretches to the horizon, its white breakers rolling slowly in to come to a stop on the sandy beaches of the coast. In the distance, the snow-capped mountains of the Southern Alps provide a majestic backdrop, their forest-covered foothills giving way to the shelter belts and ripening crops on the plains.

“If you look carefully, you can see where we live”, I say. “Just north of the Waimakariri River.”

“It’s stunning”, she says. “It’s all so flat where I live.”

I lean over to kiss her …

“Excuse me!”, says a voice with a Scandinavian accent. “Do you mind?”

I snap out of my reverie.

“Sorry”, I say to the Swedish woman standing next to me. “I was just dreaming. It was my first car.”

“We all dream of lost loves”, she laughs knowingly. “It doesn’t do any harm.”

The excitements and disappointments of first love. It hadn’t lasted. I wonder fleetingly where she is and what she looks like now.

The winds abate overnight. We slip the bow lines, and I pull back the boat on the stern line until I can disengage the metal hook from the buoy. We edge our way gently between the row of stern buoys until we are clear, pull out the sails and head northwards toward the High Coast area proper.

“The ‘uplifting landscape’, they call it”, says the First Mate. “It’s beautiful. All those shades of blue and purple of the hills upon hills. It’s quite different from what we have seen before in the archipelago. I can see why the Swedes are proud of this area. It’s a little bit like the west coast of Scotland.”

“We can take the long way around so that we can see the Högaküstenbron”, I say. “The High Coast Bridge. By all accounts it is quite spectacular.”

We round a promontory and the bridge comes into view. Tiny trucks seemingly suspended in space cross slowly from one side to the other. Yachts sailing underneath are dwarfed by it.

“It was completed in 1997”, the First Mate reads out from the guide book. “It is 180 m tall, nearly 1.9 km long, and is the third longest suspension bridge in Scandinavia. It carries European Route E4.”

A cold wind starts to blow.

“Come on”, says the First Mate. “It looks like rain. Let’s get going to Lövvik before it starts.”

Before long, we are in the inlet leading to the tiny harbour of Lövvik. A few boats are already there, one of which is Anna. There doesn’t look like there is a lot of room for us. We approach the small jetty and suddenly see one space left, mooring bows-to with stern anchor. Two young men appear in swimming costumes to give us a hand. One has a beard.

“Do you think it is deep enough?”, I call out to the First Mate on the bow. Our keel is two metres deep, so we need at least that so as not to touch the bottom.

“I’ll dive down and check”, says the Man with the Beard, hearing me.

He dives in, and a few seconds later reappears.

“It’s four metres”, he calls out. “Plenty of water.”

I drop the stern anchor, and let the reel pay out. We manage to tie up with no drama, and thank the diver warmly for his help.

“People are so helpful”, says the First Mate over a cup of coffee. “Imagine diving down to check the depth for us. It has reaffirmed my faith in human nature.”

Later we chat to the two men relaxing after coming out of the small sauna on the dockside. They are from the huge motor boat tied up on the other side of the pontoon to us. Two Samoyed dogs lounge on the foredeck. A young woman tans herself on a sun lounger on the rear deck. We ask them where they are from.

“I am from England. But my father was from Glasgow”, says one of them, noticing our flag.

“And I was educated in England”, says the Man with the Beard, with a slight trace of an ‘east-of-Berlin’ accent. “But I am Russian. After this trip, I am going back to Russia to live.”

The conversation falters.

“With the present situation?”, the First Mate manages to stutter eventually, obviously stuck for words.

“Oh yes”, he responds. “Russia is a great place to live. It’s on the rise. It’s the rest of the world that is going south.”

Neither of us quite knows what to say to this.

“Anyway, we need to get back into the sauna”, the Man with the Beard says. “It was nice talking to you.”

“It’s amazing how quickly one’s view of a person can change just with a few words”, the First Mate whispers to me when they are gone. “He seemed such a nice person. I wonder if he is an oligarch? With a boat like that, and an attitude like that?”

“Yes, it was certainly an interesting viewpoint”, I say, also a bit nonplussed. “We must try and catch him later and find out why he thinks that way.”

Unfortunately, they leave that evening and we don’t get a chance.

