Our first fjord, midsummer revelries, and a national foundation story

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“There’s another boat coming in”, calls the First Mate, as she ties us to the wooden quay. “I think it’s the one that was following us all the way up the fjord.”

We are in the small hamlet of Flørli near the head of Lysefjord, the first of the five large fjords of Norway. Yesterday, we had set sail from Tananger and had anchored overnight in a small bay called Vikavagen just inside the fjord entrance, and carried on up this morning.

Entering Lysefjord.

We had spotted the incoming boat first on the AIS, and since then we had kept an eye on it with the binoculars. As it approaches the quay, we see that is flying a French flag and that there are four young lads on it.

“One of them has a console in his hands”, says the First Mate. “Is he really playing games while the others are tying up?”

“I think it is a drone”, I say. “He’s probably videoing themselves coming in to the quay.”

Sure enough, we soon hear the high-pitched sound of a drone overhead. It hovers behind the boats tied up.

“I am taking a photo of you”, the drone pilot calls out. ”I’ll give you a copy. Smile!”

Snapped from the sky.

“We are all students on our gap year”, Drone Pilot tells us later as he transfers the photos to my phone by AirDrop. “We decided to do something different, so as we all like sailing, we bought the boat in August, spent a bit of time kitting her out, and set sail in October. We sailed down to Madeira, then across to the Caribbean, then back again. Then we sailed up to the Baltic, saw a bit of Sweden, and now we are doing Norway. After we get to Bergen, we want to sail across to Scotland before heading home again.”

There is an irrepressible enthusiasm in his voice that I find myself envying. What would I give to be young again, I think. Fit and strong, no aches and pains, no worries, no responsibilities, doing something exciting, and the whole of life stretching out in front.

“Come on”, says the First Mate. “You’ve done pretty well for yourself in terms of excitement.”

After a cup of tea, we visit the small museum in the old power station at the end of the quay.

Flørli village with the power-station and penstock on the left.

It was built in 1918, we learn, to bring water from the mountain lake Flørvatnet 740 m above sea-level through a penstock to the power station and its generators. At first, it was hoped that the power would be used by a steelworks, but the steel market collapsed globally and the steel company went bankrupt. Eventually the power station ended up supplying electricity to Stavanger city, until 1999 when a new power station was built inside the mountain. Now this one is derelict.

Control panel in the old power-station.

“Did you read about the small railway line they constructed when they were building it?”, asks the First Mate. “Apparently one of the trolleys got away on them and started careering down the mountain with nine people on board. Luckily they all managed to throw themselves off and the trolley kept on going and sank in the fjord.”

“They also built a set of wooden steps so that the workers could walk up”, I say. “Apparently one pair of brothers used to carry packs of up to 135 kg of materials on their backs up these steps. Quite a feat. Nowadays, the wooden stairway has been restored and you can climb to the top. There are 4,444 steps, the longest wooden staircase in the world. Shall we do it?”

“I don’t think my knee is up to it”, says the First Mate. “And it’s just been raining. The steps are too slippery.”

Flørli wooden steps and railway line.

When we get back to the boat, we discover that the wash from the high-speed passenger ferry has caused her to pitch up and down violently, and the anchor locker lid has been damaged by the anchor hitting the quay.

“It happens all the time”, says Tom, our German neighbour. “You need to make sure you are not tied too closely to the quay. You can use another rope to pull the boat closer when you want to get on and off.”

“Why can’t the ferry just slow down, so there is not so much wash?”, says the First Mate, irritated. “Now we’ll have to repair it.”

We set off the next morning back down the fjord. There’s no wind, but the sun is shining, and it looks stunning.

Lysefjord in the sun.

On the way, we pass the famous Preikestolen, a slab of rock shaped like a church pulpit jutting out from the cliff, 600 m up. Already we can see people on top having their photographs taken near the edge. We hadn’t been able to see it on the way up because of the low cloud and mist.

The Preikestolen from below.

In the evening, we reach Finnesandbukta on the island of Mosterøy, and tie up next to a wooden ship. It has a plate with the name Restauration on its stern.

“It’s a replica of the ship that sailed from Stavanger to New York in 1825, two hundred years ago, carrying immigrants to America, mostly Quakers”, our neighbour tells us. “It has become sort of an icon of Norwegian immigrants to America. They are planning to repeat the voyage in two weeks’ time, leaving on July 4th. Of course, this one makes use of all the modern navigational equipment.”

The Restauration being prepared for its voyage to America.

“I hope that their visas and everything are in order”, I say. “You hear of people having all sorts of trouble at the US border these days.”

“Funny you should say that”, he answers, smiling. “The original ship contravened American law by having too many immigrants on board for its size, so the company was fined, the ship confiscated, and the captain arrested when they arrived. But when President John Quincy Adams heard about it, he rescinded all of these. The immigrants were allowed to settle and became known as ‘sloopers’.”

After lunch, we borrow some bicycles from the nearby hotel and cycle up to Utstein Kloster, a medieval monastery. Originally a royal estate during Viking times, the monastery was established in the 1200s. After the Reformation in 1537, it was turned into a bailiff’s residence, and is now a museum and concert venue. It is the only monastery that has been preserved in Norway.

I sit in the courtyard and pretend I am a monk. The bees are buzzing in the flower garden, the birds are singing in the trees nearby, there is the smell of soup and freshly baked bread coming from the refectory. I think that I would quite like it.

Utstein Kloster, Norway’s only preserved medieval monastery.

We set sail the next morning, heading for Haugesund. Soon we are in the Karmsund Strait, the official start of the ancient North Way trading route from which Norway derives its name. To our left is the island of Karmøy, and to the right the Norwegian mainland. The wind is just enough off head-on for us to sail close-hauled, albeit slowly. Just as we pass the rather industrial-looking town of Kopervik with its massive aluminium smelting works, there is a ping on the First Mate’s phone.

“We’re right behind you”, the message says.

We turn around. It is Simon and Louise, whom we hadn’t seen since the foraging session in Smögen.

“We had planned to stay the night in Kopevik”, they tell us later. “But we found it so depressing there that we decided to carry straight on to Haugesund. Then imagine our surprise when we saw Ruby Tuesday on our AIS just in front of us!”

They motor on slowly to Haugesund. We decide to continue by sail as we are enjoying the sunny weather and don’t feel we are in a hurry. They arrive a bit before us.

“The harbour is completely full because of the midsummer revelries”, Simon radios us. “There is half a place next to us, but it has an iron girder sticking up out of the water, so there is a risk that you might hit it, especially if there is a strong wind.”

It doesn’t sound very appealing. The First Mate does a quick scan on her phone of other possibilities to tie up. It seems that there is a community pontoon on the nearby island of Vibrandsøy. We motor slowly over to it. It is full with small motor boats. No room for us.

“Let’s tie up against these tyres, and review the situation”, I say. “I am sure no-one will mind.”

Two elderly gentlemen approach. We eye them warily, expecting them to tell us that we can’t tie up here. But we needn’t have worried.

“As far as we are concerned, it’s fine to stay there”, one says. “But there are strong winds forecast for tomorrow, and it is a bit exposed there. There is a better place against the white boatshed around the corner. If you like, we’ll meet you around there and help you tie up.”

We motor around the corner. It is right next to the community pontoon. The two men appear, grab our ropes, and attach them to rings embedded in the concrete at each end of the shed. But our euphoria at having a place to stay overnight turns to dismay when we realise that there is no way off the boat as the boathouse doors are blocking our exit.

The two men look perplexed.

“We’ll try and make room for you on the community pontoon”, one says.

They push and pull the motorboats around until there is enough space for Ruby Tuesday on one side. We tie up. This time we can step off easily.

Tied up at the community pontoon on Vibrandsøy. Haugesund in the background.

“You can stay here as long as you like”, they say. “By the way, we are having a small midsummer get-together which you are welcome to join if you like.”

It’s very kind of them. We have our dinner, and then clutching a bottle of wine, we amble over to the gathering of 30-40 people on the grassy area between the houses.

“We are a club dedicated to restoring and maintaining traditional wooden boats”, one of the men says. “By the way, my name is Svein. It’s a royal name from Viking times. I have been working on helping to restore that old ship over there. We are planning to sail it down to the Mediterranean when it is ready.”

He points to a wooden ship near the entrance to the harbour.

“You Norwegians have always been sea-adventurers”, I say. “From the Vikings themselves, to Nansen, and to Heyerdahl. Not to mention that boat being restored at Finnesandbukta. Apparently, they are sailing it to America in two weeks.”

“Ah, the Restauration”, says Svein. “Yes, I was helping with that as well. And there’s also a local lad who keeps on trying to get to Greenland from here, but he’s tried four times now and has had to turn back each time for various reasons.”

“You must mean Eric Anderaa”, I say in surprise. “I follow him from time to time on YouTube. He must be away on one of his voyages at the moment?”

“No, he is still here”, responds Svein. “His boat is over in the main harbour. I think he might have given up on Greenland. This year he is sailing to Edinburgh. I am not sure when.”

Eric Anderaa’s boat Tessie in Haugesund.

The next day, the midsummer celebrations are finished, and everyone has gone home. The main harbour is almost empty. We move Ruby Tuesday over to be closer to the city centre.

In the afternoon we take the 209 bus that takes us a few miles south from Haugesund to the small town of Avaldsnes, from where we walk the 1 km or so to the Norwegian Historical Centre and St Olav’s Church perched on a hill overlooking the Karmsund. We had seen the church from the boat as we had passed.

“You’re just in time”, says an enthusiastic girl dressed as a Viking. “The next tour starts soon. Quick, the introductory film is just about to start.”

We take a seat in the front row. The film describes the rise of the sækonungr, the sea-kings, in the mid-700s – a coastal elite who did not own much land because of the inheritance system of the established manors and estates on the fertile inland areas passing only to the eldest sons. Instead, these sækonungr lived by using the infertile coastal islands to control maritime traffic, especially the trade in furs, down, walrus ivory, and whetstones from the Arctic. They gradually became wealthy in their own right, concentrating political power to themselves.

“Avaldsnes was named after one of these early sækonungr called Augvald”, the film tells us. “He had his seat of power here because the Karmsund narrows made it easy to control and tax ships passing through.”

“Later, another of these sækonungr was buried in the Great Mound here in AD 779. We don’t know for sure who it was, but it was possibly either Hjorleif the Woman-Lover or his son Half Hjorleifson. Not long after that the Viking raids on Western Europe began – the first raid on Lindisfarne monastery in the UK was in AD 793.”

The film ends, and we explore the museum. We learn of Harald Fairhair who won the Battle of Hafrsfjord in AD 872 against his main adversaries and in so doing unified the whole of Norway under one ruler. He chose Avaldsnes as his seat of power.

Harald Fairhair (from Wikipedia)

“I read that Harald Fairhair is a big deal for Norwegians, as he gave them justification and a sense of identity when they became independent”, I say. “It’s their foundation story.”

Unfortunately, it seems that modern scholarship has cast doubt on whether he even existed. Most of what we think we know about him comes from the Icelandic Sagas, which are not known to be terribly accurate in the details.

“Look, it says on this panel that the church outside is generally thought to have been built by Olaf Tryggvason, who forcibly converted people to Christianity by the sword and became Olaf I of Norway”, says the First Mate. “Perhaps not surprisingly, he wasn’t well liked, and was eventually killed in a battle orchestrated by his third wife and King Svein Forkbeard of Denmark.”

St Olaf’s Church, Avaldsnes.

“Marvellous names”, I think. “But if you live by the sword, you die by the sword.”

We decide to have a coffee at the cafeteria, and go and sit on a grassy mound outside. A sign tells us that it is the Cellar Mound. It seems that Augvald, the original king that gave his name to Avaldsnes, worshipped a favourite cow that gave him good luck in battle, so the two were buried in adjacent mounds when they died. The story goes that when Olaf Tryggvason opened the mounds, sure enough he found human bones in one, and cow bones in the other.

Olaf Tryggvason finding the remains of Augvald in the mound.

“It certainly makes a good story”, says the First Mate.

Crossing the Skagerrak, a blind alley, and a dodgy radio aerial

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“We need to get an early start tomorrow”, I say. “The wind is from the north-west from about midnight, which is good for us as it will be on a reach and it should carry us more southards. The problem is that it is forecast to go then around to the south-west at around noon, which will then blow us north. So we need to get as much of the north-west wind as we can. I suggest that we leave at 0300 just as it gets light.”

We are planning the crossing across the Skagerrak from Sweden to Norway, a notorious piece of water that is essentially open sea. Depending on where we make landfall on the Norwegian coast it could be a distance of 60 to 90 nautical miles. As we are then heading south along the Norwegian coast and around the bottom, we want to get as far south in our crossing as we can.

“Ugh, I don’t like these early starts”, says the First Mate. “But I guess we have to do it.”

“Once we get going, you can go back to sleep”, I say.

We edge our way out of the harbour in the half dark, and with little wind in the protected area of Strömstad, we motor clear of the rocks and skerries north of the Koster Islands before raising the sails. As forecast, the wind picks up and we sail on a fast beam reach. Looking back, we see the sun begin to peep above the horizon.

Sunrise over Strömstad.

“It’s times like this that I really love about sailing”, says the First Mate. “It’s so beautiful. Now, if you don’t mind, I am going to try and get a bit more sleep. Let me know if you need anything.”

“Just a cup of tea before you go”, I say.

The land disappears out of sight behind us, and Norway is yet too far to be seen. We are alone on the sea. The miles slip effortlessly under the keel, interrupted only by the passing of the ferry from Kiel to Oslo.

At mid-day, the wind drops to almost nothing. We consider starting the engine, but moments later, the wind starts again, this time from the south-west. Just as predicted.

“I’m always amazed how quickly these wind changes can occur”, says the First Mate, awake now. “You’d think that the change would be much more gradual than that, going around slowly. But it often happens all of a sudden.”

“I guess we must be at the boundary of two airstreams moving in different directions”, I say. “We would need to look at the wind map.”

As anticipated, the change in wind direction means that we will be pushed further north now. I do some quick calculations and work out that we should be able to make landfall at Risør, further north than I had hoped, but not too bad. By all accounts it is a pretty town.

Soon we are edging our way through the islands and skerries guarding the entrance to Risør harbour and tie up on the outside of the L-shaped pontoon.

Tied up in Risør harbour.

“You need to report your arrival to the police if you have just come from Sweden”, the couple on the American-flagged boat in front of us tell us. “As well as the Customs. They came down to inspect us earlier in the afternoon. Luckily we had declared everything and paid the duty on it.”

We had heard that the Norwegian Customs were tightening up on the entry of foreign boats into Norway, and that it was highly advisable to be proactive and up-front in registering your arrival and declaring what you are bringing into the country. We had just heard a story of a British boat which had been heavily fined in the previous week for not completing their formalities correctly.

