What on earth is that noise?”, says the First Mate.

I look at the clock. It’s 0800.

“I think that they have started on the bow”, I say. “I’ll go and have a look.”

We are back at Svinninge Marina where we are booked in for the repairs to the bow. Hans & Gisela have left to continue their journey home to Denmark.

I fall out of bed, rub the sleep from my eyes, pull my clothes on, and peer around the splash hood. A cheery face with a great bushy beard looks back at me from the bow.

“Hi”, the Beard says. “Sorry if I woke you up. I have just started to sand your bow back. But I am struggling to get a good angle on it. I think that we’ll have to lift her out so that I can get to it underneath. It’s just too awkward here. I’m worried that I might fall into the water.”

Images of a bedraggled, seaweed-entwined beard floating in the water appear briefly in my mind’s eye, but I quickly dismiss them.

“OK”, I say. “But is there enough time for us to have breakfast first?”

“Of course there is”, says the Beard. “I still have to go and book the crane.”

Later in the morning, Ruby Tuesday is lifted out and deposited on to a cradle. We find a ladder to get on and off her while she is there. We are just having lunch when there is a knock on the hull.

“I think that you had better come and have a look at this”, says Nicolas. Nicolas is the Beard’s boss.

It sounds a bit ominous. I clamber down.

“Did you hit a rock at some point?”, he asks.

We had glanced off an uncharted rock previously, but there hadn’t been any leaks and I had dived under to check the keel and found nothing, so we had assumed that there had been no damage.

“You can see that small gap between the hull and the front of the keel”, says Nicolas. “ And there is a depression in the hull at the back of the keel. That’s a sure sign of an impact with a rock. It doesn’t look as bad as some that I have seen, but you really need to get it fixed. The boat is still able to be sailed OK, but if you were ever to hit another rock you never know what might happen.”

The First Mate and I have a confab.

“There’s no question that we have to have it fixed”, I say. “I’ll ask them if they could do it over the winter.”

“Yes, of course”, says Nicolas in response. “But you will have to join the queue. We have several others lined up for similar repairs. Most people hit rocks at some stage or another. In fact, we have a saying that there are three types of sailor in Sweden, those that have hit a rock, those that are just about to hit a rock, and those that have hit a rock but don’t own up to it. It’s just one of risks of sailing in Sweden. But the good thing is that after we have repaired her, you’ll have a much stronger boat even than when she came out of the factory.”

We decide to leave her with them over the winter. It isn’t the marina we had planned to stay at, but that is of little consequence. Having her repaired before sailing her again is of prime importance. In any case, we find out later from several people that the company has the reputation of being the best in the Baltic for such repairs. People bring their boats from all over to have them seen to. That is some reassurance.

We take the bus and train down to the other marina where we have left the car, then spend the next few days preparing Ruby Tuesday for winter. All the normal jobs of taking down and stowing the sails, the cockpit tent and the splash-hood, and servicing the engine, are eventually completed. The First Mate starts cleaning and packing things inside.

“You’ll also need to cover her against snow”, Magnus advises us. “It needs to be quite steep so that it slides off. You can build a frame to support it out of this old wood here. Use what you like. When you are ready to put the ridge pole on, I’ll get some of the lads to lift it up. It’s too heavy for one person to do.”

Magnus is one of the employees of the repair company. It would be difficult to find someone more friendly and helpful.

I spend the next two days building the frame. Three A’s are soon constructed with their feet fastened securely to the side cleats. Magnus and his lads bring over the ridge pole and soon that too is fastened securely on top of the A’s. For good measure, I use screws and bolts to make sure that it is solid.

Then the covers from last year go on and are tied underneath the hull.

“That looks pretty good”, says Magnus. “I am glad that you didn’t tie the covers to the cradles anywhere. Some people do that, but occasionally the wind can be so strong it catches the cover like a sail and pulls the cradle away, and the boat falls over. You don’t want that to happen.”

“We still need to get the gas cylinders filled”, says the First Mate. “Let’s drive over this afternoon and do that.”

Filling gas bottles is a perennial problem. Despite being standardised in most other things, the one thing the EU has not yet managed to do is to standardise fittings on top of gas cylinders. Each country has its own system and many outlets will only fill bottles from their own country. We have cylinders we bought in Germany, but luckily have found an outlet that will fill those. The only thing is that it is on the other side of Stockholm.

“Sure, no problem”, says the man when we get there. “We can fill them. Bring them over to this shed.”

It’s time to leave. In the morning, I go for one last walk along the shore near the marina. The sun glows like a fireball, and the early-morning mist rises off the water’s surface. Islands hunker to either side, hiding their secrets. The masts in the marina sway gently from side to side, silhouetted against the scudding clouds of the sky beyond.

This is the Baltic, I think – sun, water, trees, islands and boats. I start to reminisce back over our voyage. Sailing to Åland, meeting our son, the rally and getting to know a new set of friends, the journey up to the Högekusten, the High Coast, and the many picturesque little harbours we stopped at on the way, the Högekusten itself with its impassive Skuleberget which we had climbed up, the long haul from Umeå to Luleå, the Sámi Museum in Jokkmokk, the beautiful Luleå archipelago, eventually reaching the famous buoy in Törehamn, the furthest north point in the Baltic that one can sail to.

The train trip to Rovaniemi to the Arctic Museum, then the beginning of the long trip back down the Finnish coast, often into the wind requiring us to take long tacks to get anywhere, but more than made up for by the quaint wooden towns that we had stopped at on the way, culminating in the UNESCO World Heritage site of Rauma.

And everywhere the traces of the empires and the rivalries of the great players in the Baltic – Sweden, Russia, Denmark, even Britain and France at one stage – that had come and gone over the centuries, some rivalries of which are still here in the present day. It had been a journey of discovery for us, learning of a part of the world that we had known little of before, and understanding a little more of why the current world is as it is.

Suddenly I feel a pang of sadness that we are leaving. As we followed the ancient seaways taken by the Vikings, the Swedes, the Danes, the Finns and the Russians, a closeness to the Baltic seems to be developing within us, one that can probably come only from discovering it by sail, the means of transport here for millennia. It feels familiar; almost, but not quite, like home.

A pair of swans fly overhead, the sound of their creaking wings waking me from my reverie. I tear myself away, and go and pack the last few things into the car. We finish our breakfast, say goodbye to Ruby Tuesday and Spencer, and start the long journey back to our other home.

But we will be back.

“I’ll just take the rubbish over to the bins”, I say. “Hans & Gisela are not due for another 15 minutes, so I should be back before they arrive.”

We are at Svinninge Marina, just north of Stockholm. We are waiting for our German friends, Hans & Gisela, who are joining us for a few days’ sailing. They have been holidaying in the north of Sweden and are now making their way back to Denmark where they live.

“Have they arrived yet?”, I call out to the First Mate when I return. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they are a bit late. They had quite a long way to come.”

A head appears over the splash hood. It’s not the First Mate.

“Yes, we have arrived”, says Gisela, laughing. “And we weren’t late. If anything we are a bit early!”

It’s nice to see them again. We unload their luggage and give them a quick tour of the boat. The operation of the toilet always seems to be a thing of either concern or fascination for visitors, often both.

“I might get used to it by the end of the trip”, says Hans.

The sunny weather is too good to waste, so we decide to have lunch and set off straight away. Unfortunately, there is almost no wind and we need to motor.

On the way out, we pass an island full of dead and dying trees.

“You see quite a lot of islands like that”, says the First Mate. “We haven’t worked out yet why all the trees die.”

“It’s because of the cormorants nesting there”, says Gisela. “It’s the same in Denmark. Unfortunately their poop is very acidic and over a period of time it kills the tree they are in. If there are enough cormorants all the trees will eventually die. Then they move on and find another island. “

“So humans are not the only species that destroy their own environment with all the pollution they produce?”, I say.

“The only difference is that the cormorants have lots of islands to go to, but we only have one planet”, says Hans. “Once we have killed everything on it, we won’t have anywhere to go. Unless we have developed cheap space travel by then, I suppose.”

“Much better to look after the planet we have than go and look for others to destroy”, says the First Mate.

The wind picks up to a respectable 15 knots, and we sail along speedily on a beam reach. We follow the main fairway south until we branch off to the east to wend our way between a number of small archipelago islands.

We arrive at Grinda, a popular destination in the main season. Today there are only two other sailboats and a handful of small motorboats. We tie up on the outside of the pontoon. As we do, a police boat appears and moors in front of us.

“Are you on the run?”, I ask Hans.

“I thought that they had got wind of all those cans of beer under your floorboards”, he replies.

“They often come here to have their lunch and to fill their boat up with fuel”, the harbourmaster tells us later. “So no need to worry!”

In the evening, we walk up to the Grinda Wärdshus hotel for dinner. It is not too busy, and we find a table on the terrace outside. It turns out to be a good choice, as a half an hour later the sun begins to set. We sit spellbound as we watch the succession of yellows, oranges and reds give way to purples and darkening shades of blue. Then the sun is gone.

“It’s stunning”, says Gisela. “The way the sun lights up the sea and silhouettes all the islands. I can see what you mean when you say that the Archipelago is so beautiful.”

The conversation turns to politics in Germany.

“What is worrying is the rise in popularity of the Alternative für Deutschland party”, says Hans. “The AfD. A few years ago we would have been horrified to hear that a far-right party had won a local council election, given our history. But that’s what happened in June in Thuringia. They now have an AfD mayor in one of the towns.”

“It seems to be particularly in the former GDR”, says Gisela. “They feel disadvantaged there after reunification compared to the former West Germany. They are also used to strong authoritarian leaders there rather than democratically elected ones.”

“AfD are also playing on reactions to Germany’s Kollektivschuld, or collective guilt”, says Hans. “For things that happened in WW2. We had it rammed into us at school about the atrocities that were committed by Germany and how it must never happen again. But people are now starting to say that that was something that their parents or grandparents did, and why should they feel any guilt for it?”

“There does seem to be a rise in the far-right throughout Europe”, I say. “Not just Germany. Last year the Sweden Democrats with neo-Nazi origins joined the coalition government here in Sweden, something similar happened in Finland, then there is Austria, Italy and Hungary. The ruling party is Poland is pretty right wing, not to mention the Tories in the UK.”

“The Tories are predicted to lose the next elections in the UK”, chips in the First Mate. “So that might be a swing in the other direction.”

It starts raining heavily in the early morning. I lie for a few minutes listening to the noise of the raindrops on the hatchway overhead. It sounds like it is more than a shower and is setting in. I snuggle back under the duvet and drift off to sleep again.

In the afternoon, the rain stops and the sun comes out. We cast off and sail eastwards to the island of Svartsö, the Black Island. The small harbour is almost empty, so we moor alongside to one of the pontoons. Just after we are settled and drinking our tea, another sailboat arrives. It ties up to the neighbouring pontoon. After a few minutes, the skipper knocks on our window.