“Ah well”, says the First Mate. “It’s probably for the best. It might have ended in an international incident. By the way, I haven’t seen much of Spencer recently. Do you think he is all right?”

“He’s around”, I say. “He’s just been catching up on his reading. He’ll be back soon.”

It is a glorious morning as we motor out of Mariehamn at 0700, heading south to round the peninsula before turning westwards towards Öregrund in Sweden. A faint breeze springs up, enough to justify taking the sails out and cutting the engine, and we sail along at a sedate three knots, enjoying the warmth of the early morning sun on our skins.

As we round the end of the peninsula, the wind picks up. The only problem is that it is coming from the north-west, the same direction as we want to go. It’s not exactly what the forecasts said.

“Unless we want to motor all the way, there is nothing we can do except tack”, I say.

We trim the sails and sail close-hauled in a series of two to three mile-long tacks. We make progress towards our destination, but it is slow. By the late afternoon, we are only as far as a small group of islands to the northwest of Åland, and we are getting tired.

“I think that it is a bit ambitious to try and get to Öregrund in Sweden now”, I say. “The wind has veered round to the north, so we would probably be able to do it, but we wouldn’t get there until around eleven o’clock tonight. Why don’t we stay here in these islands for the night and carry on in the morning? The harbour guide says there’s a good anchorage on Enskär island.”

“Sounds like a good idea”, says the First Mate.

We find a place to anchor in a small bay on the south side of Enskär. It is peaceful and quiet, with good holding in mud, and relatively well protected from the northerly wind. Two swans swim off in consternation as we reverse to set the anchor.

At the end of the promontory of the bay stands a lonely house.

“I wonder who on earth lives there?”, asks the First Mate, as we sip our wine in the cockpit. “It’s pretty remote. I can imagine that it would be the ideal place for a murder.”

“Or a hideout for drug smugglers”, I joke.

“Or Russian spies”, she says.

“It’s the house at the end of the Universe”, I say.

In the morning, the wind is still from the north. After a leisurely breakfast, we unfurl the sails and set off on a nice beam reach. Ruby Tuesday settles into a groove and speeds along comfortably at seven knots, covering mile after mile effortlessly.

“I like this sort of sailing”, says the First Mate. “Not too much heeling.”

“Yes, quite a difference from yesterday”, I say.

We reach Öregrund in the mid-afternoon, and tie up in the small guest harbour.

Öregrund has only 1500 inhabitants, but it is still designated a city. In 1500, after Denmark conquered Stockholm, the Swedish under Gustav Ericsson tried to mount resistance from Öregrund. The Danes weren’t well pleased with this, so they stormed it and burnt it to the ground. When Ericsson eventually beat the Danes and became King Gustav Vasa I, he granted permission for a new city to be built there. For a while it was the main harbour from which pig iron was exported to all over the world, but it then fell back to relying on fishing. In the nineteenth century, it attracted the attention of the rich and famous, who built beautiful houses for their summer residences. Nowadays it is a busy summer resort.

“It’s the only place in Sweden that you can sit and watch the sun set over the sea”, the woman in the tourist information office tells us.

“I am sure she is right, but I would have thought that there would be plenty of places on the west coast of Sweden that you could do that too”, says the First Mate later.

The two most notable features of the city are the medieval church and the clock tower.

“Let’s go and see that lightship over where the ferry comes in”, says the First Mate. “Look, you can see its masts over there.”

It turns out that the lightship is just the topsides set in a concrete base overlooking the ferry harbour. It is used as a venue for visiting music bands.

We find ourselves in the old quarter of town. The aroma of fresh roses fills the air, and quaint little cottages proudly boast a riot of colour. From an upstairs window the strains of ‘The House of the Rising Sun’ filter out. Life is good for the Öregrunders.

In the evening, we decide to motor across to a little inlet opposite Öregrund.

“It’ll save one night’s harbour fees”, says the First Mate. “And it will make it easier to get started in the morning. All we will have to do is pull the anchor up without all the faff of worrying about slip ropes and stern lines.”

When we get there, there is one other boat anchored, a German-flagged boat called Anna.

“They probably have the same idea”, says the First Mate. “You know how we Germans like to save a few pfennigs when we can.”

“Cents”, I say. “Nowadays you like to save a few cents when you can, not pfennigs.”