We had already declared online the small amount of alcohol we had in addition to the meagre limit we were allowed. I spend the rest of the day trying to phone the police in Oslo, but no-one seems interested. Eventually I reach the local police for the area.

“That’s fine”, the young-sounding officer on the other end says. “I’ll make a note of your arrival, and send you an email to confirm that you have entered correctly. Let me just find out if Customs want to come and see you. They are just in the next room.”

“No, they don’t need to see you”, he says on his return. “You are free to sail in Norway now. But don’t forget that if you want to leave your boat here over the winter that you need to ask them formally for permission after six weeks from the date of entry.”

“Well, that was all very easy”, says the First Mate, with a sigh of relief. “I thought they would at least come and search us, after what the Americans told us. We could have been real smugglers for all they know.”

Risør is a picturesque little town with all of its houses painted white. It has a strong maritime history, with many wooden boats being kept and maintained here, and an international wooden boats festival every August.

Risør.

We climb up to the Risørflekken, a patch of bare rock painted white, overlooking the town. The story is that it was created by Dutch sailors in the 17th century as a navigational aid, and is still visible several miles out to sea. Its white colour has been maintained ever since then.

“Not quite”, says the First Mate. “I read somewhere that they painted it black during the Napoleonic Wars to stop the English boats from seeing it.”

In any case, it gives a good view over the town and the harbour. We sit for a while and watch the comings and goings of the small boats.

Risør harbour from the Risørflekken.

“Did you see that there is a pub here called ‘The Peterhead’?”, says the First Mate on the way back.

I had seen it. Peterhead is a major fishing port in north-east Scotland, where we live, and where we had kept Ruby Tuesday for a winter during the covid pandemic.

“I asked the landlord how it came to be called that”, she continues. “Apparently it was because of the strong timber trading links between Risør and Peterhead in the 18th and 19th centuries. A lot of Norwegian pine was taken from here to be used for shipbuilding and house construction in Scotland.”

The Peterhead Bar in Risør.

The next morning, we head southwards from Risør. The wind is now from the north-east, and the Norwegian current is also flowing southwards parallel to the coast, so we have an effortless run down on the genoa only, passing Arendal, Grimstad and Lillestad. Past that, we have decided to take the Blindleia route, the inner route through the islands off the coast.

“The name translates as the Blind Alley”, I say. “There are a lot of nice anchorages on the way. The only thing is that it is very narrow in places, with the occasional sharp turn, so we will need to take it carefully. There is also a bridge at the beginning that has only 19 m clearance, which is a bit risky for our 18 m, but luckily we can join it a few miles further down. Better safe than sorry.”

“There seems to be a nice looking anchorage just close to where we join it”, says the First Mate. “It’s called Mortensholm. We could anchor there, chill out, and stay there the night.”

Mortensholm turns out to be a beautiful sheltered little inlet surrounded by steep rock faces and forest. Three or four other boats are already in there, and there isn’t much room for us, particularly as there is a large shallow area in the middle we must avoid. We find a place between two other boats and drop anchor. But our swinging around the anchor brings us very close to one of them, and the occupant glares at us, his privacy disturbed and his boat in danger. A small Jack Russell bounds onto the deck and barks aggressively.

As a clever forestalling manoeuvre, the First Mate engages the man in conversation. She’s good at that. It turns out that he has worked in Africa, and knows Zambia well. We have an instant rapport, and the imminent collision is forgotten.

“I was working for a mining company there as an engineer”, he tells us. “Diamonds. We were looking for diamonds. I was in South Africa, Namibia and Zimbabwe too. Eight years in total, but in the end I decided to come back. There’s something about Norway that I like. I bought myself a boat and I spend the summers just exploring here and there. If I like a place I stay a bit longer; if I don’t, I just move on. Charlotte here keeps me company.”

Hearing her name, the Jack Russell wags her tail in agreement.

“It’s funny, isn’t it?”, says the First Mate to me later. “I haven’t thought about Zambia for years, but here we have been talking about it in the last two blogs.”

In the morning, we set off southwards along the Blindleia, passing through narrow gaps only a bit wider than the boat and only a few centimetres deeper than our draft.

Gently does it!

We pass the small island of Småhølmene, the focus of a book we had both read over the winter called Island Summers, by Tilly Culme-Seymour. In it the author describes how her grandmother, a descendent the Norwegian shipping family, Olsen, buys the island just after WW2 in exchange for a mink coat, and, in true Norwegian fashion, builds a wooden cabin on it for summer holidays. She and her family then come every summer to escape their hectic, albeit somewhat privileged, lifestyle in England and enjoy the peace and freedom that their Norwegian island offers, a tradition that continues for at least three generations. It’s a charming enough story, at least the first part, giving a glimpse of relaxed Norwegian summers enjoying nature, fishing, swimming, sunbathing, cooking and eating. However, it seems to lose its way towards the end when the author and her boyfriend decide to stay the winter in the cottage, but in reality are there only from March to May, hardly the winter, even in Norway.

Making our way through the Blindleia.

We continue to weave our way through the rocks and islands of the Blindleia, through tiny hamlets clinging to the banks on both sides, and eventually reach Mandal, the southern-most town in Norway, at the mouth of the Mandalselva River. Mandal built its wealth on the back of salmon fishing and timber trading in the 1700s, and still has a well-established, self-contented charm about it, with its white-painted wooden houses and beautiful golden-sanded beach.

Main Street in Mandal.
Mandal beach.

We still have the infamous Lindesnes and Lista capes to negotiate. These two rocky headlands where the waters of the Baltic and the North Sea meet have been designated ‘Dangerous Sea Areas’ by the Norwegian authorities, as ferocious winds and high waves can build up suddenly, particularly from the predominant south-west. They are not to be taken lightly.

Luckily for us, the winds have gone round to the east, and are forecast to stay that way for several days. We need to make the most of them to go around the capes and as far as we can up the west coast before they turn.

In the morning, we set off from Mandal and head westwards, using only the genoa again and not the mainsail, due to the risk of the latter gybing. We had just heard a story of a boat the previous week which had gybed accidentally going around the Lindesnes due to a sudden change in wind direction, which had damaged its mast. Even with only the genoa out, we still make 7 knots, so we don’t complain.

In the event, we pass the Lindesnes and then the Lista without incident. The seas are choppy, but not dangerous.

Rounding the Lindesnes.

“Well, that wasn’t too bad”, says the First Mate. “After all I read about them, I was a bit worried that it was going to be pretty rough. But that was tolerable.”

We stop for the night at the small island of Hitra, and its beautiful harbour of Kirkehamn, so named after its iconic white-painted church standing on a small promontory jutting out into the harbour. As luck would have it, there is a wedding in progress, and the small marina is full of the motorboats of the guests. We have no option but to tie up on the far side of the harbour against some old tyres with no facilities or power.

Tied up in Kirkehamn.

“It’s only for a night”, I say. “But we can walk around to the church and restaurant and have dinner there to make up for it.”

The iconic church in Kirkehamn.

In the morning, the easterly winds are still favourable but are forecast to change in a couple of days, so we decide to leave at 0300 to make the most of them and to sail all the way to Tananger, a distance of more than 60 NM.

“The last few days have been quite long sails”, says the First Mate. “I’ll be quite glad when we get to Tananger, so that we can chill out a bit. But it is great that we have finally managed to get to the west coast of Norway in good time.”

Ruby Tuesday approaching Tananger.

We make it to Tananger in late afternoon. The wind is strong and it makes tying up to the jetty difficult, but there are several helping hands and soon we are secure.

On the way in, I had noticed that the VHF aerial on top of the mast was swinging from side to side, even though it still seemed to be working. The next morning, I send the drone up to have a look and take some photos, but it is still not clear what exactly has happened.

A wobbly VHF aerial.

“My guess is that the retaining nut on the bottom has worked itself loose”, I tell the First Mate. “But it seems to be still attached at least. We’ll have to find someone who can go to the top and have a look at it. I’m too old for that sort of thing.”

I phone every boat repair company in Tananger, but none have free time to be able to do it as it is the start of the boating season in Norway. Eventually, I find someone north of Bergen who says that he can look at it.

“Bergen?”, says the First Mate. “But we won’t be there for at least two weeks. I hope that it stays on until then!”

So do I.

Existential despair, cottage country, and a Norwegian culinary treat

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“I enjoyed the Munch museum yesterday”, says the First Mate, taking a bite from her sandwich. ”It was good to see The Scream at last. It gave me some inspiration for my own painting classes in the winter. I hope that I can remember it all.”

We are on the train to Gjørvik, two hours north of Oslo, to see our friends Ståle and Gunvor. Once clear of Oslo, we wend our way through deep valleys, lush forest, and fertile farms . It starts to rain heavily, the raindrops streaking the train windows. I reach for my coffee.

On our way to Gjørvik.

“Yes, he certainly taps into our deepest emotions of fear, anxiety and despair”, I say, recalling what I had read in the brochure we had been given. “All particularly relevant to today’s world. What I didn’t realise though was that he painted several versions of The Scream – I had imagined there was only one. And none of them are quite the same.”

“You certainly get the feeling that a lot of his work was based on his own personal experiences”, she says. “The early deaths of his mother and sister, and his own struggles with mental health, strongly influenced his depiction of illness, death and emotional turmoil. And the look of jealousy on the faces of the two women in Dance of Life. You could almost imagine that he, as the man, was enjoying it.”

We reach the station at Gjørvik. Ståle and Gunvor are there to meet us. We had first met them in Zambia in the late 1980s, when we had all arrived at the same time to work on various development projects – building roads, teaching, administration, agricultural research – coincidentally all funded by the Norwegian Government. We had somehow lost touch with each other over the years, but now that we are retired and have the time, it is nice to catch up with old friends again.

Ståle and Gunvor meet us.

They look much the same as we remember them from 30 years ago.

“Well, apart from turning rather grey”, says Ståle. “And suffering the ignominy of new hair sprouting in senseless places!”

I know the feeling. Not to mention the teeth that have to be extracted, and the various aches and pains that seem to appear for no reason and take longer to disappear than they used to.

“Anyway, welcome to Norway”, he continues. “We have been preparing these last 1000 years for the retaliatory sea-raids out of Scotland after we did a little bit of looting and pillaging there. So we’ve been expecting you.”

Getting our own back?

Ståle is engaged in development and relief work as head of the Programme Department in an NGO in Gjørvik, while Gunvor processes building applications at the district municipality.

“We’ll pass my office on the way home”,Ståle says. “If you are interested, I can quickly show you around.”

We stop at a modern building not far from the centre of town. Inside, the walls are covered with posters of scenes in tropical countries and smiling happy people.

“It’s pretty much all funded by the Norwegian Government”, he says, as we tour the building. “Our work is on safeguarding children in developing countries, with particular focus on alcohol and substance abuse, mental health, children’s rights, and gender equality. We work through local partner organisations to support home-grown initiatives. A big part of what we do is to help with fund-raising for those initiatives.”

I ask him if he has any plans for retirement.

“There has been the odd hint that maybe I should start thinking about it”, he says. “But I haven’t risen to the bait yet. I love my job.”

We arrive at their house with a stunning view looking out over Lake Mjøsa, the largest lake in Norway.

Gjørvik and Lake Mjøsa.

“At 453 m depth, it is the fourth deepest lake in Europe”, Gunvor tells us. “In the winter, most of it can freeze over.”

“When I was young”, says Ståle, “I got my name in the local newspaper for ice-skating from one side to another. Unfortunately, I was seen as a reckless idiot rather than a hero. The thickness of the ice can vary considerably, and there is a real risk of falling through it. But I somehow survived to tell the tale.”

I shudder. The thought of being trapped under thick ice and not being able to find the entry hole before my breath runs out fills me with dread.

Over dinner, the conversation turns to economics.

Sorting out the problems of the world over the last 30 years …

“I’ve never really understood why everything is Norway is so expensive”, I say. “I suppose for Norwegians, though, you have the salaries to match, so things don’t seem so expensive to you? It’s only if you are coming from the outside that it does.”

“They were expensive because of the oil”, says Ståle. “We paid ourselves high salaries, even unskilled workers, because we could afford to. But actually now, salaries are levelling off so people are now starting to find things more expensive. It’s really only alcohol that is terribly expensive.”

“Yes, we are still trying to get to grips with the very strict rules that Norway has on the amount of alcohol you can bring in”, says the First Mate. “Do you think that it has any effect?”

“I know it is strange that we are so draconian now after the reputation the Vikings had for drinking”, says Ståle. “But I think that it’s helped to reduce a lot of family and social problems we used to have through alcohol abuse. Whenever they are asked, the public generally support the policy for that reason.”

We sleep that evening in a small cottage belonging to Gunvor’s niece, right by the shore of the lake. It’s idyllic. Particularly an early morning walk and watching the sun rise over the hills on the far side of the lake.

Lakeside retreat.

“I thought that we could drive to Lillehammer today”, says Ståle. “That’s where they hosted the Winter Olympics in 1994. There is an open-air museum there with a collection of houses from all over Norway and from different eras, which you might find interesting. Maihaugen, it is called. We can also have lunch there.”

After lunch in the museum restaurant, we find ourselves in front of an impressive-looking wooden church.

The Garmo stave church.

“It’s called a stave church”, a museum guide dressed as some sort of friar explains. “Due to its method of construction. Strong wooden posts rise vertically to give the structure strength, with lighter boards filling in the gaps between. The original church was built in the early 1200s in Garmo. It was dismantled in 1880 and transported here in 1921. The altarpiece and pulpit are both from the original church.”

Further on, we watch a woman making soap the traditional way.

“It’s amazing how you can mix fat and wood ash to come up with something that cleans”, says the First Mate.

Making soap the traditional way.

“Did you see this house over here?”, calls Gunvor, pointing to a well-appointed, but distinctly suburban, house. “It’s Queen Sonya’s actual house. Don’t you remember that you met her in Zambia?”

There had been a royal visit by the then Crown Prince Harald and his wife Sonya to all the Norwegian-funded projects in Zambia. I had been asked to give a talk about the work that we were doing, and I distinctly remember standing in the middle of a field trying to explain to the royal entourage what agroforestry was all about. Later we had had lunch along with them, along with all the other Norwegians there. Sonya herself had been born a commoner, albeit a relatively well-to-do one, and the young couple were obviously very popular. More than a few tears were shed as they were taken to the small airport and their plane disappeared into the African skies towards Lusaka.

“The couple kept their courtship secret for nine years”, a panel in the house tells us. “In those days, royalty weren’t permitted to marry commoners. But Harald told his father that he wouldn’t marry anyone if he couldn’t marry her. Faced with the threat of his royal line dying out, his father agreed. Harald eventually ascended the throne in 1991 to become King Harald V of Norway, with Sonya becoming his queen.”