“Could I ask you to move a bit further forward?”, he asks, in the tone of someone who is used to getting his way. “It’s a bit too exposed on the next pontoon. We’d like to go where you are.”

“Sure”, says the First Mate. “Do you mind if we just finish our tea first? Then we are happy to move.”

“I would rather you moved it now”, he says, an edge to his voice. “We have a party to go to on the other side of the island, and we are late already.”

We reluctantly leave our cups of tea to untie our ropes and pull Ruby Tuesday forwards.

“I don’t mind moving”, says the First Mate later. “But it was his attitude that annoyed me. He could have just waited until we had finished our tea. Now it’s all cold. What was wrong with the place that he was at, anyway? It’s no more or less exposed to the wind than where we are.”

“My guess is that he is a lawyer”, I say. “He had that look about him, and they are used to getting what they want.”

“I was thinking that he is a hospital administrator”, says Hans. “They can be pretty bossy too.”

We finish our lukewarm teas and decide to explore the island. Near the harbour is a small grocery store, with a map of the island attached to its wall.

“These two lakes in the middle look interesting”, says Gisela. “Let’s walk up to there. By the time we get back it’ll be time to start dinner.”

We follow the road through the woods, passing by some farmland. Cows graze in the fields. We take a small path to the left of the main track and find ourselves at the edge of a lake.

“Look, you can get a good view of it from this rock”, shouts Gisela.

There’s a splash. She has fallen in. She struggles to regain her footing, but falls in again, this time up to her neck. We rush over to help her out.

“Don’t come onto the rock”, she shouts. “It’s really slippery.”

She manages to climb out, but she is soaked. We head back to the boat. The First Mate has some warm clothes she changes into while we try to dry the others.

“Well, that’s a lesson to check rocks first and make sure they are not too slippery”, says Gisela. “I feel so silly.”

Luckily her clothes are dry by the morning. Over breakfast, we decide to go for a walk through the forest on the north side of the island.

“We might find some mushrooms”, says Hans. “One of our hobbies is mushroom collecting. Forests are good places for them.”

Sure enough, there are mushrooms in abundance.

“Look, these are chanterelles”, says Hans. “You can tell them by their shape and colour. They are edible and actually quite tasty. They grow throughout Europe and Asia in woods like this, so we should see quite a few more.”

Sure enough there are lots by the side of the track, and before long we have a bag full. Even I am learning to recognise them.

“Here’s a fly agaric”, calls Gisela. “Amanita muscaria. The typical mushroom associated with pixies and fairies. They are poisonous, but you can eat them – very few people die from them. Normally they make you feel a bit nauseous, but in severe cases you can become delirious. But most people recover in 24 hours or so, perhaps with a nasty headache. A lot of cultures eat them for their hallucinogenic properties. The shamans in Siberia, for example, used them to enter into a trance.”

“The Vikings were also supposed to eat them before they went into battle”, says Hans. “It made them into berserkers, crazed with extra strength and rage, and oblivious to danger. So much so they often fought without armour. Although a recent theory suggests that it was more likely to be henbane that caused this state.”

Nevertheless, I decide to give fly agaric a miss. I am not really in the mood to do battle at the moment.

“The other ones to watch out for are Death Cap, or Amanita phalloides”, says Hans. “Same genus, different species. I haven’t seen any here yet. But they are supposed to be the most toxic mushroom in existance. Just half of one is enough to kill you.”

“You are starting to put me off mushrooms”, I say.

We leave the forest, and come to small settlement. Near the centre is a restaurant. A tractor is parked near the bar. A motorbike is parked on top of it. Goats roam between the outside tables. It’s all very rustic.

“It’s called Bistro Sågen”, says Gisela. “It means Saw Bistro. It seems as though it was an old sawmill.”

We decide to have some lunch there. The goats eye us up.

At the table next to us are some leather-clad bikers engaged in an intense discussion on some arcane parts of their bikes. At least that is what I assume it to be.

“They must have bought their bikes over on the ferry”, says the First Mate. “I hope they don’t disturb our lunch with their loud talk.”

We scan the menu. I breathe a sigh of relief; there are no mushroom dishes.

“I can recommend the Toast Skågen”, says the waiter. “It’s a very Swedish with hand-shelled prawns mixed with mayonnaise, some sour cream, grated horseradish and a dash of tabasco, topped with caviar, a sprig of dill and a lemon, all served on a large square of sourdough toast. It was created just after the WW2 by a Tore Wretman who owned a restaurant in Gothenburg overlooking the Öresund, and named his creation after the village in Denmark on the opposite side. Now it’s popular all over Sweden. It’s very tasty.”

The goats look at us wistfully, nodding in agreement.

Four plates of Toast Skågen arrive. One of the bikers gives us a thumbs up sign.

“Toast Skågen”, he says. And hearing us speaking in English and German, “Gut, sehr gut. Sehr lecker! Very tasty!”

And it is sehr lecker. So much so, I feel I could almost eat another one. The goats look on expectantly.

On the way back, we see what looks like a snake on the road.

“Ah, that’s a slow worm”, says Gisela. “It’s actually a legless lizard, but a lot of people think they are snakes. They certainly look like them.”

We set off in the morning to sail back in the general direction of Svinninge, but take the long way round to see more of the Archipelago. Eventually we join the main shipping fairway back to Stockholm. Unfortunately the wind is more or less on our nose and we need to make a series of tacks.

“Can I have a go?”, asks Gisela. “I’d like to feel how a large boat handles.”

She is a keen sailor herself and has a small sailboat back home in Denmark. She takes the helm.

“Wow, it feels so much less responsive than our boat”, she says after a few minutes. “More stable in a way. Ours is all over the place with the slightest twitch of the tiller or breath of wind.”

We tack our way up the fairway and eventually arrive back at Storön, our favourite anchorage.

“That was fun”, says Gisela. “I enjoyed that!”

“I wonder if the mystery boat that we saw last week will still be here?”, says the First Mate.

It is. In the same place as we had left it about a week ago. It looks to have been untouched since then. Still no-one appears to be on it. No-one alive, at least.

“We think that someone might have been murdered and has been left inside it”, we explain to Hans and Gisela as we bring out the beers. “It’s odd to leave a boat unattended tied up to rocks with only a stern anchor. Especially for more than a week. There’s a risk that the bow might be smashed against the rocks if a storm came.”

“Hmmm, very mysterious”, says Hans, warming to the theme. “Perhaps it belongs to a secret service agent who was on to corruption in the Swedish government and who had to be silenced to protect the guilty parties?”

“Or a sailor who overheard some suspicious foreigners planning to lay charges to destroy a gas pipeline under the Baltic?”, I say. “Perhaps he was just about to alert the authorities in Stockholm when the plotters realised they were being overheard and had to do something.”

“Or someone who has just left their boat here during the week while they are at work?”, says the First Mate. “They are probably coming back for it at the weekend.”

“But how would they get there and back?”, says Gisela. “It’s a long way to row in a small dinghy.”

“And there are no paths away from this bay that they could walk on”, I say. “The boat has been there for more than a week now. I think that there is definitely something suspicious going on. I wonder if we will ever find out?”

“Unlikely”, says the First Mate. “We won’t be back here again until next year. It’ll either have sunk or been moved by then. Come on. Let’s have dinner. It’s spaghetti bolognese tonight.”

“I’ll just go up to the hotel and pay the harbour fees” says the First Mate. ”Don’t forget to change the courtesy flag in the meantime. We’re back in Åland again. And you can put on the kettle. Gavin & Catherine are coming over for a cup of tea.”

We are tied up to the pontoon in the small harbour of Gullsviggan, having just arrived from Enskär in Finland. Our plan now is to head back to Stockholm, on the way exploring the northern parts of the Åland archipelago that we hadn’t had time to see when we were here in June on the Cruising Association rally.

I find the Åland flag in the locker downstairs and hoist it up to the starboard spreader. It adds a touch of colour to Ruby Tuesday.

I put the kettle on. Across the bay, not very far from the harbour, work is under way to build or renovate a bridge. A pneumatic drill on the end of a digger is breaking up the old road with loud staccato blows. Gavin & Catherine arrive, but we can hardly hear ourselves talk.

“I hope – bang-bang-bang-bang – all night”, says Catherine. “We’ll nev – bang-bang-bang-bang – sleep.”

“Pardon?”, I say. “What did you say?”

“Perhaps they knock – bang-bang-bang-bang – five”, says Gavin.

The pneumatic drill doesn’t knock off at five. Or six o’clock either. Only at seven does the noise stop. Peace descends.

“You don’t really appreciate silence until you don’t have it”, I say, trying to sound profound.

“I hope they don’t start too early in the morning”, says the First Mate.

‘Bang-bang-bang-bang!’, goes the drill at 0700.

“Couldn’t they have just waited until after breakfast, at least”, I say.

“Pardon?”, says the First Mate. “What did you say?”

We set off, heading southwards along the main fairway southwards through the Ålands.

“Look, there’s a huge cloud up ahead”, says the First Mate. “It looks like rain.”

“A real anvil-shaped thundercloud”, I say.

Sure enough, we see a squall approaching, and before long the rain is tipping down. Luckily the rain is almost vertical and I manage to keep dry under the bimini. There are dull rumbles of thunder overhead, the wind buffets us, and it is difficult to see our way to each marker buoy. I fight the wheel to keep on the same course, and hope that we don’t miss one and go aground on some hidden shoal. Then just as suddenly, it is all over. The clouds part, and the sun shines through again, bringing with it a warmth that makes the sudden squall a distant memory.

We arrive in a small bay to the south of the island of Barö, and drop anchor. To the east, we can still see the thunderclouds, but they are now past us and heading away. The wind has died down and peace descends.

“It’s amazing how quickly these squalls come and go”, says the First Mate over a cup of tea. “You would hardly believe that it was pelting down and the wind so wild just a short time ago.”

We cook dinner and sit in the cockpit watching dusk descend. A flock of geese fly overhead, their wing-strokes beating a steady rhythm. Over by the rocks on the shore, a pair of swans gracefully search for food. A fish breaks the surface of the water, making ripples that spread out in ever widening circles.

I pick up the book I am reading at the moment, The Soul of the Marionette: A Short Enquiry into Human Freedom, by John Gray. It’s a chaotic mish-mash of ideas drawn from several sources that in my mind don’t quite hang together in every case. His writing is not for everybody, and I am not sure I agree with it all either, but nevertheless it makes for some thought-provoking reading.

He makes the point that true freedom is not actually ‘freedom of choice’ but ‘freedom from choice’, in the same way that a marionette is free from having to make decisions about what it does because it is not self-aware. However, the human race has decided for itself on a different pathway to achieve this freedom of the spirit – by accumulating knowledge that allows us to manipulate the forces of nature. The endpoint of this, according to Gray, will be the ‘final chapter in the history of the world’.