“Whatever”, she says.

We weigh anchor the next morning and set off northwards for Gävle. We are now entering the Jungfrukusten, or the Virgin Coast, stretching 200 km from Öregrund to the Höga Kusten, and so named because of its unspoilt nature. According to the travel guide, there are more than 4,500 islands, lots of of beautiful sandy beaches; and picturesque fishing hamlets.

“It all sounds very idyllic”, says the First Mate. “I’m looking forward to exploring it. By the way, did you know you are supposed to pronounce it ‘Yevleh’ in Swedish, not ‘Gavle’ like we do in English.”

“Yes, I read that too”, I say.

We reach a small island called Björn with its prominent lighthouse, where there are supposed to be two Swedish Cruising Club (SXK) buoys which we are entitled to use.

“Let’s break the journey here”, I say. “We can chill out and keep going in the morning. The wind is supposed to be more from the south tomorrow, so it’ll be better for us.”

We follow a narrow buoyed channel between submerged rocks and find the two SXK buoys. It’s idyllic – the water is calm, birdlife abounds, and the haze over the land to the west hints at mystery and intrigue.

“There’s another boat coming behind us”, says the First Mate, as we tie up to one of the buoys. “It looks like it has the same idea. I was kind of hoping we would be the only ones.”

I check the AIS. It is Anna, the same boat that was anchored next to us opposite Öregrund. They tie up to the other buoy. It’s too far away to talk to them.

“It’s the Germans we were next to last night”, I say. “They must have been following us all of the way.”

We spend the evening watching the birdlife through the binoculars. Gradually the haze makes the sea and sky appear to merge into one, giving the impression that we are floating in space.

“Surreal”, says the First Mate. “We are so lucky to see it.”

The next morning, we continue towards Gävle. We tie up at the Huseliiharen marina just outside the city. The next day we take the No. 95 bus into the centre.

“It’s a pity we’ll miss the Gävle Goat”, I say, on the way in. “Apparently, every year at Christmas time, they construct a goat out of straw in front of the castle near the city centre. It’s supposed to be a Yule goat from German pagan times. In recent years it has become a bit of a thing for it to be burnt down, even though it is illegal to do so. People have been fined for vandalism and even sent to prison for it. But it still carries on getting burnt down.”

“You would think that in this day and age that they could protect with cameras and guards and the like”, says the First Mate.

“They do all that”, I say. “They even tried coating the straw in flame-retardant material one year. But people still find ways of setting it alight. And there’s more. There are actually two goats – one is built by local businessmen and the other by the local school. They compete to see who can build the largest goat for the Guinness Book of Records. There has even been quite a bit of bad feeling with accusations from both sides of cheating.”

“Clearly more goes on in Gävle than you might expect from its docile appearance”, says the First Mate, as we step off the bus in the city centre. “Look, there’s a goat sculpture. Get a picture of it for the blog.”

We continue our voyage north. Half-an-hour out of Gävle, we see a familiar name on the AIS. It’s Anna. We had last seen them as we were entering Gävle, but they hadn’t come to our marina and we had almost forgotten about them.

“They must have gone to the marina in the city centre”, I say. “S’funny, I thought that it was silted up and too shallow for our boats.”

“They’re like our shadow”, says the First Mate. “I wonder if we will ever get to meet them?”

We reach the small island of Storjungfrun, after which the Virgin Coast is named, and use the two leading marks to enter the tiny harbour dominated by the lighthouse towering above it. One other boat is already there. The sole occupant gives us a hand to tie up.

“I’ve come from Sundsvall up north”, he says. “and heading south to Stockholm. I thought I would break my journey here. Welcome to Storjungfrun.”

Three other boats arrive shortly after us. One of them is Anna.

“It’s nice to meet at last”, says the blond-haired skipper. “We have been following you for the last few days. It looks as if we are heading in the same direction. We are aiming to get to Umeå, but we have to be back in Stockholm at the end of August. My name is Holger, and this is my wife Annette.”

After exchanging pleasantries, we climb up to the lighthouse and explore the few red-painted houses clustered around it. At one end of the village is a small church built by the Gävle fishermen who used to use the island as a summer base.