“She’s just repaying you for that interesting talk on agroforestry in Zambia you gave her in 1990 by inviting you into her childhood home”, jokes Ståle, taking a photo of me standing outside the house.

Outside Queen Sonya’s childhood home.

I am not so sure. I had always thought that I had bored them with my enthusiastic but technical talk of ecological farming. But who knows?

“I thought that we could drive over to our cottage west of here today”, says Gunvor the next morning. “Actually, my sister and myself inherited it when our father died, so we share it with them. They are there at the moment doing some tidying up work, so you’ll meet them.”

“We Norwegians love our cottages”, says Ståle. “They tend to stay in the family, passing from one generation to the next. Mostly they are quite basic with limited facilities, but offer a respite from the pressures of city life. I suppose it is all this getting back to nature thing. I actually have a cottage myself on the west coast on an island near Trondheim that I inherited from my father, although we hardly ever use it. We don’t even rent it out as it is more hassle than it is worth to find housekeepers and so on to look after it.”

It’s not all that different from the Cottage Country area in Ontario, Canada, where we had lived for a year, or, for that matter, the ‘bach’ culture in New Zealand, where I grew up. When we were children, my parents had had a small cottage at a local beach, which we visited from time to time in the summer. Happy memories of sunny days, playing in the sand on the beach, swimming in the small stream that flowed towards the sea, and, of course, eating ice-creams. Eventually we sold it, as us children grew up and moved away from home.

We drive up a winding, unsurfaced road, and arrive at a white-painted cottage in a large clearing in the forest. A ravine tumbles almost vertically from the mountain at the back, and an eclectic mix of agricultural implements lie next to a small shed.

The cottage in the mountains.

“They’re Gunvor’s toys”, says Ståle, following my gaze. “Being an engineer by training, she loves mechanical things that can do serious work.”

Gunvor’s sister Sigrid and her husband Ragnor, along with their small dachshund, are already there. They are also both engineers, working on military projects.

“We are sailors too”, Ragnor tells us over a lunch of waffles. “We used to have a boat and sailed it in the Skagerrak a lot, both in Sweden and Norway. In fact , I have always been fascinated by the idea of travelling by wind power. In my younger days, a group of us kite-skied from the south to the north of Greenland. It was an amazing experience.”

I am suitably impressed. It had never occurred to me that such a thing was even possible, let alone achieved.

“Try some of this Rømmegrøt”, says Gunvor. “It’s a traditional Norwegian dish made with sour cream, milk, wheat flour, butter, and salt mixed into a kind of porridge. You can drizzle it with butter, and sprinkle sugar, cinnamon and sultanas on top. You normally eat it to accompany salami or ham and a flatbread. It’s quite rich.”

Tucking into the Rømmegrøt.

‘Quite’ is an understatement.

“Phew, that was absolutely delicious”, I say, after a second helping. “But I don’t think I can squeeze any more in without bursting.”

“Me neither”, says the First Mate. “I am going to have to diet for the next month.”

“When I was growing up, it was my absolute favourite dish”, says Ståle. “I couldn’t get enough.”

On the way back to Gjørvik, the conversation turns to our Zambian days.

“Do you remember that trip to Zimbabwe?”, asks Gunvor. “The time there was no flour in the whole of Zambia because the parts for the mill at Kabwe hadn’t arrived. We drove down to Harare to buy flour, a journey that took two days just to get there.”

“I do remember getting to the border at Victoria Falls on the way back”, I say. “What we didn’t realise was that there was a 10 kg limit on flour that you could take out of Zimbabwe. Most of it was confiscated by the border guards. I was heartbroken looking in the rear-view mirror at our precious flour bags piled up in a heap by the border post. Our whole trip was wasted.”

“You can be sure where that ended up”, says the First Mate. “I bet the border guards enjoyed their bread that night.”

The next day, it’s time to go. We need to catch the 0735 train from Gjøvik to Oslo to get back to Ruby Tuesday. The winds to make the 70 nautical mile Skagerrak crossing from Strömstad in Sweden to Risør in Norway are in our favour tomorrow, and we have to make the most of them of them or wait another week.

“We’ve really enjoyed our stay with you”, says the First Mate. “It was wonderful to catch up with you both again after all these years.”

“It’s somehow quite special, isn’t it”, says Ståle. “I mean, that four young people could meet in a remote corner in the deep interior of Africa, that this led to two marriages that still are intact and thriving after 35 years, that we could meet and exchange memories half a life later in the deep interior of Norway, and that we are as comfortable in each other’s company now as we were back then.”

I couldn’t have put it better myself.

A deep ocean trench, an egg-shaped boat, and an anthropological adventurer

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“Oh, no”, says the First Mate, peering through the binoculars. “”There’s someone else already there. I was hoping that we would have it all to ourselves.”

We had set sail from Smögen that morning. The other ‘foragers’ had already dispersed – Hekla had already left for Norway across the Skagerrak as they had to be in Bergen within a week to meet their daughter, Aloucia had decided to have a couple of days on Väderöarna (the Weather Islands) before doing the same, and Amalia was heading for Strömstad for a change of crew. We are meandering our way northwards so that we can visit our friends Ståle & Gunvor north of Oslo. On the way, we had seen a small bay that looked ideal for anchoring overnight.

“Never mind”, I say. “We can anchor a bit away from him and pretend he isn’t there. At least it isn’t packed with hordes of boats.”

We drop anchor in the middle of the small bay. It is idyllic. A steep cliff drops precipitously to the water on one side and lush green woodlands cover the gentler slopes on the other. Not a house, car, or even a telephone pole are to be seen. We could be the only people alive. Apart from the sole occupant of the other boat, of course.

Anchored in Otterön bay.

We cook dinner and bask in the warmth of the last sun of the day before turning in.

In the morning, I awake and lie watching the patterns of light dancing on the ceiling for a few moments. I make myself a cup of tea, and go out on deck. The other boat has already gone, and we are alone. A small gulp of cormorants fly overhead in formation, disappearing over the cliffs. Further down the bay, two swans come in to land, their feet swooshing across the surface before they settle down into the water, shaking their wings dry before folding them.

I pick up the book I am reading at the moment. It is the latest of John Gray’s, entitled The New Leviathans. Bleak but stimulating, he discusses the end of the liberal democracy era and its Enlightenment concepts of individualism, equality, universalism, and meliorism – the idea that things will always improve. Only 30 years ago, with the fall of the Soviet Union, the feeling in the West was that these ideas had triumphed over everything else, that liberal democracy was the pinnacle of human government, and that all that still needed to be done was to make every country believe that. Not so, says Gray – so many terrible things have happened since then, and the West and its freedoms are visibly crumbling with the rise of right-wing extremism, authoritarianism, and religious nationalism. The role of these new forms of government are more to protect citizens, or subgroups of citizens, rather than to protect basic freedoms. What’s more, he argues, all these -isms are just words with no substance; the reality is that it is just people going about making decisions for their daily lives. Such words, however, are dangerous as they make people do things in the name of ideologies.

“Breakfast time”, come the dulcet tones of the First Mate from down below. “I’ve put on the coffee. You can make the toast.”

I put down the book and go inside. Why am I reading this rather than enjoying the beautiful scenery around me, I ask myself. But I know I’ll continue reading it when the next chance comes.

After breakfast, we push on to the Koster Islands, about 12 miles west of Strömstad. We arrive at Ekenas, the main harbour. There is a strong current through the narrow channel in which the marina is located, and it is not easy to tie up. The neighbours help us, but somehow we still manage to nudge the pontoon and take a small chip out of Ruby Tuesday. I am not very happy.

“Come on”, says the First Mate, obviously seeing the look on my face. “Let’s go and get an ice-cream. That’ll cheer you up.”

Tied up at Ekenas on the Koster islands.

Near the ice-cream shop is a wooden building labelled the Naturum. It’s a kind of museum, and free. An enthusiastic woman greets us at the door.

“Welcome to the Naturum”, she says. “I’m your guide. I am studying ecology at university. You can learn all about the natural history of the Koster Islands here. Did you know they’re perched on the edge of the Norwegian Trench?”

We have to admit that we hadn’t heard of the Norwegian Trench.

“It’s a deep trench that curves all the way around the south of Norway, up to the Oslofjord, then a bit down the west coast of Sweden just past the Koster Islands”, the Enthusiastic Ecologist explains, leading us to a scale model lit with pulsating lights. “It’s up to 700 m deep in places, and up to 95 kilometres wide. A current flows along it bringing water from the Baltic to join the Norwegian Coastal Current along the west coast of Norway. These pulsating lights show you the currents.”

Model of the Norwegian Trench and its currents.

We tell her that we are planning to sail across to Strömstad, and from there across to Risør in Norway.

“Well, you’ll be sailing over it both times”, she says. “In fact, the deepest part of it is actually just off Risør. Keep an eye on your sonar – the edge of it comes up very suddenly like a cliff, so you can’t really miss it.”

It’s fascinating stuff. I read that evening that the Norwegian Trench is unusual for oceanic trenches in that it has been created entirely by erosion and glacial processes about 1 million years ago rather than by tectonic plates moving over each other as most other ocean trenches are.

In the morning, we unload the bikes, and set off to explore the islands. We come to the grocery store in the centre of South Koster, which judging by the amount of people, seems to be some sort of communal meeting place.

The supermarket on South Koster island.

“Let’s get lunch here”, says the First Mate. “I’m famished. I’ll go in and get something to eat and drink. You stay here and find a table and look after the bikes.”

She comes back out with some sandwiches and orange juice.

The bread in the sandwiches is dry and they taste old.

“The packet says they are best before June 30”, says the First Mate. “That’s a month away. They should be OK.”

I notice on the packet that they were made on May 2. Not only that, they were made in Italy!

“I can’t believe it”, she says. “Made in another country a month ago. No wonder they taste funny.”

“Don’t beat yourself up”, I say. “At least the orange juice tastes good.”

We eventually reach the village of Långegärde on the edge of the narrow channel that divides South Koster from North Koster. The electric ferry from the mainland has just arrived and is disgorging its passengers. We had seen it several times before when it stopped at Ekenas where we are tied up – with almost silent engines apart from a faint hum, it had seemed to creep up on us without warning and rock our boat violently with its wash. But all credit for being sustainable.

The electric ferry arrives at Långegärde.

There is a small chain ferry that goes from one side of the channel to the other. We join the queue.

“The last ferry goes at 1630”, a woman in the queue tells us. “If you miss it, you can get the main passenger ferry back again, but it doesn’t go until 1900. You’ll have a bit of a wait.”

The chain ferry from South Koster across to North Koster.

On the other side, we continue our cycle ride through beautiful green forests until we come to the small harbour of Vettnett. There isn’t a lot there apart from children fishing, but it is beautiful.

“We’d better get back”, says the First Mate. “I think we should try and catch the 1630 chain ferry. I don’t really want to wait around until 1900.”

We make it just in time, and are soon back on the South Koster side.

“You can actually work the chain ferry yourself”, the university student operating it tells us. “But you need to have been trained and to have a license. Lots of people who live on North Koster do just that and are not tied to timetables.”

On the way back to the boat, we stop and climb the path to the highest point on the Koster Islands, Valfjäll, rising to the awe-inspiring height of 50 m. But there is a good view of the archipelago from the top.

Valfjäll, the highest point on South Koster.

“I read that you can even see the Weather Islands from here”, says the First Mate, pointing southwards.

I strain my eyes, and just manage to see a slight smudge on the horizon. I clean my glasses to get a better view.

The Weather Islands seem to have disappeared.

In the morning, we sail over to Strömstad on the mainland. I keep an eye on the depth underneath us. Sure enough, as the Enthusiastic Ecologist said, it plummets suddenly from about 20 m near the harbour to more than 200 m as we cross the Norwegian Trench.

“I don’t like that very much”, says the First Mate. “All that water underneath me.”

“We learnt when we were kids that you can drown in a foot of water”, I say. “It hardly matters if it is 20 m or 200 m underneath us. Better instead to make sure that we don’t fall overboard.”

Arriving in Strömstad.

We have decided to leave Ruby Tuesday in Strömstad and take public transport to Oslo, have a couple of days there exploring the city, then carry on up to Gjørvik in the centre of the country where our friends, Ståle and Gunvor, live. We had considered sailing up the Oslofjord to Oslo, but had been advised by a number of people that while sailing up the fjord is not very difficult, sailing back again is, mainly because the predominant winds are from the south and we would be battling them all the way. As we still needed to make it to the west coast of Norway, a not inconsiderable distance, we decided this was good advice.

The First Mate finds an AirBnB in Oslo for a couple of nights, and books tickets on FlixBus.

“We need to get the local 111 bus out to the E6 motorway to catch the FlixBus”, she says. “There’s only 10 minutes between one and the other. Let’s hope the local bus is on time.”

It is, and soon we are whizzing along the E6 on our way to Oslo.

“The AirBnb is in Rosenhoff”, says the First Mate, when we arrive. “We need to catch a tram there. If we buy a 24 hour Oslo Pass, we can use it on all public transport to go exploring tomorrow as well. It also includes free entrance to museums and art galleries.”

In the morning, we take a ferry across to the Bygdøy peninsula where the Fram and Kon-Tiki museums are located.

The Fram was a purpose-built ship for polar exploration. Its hull was ingeniously designed in an eggshell shape so that the ice would force it upwards rather than crushing it, effectively ending up floating on the surface. The rudder and propeller could be retracted so that they wouldn’t be damaged by the ice. It was specially insulated and stocked so that the crew could live on it for up to five years.

The egg-shaped hull of the Fram.
The propeller and rudder could be retracted to avoid ice damage.

“The Fram was commissioned and used first by the Norwegian polar explorer Fridtjof Nansen in 1893”, a panel tells us. “It was used to test his theory that there was an east-west current across the north pole. By trapping the Fram in the ice around the Siberian islands, they found that it emerged into the North Atlantic Ocean after three years, partly proving the theory, although it didn’t cross the actual North Pole.”

The Fram locked into the ice.

“It was also amazing that the same boat was used by Roald Amundsen when he reached the South Pole in 1911”, says the First Mate over a coffee later. “He was originally planning to be the first to reach the North Pole, but was beaten there by the American explorer Robert Peary, so he secretly changed his mind to aim for the South Pole. He didn’t even tell his crew until the last minute of the change in plans.”

Roald Amundsen, 1872-1928.

“And in doing so, he beat Scott’s British expedition there by five weeks”, I say. “I remember learning about it at school, as Scott had stopped in New Zealand on his way to stock up. Unfortunately, they all died on the way back. It’s the stuff of a heroic British legend, even though they failed. Now, drink up, and let’s go and see the Kon-Tiki museum. It’s just across the way.”