At the moment, however, although we have made impressive technological advances, we are so far from understanding how we ourselves work and why we behave in different ways that this endpoint remains an almost unattainable aspiration. Instead, we content ourselves with illusions and cosy myths about who we are and the way the world operates. We are even prepared to die for the sake of these myths to give our lives meaning – religion, but also dreams of a new humanity with its concepts of communism, fascism, capitalism, democracy, and human rights. This is why conspiracy theories are so popular – they provide our lives with meaning that we are part of someone else’s plans.

But there are also risks with this progression towards an eventual state of perfection. Our knowledge allows us to create artificially intelligent machines, for example, which are making more and more of the decisions that used to be made by humans. While this frees us from the need to make choices, the risk is that these machines might eventually decide that humans are obsolete and that they should be destroyed.

It’s bleak stuff, and leaves me slightly depressed. I had read a previous book of his, Straw Dogs, in which he asserts that while humans have made considerable technological progress, we just go round and round in circles in terms of social organisation and governance. At first I had disagreed with this, but with the recent rise in autocracy and the far-right, I am starting to wonder if he might have a point.

It’s late and my brain is turning to mush. The First Mate has gone to bed. I switch off the lights and snuggle under the duvet to dream uneasily of the future.

We weigh anchor in the morning, and continue our journey eastwards. There’s almost no wind, and we have to motor for much of the way. It is warm and humid, and we pass through a swarm of small flies that cover the boat everywhere we look. They don’t seem to bite, but they are itchy and annoying when they land on our skin.

“It’s amazing how far out they come”, says the First Mate. “We can hardly see land, but they must have flown all this way.”

“They certainly weren’t carried out by the wind”, I say. “There isn’t any.”

But an hour or so later, a breeze springs up, and we manage to have a nice sail. The flies disappear.

“It seems as if they don’t like the wind much”, says the First Mate. “But I wonder where they have gone?”

We decide to anchor in a sheltered bay on the island of Boxö, near a small islet at its southern end. The chart shows underwater cables running from one side to the other, so we need to take care not to anchor anywhere near them. We drop the anchor near the top of the bay, but by the time it digs in, we are too close to the small island.

“I think we need to reset it”, I call out to the First Mate at the bow. “It’s difficult to get it right – either we are too close to the cables, or we are too close to the island. Further out in the bay, it is too deep to anchor.”

We eventually manage to find a place, and settle down for the evening.

In the morning, we push on to Havsvidden, a small harbour in the north of Fasta Åland. The entrance is full of rocks, but there is a tight way in not much more than a couple of boat widths wide, and we need to thread ourselves past a nasty looking rock to starboard, and keep close to the rocky shoreline on the post side. It’s not an entrance for faint hearts. According to the harbour guide, there are supposed to be two markers to provide a leading line, but try as we might, we can only see one. There is nothing else to line it ap against.

But somehow we make it and find a tiny harbour able to accommodate around five boats. Saluté is already there, having entered first to test the depth. Another boat follows us in.

“We are from Turku”, one of her crew tells us as we tie up next to each other. “We were planning to get back today, but the weather forecast isn’t good, so we thought that we would put in here for the day and continue tomorrow instead. The sauna is supposed to be very good here.”

We go up to the hotel reception to pay.

“We are closing tomorrow”, says the girl at the front desk. “After that the hotel will be only open at the weekends until the end of September, then we close completely for the winter. But you are welcome to stay in the harbour. It is just that there won’t be any facilities available.”

“Another example of the weird holiday system they have here”, says the First Mate afterwards. “Look, there are still plenty of people at the hotel, and the weather is beautiful. Why on earth don’t they stay open?”

We decide to have dinner at the hotel in the evening. It’s a kind of farewell meal as Gavin & Catherine are leaving the next day to sail to Mariehamn to pick up a friend who is joining then for a week. We have decided to stay another day as the winds promise to be better on the following day, then head for Stockholm where we will meet our own friends, Hans & Gisela.

We choose a table in the enclosed balcony overlooking the sea. At the table next to us are two girls talking animatedly to each other. We try and work out what language they are speaking.

“I saw them earlier”, says Gavin. “I am pretty sure they are Russian. Not Finnish, at least.”

“I’m not sure”, says the First Mate. “It sounds more like one of the Baltic States languages. Perhaps Estonian.”

Before we can ask them, they finish their meal and get up and leave.

“I suppose a lot of the guests here are foreign”, I say. “But some of them must be Finnish. Do you think that you can tell who is Finnish or not just by looking at them? Is there a Finnish type?”

“Typical Finns have supposed to have blonde hair, blue almond-shaped eyes, round faces, and small round noses“, says Gavin.

I look around. Hardly anyone fits all those criteria. Most wouldn’t be out of place anywhere in Europe or Britain. Even in the Finnish towns we had visited earlier, I am not sure that I have seen many people that fit that type.

“I guess that, like anywhere, there has been a lot of mobility in recent years”, I say. “And people from all over have come to Finland to live.”

“If you are looking for other national characteristics, they also pride themselves on not mincing their words and being reserved, modest, humble, polite, and resilient”, continues Gavin.

“The Finns tell a joke that they are so reserved that when the distance rules were lifted after covid, they were really relieved to get back to normal as two metres was much too close to be next to another person”, says Catherine.

Gavin, Catherine and Saluté leave the next day. It’s sad to see them go. We had first met them on the Swedish island of Storjungbrun in mid-June, and had travelled with them more-or less since then. But we may see them again next year, as they are also planning to explore the Baltic States, war (or lack of it) permitting.

The hotel closes at 1100 on the dot, and the place is deserted by 1130. We are the only boat left in the harbour.

“It feels like a ghost town”, says the First Mate. “A bit weird after all the hustle and bustle at breakfast this morning.”

“Well, at least we can catch up on a few jobs that have accumulated”, I say. “I’m going to work on the blog.”

“And we can eat the fish that that little chap gave us”, she says.

A youngster had caught several perch from the pontoon the previous evening and had kindly given us his surplus.

We leave the next morning for Arholma in Sweden. The wind is from the southwest, and we have a pleasant sail for a couple of hours before dark clouds gather and the rain starts pouring down. Then we need to turn to the southwest and directly into the wind.

“I thought you said that the weather would be for good sailing today”, complains the First Mate from the cabin.

“Well, the forecast said it was going to from the south”, I say defensively. “I thought the angle would be good enough to be able to sail. But it looks like they might have got it wrong.”

We motor for a bit. Eventually the rain stops and the wind veers more to the south, allowing us to sail close-hauled for another few hours. We are about a mile from the Swedish coast when it stops altogether. We make it to Arholma under motor and anchor in the middle of the bay for the night.

“Familiar territory”, I say. “It feels like coming home somehow. We were here at the end of May. We’ve covered a lot of miles and seen a lot of places since then.”

“Look, even the birds remember us”, exclaims the First Mate. “They are welcoming us back.”

The next day, we push on towards Stockholm. We’ve booked in at a fibreglass repair company at a marina to the north of the city in a couple of days’ time for them to look at the damage to the bow. We sail down the main fairway for the ferries to the Åland islands and to Helsinki, and anchor in a small bay in Storön, an island in the archipelago not far from Stockholm.

We had chilled out here last year for several days, enjoying the good weather, reading, fishing, swimming and exploring in the small dinghy. It feels like coming back to a favourite place. Only one other boat is there, moored bows-to to the rocks on the shore and with a stern anchor.

“I thought we were going to have it to ourselves”, says the First Mate as we sip our glasses of wine and watch the sunset. “But at least they seem quite quiet. Perhaps they have gone ashore for a walk.”

In the morning, I notice that the other boat looks just the same as they night before. No one seems to be around. I peer through the binoculars. There is no sign of life.

“Perhaps they are just sleeping in”, says the First Mate.

“Perhaps they have died on the boat”, I say. “Murdered, even. How would we know?”

“You and you imagination”, she says. “Always looking for the dramatic.”

“There’s an empty berth over there”, calls out the First Mate from the bow. “Just on the other side of the boat with the black hull.”

We have just arrived in the town of Uusikaupunki on the Finnish coast, and are in the process of tying up at the city harbour.

I engage forward gear and aim the bow at the berth she is pointing to. As we enter, I move the gear lever to reverse to slow the boat and stop. Nothing happens! We keep moving forward.

“You’re going too fast!”, shouts the First Mate. “Slow down!!”

I wrestle with the lever and manage to get it into neutral. We are not going fast, but there is nothing to counter the forward momentum. There is a sickening crunch as we come to an abrupt stop against the wooden plank of the wharf.

“The throttle jammed somehow”, I shout back. “There was nothing I could do.”

There is a crack in the fibreglass of the bow.

“You’ll need to get that fixed”, says the man from the neighbouring boat. “And the throttle problem too. You’re lucky that there is a very good boatyard just on the other side of the river. They should be able to help you. I am happy to ring them and explain in Finnish what has happened, if you like.”

“We had a similar problem once”, says Gavin. “It turned out to be the clutch not disengaging. It was a big job to replace it, as the whole engine had to come out.”

It starts to rain heavily. Two men arrive from the boatyard, look at the bow, and stroke their chins thoughtfully. One starts the engine and puts the throttle lever into forward and reverse. The other goes downstairs and looks at the propeller shaft.

“They think that it is the propeller itself”, our neighbour translates. “The propeller shaft is rotating in the directions that it should for both forward and reverse. Do you know what sort of propeller it is?”

The propeller is a feathering one, meaning that when the boat is sailing, the blades rotate to line up with the direction of travel to reduce water resistance. When the motor is used, the centrifugal force causes the blades fly out to the angle of a normal propeller, with different configurations for forward and reverse.

“They think they need to lift your boat out and have a look at it”, says our neighbour. “You can take her over to their yard. It’s only ten minutes. But go very slowly, and try not to do anything that requires reverse. You can tie up alongside over there. They’ll help you.”

It’s not easy, knowing that you have nothing to stop forward motion except the friction of the water. Nevertheless, we manage to make it on one piece without hitting anything. A crane arrives, straps are slipped underneath Ruby Tuesday, and she is lifted out.

Sure enough, the propeller blades are stiff, and are not moving forwards and backwards as they should. They pump grease into the propeller body and manage to free it up.

“You can stay here for the rest of the day”, says the woman from the office. “Keep trying it in forward and reverse to see if you can replicate the problem. As for the crack in the bow, we suggest that you wait until you get back to Stockholm to get it fixed. We are too booked up at the moment. We’ll tape it up in the meantime to stop water getting in.”

We spend the rest of the day putting the gear lever in forward and reverse at periodic intervals. Everything works as it should. Despite my initial scepticism it does seem as if the problem is solved.

“We should at least see a bit of Uusikaupunki”, says the First Mate the next morning. “Why don’t we cycle in and have a look? We can have some lunch there, then sail for Enskär island in the afternoon.”

“Good idea”, I respond. “Apparently the Bonk Museum is worth a look.”