“Ah, I read about the Gävle fishermen in the travel guide”, I say. “Apparently in 1577, King Gustav Vasa gave the fishermen from Gävle exclusive rights to fish for Baltic herring up and down this coast in return for giving every tenth barrel to him. It was the Gävle fishermen who established these pretty little fishing villages wth small churches to worship in, like this one. The local people were prohibited by law from fishing where they had done so for generations.”

“It seems a bit unfair”, says the First Mate.

“They did relax the rules a bit later”, I say. “But, yes, it caused a lot of resentment.”

We walk back to the boat.

“What do you think the weather will do tomorrow?”, asks the First Mate over dinner in the evening. “My app says that the winds will be quite strong from the west.”

I look abstractly past her at the scene unfolding on the other side of the harbour. A naked man has emerged from the small hut billowing smoke from its chimney. He is followed by two naked women. All three walk starkers to the end of the jetty, and dive into the water.

“Well?”, says the First Mate. “Do you think the winds will be too strong for us?”

“Hmmmm, yes”, I say. “I mean no. Possibly.”

All three people are now climbing up a ladder to the jetty. They dry themselves in the last rays of the evening sun.

“Where’s your mind tonight?”, the First Mate asks. “You seem to be on a completely different planet.”

She follows my gaze.

“Oh, those ones”, she says dismissively. “They are just having a sauna. I saw it earlier when we went for our walk. You have to light the fire yourself, and wait for a bit before the stones heat up. It’s included in the price for the mooring.”

“But they are completely naked, and it’s mixed”, I say. “And in public too! I didn’t know that was allowed.”

“Well, obviously it is”, she responds. “I read that in the big towns it is usually separate saunas for males and females, but here in these remote islands there is usually only one sauna and you can more-or-less do what you want. As long as it doesn’t offend anyone.”

“Well, I am not sure I can finish my dinner after that”, I say. “Especially the sausage.”

“We don’t have any sausage tonight”, says the First Mate, looking perplexed.

“So we don’t”, I say, distractedly. “I wonder why I said that?”

We spend the next few days working our way northwards along the Virgin Coast, stopping off to anchor in secluded bays, and tying up in small, picturesque fishing villages and remote disused harbours.

We seem to have synchronised our passages with Holger and Annette of Anna.

“Why don’t we have a barbecue tonight?”, says Holger one night. “I have a grill and charcoal we can use, so just bring along some meat to cook on it and some drinks.”

We are in the small harbour of Galtström, having edged our way timidly through the narrow entrance and tied up alongside to the wharf earlier in the afternoon.

“We’ve got some bratwurst”, says the First Mate to me. “And I can make a salad. You get some beers out of the fridge.”

“You should visit the iron-smelting village”, says Holgar, as he lifts the smoking cheese from the grill. “It’s just a short walk along that road over there. They used to bring the pig-iron down here to the harbour to the waiting ships.”

“Oh, no!”, shouts the First Mate to me. “You’ve burnt the bratwurst! Can’t you concentrate instead of nattering?”

“They’re not burnt”, I protest lamely. “They are just a bit black.”

In the morning, we walk along the small road from the harbour to the village. It looks deserted, but the café is open.

“This used to be a major source of iron in Sweden”, the girl tells us. “It helped to provide the wealth to make it a European Great Power in the 17^th century. You can just walk around and explore. There are signs in English to explain each bit. Here’s a map.”

We find ourselves in front of the massive iron smelter. Charcoal made from the local forests was used to smelt the iron ore brought from mines in central Sweden.

“The ore was first ‘dressed’ by heating it up to drive off the water and other impurities”, we read. “Then it was crushed into smaller pieces ready to be smelted. For that the furnace stack was packed with alternating layers of coal and iron ore. Quartz or limestone were also added to bind the impurities together. The temperature at the bottom of the furnace would reach 1300 °C, and the molten iron would begin to flow out of a tap at the bottom of the stack, while the slag would flow out further up. The iron would cool and harden into ingots, or ‘pigs’.”

“Look, here’s the little railway that would have taken the ‘pigs’ down to the ships in the harbour”, says the First Mate.

“It must have been quite a hive of activity in its heyday”, I say. “Come on, let’s treat ourselves to lunch at the restaurant. I am sure they won’t burn it!”