The Kon-Tiki is a raft built of balsa wood that was used by the Norwegian explorer Thor Heyerdahl to test the theory that the inhabitants of the the Polynesian islands could have originated from people who travelled by boat from South America using the Humboldt Current to carry them. He built the Kon-Tiki in Peru in 1947, and by reaching the Polynesian islands of Tuomotu, showed that it was at least feasible.

The preserved Kon-Tiki made from balsa wood.

“It’s a great story”, says the First Mate, “but did you read that genetic and language information collected since have all but proved his theory to be false, and that Polynesians have their origins in South East Asia. Most reputable anthropologists nowadays dismiss his theories completely.”

“It didn’t seem to deter him, though”, I say. “Another of his theories was that the Ancient Egyptians could have sailed across the Atlantic to trade with the inhabitants of the Americas. So he built another raft called the Ra out of papyrus. After one failure, he rebuilt it and managed to sail from Morocco to the Caribbean in 1970, again proving that it was at least possible. I remember keeping a scrapbook on it when I was at high-school.”

Thor Heyerdahl’s Ra II made from papyrus.

“He certainly had an adventurous life”, says the First Mate. “It’s a pity after all that that none of his ideas turned out to be right.”

“That’s how science works”, I say. “People come up with different ideas, put them to the test, consider all the evidence, and either discard, modify or adopt them. Unfortunately, Heyerdahl’s mostly ended up in the dustbin. But you never know what will happen in the future.”

The best job in the world, a transvestite thief, and a sustainable sea harvest

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“It’s the best job in the world”, says the woman, as she climbs out of the small single-seater, electrically-powered vehicle with glass doors. “I used to have a higher paying job, but I have been doing this for about five years now, and couldn’t wish for anything better. I know everyone on the island, and they all know me, and I feel as if I am doing something useful. And this little thing here protects me from the elements and means that I don’t have to walk everywhere.”

We are in the town of Marstrand on the west coast of Sweden, and are talking to the postwoman of the island.

The best job in the world!

“These are the letters I have to deliver”, she continues, pointing to rows of envelopes arranged in a rack on one side of the cabin. “And the big parcels are in the back here.”

“Do you know where we can get some lunch?”, the First Mate asks her. “Everything seems to be closed today.”

“Yes, places close here when the weather isn’t so good, as not many tourists come over”, the postwoman says. “But I think that the bakery along the waterfront is open. You could try there.”

She climbs in her post-van, presses a button, and whizzes away over the cobblestones.

We find the bakery and order sandwiches and coffee. A brochure on the town is lying on the table.

“Marstrand was founded in the 13th century by the Norwegian king Håkon Håkonsson because of its strategic location, being ice-free, and its good shelter from all wind directions”, it tells me. “It developed as a fishing town, and made its wealth from herring, becoming known as the herring capital of Europe. At one time, the street lamps in Paris were all lit with herring oil from Marstrand. It became part of Sweden in 1648, which is when the fortress was built. The herring declined in the late 19th century, however, so Marstrand rebranded itself as a holiday resort attracting the rich and famous. Nowadays it is well-known for its water sports, particularly sailing, hosting many events.”

Grandeur of yesteryear.

The First Mate strikes up a conversation with some German tourists at the table next to us.

“There’s a nice walk around the island”, they say. “It starts just at the north end of the harbour. Here, you can use our map. We are finished with it. And don’t forget to see the Eye of the Needle.”

It’s not much of a day – grey and overcast, and a chilly wind is blowing, but we do want to see some of the island, so we set off.

“Look, here’s the Eye of the Needle they were talking about”, says the First Mate. “The Nålsögat. Apparently smugglers used to use it as a hiding place. I’m glad I didn’t have that extra bit of toast for breakfast this morning. I wouldn’t have fitted through. I don’t know how you are going to manage though.”

We have come to a place on the route where the path narrows to a tight gap between several large boulders. With a public path running right through it, I am not sure that it makes a good hiding place, I think to myself. Perhaps there wasn’t a trail there then.

Eye of the Needle.

Further on, we reach Skallens Lighthouse at the western most tip of the island, and sit on the rocks watching the crashing waves where the Kattegat and the Skagerak seas meet. The grey skies and the cold wind only add to the wild and elemental atmosphere of the place.

Patterns on the rocks in front of us make me think of the vast depth of time since they were created, certainly well before humans appeared on the scene. Was it a day like this that a marine creature hauled itself out of the sea to give rise to the diversity of land animals we see today?

Ancient patterns.

On the way back from Skallens Lighthouse, we pass Carlsten Fortress on top of the hill. Unfortunately, it is closed until the following weekend, when summer officially starts. However, we are able to get a glimpse of it from the path running around the walls.

The tower of Carlsten Fortress.

“After the Treaty of Roskilde in 1658 between Sweden and Denmark, Marstrand became Swedish”, a panel informs us. “Because Marstrand was becoming an important trade hub, King Karl X Gustav of Sweden had the fortress built to protect the town. However, this wasn’t entirely successful, as it was captured again by the Danish a couple of times after that. When it once again returned to Swedish hands, it was expanded several times and used for the last time in WW2. In 1993, it was declared to be no longer part of Sweden’s defence installations, but it has been maintained and is a tourist attraction nowadays.

Arriving back at the boat, we pass the Strandverket Art Museum, formerly an old fort. Unfortunately it is also closed until next weekend.

Strandverket Art Museum.

“The girls around here are certainly pretty tall”, says the First Mate, standing next to a figure just outside the entrance. “It must be all the fish and sea air they get.”

The long and short of it.

“The guide book says that the fort once housed a notorious Swedish master-thief called Lass-Maja”, I read. “He specialised in dressing up as a woman to fool his victims and to make it easier to escape. Sometimes he dressed as a lady’s maid, or a housekeeper, or a prostitute, even flirting with some of the men he was planning to rob. Eventually he grew to be so comfortable wearing women’s clothes, he carried on doing so in his spare time. However, one day his luck ran out when he stole some church silver, and he was tried and imprisoned here in Marstrand. His memoirs became very popular with the reading public in the 19th century, so much so that he was eventually pardoned by the king and released.”

“Who says that crime doesn’t pay?”, sniffs the First Mate.

“The geology of Sweden is quite fascinating”, says Spencer that evening, as we sip our wine. “It is part of the vast continent of Baltica, which formed around two billion years ago through the collision of three older tectonic plates which are now part of Russia, Ukraine and Scandinavia. Around 700 million years ago, the combined landmass was in the southern hemisphere, but it moved north about 450 million years ago to collide with the Scotland and Greenland plates, and later with the Siberian plate in the east to form the Ural Mountains. So Baltica has been around a bit. The rocks you were looking at this afternoon were probably formed around a billion years ago.”

“You know so much for a spider”, I sigh. “Especially as it all happened so long before your or my species even existed.”

“That’s the advantage of having my web connected to the World-Wide-Web”, he smiles.

With favourable winds the next morning, we set off northwards for Smögen. On the way we pass the picturesque fishing village of Mollösund with its white houses stacked neatly above the narrow channel between it and the neighbouring island.

Mollösund.

We stay a night on the car-free island of Käringön with its eponymous landmark statue of an ‘Old Woman’, supposedly giving its name to the island.

The ‘Old Woman’ of Käringön.

Eventually we reach Smögen. Andy & Anne and his family and friends are already there with their new boat Amalia, and give us a hand tying up. Bob & Fiona in Hekla of Banff, and Simon & Louise in Aloucia arrive not long after us, completing the quartet of boats. We had all met on the Cruising Association Rally in the Åland Islands in 2023, and had found that we have similar cruising routes planned in the following years. We had already seen Aloucia this year when she called in at Malmö to have her sails repaired.

The mariners arrive in Smögen.

Louise has arranged for us all to attend a course in Smögen on sea-foraging.

“We did a sea-foraging session while we were in South Africa over the winter”, she explains. “We learnt a lot about what you can and can’t cook, including kelp pasta. It was great fun, and they put us in touch with a Swedish woman in Smögen who runs sessions snorkelling for seaweed with outdoor cooking of whatever we find afterwards.”

We have arranged to meet the organiser, Linnea, at a carpark near the top of the harbour, just past the iconic fishermen’s huts.

Quintessential Smögen.

Louise leads the way, the rest of us following with our wetsuits, mask, fins and snorkels crammed into our rucksacks. Linnea is already waiting, busy unloading an eclectic mix of pots, pans, primus stoves, plastic boxes with tasty-looking food inside, and an assortment of neoprene boots, wetsuits, hoods, and gloves for those that don’t have their own.

“It isn’t much of a day”, she says, “But the place we are going is fairly sheltered from the winds, so it should be OK. It’s only about ten minutes’ walk from here.”

“I’ve been doing this now for several years”, she tells us on the way down. “I’ve also written a book and seaweed foraging. The sea is a tremendous resource, and we don’t really make enough use if it in a sustainable way. I’ll show you which species are good to eat, what they contain, how they are harvested sustainably and cooked. Most of them contain lots of nutrients – sea lettuce, for example, has fatty acids, magnesium, sodium, potassium, calcium, phosphorus, iron, iodine, and vitamins A, B, C, D and E. We’ll only pick what we will eat. Afterwards, you can help prepare lunch with me. And, of course, help me eat it!”

“There are also plants along the shore that you can eat”, she continues. “Look, these are violets – the flowers and leaves are quite sweet and make a good addition or a garnish to a salad. But you can’t eat the roots as they are toxic. And these are beach asters – the leaves are edible and can be added to salads, stir-fries, or used as a side dish. And here’s some sea beet – you can boil this like ordinary spinach. But now let’s get changed and we can see what we can find in the sea.”

Tasty wild violets.

We find places behind the rocks to struggle into our wetsuits that don’t seem to have changed in the same way that our bodies have since they were last worn, several years ago in my case.

“You can borrow these boots, gloves and hoods”, says Linnea. “It’ll be quite cold, so I think you will need them.”

I am starting to wonder if it was a good idea to sign up to the session. I don’t really do cold these days. But the others are all looking very enthusiastic, so I pretend to limber up as though I am raring to go.

Somehow we manage to squeeze ourselves into our wetsuits, carefully squashing all the bulgy bits in through judicious inhalations. My only worry is that getting out of it might be harder than getting in. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, though.

“Are you going to be able to walk down to the beach in that?”, says Andy cheekily.

In I get …

I clamber down the small ladder, and gasp as I jump into the water. It’s freezing. I almost jump back out again, as I feel it finding its way into the thin layer between the wetsuit and my skin. But I have done enough diving to know that it will only be a few seconds before my body heat warms it and it will become another insulating layer.

“This is sea lettuce”, says Linnea, clutching a mass of green foliage looking remarkably like the lettuce that outlasted Liz Truss. At least that’s what I think she is saying, as she is wearing her mask and snorkel, and speaks with a Swedish accent.

Linnea shows us sea lettuce and sugar kelp.

We spend the next hour or so swimming along a rock wall picking sugar kelp, oarweed, gutweed, bladder wrack, knotted wrack, saw wrack, bootlaces, Irish moss, and lavar, and putting them into little net collecting bags. Soon Linnea signals to us that it’s time to get out. None too soon, as I am starting to feel a little bit cold, especially from the small stream of water finding its way through the gap between my hood and wetsuit, down my spine, and out through one of my legs.

Foraging for seaweed.

Soon we are back in our warm clothes. Fortuitously the sun has appeared, and we bask on the rocks to get our circulations working again. Linnea, meanwhile, has the primus roaring, and is unpacking the food she prepared beforehand. We are each given jobs of cutting, slicing, frying, boiling, and spreading. My job is to cut the bladder wrack into strips and boil it.

Preparing the harvest.

Soon we are loading our plates with chunks of cod and cheese fried with sea lettuce, gutweed and tomato salad, kelp pasta, boiled bladder wrack seasoned with lemon and pepper, lashings of lavar, and numerous other tasty bits and pieces.

Satisfied sea foragers.

“This is absolutely delicious”, says the First Mate. “I am going for my third helping.”

“Be careful you don’t turn into a nervous wrack”, I say.

A cement town, a wartime evacuation, and unexpected winds

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“You can leave your car with a friend of mine”, says Ingemar, over a beer. “He has a big barn, so it will be under cover.”

We had met Ingemar on the Danish island of Christiansø last year, and had sailed along with him to Limhamn marina on the outskirts of Malmö, where he was also storing his boat over the winter. Limhamn was where he had been born and grown up, so despite now living in the south of France, he knew the place and its people well.

“It’s better than leaving it at the marina, where it is likely to get covered in salt spray from the wind”, he continues. “I always leave my motorhome with him.”

He has a large motorhome that he uses to travel around in when he is not sailing. We had been most impressed with it – it is fitted with state-of-the-art gear, and even has a small garage in the back of it in which he keeps his SmartCar for travelling around locally in when he reaches his destination.

A home away from home? (Similar to, but NOT Ingemar’s mobile home.)

The next day, I follow him to his friend’s place and park our car in the barn. His motorhome is already there. Several other cars are also in the barn, some classic, some covered in dustsheets. Our car will have others to talk to.

“Your car will be fine here”, says Ingemar’s friend. “I won’t move it from its place. Remember to disconnect your battery so that it doesn’t go flat.”

On the way back to the marina in his SmartCar, Ingemar talks about the local history of the area.

“Limhamn actually means Lime Harbour. There was a huge quarry, the Limhamns Kalkbrott, from which they used to extract limestone and take it by train to the harbour where it was converted into cement. I can remember as a young boy being woken every morning by the huge explosions as they blasted out the limestone. Our whole house shook. The cement was shipped all over the world – the ‘Christ the Redeemer’ statue in Rio de Janeiro was actually made using Limhamn cement.”

“Do they still make it here?”, I ask.

“Not any more”, he says. “Nowadays, most of Sweden’s cement is made on Gotland. They have turned the quarry here into a nature reserve with a lake in the middle which attracts wildfowl and other animals. Apparently the nature reserve has one of the very few populations of the European green toad left in Sweden. Look, the observation point is just off here. I’ll take you to see it.”

We stand on the edge of a giant crater and look down at the small lake and regenerating vegetation. On three of the sides of the rim are new-build housing areas, and on the fourth is the motorway to the Øresund Bridge.

Limhamns Kalkbrott.

All that material removed from the earth and used to make the cement to construct the hallmarks of modern civilisation, I think.

“Ironically, they have to keep pumping water out of it so that the whole area doesn’t become a lake”, says Ingemar. “It makes you wonder how sustainable it will be in the long run.”

—-

We set sail the next morning. We are a little nervous, not only because this is our first sail of the season, but also because it is the first proper test of everything on the boat after the winter repairs – particularly the engine which had had the heat exchanger removed. Will it all function, or did I forget to reassemble some vital bolt or screw, I wonder.