“Did you say the Bonk Museum?”, she says. “I am not sure that I want to see anything rude.”

“No, no”, I say hurriedly. “The Bonk Museum is a collection of weird and wonderful machines built by a Finn called Alvar Gullichsen. They are powered by anchovy oil. They look as if they should be really useful for something, but in fact have no purpose whatsoever. There’s a Paranormal Cannon, a Freakwave Transmuter prototype, and a Raba Hiff cosmic therapy dispenser, for example. Sort of the Finnish version of Heath Robinson, I suppose.”

We cycle into town and find the Bonk Museum. It is closed. Apparently it only opens at weekends at this time of year.

“We’ll just have to give it a miss”, says the First Mate. “We can’t hang around for another five days. Anyway, this looks like one of the machines here, just by the railway. That’ll have to do. ”

We have lunch at a nearby restaurant, then set sail. The propeller continues to work as it should.

We arrive at Enskär island and tie up alongside at the small pier. Gavin and Catherine are already there.

“We’ve just been talking to the harbourmaster”, says Gavin. “It’s an old pilot station, and has been in use since the 17^th century. They still use it for that even now. He was on his way out to guide a large ship into Uusikaupunki. We passed it on the way. By the way, there is a grill place here just at the top of the pontoon. We could have a barbecue tonight.”

“Good idea”, I say. “We still have some charcoal left. I’ll see if I can find it.”

As I walk along the pier, I pass a young man in his early twenties tinkering with the engine of a small boat tied up alongside.

“There’s a problem with the fuel”, he explains. “It keeps cutting out. I have just come over from Uusikaupunki.”

“That’s quite a way in a small boat”, I say. “Fourteen miles or so. We have just sailed out from there.”

“I am actually from Turku in southern Finland”, he says. “But I have a job on a tall ship at the moment. You might have seen it in Uusikaupunki? I borrowed this boat to come to visit friends who are working here on Enskär. They don’t know I have come, and I have to find them.”

“Good luck”, I say, wondering why he hadn’t contacted them first.

“It’s his girlfriend”, Catherine tells us later. “She is one of the summer workers on the island. Apparently it’s her birthday today, and he wanted to surprise her.”

“Who says romance is dead?”, says the First Mate.

“He has very fine features”, says Catherine. “Almost feminine. He reminds me of that Greek god Adonis.”

“I hope he doesn’t get gored by a wild boar”, I say. “You never know what might be on this island.”

We light the fire. Before long, the charcoal is burning away merrily. Soon there is the aroma of cooking steaks and sausages.

The conversation turns to the news of the day.

“Did you hear that it has been announced that Prigozhin, the Wagner boss, has been killed”, says Gavin. “Apparently, the plane that he was travelling to St Petersburg crashed. They don’t know yet if it was an accident or whether it was deliberate.”

“If you ask me, I think I know which one it was”, says the First Mate. “It’s too much of a coincidence to be an accident.”

“I am not surprised”, I say. “I was wondering how much longer he would have after that aborted march on Moscow a few weeks ago. What I don’t understand is why he didn’t see it coming. He might have been a bit safer if he had stayed in exile in Belarus, but to go back to Russia as if nothing had happened doesn’t make sense. I wonder how it will affect the war in Ukraine?”

“I don’t expect it will make much difference”, says Catherine. “After all, most of the Wagner troops have been withdrawn from Ukraine now anyway. My guess is that they’ll just be absorbed into the regular army.”

The mosquitoes have now arrived in force, and the flow of conversation is punctuated by continual slapping as we try in vain to protect ourselves from being bitten.

“Time to get back in the boat”, says the First Mate. “Unfortunately, I react badly to mosquito bites. They’ll all be swollen up by the morning.”

As we climb into bed, there is the sound of voices outside, then the noise of an outboard engine starting. I peer out of one of the windows into the darkness. In the pool of light from the single lamp of the pontoon I see Adonis saying goodbye to his Aphrodite. He roars off into the darkness, and she walks slowly back along the path to the lighthouse.

“It looks like he is heading back to Uusikaupunki”, I say. “It’s not something I would like to do at this time of night with all those rocks and reefs in the way.”

“He probably knows the area like the back of his hand”, says the First Mate.

In the morning I wake early, make myself a cup of tea, and sit on deck watching the reds and yellows as the sun peeps above the horizon to start its daily journey. The sea is calm, only the occasional lap of a wavelet as it washes over the rocks of the breakwater. I decide to go for a walk to the other side of the island before the others get up. I follow the rough track along the shoreline, passing a tiny sandy beach before turning towards the centre of the island. To my right, on the higher ground overlooking the beach, is an imposing looking house which I learn later is the old pilot house. Nowadays it is rented out to holidaymakers visiting the island.

Rounding a corner, I am surprised to be met by a bare-footed woman in her dressing gown, picking her way carefully through the stones of the track.

“I am just going for my morning swim”, she says, almost apologetically. “I have been doing it for 30 years, every day that I have been living on this island. I live in one of the houses near the lighthouse.”

“It must be cold”, I say.

“It gets cold in the winter, that’s for sure”, she answers. “But at this time of year it is beautiful. By the way, you should have a look at the demons’ fields over there. The local people used to call them that, as they believed that the piles of rounded stones were gathered by evil spirits. In reality they were piled up by waves and ice on former beaches that have risen due to land uplift. The whole island was still under water only 2,500 years ago.”

We carry on in our respective directions. Shortly after, I come across my second surprise of the morning – a gun emplacement, the barrel of the gun aimed eastwards. Not quite what one might expect on a quiet little island.

“All the civilians were cleared from the island in 1941”, a placard tells me, “and the gun and an ammunition store were built by the Finnish Defence forces to prevent enemy landings by sea. But there was no military action on the island, and the civilians were allowed back in 1945. Then in the 1970s, a watch tower was built to help direct artillery fire against enemy ships. Nowadays, the tower is used by ornithologists to spot birds on the island. You can visit all three at your own risk.”

No prizes for guessing who the enemy might be in both cases.

Eventually I reach the lighthouse, surrounded by a cluster of former lighthouse keepers’ cottages. Built by the Russians in 1838 after Finland became a Grand Duchy of the Russian Empire, it was designed to develop a new sea route independent of the Swedish ones and to project Russian power and prestige westwards, similar to the Post Office that we had seen in June at Eckerö on Åland. At nearly 50 m in height, it is the tallest lighthouse in the Gulf of Bothnia. It is still operational, but is now fully automated, and the cottages are privately owned and used as summer retreats.

“Apparently the lighthouse was nearly blown up in WW2”, says Gavin over a coffee later. “The Finns thought that it would act as a landmark for Russian bombers, so they laid explosive charges in the base. Then they realised that the debris from the explosion would probably be an even greater landmark, so it was left as it was.”

“It would be a pity if they had destroyed it”, I say. “It’s pretty impressive.”

“Did you hear Adonis leave last night?”, asks Catherine, changing the subject.

“We did”, says the First Mate. “But we wondered why he didn’t stay the night.”

“He had to get back to work in the morning”, says Catherine. “I was talking to his girlfriend this morning. She was the one that collected our marina fees. She was overjoyed to see him, but rather distraught that he couldn’t stay. Ah, young love!”

We return to Ruby Tuesday and prepare to leave.

“Do you realise just how much of your blog is about the Russians?”, says Spencer to me as I roll up the side panels.

“They certainly had a major influence in the Baltic”, I answer. “And on Finland in particular. It must be difficult to live next to a large, powerful, often hostile, neighbour.”

“You know, I read something interesting about them the other day”, he says. “Of course, we all know that they have a tradition of autocratic rulers – Peter the Great, Catherine the Great, Lenin, Stalin, and now Putin – and they seem to have the mindset that politics is best left to these rulers. But I read also that some of their autocratic leanings are because Russians see themselves as the only true keepers of Christian traditions.”

“You mean the Russian Orthodox Church?”, I ask.

“Yes”, says Spencer. “The first capital of Christianity was Rome, right? But around 330 AD, Constantine abandoned Rome and moved his capital to the newly-built city of Constantinople. That became the ‘Second Rome’. In the Byzantine Empire which followed, church and empire became so inextricably entwined that people couldn’t imagine Christianity without an emperor. That state of affairs lasted more than 1000 years, but Constantinople fell to the Turks in 1453. The Christian traditions practised there survived in the Russian Orthodox Church which adopted Moscow as its centre. Moscow was subsequently promoted as the ‘Third Rome’.”

“And Russia has the sacred mission of preserving Christianity on Earth, I suppose?”, I say.

“Correct”, says Spencer. “That’s why they are quite comfortable with autocracy. Russians see their leaders as divinely chosen by God and charged with keeping the Christian flame burning. Unlike in Western Europe, in Russia any independent thinking, religious or otherwise, was condemned. It also explains why the Russian Orthodox Church is so supportive of the war in Ukraine.”

“Preventing an Orthodox neighbour from falling into the hands of the evil, heretical West”, I say. “It certainly explains a lot.”

The First Mate appears at the companionway.

“Come on”, she calls out. “That’s enough talking to that spider. We need to sail on to the Ålands. The others have already left.”

I awake in the early morning and lie listening to the lapping of the water against the hull. The wind seems to have gone round to the west, I think, and is driving small wavelets across the bay. I pull on my clothes and struggle on deck, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. Early morning mist arises from the water; the golden glow of the sun catches the mast, giving the fluttering flags an intensity of colour. There is no sign of life on the jetty or the town, everyone is still asleep.

We are in the harbour of the small town of Kaskinen, having arrived the night before after a lumpy sail down from Vaasa. The wind had been against us and we had had to take long tacks out to sea and back again to make any progress. We had managed it, but had arrived tired and hungry and had tied up at the newly built wooden jetty. A brief recce around the town had been unsuccessful in finding a place to eat, with the sole exception of a mobile takeaway van in the main square in front of the harbour. It was a Monday, and everywhere else was closed. We had bought a pack of fries and had taken it back to the boat to have with the leftovers from the previous day.

I decide to go for a walk and explore.

Kaskinen was founded in 1785, and was a planned town with all the streets laid out in a grid pattern. There were grand ambitions for it in the early days, and it was expected to grow into a bustling and wealthy port town centred around the import and export of tar and timber. But it never really took off, partly because it was on an island and bridges to the mainland took a long time to build, and partly because it was eclipsed by the larger nearby towns of Vaasa and Kristinestad.

Nevertheless, its old wooden houses give a quirky charm to it.

The apothecary is imposing. One wonders why a tower was necessary to dispense medicines.

When I get back, there is consternation on the quay.

“We’ve lost our cat”, wails the woman from the boat in front of us. “She wanted to go out, so we let her, and now she has disappeared. She has a GPS tracker around her collar, and it is showing that she is somewhere around your friend’s boat, but they have searched the boat for her and can’t find her. The only other place nearby is under the quay decking, but there is no way for us to get under there, so we will just have to wait for her to come out by herself.”