But everything works as it should, and we are soon sailing merrily northwards along the Øresund. It is just as well, as we had arranged to meet three other boats by a specific date in the small village of Smögen some 200 miles away well up the west coast of Sweden, and we already don’t have much time to get there. But at least we are finally on our way.

“Look, there’s Kronborg Castle over there”, says the First Mate, pointing to an impressive looking structure on the Danish side. “The town nearby is Helsingør, where we used to catch the ferry across to Sweden the times we drove to Stockholm.”

Kronborg Castle, Helsingør.

We cross the shipping lane at right angles to reach the Danish coast. Now the wind is on the nose, and we have to furl the sails and start the engine. Eventually we reach our destination for the night, the small town of Gilleleje on the north coast of the island of Sjælland.

“It looks like we’ll be here for a few days”, I say, perusing the weather charts and forecasts in the evening. “Strong north winds and lumpy seas are forecast for the next three days at least. We can’t sail into those.”

“Well, I am sure we can find enough things to do here for a few days”, says the First Mate. “It seems a nice little place. I read that there’s a good fish shop here with fresh fish from the fishing boats.”

Looking for fresh fish in the Gilleleje fish shop.

In the morning, I walk over to the shower block for my customary shower, taking with me the card we were given to access and pay for the toilets and showers.

“I am not sure how much money is left on the card”, the First Mate says. “I had rather a long shower last night, and I may have used quite a bit of it. But there is definitely some left.”

Outside a group of people are busy doing aerobics, led by an athletic hunk in his twenties.

“Legs up and twist”, he chants. “Arms straight in front, and bend. One, two, three four.”

Inside, I undress and wave the card in front of the reader. The shower starts. I stand underneath it and soap myself up. After one minute there is a click, and the water stops. I wave the card again in front of the reader. Nothing. There is a beep and a message appears on the reader display.

“Insufficient funds on this card to continue.”

Consternation! Dripping soapsuds and shampoo, I have no way of rinsing them off. The machine for topping up the card is at the yacht club, 100 metres away. And I can’t put my clothes on top of wet suds anyway.

The brilliant idea occurs to me that the only way is to rinse myself off at one of the basins in the common washroom. But what if someone comes in? I have to take the risk.

Starkers, I stand on my towel and slosh myself with water from the sink. The aerobics chanting outside ends, and there is the sound of the outer door opening. I just manage to wrap my towel around myself before the washroom door opens.

I avert my eyes from the curious gazes of the Athletic Hunk and several other sweating faces.

“Shower not working”, I mumble, pretending to be a foreigner not used to Danish bathroom technology. No one looks convinced.

The Athletic Hunk waves his card in front of the reader. The shower spurts out water perfectly. I pretend not to notice, dress, and beat a hasty retreat.

“I have a bone to pick with you”, I say to the First Mate when I get back to the boat.

“I told you there might not be much on it”, she says unsympathetically. “You should have topped it up before you went in.”

In the afternoon, we visit the Gilleleje museum, the central focus of which is the evacuation of Danish Jews to Sweden in October 1943. Two of the museum staff are sitting outside the café in the sunshine drinking coffee.

“The Jews in Denmark were left relatively alone for the first part of the war”, one of them tells us. “Mainly because Denmark had an official policy of cooperation with the Germans. But in October 1943, this arrangement broke down, and the Germans began arresting Danish Jews.”

“Suddenly, Jews from all over Denmark started coming to Gillerleje”, the second one tells us. “It’s the closest point to neutral Sweden, and they were trying to flee to there. Many came by train to the station here. You can find out more about it in the exhibition over there.”

“Local people hid the fleeing Jews in their lofts”, one of the panels tells us. “Then when a boat became available, they would be taken down to the harbour in the dark of night and put aboard the boat. Children were even sedated and carried down in cardboard boxes so they wouldn’t cry out and arouse the suspicions of any chance German patrols. The boat would then take them across to Sweden.”

Some of the refugees weren’t so lucky. Someone informed the Germans that there were Jews hidden in the loft of the church – a patrol was dispatched there, the Jews were arrested and taken to the nearby Horserød prison camp, and from there to Theresienstadt concentration camp in present-day Czechia, where many of them died.

The Gilleleje church where several fleeing Jews hid in October 1943.

“Look, here’s one of the boats that transported people across”, says the First Mate, pointing to a dinghy in the middle of the exhibition. “It’s so small. I wouldn’t have liked to be on the sea in one of those in the middle of the night.”

“You probably wouldn’t mind if the alternative was being taken to a concentration camp”, I say.

One of the boats used to evacuate Jews from Gilleleje to Sweden.

Later, we walk out to the outskirts of the town to see the memorial of the Jewish evacuation and of those who died.

Teka Basofar Gadol, it says in Hebrew. “Let the Great Ram’s Horn proclaim our liberation.”

The Teka Basofar Gadol memorial to Jews evacuated from Denmark to Sweden.

—-

“Well, I have to say, this is the type of sailing I like best”, says the First Mate, stretching out languidly in the warm sunlight bathing the cockpit. “A nice light breeze to keep us moving, no heeling, and no waves to make us roll from side to side. Bliss.”

We are on our way from Læsø to Marstrand in Sweden. The winds had changed, and we had been able to sail from Gilleleje to the island of Anholt and from there to the island of Læsø. We had originally planned to explore both islands in detail, but a quick scan of the weather forecast had convinced us that if we were ever to get to Smögen to meet the others, we had to press on. The next three days were to be strong winds from the north again, which would confine us to port. We weren’t too keen to do that. Today was to be light winds and smooth seas all the way to Marstand, so much so, I was expecting that we would probably have to motor some or most of the way. We promised ourselves that we would visit Anholt and Læsø on the way back and do them justice.

The First Mate is right though – it is pleasant. Except is doesn’t last long. After about half an hour, as I had expected, the wind drops to three knots and the sails flap listlessly. Shortly we are drifting along as less than two knots. At this rate, we might be lucky to get to Marstand by the morning. But at least the sun is shining.

I go downstairs to make a cup of tea. While I am down there, the boat suddenly lurches and begins to heel. Out of nowhere, the wind has picked up. I glance at the instruments – 18 knots! Where has that come from? I try to carry my cup of tea up the companion way without spilling it; by the time I get there, the wind is touching 25 knots and we are speeding along at 7½ knots.

“I thought it was supposed to be calm all the way”, shouts the First Mate. “We need to reef. We’re heeling far too much.”

We put in two reefs just to be on the safe side. The boat stabilises, but she is still hurtling along at almost undiminished speed.

A sudden wind takes us by surprise.

Driven by the wind, the waves slowly begin to grow. Unfortunately, they are an our beam, coming from the side, and Ruby Tuesday rolls as each one travels underneath us.

“I’m feeling a bit squeezy”, says the First Mate, starting to look green. “I think I’ll go below.”

“Queasy”, I say. “You mean queasy.”

“Whatever”, she says, disappearing.

Ruby Tuesday settles into an uneasy rhythm – rolling precipitously with each successive wave, but somehow managing a consistent seven knots. Clouds roll in and the sun disappears, adding to the melancholy. From time to time, the bow plunges into a wave, sending green water cascading over the foredeck and windows of the spray hood.

Crossing the Kattegat in high winds and strong seas.

A ship appears out of the haze. We are crossing a shipping lane and I have been keeping a watchful eye out for ships to avoid. The AIS tells me that our closest point of approach to this one is 75 m. That’s a bit too close. I adjust the autopilot two degrees to the south.

“Ruby Tuesday, Ruby Tuesday”, suddenly crackles an Indian voice on the VHF. “Your course is very close to ours. We’re closing fast.”

“Ship calling Ruby Tuesday”, I respond. “I am aiming to go behind you.”

I adjust the autopilot a further two degrees to the south just to be on the safe side. A few minutes later we pass behind the giant cargo ship, and I am watching its stern disappear slowly into the haze again. The AIS tells me she is bound for Baltimore.

The hours pass. There is no let up in the windspeed and the waves are as high as ever. But we are making progress, uncomfortable as it is, and gradually Sweden comes into view. Eventually we reach the entrance to the fjord where Marstrand, our destination, is located. Like the flick of a switch, the wind suddenly drops and the waves calm down, and we sail sedately up the fjord with only the genoa up as we pass the imposing Carlsten Fortress on the hill guarding the entrance to the town.

Carlsten Fortress, Marstrand.

“Well, I am glad that is over”, says the First Mate. “I didn’t enjoy that at all. It was odd wasn’t it? When we set out it was calm, and here it is calm. Did we just imagine all those strong winds and waves in between?”

A good question.

Celestial mechanics, a Viking with bad teeth, and meaningful motorcycling

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“Well, we have decided to head for Tunisia in the boat”, says Harry as he grinds the coffee beans with his traditional manual grinder. “We want to get there in time to see the solar eclipse in August 2027.”

We are at Harry and Beate’s place in Germany. Beate previously shared a flat with the First Mate when they were both single, and we have kept in touch with them since then. We share a mutual interest in sailing, and, indeed, had previously visited them on their boat in Makkum in Holland.

Harry & Beate with their boat in Makkum, Netherlands.

“The plan is to start off this year from Holland and enter the French canal system”, says Beate. “We’ll see how far we will get in the canals, leave her somewhere over the winter, then carry on in 2026 down to the Mediterranean.”

“Then in 2027 we’ll sail across the Mediterranean to Tunisia”, continues Harry. “I have just finished rewiring the whole boat, so she is in pretty good shape now. Everything works the way I want it to.”

Harry is used to doing such things. When we first met, he was in the process of converting a double-decker bus into a mobile home, with the kitchen and living room downstairs, and the bedroom upstairs.

“I’ve even been taking celestial navigation classes”, he continues. “Look here’s the sextant I have just bought.”

We go out on the balcony and I measure the angle between a block of flats and the power station cooling towers. It’s 87°. It could be useful.

“It all sounds very exciting”, says the First Mate. “Although don’t forget that it gets terribly hot in the Mediterranean in August. We were there a few years ago, and it was almost unbearable. I couldn’t sleep at night. But good luck anyway.”

We spend the next few days in the First Mate’s home town, visiting her family and friends. Her mother is now 91 and in a care home. The plan is that I then drive up to Ruby Tuesday in Malmö and start preparing her for the new season. The First Mate will then come up by train a week later and we will set off.

On the way up, I stop for the night with our friends Hans and Gisela in Denmark. Their son Arne and his girlfriend Evie are also there for a few days, back from Holland where they live.

“Perfect timing”, says Gisela, as I arrive. “Dinner’s almost ready. We’re having garfish that Arne caught today in the sea.”

I have never eaten garfish before, but I remember that they have a long nose.

“And the bones are green”, says Arne. “They contain some stuff related to haemoglobin called biliverdin that is bright green in colour. I hope it doesn’t put you off. Green bones look rather weird.”

Garfish (from the Daily Scandanavian)

Continuing the colour theme over dinner, the subject of Greenland comes up.

“What do the Danes think about America’s plan to annex it?”, I ask.

“Most people think that it is ludicrous”, says Hans, almost choking on a green fish bone. “America is supposed to be one of our allies, and here they are talking about taking Greenland by force just to extract minerals. The most ridiculous thing is that as an ally, they could have want they wanted through joint ventures anyway. No need to annex the place.”

“And it is also not true to say that Denmark has not done anything for Greenland”, says Gisela. “Of course, mistakes have been made in the past, but in recent years the Danes have spent a lot of money improving services in Greenland. And it is completely untrue to say that Greenland is not defended against the Russians. Greenland is part of Denmark, and Denmark is a member of NATO, so Greenland is well defended by NATO.”

“People are also trying to work out what it means for NATO”, says Hans. “Article 5 states that if one NATO country is attacked then the others would all help to defend it. The US is a member of NATO, so does that mean the US would help to defend Denmark against itself?”

Welcome to the new world order, I think.

The next morning, after breakfast, we decide to visit the Trelleborg Ring Fortress not far from Slagelse.

Trelleborg Ring Fortress (from Leibrandt via Wikimedia Commons)

“The fortress was built by Harald Bluetooth in the mid-980s”, one of the museum guides dressed as a Viking tells us. “Harald is credited with introducing Christianity to the Viking world, and with consolidating Denmark into one kingdom. For a short time he also ruled parts of Norway. He built his capital at Jelling, and constructed a series of ring fortresses to demonstrate his power to the German Emperor to the south. But he didn’t live long to enjoy it all – in 987 he was killed in a civil uprising led by his own son Svein, who was the one that invaded Britain.”

We wander out of the museum and head towards the Ring Fortress. On the way is a reconstructed longhouse.

Reconstructed Viking longhouse at Trelleborg Ring Fortress.

“Apparently there were quite a few of these inside the fortress itself”, says Hans. “Families must have been living here, but there never was a town associated with it. Presumably they were the soldiers’ families.”

Back at the small café, we sit in the sun and eat our ice creams.

“We haven’t been here for a while”, says Gisela. “It’s interesting to see the progress they are making in developing the museum.”

In the evening, I arrive at Ruby Tuesday. Spencer is there to greet me. Both he and the boat appear to have weathered the winter well. There is no mould inside and the air smells fresh. I check the data loggers that I had left running and find that the temperatures inside her had not dropped below zero over the winter. Our worries about snow and ice seem to have been unfounded.

Ruby Tuesday in her winter berth, Malmö.

I spend the next few days preparing for the voyage. I had taken the heat exchanger home to clean and service it – just as well, as I had found that nearly half of the small cooling tubes had been blocked by scale. Soaking the unit in vinegar had helped to dissolve that and left it coppery clean. The job of the heat exchanger is for saltwater from the sea to absorb the heat from the coolant running through the engine, so it is essential that it functions properly to prevent overheating.

Servicing the heat exchanger – nearly half of the small tubes have been blocked by scale.

I also decide to check the anode inside the hot-water heater. We have never done that since we had bought the boat, so it is high time. Extracting the heater from under one of the seats isn’t too difficult, but undoing the nut on top of the cylinder is. It is corroded in position, and none of the tools I have are up to the job of freeing it. In the end, I have to borrow some larger ones from the harbourmaster. With a combination of these and brute force, it slowly comes undone. There is no anode left! No wonder it has corroded. I am sure that no-one has looked inside the cylinder since it was made. I decide to replace not only the anode, but also the heating element, thermostat and pressure relief valve while I am at it.

Servicing the hot water cylinder.

The First Mate arrives in due course. I collect her from the train station.

“I hope that you have got everything clean and tidy for me?”, she says, as I load her bags into the car. “I don’t want to start cleaning as soon as I arrive.”

Luckily it is dark when we arrive back at the boat.

The next evening, we drive over for dinner to some friends, Martin and Mia, who live just north of Malmö. We had first met them on the Swedish island of Borgholm when Martin had kindly given us a hand tying up, as well as a list of must-see places on the east coast of Sweden, which we had now seen most of. He had offered to kept an eye on Ruby Tuesday over the winter, visiting her from time to time to check that everything was OK and that the batteries were kept charged.

“That’s his second wife”, says Mia with a wink as we walk past the Porsche in the garage as we arrive.

“Well, a man has to have a few pleasures in life”, says Martin, grinning.

Over dinner, the conversation turns to Swedish politics. When we were sailing near Stockholm two years previously, it had been the time of the national elections, and the far-right Sweden Democrats had won a sizeable share of the votes, giving them a strong influence in government. I am curious as to how they have performed since then.

The Sweden Democrats campaigning in 2022.

“Well they have lost some popularity since then”, Martin says, as he serves the salmon. “Last year, for example, they were found to be using social media to spread disinformation and attack political opponents online. People were put off by that. Then, this year, the government proposed stricter gun control after the country’s worst mass shooting in Örebro, but the Sweden Democrats opposed that, saying that they had concerns for hunters and farmers. That further eroded a lot of people’s confidence in them.”

“People also think they focus too much on immigration and crime”, says Mia. “Sure, it was a concern two years ago when they were elected, but overall it is less so now. But the Sweden Democrats don’t seem to be able to move on from then.”

“The next national elections are next year”, says Martin. “It will be interesting to see whether they still have the same amount of support then.”

We have booked a slot to have Ruby Tuesday lifted out of the water to have her bottom seen to.

Lifting out Ruby Tuesday for a bottom inspection.

The next few days are spent washing, scraping, sanding and painting, and replacing the anodes. I am astounded at the state of the propeller anode – I fitted a new one only a year ago, and it has almost completed eroded away.

Aluminium anode almost completely eroded after one year.

“Sometimes if you are tied up next to a steel boat, that can happen”, explains Peder, the harbourmaster. “But at least it is doing its job.”

Soon Ruby Tuesday is back in the water to complete the preparations. In the afternoon, we receive a WhatsApp message from Simon and Louise, whom we had met on the Cruising Association Rally in 2023, and with whom we had explored Gotland together in 2024.

“Are you still in Malmö?”, they ask. “We have a rip in our sail, and need to have it fixed. Is there a sailmaker there? We’ll be there in the afternoon tomorrow.”

They arrive in time for coffee and cakes.

“I am not quite sure how it happened”, explains Louise. “I was sailing, and I wanted to tack, and I think the sail must have got stuck on something sharp on the self-tacking mechanism.”

We give them a hand in taking down the sail, packing it in a bag, and putting it in our car to take it to the sailmaker in the morning. The tear is quite small, but unless repaired such rips have a habit of getting much bigger quickly. It’s always better to get them fixed as soon as you can.

In the evening, we have dinner on their boat.

“As soon as we get back from this trip in October, I’m setting off for a motorcycle trip in Nepal”, Simon tells us. “It’s a sort of spiritual motorcycle ride with a group of other like-minded bikers. I came across this chap who organises trips combining motorbiking and discussions on spirituality. It sounded interesting, so I thought I would give it a go. I even had to be interviewed by him to see if I would fit into the group.”

“It sounds like something you could write a book on”, I say. “Did you ever read Zen and the Art of Motorbike Maintenance? In it, the author, Robert Pirsig, writes about a motorcycle trip he made from Minnesota to California in the 1960s with his son. The trip is interspersed with philosophical discussions on the pursuit of truth. He developed his theory of the Metaphysics of Quality in which quality is the driving force of the universe.”

“I like these philosophical discussions”, Louise says. “I am not religious now, but I was brought up as a Quaker. Both of my parents were members. We were taught that God doesn’t exist as a supreme being, but that something of what you might call God exists in everyone and emerges when people interact. Just meeting and having an interesting conversation like we are now is being part of God. Quakers believe that you find spiritual truth through your own inner experience of every-day life and human relationships, and for that reason we don’t have any need for ritual, ceremony or even clergy. They just get in the way of the relationship between yourself and God.”

“It all sounds very logical”, I say. “But I always thought that Quakers were a sect of Christianity. This sounds more like Humanism, I think.”

“Yes, they do follow many Christian traditions”, says Louise. “But a lot of Quakers wouldn’t describe themselves as Christians, more as members of a universal religion. And they don’t believe that the Bible, or any other book for that matter, is the ‘Word of God’, although they do think that it provides inspiration along with many others. So yes, a lot of their concepts are similar to humanist ideas, and in fact, a branch of the Quakers are actually affiliated to the Humanist Association.

“Wasn’t there a lot of resistance to them at one stage?”, asks the First Mate.

“Yes”, answers Simon. “George Fox, who was one of the founders, taught that all people have equal value. This didn’t go down too well with the rich landed gentry at the time, who saw it as a challenge to the established social order, and he was brought before the magistrates several times for blasphemy. His followers were officially persecuted for a time.”

“Well, that was interesting”, says the First Mate as we walk back to Ruby Tuesday. “I didn’t know much about the Quakers. You don’t hear much about them these days.”

“That’s true”, I say. “But their ideas certainly contributed a lot to the Enlightenment and to the way we think nowadays. Their condemnation of slavery, their campaigns for social justice, and focus on individual conscience and spiritual experience all align with the Enlightenment values of human rights, social reform, and reason. Quite an impact.”

Simon & Louise and us.

A near miss, a twisted torso, and different minds

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“Look!”, shouts the First Mate, pointing to a steep cliff to our port side. “You can see Hammershus castle up there. It’s hard to believe that we were up there yesterday. It looks quite impressive even from down here.”

We had left Allinge in the morning, edging our way carefully out of the small harbour with its dog-leg entrance, and are just rounding the northern point of Bornholm Island. The wind is from the north-east, giving us a comfortable beam reach as we head for Ystad, back on the Swedish mainland. Between here and there, however, we must cross a Traffic Separation Scheme (TSS) for the big ships, which the rules say that we need to do at right angles to minimise the amount of time crossing it.

“It reminds me of the time we crossed the English Channel”, I say. “It was like being in a pinball machine – no sooner had we dodged all the ships coming from one direction, we had to face a whole lot more coming from the opposite direction. Let’s see if we can get across here without altering our course.”

“Be careful”, says the First Mate. “We don’t want to have an accident at this stage.”

Running the gauntlet (we are the red one!).

We manage to make it through the north-bound lane without too much trouble. But traffic in the southbound lane is heavy, and there are five ships in a cluster that we need to avoid. The AIS tells me that we will pass behind the first three comfortably, but that we will pass in front of the fourth one with just 15 m as the Closest Point of Approach (CPA). That is a little bit too close for comfort! Hoping that the wind might strengthen and give us a bit more speed, or even drop so that we slow down, I keep an eagle eye on the AIS as we cross, but the CPA remains obstinately the same. As our paths converge closer and closer, I chicken out and decide to heave-to. As the ship passes about 100 m in front of us, we can see some of the crew leaning over the guard rails and smoking.

“Phew”, breathes the First Mate in relief. “That was pretty close.”

“Yes, I even noticed that it was Gauloises they were smoking”, I say.

Dodging the ships in the Traffic Separation Scheme.

Once clear of the TSS we alter our course to the east. As luck would have it, the wind shifts and drops, as does our speed.

“We aren’t in any hurry”, I say. “Let’s just take it easy and enjoy the sunshine.”

At a stately three knots, it takes most of the afternoon before we reach Ystad, our destination for the night.

“Better look out for that ferry over there”, calls the First Mate, pointing to something on the horizon. “It looks like it’s heading for Ystad too.”

“There’s plenty of time”, I say. “It’s miles away.”

But it’s a catamaran and travelling fast. In a few minutes it is just behind us. It blows its horn to tell us to get out of the way. We motor as fast as we can to a red buoy, and take a line just outside it so that the buoyed channel is clear. The ferry slows down and cruises past us.

Getting out of the way of the ferry coming into Ystad.

Obsession is already there. We aim for the berth just behind her. Ingemar gives us a hand tying up.

“Ystad is a pretty enough place”, he says over a cup of tea. “It’s a former Hanseatic town, and the church and some of the old half-timbered houses are worth a look. It’s just a short walk into the centre of town from here. Ystad’s other claim to fame is that it is the place where the Wallander crime series is set.”

The First Mate has watched the Wallander series, but I haven’t. I make a mental note to try and see it on iPlayer over the winter.

In the morning, we walk into the town centre. We come across the Sankta Maria Kyrka, built in the 1200s in Brick Gothic.

Inside the Sankta Maria Kyrka.

“The guidebook says that the church still has a Tower Watchman”, says the First Mate. “His job is to climb the tower every night and keep an eye on the city. He blows a horn every 15 minutes from 2100h to 0100h to signal that everything is OK. If the horn doesn’t sound, it means that there is a problem, like a fire or something. It’s an old tradition from the 1700s that has been kept alive. Apparently, it has been the same family who have been doing it all that time.”

“I wonder what they do if he is sick or on holiday?”, I say.

Next to the church is the Latinskolan, or Latin School, that was used in medieval times to teach Latin to the sons of clergymen and the local elite to prepare them to go to university.

The Latinskolan in Ystad.

A little bit further on, we come to the Klostret I Ystad, or Greyfriars Abbey, originally a Franciscan monastery. There is a small museum attached to the side, but unfortunately it is Monday and it is closed.

The Klostret I Ystad.

“The book says that the Franciscan order wore grey habits”, says the First Mate. “Hence the Greyfriars name. They emphasised the simple life and travelled around the countryside preaching, caring for the poor and sick, and living off alms given to them by those who could afford it. The friary was a place they could come back to for meditation and contemplation.”

It’s lunchtime. We join the queue at a place called ‘Maltes Mackor’ that is famous for its tailor-made sandwiches, and eventually watch in mouth-watering anticipation as each of our sandwiches is ‘constructed’ with loving care.

Spoilt for choice (from Maltes Mackor).

“Well, it took a while”, says the First Mate, “but I have to say that it was worth it. They taste marvellous.”

After lunch, we explore the narrow streets flanked with half-timbered houses. Per Helsas Gård was a farmhouse built just inside the city walls following their curvature. Nowadays, it houses a number of craftsmen, with an open air café in the old courtyard.

Per Helsas Gård.

Pilgrändshuset is a residential house joined to a warehouse dating from around 1500 AD.

The Änglahuset is another farmhouse, so called because of the decorative angel figures under the eaves.

Änglahuset.

In the evening, we ask Ingemar over for a drink.

“Did you hear that the Falsterbo Canal is closed for us?”, he asks, as he sips his Weizen beer. “They are repairing it. It’s open for south-bound traffic this week, but not northbound, then next week they are switching around. Unfortunately, we both need to go through this week.”

Falsterbo Canal was built during WW2 to allow Swedish vessels to continue sailing to and from the North Sea while avoiding the mines laid in the Öresund by the Germans. It is still maintained, but is now mainly used for recreational boats wishing to take a short cut to avoid the long way round through the Öresund.

“Yes, I read that somewhere”, I say. “We are planning to go round the outside and perhaps stop in Skanör for a night.”

Our route around Falsterbo peninsula avoiding the canal.

Obsession leaves at 0700 in the morning. We are a bit more leisurely, and don’t get going until around 1000. The wind is from the port quarter, but shifts to directly behind after a couple of hours. Sailing with the genoa only, we still make around six knots. As we reach the Öresund and turn northwards, the wind strengthens. I take out the mainsail, put in two reefs, and we still manage to make more than eight knots on a close reach. I glimpse Obsession on the AIS far ahead, already past Skanör, heading for Malmö.

Making good speed.

“8.2 knots!”, says the First Mate. “We don’t often do that speed. And with a double reef too. But it was heeling a bit too much for my liking.”

We stop for a night at Skanör, then set off in the morning for Malmö.

The beach at Skanör.

“This will probably be the last sail of the season”, I say. “I feel a bit sad that it’s all over for another season.”

“Me too”, says the First Mate. “Better make it a good one then.”

And it is. The wind is still an easterly, and blowing 24 knots, so we sail double reefed again. Before long we have passed the Lillgrund windfarm to our port, and are approaching the Öresund Bridge.

Approaching the Öresund Bridge.

“Keep an eye out for Saga Norén”, I call out to the First Mate at the bow. “They might be making another episode of The Bridge. And try to ignore the dead bodies, especially the ones sawn in half.”

With the wind blowing, she doesn’t hear me. Probably just as well.

We pass under the Bridge and arrive at the Limhamn marina in Malmö. The harbourmaster has asked us to tie up to the second pontoon. Ingemar sees us arriving and comes to catch our lines.

“I’ve just been servicing my heat exchanger this morning”, he says over lunch. “You need to do it every couple of years or so, or else the small pipes inside it will get blocked up with scale. I have rigged up a pump and some tubes that circulate phosphoric acid through the sea water side of the exchanger for an hour or so. That dissolves all the scale, leaving it nice and clean again.”

Rather than having a radiator like cars do, the heat exchanger takes in sea-water and uses it to cool the hot coolant circulating through the engine. That way sea water doesn’t come in contact with the engine to cause corrosion.

Ruby Tuesday’s heat exchanger.

“When was the last time we did that?”, asks the First Mate.

I have learnt that by ‘we’, she always means me.

“We haven’t done it since we have had the boat”, I say.

“It would probably be a good idea to do it”, says Ingemar. “Just to avoid problems.”

There is also a small leak in the cooling system that I have been meaning to do something about, and the mixing elbow that combines the warm sea-water with the exhaust gases also needs to be checked, so I decide to remove the whole assembly from the engine and take it home to do everything together. I spend the next couple of days getting it off. Like everything in boats, some nuts and bolts are almost inaccessible, and there is very little space for me to manoeuvre in the engine compartment.

“You need to lose a bit of weight”, sniffs the First Mate unsympathetically. “It’s all those peanuts you have been snacking on. I wouldn’t be surprised if you get stuck in there. Make sure you’ve got your mobile handy so you can call me.”

I finally manage to get the heat exchanger and the mixing elbow off. I change the oil and replace the oil and fuel filters. We pack away the sails, and take down the spray hood, cockpit tent, and the bimini. The new dinghy is deflated, rinsed in fresh water, and stowed. Clothes and other fabrics are stored in the vacuum packs and the air sucked out with the vacuum cleaner. Everything is ready for the winter.

Ruby Tuesday ready for the winter.

“You know, we should take the opportunity to explore Malmö”, I say one evening. “Now that most of the winter preparations are done.”

“I was thinking the same”, says the First Mate.