I have a mosey around the quay making meowing noises, but she is right – there is no way anyone could squeeze underneath and look for a cat, let alone rescue it.

“That’s the problem with having a cat on the boat”, moans the woman’s husband. “They dictate when we are going to leave rather than the winds, as with other sailors.”

“There was a similar occurrence when we were on Junkön near Lulëa”, says Gavin to us later. “We all had to get out and look for a lost cat, but it never turned up before we left. I can’t understand why people take their cats with them. It’s not fair on the cats.”

By the time we leave, the cat still hasn’t been found. There is nothing we can do except offer our condolences and hopes that it might still turn up. We cast off and head south.

The wind is on our nose from the southeast and blowing around 18 knots with gusts up to 26 knots. The sea is also rough, being whipped up by several days of southerly winds. We take a long tack close-hauled out to sea, then back in again. It’s an uncomfortable passage.

Eventually we reach the relatively sheltered waters of the approach to Kristiinankaupunki, and follow the marker buoys along a narrow channel not much more than two boat-widths wide, past the old harbour building, until we come to a road bridge. There is a marina to the right and to the left.

“We’ve just had a look at the marina on the right”, calls Gavin on the VHF. “There seems to be some construction work going on there. I suggest we go to the town quay on the left. There are limited facilities, but it has the advantage of being closer to the town centre than the other one.”

We tie up in the town quay. A man walking his dog along the jetty gives us a hand.

“Kristiinankaupunki is named after Queen Christiana of Sweden”, he tells us. “Kaupunki means city in Finnish. It is one of the towns founded by Per Brahe, like Raahe, back in the 1600s when this part was ruled by the Swedish. Its Swedish name is Kristinestad.”

After a cup of tea we go ashore to explore.

The town hall lies at the end of a stately avenue of trees.

“Come and look at this old water well”, calls the First Mate. “The wheel still goes round. Perhaps it still pumps water.”

It doesn’t.

A little bit further on is the Ulrika Eleonora church.

“The church was built in 1700 after the first one was burnt down a few years earlier”, the guidebook tells us. “It was named after the Queen Dowager of the time. Due to construction mistakes, the tower leans to the south. The story is that it is because the Russians tried to pull it down when they occupied it in the early 1700s, but weren’t successful.“

“The Russians don’t seem to be very popular”, says the First Mate. “Did you see the tiles on the roof? They are made of wood.”

On the way back to the boat, we see a Cittaslow sign.

“Ah, yes, I read about this”, says the First Mate. “Apparently the Cittaslow movement started in Italy in 1999 with the aim of slowing down the pace of city life. It focused on food quality at first, but extended to improve the general quality of city life through the use of space, reducing traffic flow, and opposing cultural standardisation. Kristiinankaupunki was the first Cittaslow town in Finland.”

“That explains the lack of traffic in the streets”, I say. “I thought it was quiet.”

Gavin and Catherine come over for a drink later in the evening. It’s starting to get dark earlier now that the summer is waning and we are sailing southwards.

“There’s a boat coming in”, says the First Mate suddenly, pointing. “You can see its lights, but not the boat itself.”

Sure enough, the red port side navigation light is visible in the darkness, moving slowly towards the marina. Suddenly it stops.

“I think that he might have gone aground”, says Gavin. “He looks too close to us to still be in the channel. The problem is that the marker buoys aren’t lit at night, so they are almost impossible to see. And he may not be aware that there two marinas. Perhaps we should try and contact him.”

I fetch the hand-held VHF radio from the cabin.

“The name of the boat is Celinda”, says Catherine. “I have just found it on MarineTraffic.”

I try to call Celinda several times, but there is no response.

“Perhaps we can signal to him with a torch”, says Gavin. “We could try and guide him in.”

The First Mate fetches our torch from the cabin.

“I think he is moving again”, says Catherine. “He must have managed to get back into the channel.”

Gavin goes ashore with the torch and waves it up and down. Sure enough, the boat slowly starts to move along the channel, and turns to come towards us. At last we can see the boat in the lights of the harbour. A woman is standing on the bow with ropes in her hands.

“Thanks so much for your help”, she says gratefully. “We missed the channel somehow and got stuck in the mud. The other marina didn’t look very inviting with all the construction work, and we didn’t realise that you could tie up at the town quay.”

We continue our journey southward the next morning. The wind is almost direct from behind, and there is not much of it. With both sails out in the conventional manner, the genoa flaps uselessly in the wind shadow of the mainsail. We manage a majestic two knots.

“We’ll never get there at this rate”, complains the First Mate. “Look! Saluté is heading off out to sea. Perhaps we should do that.”

Sure enough, Saluté is deviating from the direct route to try and get a better angle on the wind. The AIS shows she is managing five knots, but she will need to gybe back in again at some stage and will travel much more distance.

“We can pole out the genoa and goosewing”, I say. “They don’t have a pole, so they can’t do that.”

I rig a preventer on the mainsail to stop it from accidentally gybing, then pole out the genoa to windward. The wind catches both sails now and drives Ruby Tuesday forward at a respectable 4½ knots. What’s more, we can maintain the direct course easily, so have less distance to cover.

We eventually reach Rauma. Saluté has come back in from out at sea and ends up just in front of us, the same distance as when we set off in the morning. We tie up in the large Syväraumanlahti marina to the west of the town.

“We thought you had had enough of Finland, and had decided to head back to Sweden”, we joke with Saluté over a coffee.

“I couldn’t work out at first how you managed to sail directly downwind and still make a good speed”, says Gavin. “Then I realised that you must have poled out your genoa.”

“It was amazing how the different strategies ended up with the boats in the same relative positions after a whole day’s sailing”, says Catherine. “Almost to the metre.”

In the morning, we unload the bikes and cycle into town.

Although a Franciscan monastery and Catholic church had existed from earlier times, Rauma only became a town in 1442. Its prosperity came from its maritime activities, but it is also famous for its lace-making and paper industries. Latterly, it has been designated a UNESCO World Heritage site for its exquisite old wooden buildings in the town centre. Like many of the other wooden towns along the Finnish coast, the town was burnt down and rebuilt several times. The present old town dates back to the 17^th century.

“Look at these wooden sculptures in the stream”, says Catherine, as we come to the town centre. “Three women looking apprehensively at the frog prince. That’s original.”

We learn later that it is the work of Kerttu Horila, a sculptor who lives in Rauma, and who has made several figures which are dotted around the town.

“You can see the maritime influence on the town”, says Gavin. “Look, even the Catholic church has a model ship hanging in the entrance, just like the Gavle churches that we saw in Sweden.”

“I’m getting a bit peckish”, I say. “Let’s find somewhere to have lunch.”

As we walk back to the market place, an open top American car passes us.

“They certainly love their old cars”, says the First Mate. “I have seen several like that around.”

We find a restaurant near the town centre and peruse the menu.

“I can recommend the lapskoussi”, says the waitress. “It’s a traditional Finnish sailors’ dish. It doesn’t look anything special, but it tastes delicious.”

Four identical plates of lapskoussi arrive. It turns out to be a mixture of beef, potatoes, onions, carrots, and various other vegetables, all boiled and mashed together with different spices added, and served with melted butter on top. Sure enough, it doesn’t look particularly exciting.

“Well, that was certainly delicious”, says the First Mate, folding her knife and fork and sitting back contentedly. “And also very filling. We definitely won’t need to cook any dinner tonight.”

We decide to split up and explore different parts of the town, and meet up later. The First Mate and I end up at the Maritime Museum.

“Do you want to have a go on the simulator?”, asks the museum attendant in one of the rooms. “You can pretend you are the skipper of a fishing trawler coming back home to Rauma harbour after a successful fishing trip.”

I take the steering wheel.

“I’ll put the throttle on medium speed”, she says. “You don’t want it too fast, especially coming into a harbour.”

It is a lot slower to respond than Ruby Tuesday, and nothing seems to happen at first when I rotate the wheel. Then the boat begins to turn faster and faster. I rotate the wheel in the other direction, but again it takes some time to respond, then it turns faster and faster in the other direction. Eventually, I learn to anticipate what the boat will do in a half a minute or so, and manage to control the yo-yoing from side to side enough to enter the harbour without hitting anything.

“You’re pretty good”, says the attendant. “It’s almost as if you have done it before.”

“I have”, I answer. “I did it yesterday in our boat. We are sailing around the Baltic and are here for a couple of days.”

In the next room, I read of the Finnish seamen who were interned in Britain during WW2. Because Finland had decided to fight on the side of Germany against Russia, Britain had declared war on Finland in 1941, so any Finnish crew on ships were considered the enemy and were rounded up and interned on the Isle of Man. It seems they were a rowdy lot, and fights broke out between those that supported Finland and Germany, and those who supported Britain and the Allies. When stabbings started, the authorities had to separate them into two camps. Several of the pro-British Finns joined the British merchant navy.

A little known piece of wartime history that I had been totally unaware of.

“Here’s an interesting view of the World”, says the First Mate as we leave. “The Finnish view.”

Next up is Marela, the home of the wealthy ship-owning Granlund family in the centre of town.

“Wow!”, says the First Mate. “The rich certainly knew how to live.”

We meet Gavin and Catherine for a coffee.

“Apparently you can get a good view out over the town from the tower on the hill”, says Gavin. “We can cycle over there.”

We puff our way to the top of the hill. The tower is closed for the winter.

“What a bummer”, says Gavin. “Everything closes so early here.”

“It’s because a lot of the places are staffed by volunteer university students”, says a woman passing. “Now they have all gone back to university, so they have to close them.”

On the way back down again, we notice an intriguing sculpture of doves escaping a series of concentric rings.

It is a memorial to those that had to flee the Karelian region in the Continuation War, says the plaque underneath. When the Russians invaded Finland in WW2, thousands of people living in that part of the country had to be evacuated and were resettled in other parts of Finland, as they didn’t want to live under Russian rule.

“I can understand how they must have felt”, says the First Mate. “My mother also had to flee their home in East Prussia at the end of WW2 to escape the advance of the Russians. She was only eleven years old at the time.”

“They were tough times”, I say.

“It seems that they get their lifeboats second-hand from the RNLI in Britain”, says the First Mate.

We are in the small harbour of Marjaniemi island watching a group of Search and Rescue (SAR) trainees being put through their paces by their instructor. The lesson of the moment is on knots, and they are learning how to do a bowline.

“I thought that those boats looked familiar”, I say.

In the morning, we find that Gavin and Catherine have arrived in their boat Saluté and tied up next to us. We had left them in Luleå in the north several days earlier as they had had a friend joining them for a few days’ sailing. They had then sailed through the night, arriving at 0200 in the morning to re-join us.

“We were as quiet as we could be tying up”, says Catherine. “We didn’t want to wake you.”

“It was a beautiful night sail”, says Gavin. “It was a clear sky, the sea was calm, the moon was out, and it all looked ethereal. It never really got totally dark. The only problem was that not all of the buoys on the approach to Marjaniemi were lit, so it was a bit tricky trying to locate the channel. I was worried that we might go aground on a few occasions, but we managed it.”

It’s nice to see them again, and we are looking forward to their company on the long trip back down south.

Unfortunately, strong southerly winds are forecast for the next few days. Ideally, we would sit them out, but we need to make progress southwards again, so we decide to take them full on and tack. With winds gusting up to 26 knots, it’s boisterous, to say the least. We arrive in Raahe exhausted, and tie up in front of the town museum.

“Phew, that was tough”, says the First Mate. “I hope that we don’t have too many sails like that.”

“Raahe was founded by Per Brahe in 1649”, the girl in the museum tells us the next day. “It’s named after him. He was the Governor-General of Finland when it was under Swedish rule back in the 1600s. He did a lot of good things for Finland, like introducing a postal system, promoting education, developing agriculture, and reforming the administrative system. He also founded several other towns besides Raahe, and even has an asteroid named after him.”

“Quite a legacy”, says Gavin.

The strong southerlies continue. We battle our way down to Kokkola, the next town. The harbour guide recommends that we stay in the marina of Gamlakarleby Segelförening, the oldest sailing club in the Gulf of Bothnia.

As we tie up, we get talking to one of the club members.

“There’s some British naval history you should see while you are in Kokkola”, he says. “During the Crimean War, there was a bit of a scrap between the British and the Finns in 1854, who were part of the Russian Empire at that time. One of the British gunboats was captured.”

“Ah, yes”, I say. “We have already seen the Russian Fortress at Bomarsund that was destroyed by the French and British ships during the Crimean War. What happened here?”

“Well, the British Navy were carrying our raids on towns up and down the coast along here”, he answers. “Normally they met with very little resistance, but at Kokkola there was quite a large Russian-Finnish contingent of troops who ambushed the British as they sent some landing craft full of their own troops ashore to raid the town. One of the gunboats and several of the British soldiers were captured. Some even died in the fight and are buried here in the town cemetery. It’s referred to as the ‘Skirmish of Halkokari’. You can still see the boat that they captured as you cycle into town. It’s worth a look.”

In the morning, we cycle into Kokkola. On the way we pass the monument to the ‘Skirmish of Halkokari’.

Further on, we come across the ‘English Boat’.

“Apparently the British Government still makes a small contribution to Kokkola to maintain the graves of the soldiers who died here”, says Gavin over lunch. “They’ve even asked for their boat back, but the Finnish have refused.”

“It’s amazing to think that the Crimean War was even being fought up here”, I say. “Bomarsund was surprising enough, but Kokkola is much further north than that. And nowhere near Crimea.”

We spend the afternoon exploring the town. In common with many of the towns along this part of the coast, there is an old part of town with quaint houses built in wood.

“Did you see these mirrors mounted outside the windows of the  houses?”, says the First Mate. “They were called ‘gossip mirrors’. Apparently, the people of the house could sit inside their living rooms and surreptitiously watch the comings and goings of their neighbours. That gave them something to gossip about.”

“But if everybody knew that that is what they were for, they just wouldn’t do anything worth gossiping about in the street”, I say. ”They could sneak out the back, for example.”

“Whatever”, she says.

We come to the town theatre. Outside is a statue of a gold-plated soldier and a woman in charcoal grey offering him flowers. There is a sign, but it is in Finnish, and Google refuses to translate it.

“There’s a lot of non-PC symbolism there”, says Gavin. “The man is golden, the woman is grey and drab; the man is a hero, the woman is meek and subservient; the warrior is glorified, the peacemaker is secondary. You can probably think of more. I wonder what the true meaning is?”

“Perhaps they were intending to do them both in gold, but ran out of gold paint?”, I say, knowing that it probably wasn’t.

We leave Kokkola at 0700 the next morning, heading south for the Kvarken archipelago that almost divides the Gulf of Bothnia into two. It turns out to be a frustrating sail – sometimes good wind, then nothing, a pattern repeated several times during the day. There is nothing to do but pull the sails out when there is wind, then pull them back in again and start the engine when there is none. But at least the strong southerlies seem to have abated for the time being.

We reach the island of Kummelskär in the evening and tie up bows-to to the small jetty. Only one other boat is there.

“Welcome to Kummelskär, the gateway to the Kvarken archipelago”, says the harbourmaster as he helps us secure our lines. “You’re just in time. We close for the winter this coming weekend. If you had come after that, you could have tied up here, of course, but nothing would have been open – no toilets, no sauna, no café, no tower, nothing. Now, can I interest you in some hot salmon and potato soup? It’s my wife’s speciality. I am sure you can do with some after your long voyage.”

We don’t have the heart to refuse.

“It used to be an old coastguard station here”, he explains as we eat the soup. “Now it has been turned into a nature station for this part of the Kvarken Archipelago. My wife and I live here for the summer to look after the place, but we will be going back to our home in Vaasa for the winter. Now, when you are finished, you can come and watch the sunset from the top of the watch tower.”

We climb the stairs and find ourselves in the lookout room of the old coastguard station. It reminds me of the control tower at an airport. We watch in awe as the sun sinks slowly into the sea over the Kvarken archipelago.

Back at the harbour, the barbecue is already on. We bring some sausages and a salad, and join the couple from the other boat. Across on the opposite island, we can hear the screeches of cranes roosting.

“We live in Pietersaari”, the man says. “But we are sailing over to the Höga Kusten in Sweden for our holidays. We decided to break the journey here. We’ve been here several times before, and always like it.”

The conversation turns to politics.

“I was surprised when your former Prime Minister was voted out”, I say. “I thought she was very popular. And she stood up for Ukraine and brought Finland into NATO.”

“Yes, Sanna Marin was popular, but probably more so abroad than at home”, the woman says. “Perhaps similar to your Jacinda Ardern in New Zealand, in that respect. She took out a lot of loans, and people were becoming concerned that the country was in too much debt. And she suffered from a lot of scandals – for example, she was accused of spending public money on her family’s grocery bills. Even though she was legally allowed to do so, and even though she paid it back, it left a bad taste in people’s mouths.”

“And the leaked videos of her dancing at that private party?”, I say.

“Most people thought that was something blown up by the media and her political rivals”, she says. “But it probably didn’t help her.”

We leave Kummelskär the next morning, taking the inner route through the skärgård. Rocks and skerries slide by, sometimes only metres from the boat. We follow the marked routes on the charts meticulously, making full use of the conveniently-placed leading lines to keep us on the strait and narrow. It’s nerve-wracking stuff, and we are relieved when we reach the wider waterways for the large ships heading in to Vaasa.

But we relax too soon. The wind has risen since the morning to 20 knots, and is almost on our nose, making us sail close-hauled and tack. Not only that, it begins to rain.

“The weather forecast said occasional showers”, says the First Mate. “But this is a bit more than a shower. We can hardly see where we are going. Here’s your rain jacket.”

We zig-zag our way up the main fairway, keeping a wary lookout for big ships coming from behind and trying to stay within the marked channel. It’s narrow in places, especially under the road bridge we need to pass under. It’s not easy.

A strong cross wind is blowing when we arrive at the marina, and it is difficult to manoeuvre into the small berths we see unoccupied. But somehow we manage it, and tie a rope from midships across to the pontoon on the other side to stop the boat from crunching into the pontoon and damaging the fenders. We plug in the power, and are readying ourselves to change out of our wet clothes and boil the water for a hot cup of tea when the harbourmaster arrives.

“Unfortunately, you have tied up in a private berth”, he tells us. “the owner is supposed to be away for the weekend, and normally I would be happy for you to stay here, but there is a chance that he will be back tonight, so I am afraid I will have to ask you to move your boat. You can tie up alongside over there, if you like.”

“I wish he had told me that when I phoned him on the way in”, says the First Mate. “But at least we will be tied up alongside. It’ll make getting the bikes off in the morning easier.”

In the morning, we cycle into Vaasa for lunch with the Salutés.

“Why are you going so slowly?”, says the First Mate to me. “Aren’t you hungry?”

“My back tyre was flat”, I say. “It might be a puncture. I stopped to pump it up. Luckily I had the pump with me.”

Over lunch, we read the guide to Vaasa.

“It was founded in 1606, and was originally called Korsholm by the Swedish and Mustasaari by the Finnish”, Gavin reads. “Since then, it has had several name changes reflecting the politics of the time. In the 1600s, it was changed to Vasa after the Swedish royal family. Then 1855, it was renamed to Nikolajstad in Swedish and Nikolainkaupunki in Finnish in honour of the Russian Czar. Then when Finland became independent in 1917, it reverted to Vasa in Swedish and Vaasa in Finnish. Nowadays it is generally referred to as Vaasa.”

“Wow, it must be confusing for postmen”, says the First Mate. “You wouldn’t want to post your letters too late, or else the address might not exist anymore.”

“All the more complicated to have a Swedish name as well as a Finnish one at the same time”, I say.

“I read somewhere that it is a pretty cool city to live”, says Catherine. “There are three universities here, and there’s quite a student atmosphere with lots of concerts and entertainment going on. In fact, the harbourmaster said that there is a concert tonight on that little island near the marina.”

After lunch the tyre is flat again. “It’s definitely a puncture”, I say. “I’ll have to walk back to the boat and fix it.”

“Well, let’s go to the Ostrobothnian Museum first”, says the First Mate. “It’s only a few minutes’ walk from here. You can push the bike.”

We spend the next hour or so learning about the natural history of the Kvarken archipelago. It turns out that it is an important gathering place for birds preparing to migrate. To build up body fat for their long journey to Northern Africa, cranes, for example, gather in their thousands to graze in the Söderfjärden crater and return to the islands of the Kvarken to roost at night. We had heard them on Kummelskär island.

“There is a modern art exhibition on the top floor”, says the First Mate. “Let’s go and have a look.”

“This one reminds me of work”, I say.

“Here’s a good one for you”, says the First Mate.

After the museum, we have a look around the city.

I spend the rest of the afternoon fixing the puncture. In the evening, music starts on the little island near the marina. Youngsters on jet-skis and boats of various shapes and sizes mull around harbour area. A kind of houseboat pushed by a small speedboat lashed to the side and towing three jet-skis finds its way somehow into the marina. There’s lots of shouting and drunken singing from those on board. Worried faces appear on the decks of the nearby boats, boathooks and fenders at the ready to protect their pride-and-joy’s from the revellers.

“It looks like we are not going to get much sleep tonight”, says Catherine. “At least we will be able to hear the music for free. I hope it’s good.”

It turns out to be a Swedish singer by the name of Viktor Leksell on tour. It’s all very wholesome and finishes by 2300. Everyone goes home. The houseboat disappears.

“Well, that wasn’t too bad”, says the First Mate. “I thought it might be going on until the early hours of the morning. And I quite enjoyed the music too. We should try and get one of his CDs.”