The next morning, we cycle into town to explore. Malmö was founded some time in the 1200s when southern Sweden was actually part of Denmark. One story is that the name comes about from a young woman being ground up in a mill, but this is almost certainly untrue. In the 1600s, the city became part of Sweden under the Treaty of Roskilde. Then, in the 1800s, it was the first city in Sweden to industrialise, with the main focus on shipbuilding and textiles, but it was slow to adapt to the post-industrial period after the 1970s. However, with the opening of the Öresund Bridge, it has taken off again and is rebranding itself as a hi-tech, educational and cultural centre. In 2020, it was the fastest-growing city in Sweden, with 40% of the population coming from a non-Swedish background.

We come to a bronze statue of a number of people sitting on the back of a giant fish, by the Swedish sculptor Carl Milles. Called “Emigranterna“, it represents the large numbers of Swedish people who left their homeland to emigrate to the New World in search of a better life. Emotions of determination, hope and apprehension line their faces as they head for an unknown future.

Emigranterna.

“It’s ironic that large numbers of Swedish people left from here to go abroad to make a better life”, says the First Mate, “and now Malmö is the place that many immigrants arrive from third world countries to make a better life here.”

“Even more ironic is that there were tensions between the Swedes and the earlier settlers in America”, I say. “Especially the English-speaking ones, who saw them as culturally different in terms of language and religion. The Germans and Dutch didn’t like them much either, as they competed for jobs. But now they are well integrated into American society. What goes around, comes around.”

On the way back, we spot the ‘Turning Torso’, a 190 m high residential skyscraper built in 2005, and one of the tallest buildings in Scandinavia. It is the modern day icon of the city, replacing the shipyard crane that had previously been the Malmö icon, but since sold to South Korea.

“It’s certainly very eye-catching”, says the First Mate.

The ‘Turning Torso’.

—–

It’s the last day – the day that we are leaving to drive to Germany to see the First Mate’s family, and then back to the UK.

On the way back from the shower block, I see a quick movement of something black near the rocks of the breakwater. It’s a mink. It stops and regards me intensely. I stare back at it. For perhaps five minutes we regard each other with curiosity, neither of us moving. It doesn’t seem to be afraid, despite there being only two metres between us.

Our aquatic neighbour (from NatureScot).

What thoughts are going through its mind, I wonder? Do mink even have thoughts or a mind? Or emotions? Is it wondering what I am thinking? What would it be like to be a mink?

I think back to the essay written by Thomas Nagel “What is it like to be a bat?” that I had read during my student days. In it, he argues that consciousness has a subjective aspect that cannot be fully understood from an external, objective perspective. While we can study a bat’s brain physiology, we can’t fully grasp its subjective experience—what it is really like to perceive the world as a bat. We can imagine what it is like to be a bat, but that is still a human imagining what it might be like. Any attempt to reduce subjective experience to physical processes will always be incomplete.

And yet, there seems to be something shared in this brief encounter with the mink, even if it is just curiosity about the other. Is curiosity a shared experience? If so, there may be others. Or am I anthropomorphising?

“Come on”, calls the First Mate from the boat. “We need to pack the last things into the car and lock up. We’ve got a long journey in front of us.”

The mink scampers off to a gap in the rocks to re-join its world. I return to my world of other humans and their technology. The fleeting connection between very different minds is gone.

“See you next year”, I call after it.

A Royal Navy attack, Bob Dylan’s boat, and a detested fortress

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“We’ll have to change the courtesy flag from Swedish to Danish at some point”, says the First Mate emerging from the cabin with a bowl of muesli. “Here’s your breakfast. I’ll make a cup of tea when you have finished it.”

We are on our way to Ertholmene, the ‘Pea Islands’. We had left Utklippan in the half light of dawn, even before the sun was up, carefully navigating our way out of the narrow exit to the guest harbour only a little bit wider than the width of the boat itself. All was quiet, as far as we could see we had been the first to leave. Even the intelligent rubbish bins had seemed to be asleep. A fresh wind was blowing from the south-east, so we had unfurled the sails almost straightaway. Silhouetted against the red light of dawn, the lighthouse seemed to be wishing us a safe journey, as it had no doubt done to many sailors before us.

Leaving Utklippan.

“That’s a beautiful sunrise”, says the First Mate, bringing out two mugs of tea and sitting down beside me. “You don’t see that often.”

“That’s because you are not often up at this time”, I joke. “It’s the best part of the day. Peaceful and quiet.”

She’s a night owl, I am an early riser. A perfect combination.

The sun rises over the Baltic.

We sail south-westwards on a comfortable close reach, the sea miles sliding smoothly under the keel. The hours pass.

“There’s a Swedish boat called Obsession following us”, I say, pointing to the chart-plotter. “I remember it being in Utklippan. It’s going faster than us, but I think that we have enough of a lead to get there first. We don’t want to lose our place at the ferry dock.”

We had called the harbourmaster at Christiansø earlier, to check that there would be enough space there for us. As it is only a tiny harbour, it can become very full at the height of the season.

“No problem”, he had reassured us. “The ferry goes at 1400h, so if you arrive just after then, you can tie up at the ferry dock. It’ll be free until 1000h the next morning.”

The wind strengthens, and moves round more to the east. We are now on a beam reach and doing 7½ knots. The sea also becomes choppier.

“Phew, this is a bit bouncy”, says the First Mate. “Can’t we go a bit slower? Look, there’s land ahead. It must be Christiansø.”

Christiansø is the largest of the islands of the Ertholmene archipelago, which belongs to Denmark. In fact, the whole archipelago is often referred to as Christiansø despite there being three other islands, two of which are designated as bird reserves and therefore out of bounds without a permit.

We round the south-eastern point of Christiansø, and the harbour suddenly appears, nestled in the narrow gap between two of the islands.

Approaching Christiansø harbour.

The ferry to the mainland is just leaving, and true to his word, the harbourmaster waves us to the place it has just left. About an hour later, Obsession arrives, and ties up behind us.

“I could see you on the AIS”, says the skipper. “I was trying to catch you up, but you had too much of a start on me. I’m Ingemar, by the way. I am on my way back to Malmö where I overwinter.”

I tell him that that is also where we have finally decided to keep Ruby Tuesday for the winter.

“It’s a good marina”, Ingemar says. “I grew up in Malmö. The harbourmaster is an old schoolfriend. He’ll look after your boat well.”

There doesn’t seem to be anyone else on his boat.

“I am sailing single handed”, he says, reading my thoughts. “I live in the south of France nowadays, and spend each summer sailing around the Baltic. I did the Stockholm archipelago this year.”

I am impressed. His boat is a 53-footer weighing 24 tonnes, dwarfing Ruby Tuesday. It can’t be easy to sail it by oneself.

Tied up in Christiansø harbour.

“Coffee’s ready”, calls the First Mate from the cockpit. “Drink it up quickly. I want to go and explore the place.”

Christiansø was built by the Danish as a military fortification during the Swedish-Danish wars in the late 1600s. Part of the fortifications were two towers, both of which have been renovated and now contain museums.

Store Tårn (Great Tower), Christiansø.

“The English attacked the island in 1808 in what is known as the English Wars of 1801-1814”, one of the museum displays tells us. “They destroyed several of the fortifications and captured some of the Danish ships in the harbour, but were not able to capture the whole island, so they withdrew.”

The British bombardment of Christiansø in 1808 (by Arne Skotteborg-Frederiksen)

I am somewhat surprised, as I was not aware of war between Denmark and Britain. But Google tells me later that it was all part of the Napoleonic Wars, and that France and her allies were trying to prevent British trading vessels from entering the Baltic Sea. As Denmark was an ally of France at that time, Danish forts were considered legitimate targets. The Royal Navy had bombarded the city of Copenhagen the year before in an attempt to seize the Danish fleet to stop it from being used by the French. They had then moved on to Christiansø to prevent it being used as a base for state-supported privateers to attack British merchant shipping.

“Don’t worry”, says the harbourmaster with a grin. “It’s all history. We quite like seeing British boats here nowadays. As long as they don’t try and finish the job they started in 1808. But we don’t get many coming anyway since Brexit.”

We take a quick walk around the rest of the island. A foot bridge joins Christiansø with the neighbouring island of Frederiksø.

The foot bridge joining the two islands.

On Frederiksø is the Lille Tårn, or Small Tower, now a cultural museum.

Lille Tårn, Frederiksø.

In the morning, we need to leave before 1000h to make way for the ferry’s arrival. Obsession leaves first, easing away from the quay, and we follow her out of the narrow harbour entrance. Immediately, the wind picks up from the south-west, and we zip along on a comfortable beam reach, heading for the small harbour of Allinge-Sandvig on the island of Bornholm, 13 NM away. After a couple of hours or so, however, we enter the wind shadow in the lee of Bornholm, and the wind gradually dies to nothing. We drift for a while, but with the sails flapping listlessly, we are reduced to furling them away and motoring the last few miles into the harbour.

Allinge harbour, Bornholm.

“What about coming over for a drink later on?”, says Ingemar, as he helps us to tie up in front of Obsession.

“Sounds good”, I say.

Tied up in Allinge harbour, Bornholm.

There’s just enough time before then to have a quick look around the town. Originally a small fishing settlement, Allinge prospered in the Middle Ages from the Hanseatic herring trade, with masses of Baltic herring being shipped to southern Europe for Catholics to eat on their ‘meatless’ days. In 1946, it officially joined with the neighbouring fishing village to become Allinge-Sandvig.

Nowadays, the colourful houses and streets exude charm in the typical Danish fashion that we had grown used to in southern Denmark three years ago.

The Allinge Technical School was built in 1895 with the aim of training craftsmen. Currently it is used as offices.

Former Allinge Technical School.

The Public Meeting Dome can be rented for various events.

The Allinge Public Meeting Dome.

An the way back, we pass one of the two smokeries in the town.

Allinge Smokery.

“Welcome to Obsession”, Ingemar says, as we clamber aboard. “Yes, I am retired. But I have been sailing most of my life. I started off running charters in various places, including the Caribbean. Later I started a company making desalinisation equipment for the marine industry, removing the salt from seawater to make fresh water. The company did very well, and we ended up fitting our gear on a lot of the luxury yachts. One superyacht, for example, owned by a Russian oligarch, had two swimming pools – one for the adults and one for the kids, with the water for each coming from our desalinators. Anyway, I sold the company a few years ago, invested the money, and now spend the summers sailing.”

“I bet you could tell some great stories about the rich and famous?”, prompts the First Mate.

“I could, but I am not allowed to”, answers Ingemar with a smile. “Most of the jobs we did are covered by non-disclosure agreements.”

“Getting back to the Caribbean”, I say, “I read a fascinating book recently on a sailboat that was hand-built there. On the island of Bequia. A friend of mine who lives in Australia recommended it to me.”

“I know Bequia well”, says Ingemar. “It’s my favourite Caribbean island.”

“The boat was built by a young Californian chap called Chris Bowman back in the 1970s”, I continue. “It was commissioned by Bob Dylan, but the agreement was that they would be joint owners of her. They named her Water Pearl. The book is called Me, the Boat and a Guy named Bob. It’s a good read.”

Ingemar’s brow furrows, as though he is trying to recall a memory from long ago.

“I knew Chris”, he says after a pause. “I was there on Bequia at the same time as him. I remember him building that boat. But didn’t she sink or something?”

“According to the book, she hit a reef at night at the entrance to the Panama Canal”, I say. “Despite their best efforts to rescue her, they couldn’t drag her off, and they had to leave her to break up. It was quite poignant really.”

”I wonder what Chris is doing now?”, asks Ingemar. “We didn’t keep in touch.”

“He lives in Western Australia”, I say. “My friend Tony met him at a book club meeting to which Chris was invited to come and talk about his new book. He married the girlfriend Vanessa of whom he talks about in the book, and they settled in Fremantle. She is Australian.”

“I remember her too”, says Ingemar. “It’s indeed a small world. I’ll have to buy the book.”

—-

The cold wind whips across the ramparts as the three figures furtively make their way through the dark shadows. Their years of imprisonment and the cruelty of their captor have sharpened their resolve, and now, with the fortress guard lulled by the monotonous night watch, the time for escape has come.

The woman unrolls the crude rope she had fashioned from bedsheets and drops it over the wall, trying to put the roaring of the sea below out of her mind. Weak from his illness, her husband ties it around his waist, and the woman and the servant slowly lower him over the side, the linen straining under the weight. Reaching the grassy mound at the base of the fortress wall, the man unties the rope and tugs it to signal that he is safe. The woman and servant follow, climbing down by themselves. The three pause for a minute to regain their breath, wrap themselves in the bedsheets for warmth, and with one last look at the ramparts to see if they have been discovered, disappear down the rocky path to the sea.

In his haste, the servant falls and twists his ankle, his cry echoing into the night. Lights and faces appear on the ramparts of the fortress, the alarm is raised. As the escapees pass a local inn, a dog begins to bark. The innkeeper, aroused from his sleep, is about to investigate, but, seeing the three white figures passing eerily by, believes he is seeing ghosts, and pulls the blankets tighter over his head.

The fugitives continue their escape, but they are hindered by the injured servant. Eventually, as dawn breaks, they reach the nearby harbour of Sandvig, but just as they are about to board a small boat that will take them to safety, the fortress guards appear. Their brief taste of liberty is over, and the couple are returned to the grim confines of Hammershus, their fate now darker than ever.

“It’s a good story, isn’t it?”, says the First Mate in my ear.

We are in the museum at Hammershus Fortress on the north-western tip of Bornholm, and I am reading a panel on the daring escape of one Leonara Christina Ulfeldt in 1660, a member of the Danish royalty who was imprisoned in the imposing fortress along with her husband, Corfitz, who had been accused of treason.

Hammershus Fortress ruins.

We had cycled over from Allinge harbour that morning, puffing our way to the top of the hill on which the Fortress was built in the 1200s. The largest in Scandinavia at the time, it was built when there were major struggles between the king and the church in Denmark, and served as a stronghold for the church. Over the years, various kings did manage to conquer it several times, but weren’t powerful enough to keep hold of it, and it was always surrendered back to the church. Until Frederik I, that is. In 1525, he decided that enough was enough, and chased the archbishops out of it for good.

“It’s amazing how powerful the church was at that time, isn’t it?”, says the First Mate. “They must have been terribly wealthy.”

Hammershus Fortress, Bornholm.

“Frederik I then gave it to Hanseatic merchants from Lübeck”, the next panel tells us. “However, despite their own wealth, the merchants taxed the local population heavily and coerced them to provide labour to extend the fortress. The people did rebel against them, but their uprising was brutally put down.”

Then in 1576, the King installed his own vassals there to use as an administration centre with courtroom, prison and gallows, with the proviso that they restore it, but they ended up taking the taxes from the local people to line their own pockets and letting the fortress fall even further into disrepair. It was during this time that Leonora and Corfitz Ulfeldt were imprisoned there.