“Yes, it’s been a good day”, I say. “I even managed to get my bike working again.”

“Do you know much about the history of Finland?” asks the First Mate. “It’s a country I am not really familiar with.”

We are sailing across the northern Bay of Bothnia towards Kemi, a town in the north of Finland. It’s a gentle west wind, so we have rigged the sails in a ‘goose-wing’ arrangement with one sail out each side to catch the wind coming from directly behind us.

I have to admit that I don’t know much about it either. I pick up the Lonely Planet guide to Finland and begin reading the history section.

“Finland was under Swedish rule since the 13^th century as part of the Swedish Empire”, it tells me. “Then in the early 1700s, the Great Northern War occurred between Sweden on one hand and Russia, Denmark and the other Baltic powers on the other. Sweden was beaten, which marked the beginning of the end of the its empire.”

“I suppose that is why so many people in Finland still speak Swedish as a first language”, says the First Mate. “Especially along the west coast.”

“During that war, Russia occupied Finland in 1714, and although Sweden regained it the final peace treaty in 1721, Russia occupied it again in 1743”, Lonely Planet continues. “After a bit more toing and froing between Russia and Sweden, Sweden finally ceded it to Russia in 1809, when it became a semi-autonomous Grand Duchy within the Russian Empire.”

“The poor old Finns must have been pretty fed up by that stage”, says the First Mate. “Waking up in the morning hardly knowing who was ruling you.”

“Yes, that was the beginnings of Finnish nationalism”, I say. “They had a saying, ‘Swedes we are not, Russians we will not become, so let us be Finns’.”

“Sounds fair enough”, says the First Mate. “So when did they become independent?”

“The Russian Revolution occurred in 1917”, Lonely Planet answers. “So the Finns took advantage of that and declared independence. The communists in Russia actually didn’t mind, as they hoped that Finland would also become communist. This resulted in a civil war in Finland between the Whites, who wanted a monarchy, and the Reds, who wanted a socialist revolution.”

“Didn’t the Germans somehow get involved too?”, asks the First Mate.

“Yes, the Whites asked for help from Imperial Germany and eventually won”, I say. “A German prince became the King of Finland, but only lasted a month before Germany was defeated in WW1. So Finland ended up being a republic instead.”

The wind has shifted around to the north slightly, and I change the sail configuration to a starboard tack. We have crossed the imaginary border and are now officially in Finland. In the distance we can see a giant factory, smoke pouring into the atmosphere.

“They talk about the Winter War”, asks the First Mate after the sails have been trimmed. “What was that all about?”

“Well, in 1939, the pact between Germany and Russia divided eastern Europe into spheres of influence”, Lonely Planet continues. “Russia gained a free a hand in Finland. The Russians demanded that a piece of territory in south-east Finland, Karelia, become part of Russia. The Finns weren’t too keen about that, so went to war about it. That became known as the Winter War. Despite fierce fighting in harsh conditions by the Finns, the Russians eventually won and took Karelia. But the Finns saw it as a victory, as they had stopped Russia from taking over the whole of Finland as it had threatened.”

“Sounds very similar to present day events in Ukraine”, says the First Mate. “But I read somewhere that the Nazis also stuck their oar in.”

“Yes, that’s right”, I say. “When the Nazis turned on Russia in 1941, the Finns took advantage and also declared war on Russia to try and gain Karelia back. This became known as the Continuation War. Unfortunately for them, Russia managed to beat them again. In the peace treaty after the war, Finland had to agree to let Russia keep Karelia and other bits and pieces, as well as to pay heavy reparations to Russia. Not only that, the Finns then had to wage war against the Germans to drive them out of Lapland in the far north.”

“Wow, they’ve certainly had their fair share of fighting”, says the First Mate. “Having two powerful neighbours probably didn’t help.”

“We’re coming into Kemi”, I say, checking the chart-plotter. “We need to be careful now.”

The four-mile approach into Kemi is through extremely shallow water of only a few centimetres deep. With our two-metre draft, we need to be careful.

“As long as we keep to the buoyed channels, we’ll be OK”, I say, in response to the First Mate’s worried look, with more confidence than I feel. “The chap back in Gärdsviken said that the channels are dredged to 2.5 m, so we shouldn’t have a problem.”

Nevertheless, I station the First Mate on the bow to keep an eye out for any uncharted rocks.

Luckily, the buoys are relatively easy to spot, and there is an ingenious system of leading lines with bright fluorescent orange and yellow marker boards to help keep us on the right track. We take it gingerly, and eventually reach the small Vierassatamat, or guest harbour, in Kemi. The couple from the only other boat in the harbour help us tie up next to them.

We strike up a conversation with them over a glass of wine watching the sunset.

“Despite all the problems we have had in the past, somehow we have managed to maintain our political independence”, the woman says. “Since WW2, we had to play a very delicate balancing act of not annoying Russia too much, but also integrating more with the west. It was called Finlandization. But we really see ourselves as part of Europe. We joined the EU in the 1990s, and just recently we have become part of NATO.”

“I just read that Finland has been identified as the happiest country in the world”, I say. “For the sixth time, I believe.”

“Yes, we are pretty happy overall”, she says. “We have a beautiful country, people feel close to nature, even those living in the cities, and we have trust in our politicians and each other. And we have a strong national identity, in part because of our unique language. There’s a lot to be happy about.”

There’s a lesson in there somewhere, I think as we prepare the dinner.

“We really should go and see Rovaniemi”, says the First Mate later that evening. “The home of Santa, and all that. More seriously, there is a good museum on the Arctic that you would like, and an art gallery, I wouldn’t mind seeing. We can get the train up there.”

We catch the 0936 train the next morning for Rovaniemi. Soon we are making our way through the great boreal forests of the north, endless birch, spruces and pine. It’s nice to have a break away from the boat.

“Like the clickety-clack/Of a train on a track/It’s got rhythm to spare”, I hum contentedly to myself.

“Neil Diamond”, says the First Mate. “Why are you humming that? I haven’t heard that one for years.”

“I used to like it when I was younger”, I answer. “The noise of the train as it trundles through the forest suddenly reminded me of it. It’s a beautiful noise, a sound that I love”.

“What did you do with the money?”, asks the First Mate.

“What money?”, I say, knowing the answer already.

“The money your mother gave you for singing lessons”, she says gleefully.

The old ones are the best ones.

Every so often, we pass clearings in the forest where some hardy souls are attempting to make a living from farming. Small isolated cabins have skidoos parked in the driveway, a reminder that the beautiful weather were are currently experiencing is only temporary, and that for much of the year this landscape is covered in snow and ice. Skidoos are the only practical way to travel then.

“Look at that beautiful little lake”, says the First Mate, pointing out the window. “And that little skiff tied up to the wooden jetty. It’s all so picturesque.”

We eventually reach Rovaniemi. The train grinds to a halt, and the passengers spill out onto the platform. The air is cooler than in Kemi, giving the place the air of an alpine resort. Backpackers eager to set off on their treks adjust their packs one last time, families rush to board the bus that goes to Santa’s Village, expectant taxi-drivers wait for their next customer.

“Let’s go and visit the Arktikum first”, says the First Mate. “It’s about 20 minutes’ walk from here. We can have lunch there. Then we can have a quick look at the Pilke forestry place, and come back and do the Korundi art gallery. You can get a Culture Pass ticket that covers all three for little more than the ticket for one of them. Then if there is any time left we can get the bus out to Santa’s Village.”

By the time we arrive at the Arktikum museum, we are feeling peckish. The restaurant is doing a buffet. We pile our plates full of traditional Finnish food.

“I wonder what these little fish are?”, says the First Mate. “They’re absolutely delicious with the dill sauce on them. I think they might be herrings.”

“The menu says that they are muiket”, I say. “Mr Google tells me that’s vendace in English. They are a freshwater fish common in northern Europe, including the upper reaches of the Baltic. And by the way, those are parsnip chips, not potato chips. Anyway, eat up, and we can go and have a look.”

First up is the Northern Lights theatre. We lie back on the comfortable cushions looking up into the night sky. A polar bear forms itself spookily from the Great Bear constellation and walks slowly off to the northern horizon. Gradually the greens, reds and blues of the northern lights appear and move eerily across the sky, folding and stretching themselves like ethereal curtains. We learn that they are formed from ionic particles from the sun crashing into oxygen, hydrogen and nitrogen atoms in the earth’s atmosphere.

“Come and see the moose”, says the First Mate as we leave the theatre. “We probably won’t see a real live one, but this is the next best thing.”

“And these brown bears”, I say. “It says that the ancient Finns revered them due to their divine origin, and saw them as Kings of the Forest. They were hunted in the 1960s, but now are strongly protected.”

After a couple of hours, we have seen all there is to see.

“I suppose the thing that shocked me the most was the effect that man’s activities are having on the Arctic”, says the First Mate over a coffee. ”Apparently around 25% of its area is already affected. There’s the well-known impact of climate change, of course, but what I hadn’t appreciated was the influence of alien species and pollutants there as well.”

“Yes, it is serious that temperatures are rising up here three times faster than the global average”, I say, trying to remember what I had read. “That’s a lot. Usually, the ice reflects much of the sun’s energy back into space, but as it melts it exposes the darker surface underneath. That in turn results in more warming, more ice disappearing, and so the cycle continues. That affects weather patterns elsewhere in the world. It’s all interconnected.”

“And did you read that bit on the red king crab?”, she says. “It was purposely introduced into the Barents Sea by the Russians, but because of the lack of natural predators, it has multiplied, and now it is doing lots of damage to the natural ecosystems. Although it is valuable commercially and generates income, it eats everything that it comes across and is creating underwater deserts. It also eats the eggs of a fish species that cod feed on, so the worry is that cod numbers may be affected.”

“And all those nasty chemicals we are producing that end up in the Arctic”, I say. “Persistent Organic Pollutants or POPs. They take a long time to degrade and are accumulating there, often in the fatty tissues of the animals.”

“Why don’t they do something about them?”, asks the First Mate. “Surely they know they are bad?”

“They are trying”, I say. “There is the Stockholm Convention on Persistent Organic Pollutants to limit chemicals such as PCBs and DDT, but unfortunately not every country sticks to the rules.”

“It’s easy to forget that all the mess we make in our day-to-day lives also affects up here too, even though it is so far away”, she says with a sigh. “At least we are more aware of it now.”

We catch the train back to Kemi again. Just before we get there, it starts to rain. Torrentially.

“We’re going to get wet”, I say. “We’ll need our rain jackets and umbrellas.”

Magically, it stops raining just as the train pulls into Kemi station. We walk back through the wet streets of the town feeling dismal.

“I know the weather affects your impression of a city”, says the First Mate. “But I have to say that I find Kemi all a bit dreary. It doesn’t really have much character. Perhaps in the winter it is more lively.”

In the morning, I discover we have run out of yoghurt for my muesli.

“Perhaps you can get a baguette as well”, says the First Mate as I leave for the supermarket.

Finding the yoghurt is no problem, but I can’t see any baguettes.

“No, sorry, we don’t have baguettes here”, say the girl when I ask her. “But you could try the supermarket a couple of blocks down.”

They don’t have any baguettes either. Supermarkets, pah! Back on the street, I decide to ask in the nearest shop if there is a bakery in the town that might sell baguettes. It turns out to be a pharmacy. The woman looks at me puzzled.

“No, we don’t sell baguettes here”, she says, in halting English.

“No, I mean, do you know if there is a bakery near here where I can buy baguettes?”, I say.

She calls one of her colleagues over. There is an intense discussion in Finnish. One of the customers joins the conversation too. The second shop assistant makes a shape with her hands of something long and thin. Occasionally, I can work out the word ‘baguette’. The customer gesticulates, pointing down the road. I am starting to regret that I ever asked about the bakery. Then the first shop assistant turns back to me.

“There isn’t a bakery, but we think the supermarket down the road has baguettes”, she says.

It’s the first supermarket I went to. I begin to feel that I am trapped in some endless Groundhog Day.

“Many thanks, I’ll try there”, I say, trying to smile.

I head glumly back to the boat to admit failure.

“Look, here are the labyrinths!”, calls out the First Mate. “Over here.”

We are on the island of Kluntana in the Luleä archipelago, and following a trail marked out on a map. Earlier in the day, we had sailed out from Luleä, and tied up to the small pontoon in the westward facing bay. A church group on an outing are already there, and were singing hymns on the beach as we tied up. Quite a welcome. Shortly afterwards, the ferry had arrived and the congregation had shuffled on board, their day trip to the island over.

The labyrinths are circular whorls of stones built by fishermen. No one quite knows whether it was to while away the time when they couldn’t go fishing, or whether it was to bring good luck when they could. I prefer the latter. Surely there would be a lot more labyrinths if they were just passing the time of day.

“And I can see the lookout tower in the distance”, I say. “It must have given a good view out over the sea.”

“And here’s the rock that looks like the face of an old man”, calls the First Mate.

“Now that we are so close”, I say over dinner in the evening, “we have to get to Törehamn. It’s the northernmost part of the Baltic that you can sail to. There’s a buoy there that marks it, and apparently you can get a certificate.”

“Let’s do it”, says the First Mate. “It’s what we came for, after all.”

It’s about 30 miles to Törehamn. We set off from Kluntarna early. It’s a gorgeous day, but there’s not much wind, so progress is sedate. On the AIS, we can see Saluté also heading there. They are a little closer than us, having been on another island for a few days.

“It’s beautiful up here”, says the First Mate dreamily. “And we have it all to ourselves, more or less. I am surprised that we haven’t seen more boats.”

“It’s such a long way up here”, I say. “That deters a lot of people. It takes at least two weeks to get up here from Stockholm, and at least two weeks to get back, so it doesn’t leave much time to explore. It’s only retirees like ourselves who can afford the time.”

The wind picks up, and we sail the last few miles at a good speed. In the distance we can see the grain silos marking the harbour at Törehamn. Saluté is already there, tied to the buoy.

“We made it!”, shouts Catherine. “You take our photo, and we’ll take yours. Then we can go and collect our certificates from the café.”

“It’s a strange feeling”, says the First Mate, over an ice-cream. “For the last few weeks, we have been working towards getting here. Now we are here, it feels a bit of an anti-climax. From now on, we are heading south again. It’s a pity we don’t have time to explore a bit more up here. It’s so beautiful.”

“We still have all the Finnish side to explore on the way back”, says Gavin. “That should keep us busy.”

Törehamn is rather industrial and not very picturesque, so we decide to head back to Gärdsviken for the night, a small harbour we had passed on the way up. We receive a warm welcome from the harbourmaster.

“We belong to the Törehamn Sailing Club”, he explains. “I am the club chairman, and this is our summer harbour. We are always pleased to welcome visiting sailors. Especially British ones, as we don’t see many of them up here. You two boats are the first ones this year.”

“We love coming here and getting away from it all”, another member says. “We don’t have any power, and all the water is collected from rainwater. But we have plenty of wood, so the sauna is woodfired and we have lots of barbecues. And there are lots of nice walks. There are even elk in the forest – some people go hunting for them.”

In the evening, we decide to take a sauna. We strike up a conversation with a club member who is a ‘techie’ working in the energy business.

“We’ve been working on projects to make steel production more sustainable”, he tells us. “We are looking at hydrogen from the ionisation of water as a way of heating the furnaces rather than coal.”

“But hydrogen is not really a source of energy, just a carrier”, I say. “You need lots of energy to ionise the water, and if that energy is from fossil fuels, you just end up shifting the emissions from one place to another, not reducing them.”

“True”, he says. “But we are looking at renewable sources of energy for that. Solar of course, but we also have lots of hydropower in the north of Sweden. Consequently, our electricity costs are substantially lower up here than down south. So much so, Facebook have even located their data servers in Luleä to cut costs.”

It’s getting hot. We take a breather and go and jump into the sea.

“What about the Sámi people up here?”, I ask him when we return. “Are there tensions between them and the mining and energy companies?”

“For sure there are”, he responds. “They want to keep the land for their reindeer herds and traditional way of life. But they are only a small fraction of the national economy. There are vast energy sources and mineral wealth up here that the country needs. You can’t stand in the way of progress.”

It’s a dilemma. Western civilisation needs energy and minerals to function. And yet, our extraction of them is destroying the ancient cultures of indigenous people worldwide, and our use of them is harming the planet by releasing greenhouse gases and pollutants into the environment. All in the name of progress. In this little club harbour with its reliance on natural energy and water, I wonder to myself if another way of life is possible?

“It’s ironic that all these folk are only able to enjoy the ‘get back to nature’ and simplistic lifestyle because they have boats to get here and well-paid jobs in the cities to buy the boats”, sniffs Spencer later.

“I think you are being a little bit unfair”, I say. “At least there is a desire to get back to nature. If that could be encouraged more widely it might be possible to live more sustainably.”

“Well, you are welcome to try”, he retorts. “I think you will find it is very difficult to scale up that way of thinking to the global population.”

Our plan is to get to Haparanda, the last town in Sweden before crossing into Finland. The club chairman advises us that the harbour at Haparandahamn is too shallow for our draft, so we are better to moor at Seskarö island and to catch the bus into Haparanda.

The next morning, we sail from Gärdsviken to Seskarö island. The wind has gone round to the south, and we enjoy a pleasant beam reach most of the way. At one stage a helicopter passes overhead with some kind of hopper suspended below it. We learn later that it is carrying fertiliser, but no one quite knows where to or what for. Farms or forest?

Eventually we reach Seskarö, and tie up to the small wharf.

“Let’s have a glass of wine and relax”, says the First Mate..

Somehow I manage to tip my drink over the laptop keyboard.

“Quick, turn it upside down”, says the First Mate. “It’ll stop it from going inside and help it drain.”

It helps, but it is too late. Before long, the keys start to feel sticky and to type long repetitive sequences of letters when I press them. But at least the computer itself seems to be still working.

“%%^^^****!!!!&&&”, I say. “It’s a disaster. I depend on the computer so much for everything – route planning, keeping the diary, writing the blog, watching the news. What will I do now?”

“Take it with us when we go into Haparanda tomorrow”, says the First Mate. “We might find someone who can fix it.”

We catch the bus into Haparanda in the morning. It is an interesting town. Originally there was only one town there, called Tornio, on the banks of the Torne River. Then, as a result of the Russian-Swedish War of 1809, Finland, which was Swedish territory at that stage, was ceded to Russia. It was decided to make the border between the two countries along the river, meaning that Tornio came to be in Finland. The Swedes nevertheless decided that they also needed a border town, so built Haparanda on the other side of the river. Nowadays, the two towns together are designated as a ‘Eurotown’, administered separately, but for all intents and purposes, operating as one.

“We mustn’t forget that Finland is one hour ahead of Sweden”, says the First Mate. “We don’t want to miss the bus by an hour. It’s the last bus until the morning.”

I find a computer repair shop in Tornio. The man sucks in his breath.

“I could fix it”, he says. “But I would have to order a new keyboard. And it has to be the UK version, and we only have Scandinavian ones here. It could take a week. When do you need it by?”

“This afternoon?”, I say hopefully.

“No chance”, he says. “But I tell you what. I could give you an external keyboard to plug in, and you could use that. It won’t be elegant, but at least it would work.”

“It sounds like a good solution”, says the First Mate. “Take it. Now let’s get lunch. I’m famished.”

We find a small café and order the soup.

“It’s funny having to pay in Euros on this side of the river and kroner on that side”, says the First Mate. “And two different time zones. And everything is in Finnish. What a language. Look at this newspaper. I can’t understand a thing. All those double letters everywhere. It’s almost as if someone’s keyboard has stuck.”

“That was a bit below the belt”, I groan.

“With Swedish at least, you could kind of work out what it meant because of the similarities with German”, says the First Mate. “Swedish has evolved from the northern German languages, after all. But with Finnish, I don’t know where to start. It’s totally different.”

“Finnish is not an Indo-European language, but instead is a Uralic language because its centre of origin is thought to be the Ural Mountains where the Volga River bends to the west”, Mr Google tells us. “It is related to Hungarian and Estonian. When Finland was ruled by Sweden, the Finnish language was considered inferior – the administrative language was Swedish, and Finnish was only allowed to be spoken and not written.”

“Fascinating”, says the First Mate. “No wonder we can’t understand it. Anyway, let’s pay and go and explore.”

The only thing of note in Tornio is the old wooden Eastern Orthodox church. Unfortunately it is locked.

We cross back over the bridge into Haparanda.

“Look, this is where the border is”, says the First Mate. I can stand with one leg in Finland and the other in Sweden. How cool is that?”

The church in Haparanda is ‘uncompromisingly modern’, the guide book tells us. A must see. It is interesting, to say the least. It reminds me of a warehouse. But I have seen worse.

Inside it looks a bit more like a church.

“Look, there is the IKEA store over there”, exclaims the First Mate, pointing to a blue and yellow building as we walk back. “Apparently it is the northernmost IKEA store in the world. Why don’t we have a look around it and have an early dinner before we catch the bus back? I haven’t had meatballs for a while.”

Most of Haparanda seems to have had the same idea. The queue is long. Eventually we make it though, and scoff our meatballs down before dashing for the bus station.

“I thought you said that the bus leaves at 1700?”, the First Mate says accusingly, as we arrive breathlessly. “The timetable says 1710. I could have enjoyed my dinner more instead of rushing and getting indigestion.”

“I made a mistake”, I say. “Sorry. It hasn’t been my day.”

In the evening, I try my new keyboard. It works, but is a bit cumbersome.

“At least you can still keep doing the blog”, says the First Mate.

“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.