The ‘Mantel’ Tower, where the Ulfeldt couple were imprisoned.

“Wow, you can sort of see why the local people on Bornholm had a deep loathing of the castle”, says the First Mate over a coffee at the end. “Everyone seemed to do all right out of it except them.”

“But I read that Bornholmians nowadays are quite proud of its dark history, and are helping to restore it again”, I say. “They think it is worth preserving.”

On the way back, we cycle past Sandvig harbour where the Ufeldt couple hadn’t escaped from.

“If the servant hadn’t twisted his ankle, they might have been able to get away”, says the First Mate. “As it was, she had to spend the next 22 years in solitary confinement.”

Sandvig harbour today.

We arrive back at the boat. Someone seems to be waiting for us.

“Wow, is that your boat?”, he says. “I was just admiring it. Have you come all the way from Britain? I saw your flag. I’m Jason, by the way, and this is Harold. He has been walking a lot today and is a bit tired.”

Jason & Harold.

Harold looks a bit dejected, but on hearing his name, manages a bark.

We tell them that we have sailed from Britain, but it has taken four years to do it. Our plan is to explore as much of Europe as possible by sea, but we are in no hurry. At the moment we are doing the Baltic.

Harold pricks up his ears.

“Wow, that is so cool”, says Jason. “I am a poor student from Copenhagen, but I have decided to take a year out and hitch-hike around Denmark first of all, then we’ll see how we get on after that. But I would love to do it by boat. You have inspired me to work hard and save up, and do something similar.”

Harold wags his tail.

“I think he’s spotted a mink over there”, says Jason. “There’s a few of them around.”

Peace between neighbours, Bronze Age spirits, and a lonely outpost

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“It’s only weed”, calls out a man on one of the boats tied up to the quay. “You’ll be able to push through it no problem.”

We have just arrived in the small harbour of Kristianopel, and are negotiating the entrance. The depth sounder has just told me that the depth under the keel is zero, meaning we are grounded. But it doesn’t feel like it and we are still moving slowly.

I ease the throttle forward and sure enough we keep going. No graunching sound of cast iron against rock, or even squelching against mud for that matter. On either side, we see the stringy tendrils of aquatic plants rising to the surface. Suddenly we have 0.6 m water clearance. Plenty! We tie up alongside our helpful advisor.

“We thought the same when we came in”, he says as he takes our lines. “We were almost going to anchor outside the harbour, but someone told us it was just weed. It’s only at the entrance.”

The village of Kristianopel.

We boil the kettle and take stock. Kristianopel’s claim to fame is that it once was a fortress town on the border between Denmark and Sweden in the days when Denmark was a major power and included much of southern Sweden. The Swedes weren’t particularly happy about this arrangement and mounted a series of attacks across the border. The Danish king, Christian IV, became fed up with all this aggression, and in 1606 decided to build a fortress to defend against these attacks.

“He named it after his baby son, Kristian”, says the First Mate, reading the guide book. “But added a ‘-opel’ to the end to make it sound a bit more sophisticated, like Constantinople.”

The fortress didn’t help matters for the Danes all that much, as only a few years later in 1611, the Swedish captured it and burnt it to the ground and destroyed the church. The Danish retaliated and the fortress changed hands several times over the next few years, but eventually the Danes were so exhausted that they sued for peace.

We go ashore and explore the village.

Kristianopel harbour.

“What a pretty little place”, says the First Mate. “It reminds me of the cute villages that we saw when we explored southern Denmark a few years ago.”

The fortress walls still exist in most places, and we walk along them trying to imagine life behind them in those days rather than the caravan park that it is nowadays. The occasional cannon pointing northwards towards Sweden and an ancient brazier for showing ships the way into the harbour help a little.

Walking along the Kristianopel fortress walls.
Brazier for guiding ships into Kristianopel.

“I read that the peace treaty was signed just north of here”, I say. “At a place called Brömsebro in 1645. There’s a memorial stone there. We could cycle up there tomorrow and have a look at it. There’s a smokery where we could have lunch.”

“Look, there’s a dual flag combining the Swedish and Danish flags”, exclaims the First Mate, pointing to a flagpole outside one of the houses. “I suppose you could take it to mean that Sweden and Denmark are now friends with each other.”

Dual Swedish and Danish flag.

“Or that the owners still can’t make up their mind whether they are Swedish or Danish”, I say. “So they hedge their bets!”

In the morning, we unload the bikes and cycle up to Brömsebro. It takes a bit to find the Peace Stone, but eventually we do, nestled in a small grove by a brook that used to demarcate the border between Sweden and Denmark.

The Peace Stone to celebrate peace between Sweden and Denmark.

“It’s not a very impressive border”, sniffs the First Mate. “You would have thought that they had chosen a river or something that could have been more easily defended. Look, I can jump from one side to the other.”

The words on the stone say ‘In memory of the peace in Brömsebro. De la Thuliere – Axel Oxenstierna – Corfitz Ulfeldt. The stone was raised in 1915.’

“It says in the guide book that the treaty was mediated by France”, I say. “De la Thuliere was the French ambassador, Axel Oxenstierna was the Swedish representative, and Corfitz Ulfeldt was the Danish representative. It was a big deal for Sweden, as the terms of the treaty now exempted its ships and traders from paying tolls to the Danes if they were passing through Danish territory, and they also added Gotland and the island of Øsel in modern day Estonia to Swedish territory. It marked the decline of Denmark and the start of the rise of Sweden as a Great Power in the Baltic.”

“I am always intrigued how empires come and go”, says the First Mate. “They always seem to overreach themselves and then can’t hold on to their territory.”

In the evening, we sit in the cockpit sipping our wine, and watch the swans and their young ones swimming serenely near the rocks just outside the harbour entrance.

“Something seems to be disturbing them “, says the First Mate suddenly. “Look, I think that it must be that big bird that has just landed on the rocks.”

“It looks like a golden eagle”, I say, looking through the binoculars. “No wonder the swans are upset. Golden eagles will eat the cygnets. It’s probably just waiting for its chance to grab one.”

The swans swim agitatedly towards the safety of the harbour, the little ones following their anxious parents. The golden eagle remains nonchalantly on the rock eying a cormorant, then flaps lazily off.

Golden Eagle (by Jarkko Järvinen).

Strong winds are forecast for tomorrow afternoon. We decide to try and reach the next small harbour, Sandhamn, before they start.

“Look!”, says the First Mate as we arrive. “Klaus & Claudia are here. I can see their boat Saare. And there is a space behind them where we can tie up.”

“We’ve been here a couple of days”, Claudia tells us. “After we left you in Stora Rör, we went to Kalmar, hired a car for a day, and explored Öland. After that, we sailed down here.”

“It’s quite sheltered here from the west”, says Klaus. “And we are on the right side of the pontoon. We should be blown off it with no screeching of the fenders rubbing all night long.”

—-

The shaman chants an ancient prayer to the spirit of the forest and guides the boy’s forefinger around the horse shape carved into the rock.

“The spirits are pleased with you”, whispers the shaman. ”Don’t resist them. Breathe deeply and allow their power to take over your being. You will be a great horseman and will protect your people against the enemies that will come. Just like your father before you.”

The boy feels the power of the animal surge through him, filling him with awe and connecting him to the OtherWorld, the land of his ancestors.

Bronze Age rock carving of horses.

“Now, you must make your own picture”, says the shaman, giving him the metal tool he has been carrying. “For those who follow after you to gain strength from. As those that have gone before you have done. Let the spirits guide you to release the shape that is within the rock.”

The boy hesitates only for a moment, but he knows exactly what he will draw. As the wind sighs gently through the pines, he begins to slowly and deliberately scratch at the rock with the tool until a shallow groove appears. His face furrowed in concentration, he continues his work throughout the afternoon until the light begins to fail. His back aching from the unnatural position he had taken to carve his picture on the rock, he stands up.

“I’ve finished”, he says.

Together they take in his creation.

“It’s Sol”, says the boy. “The giver and sustainer of life to us. I want her to look favourably on our people, and ensure that our crops grow, that our animals flourish, and that the forest remains our provider.”

“You have drawn wisely”, says the shaman. “Thousands of years hence, people will look at these pictures and mourn the loss of the ties to the spirit world that we have.”

Rock carving of the sun.

“Did you see the carvings of the ships?”, says a familiar voice. The mists of time dissolve in a flash.

It’s the First Mate. We are visiting the Bronze Age petroglyphs at Hällristningar på Hästhallen, just to the north of Sandhamn. We had cycled out with Klaus & Claudia after lunch, turned off the main road and walked to the rock outcrop in a small clearing. We had spent the last half-an-hour or so marvelling at the 140 carvings of ships, horses and riders, deer, sun wheels, soles of feet, and cup marks. I am imagining how they might have come to be there.

Dated to around 1000 BC, the figures portray religious rituals and aspects of daily life in Bronze Age Scandinavia. When the rock carvings were made, the area was the coastline; but it is now 25 meters above sea level.

Bronze Age rock carvings of ships.

Back at Sandhamn harbour, I see that another boat has arrived and has tied up on the other side of the pier to us. What’s more, it is flying a New Zealand flag.

“You’ve come a long way”, I say to the couple sitting in the cockpit.

“Well, we have just come from Germany where we have bought the boat”, the man says. “So not too far. But we are going to sail it back to New Zealand in a couple of years’ time after we explore Europe. My name is Ian, by the way, and this is Colleen.”

When they hear that I am also from New Zealand, they invite us aboard for a drink. It turns out that Ian is the son of a university lecturer who taught me when I was at university. It’s a small world!

The winds die down over night, and the next morning we sail for Utklippan, a remote group of three tiny islands off the south-east corner of Sweden. Stunningly beautiful, these islands are the site of a lighthouse built in the 1800s. The lighthouse was deactivated in 2008, deemed not to be useful for modern day shipping. The islands are now a Nature 2000 reserve, famed for their wildlife. The rectangular guest harbour has been cut out of the rock of the northern-most island, and is a popular stopping-off place for sailors.

Utklippan from the north.

When we arrive, Klaus and Claudia are already there. They are the only ones.

“I’ve never seen it so quiet”, says Klaus. “It’s usually much busier than this. I have seen boats rafted up three or four deep sometimes.”

In the late afternoon, a black RIB arrives and ties up just in front of us. In it are two people in uniform.

“We are the coastguard”, one tells us. “We see that your boat is from the UK. Can you show us your passports, please?”

I disappear below and manage to locate our passports and other permits. They show little interest in the First Mate’s German passport, but study my NZ passport intently. We had arrived in Sweden in April, but my Swedish Visitor’s Permit allows me to stay for six months from then, longer than the Schengen visa waiver of three months. Satisfied, they glance around cursorily, jump back in the black RIB, and are gone.

“It’s interesting that the Finns seemed to be more interested in whether the boat had had VAT paid on it, whereas here in Sweden, they are more concerned about our passports”, says the First Mate.

In the evening, we decide to have a joint dinner with Klaus & Claudia. They bring a lamb curry and rice, while we do a vegetable curry.

Pre-prandial refreshments..

Over dinner, the conversation turns to the upcoming elections in Thuringia and Saxony in Germany.

“All the indications are that the far-right Alternative for Deutschland (AfD) party will do well”, says Klaus. “There is real concern in Germany that this could lead to a return to the Nazism of the 1930s if they receive too much support.”

“We grew up having Nie weider, never again, drummed into us”, explains the First Mate. “So it is a bit of a shock when so many people support a far-right party.”

“It’s interesting that the AfD wasn’t always far-right”, says Claudia. “It was actually started in 2013 by a group of economists protesting against the bailouts to the southern Europe countries during the Eurozone crisis. They wanted these countries to leave the EU. It was only later that the party evolved towards the far-right when its various leaders jumped on the immigration bandwagon in an effort to gain votes.”

“It has its strongest support in the former Communist East Germany”, says Klaus. “But what is worrying is that a large number of young people, whom we expected to be progressive, support it too.”

After Klaus & Claudia have gone, I sit in the cockpit musing over what we had been talking about. Surely Nazism won’t reappear?

“I overheard your conversation”, says Spencer from his home in the canopy. “It’s interesting, as I was just reading the other day that the AfD won’t gain power as it is just an East German thing. You see, West and East Germans are very different people, and the differences go much further back than the Communist era. Right back to our old friends, the Teutonic Knights, in fact. It was because of them, and those that followed them, that the Baltic Germans developed a colonial mindset where they dominated the indigenous Balts and Slavs. When Hitler recalled them just before WW2, most relocated to eastern Germany, bringing their conservative right-wing worldviews with them. These views largely remain today, despite 50 years of Communist rule. So the AfD has a lot of support in the east, but it won’t gain much ground in the more liberal west.”

“Well, I hope you are right”, I say doubtfully. “But my concern is that too much immigration touches a raw nerve in both east and west Germany, which the AfD plays on. We’ll just have to see how it pans out.”

In the morning, as I drink my first tea of the day and do the crossword, there is a sound of voices outside. I poke my head out to see what is going on.

“We have come from the mainland to empty the rubbish bins”, says one of the voices. “I hope we didn’t wake you up?”

“How do you know when to come?”, I ask. “They might be empty and it would be a wasted journey.”

“Ah, but the bins are intelligent, you see”, he answers. “After someone has deposited something in there, it triggers a press and the rubbish inside is compressed. When the bin gets to around 80% full of compressed rubbish, it sends an email to our headquarters to tell us that it is nearly full. We then jump in a boat and come out to empty it. That way, the bins never overflow, and we don’t have any wasted trips. It’s all powered by this solar panel on top, see.”

Emptying the ‘intelligent’ rubbish bins on Utklippan.

After breakfast, we clamber into one of the small rowing boats provided on each island, and row over to the other island to explore the remains of the lighthouse station.

The Utklippan lighthouse.

Suddenly there is a massive series of thumps that reverberate throughout the island.

“What on earth was that?”, shouts the First Mate in alarm. “Did something fall down?”

“It sounds like heavy guns firing”, I say. “Perhaps the navy are practising.”

Sure enough, in the haze of the horizon we see a warship firing its guns, puffs of smoke being carried away by the wind.

Warships on the horizon.

“Crump … crump … crump”, go the guns. Then a few seconds later, another “Crump … crump … crump” in response, this time not quite so loud.

“There’s another ship that must be below the horizon”, I say. “We can’t see it.”

“I hope that they are only practising”, says the First Mate. “But what if the Russians have invaded Poland and this is the beginning of WW3? What would we do?”

“I suppose we could try defending the island with that cannon ever there”, I say doubtfully. “We might be able to hold them off for a minute or two, if we are lucky.”

Repelling the invaders.