“Look, there’s a naked man who has just dived into the water over there”, says the First Mate, pointing to the shore at the end of the bay. “And a woman.”

“They have probably just been in a sauna and are cooling off”, I say.

We are in a small inlet on the island of Skedöfladen, surrounded by forest with the occasional cabin here and there hidden behind the trees. We had left Hanko in the morning, sailing eastwards, and had decided to stop there overnight. Dropping the anchor at the top of the inlet, we had relaxed in the warm sunshine sipping wine, listening to the chorus of birdsong coming from the forest and watching the grebes diving amongst the reeds on the shore, the black-headed gulls wheeling overhead, and the solitary heron on the rock at the end of the bay.

“It’s so peaceful here”, says the First Mate dreamily, pouring her second glass of wine. “So close to nature. I can understand why all the Finns want to escape to their cabins in the summer time. It’s a spiritual thing.”

She loves her broad generalisations. But she has a point.

“I think that I can relate to that”, I say. “I wouldn’t mind spending a summer in a place like this. Just reading, thinking and writing, and a small boat to go fishing. Very inspirational.”

The naked couple climb out of the water onto the small jetty and walk unashamedly back into the trees.

“I read somewhere that there was a some opposition to boats being able to freely anchor in Finland when they were drafting their Jokaisenoikeudet, or Everyman’s Rights”, says the First Mate. “Because of people wanting to swim after having a sauna in their summer cabins. But this couple don’t seem to be bothered. They must be aware we are here.”

“The rules says that you mustn’t anchor close to private plots”, I say. “Although they leave the definition of how close ‘close’ is to common sense. I think we are far enough away.”

The next morning it is raining. We wait until lunchtime until it stops and the wind changes, then we carry on. In the late afternoon, we reach Barösund, a small harbour in the narrow sound between the islands of Barölandet and Orslandet. We tie up and go to explore.

“Look over there”, shouts the First Mate, pointing to two boats coming up the sound. “One boat is being towed. I think it’s the same one that we saw heading out when we were coming in. I recognise the sign on it – ‘Skärgärdsteatern’. Maybe they have broken down.”

Sure enough, the first boat turns out to be the coastguard, and there is a line back to the second, some sort of trawler. We had seen it earlier in the day. They reach the harbour and make a slow circle around so that the trawler is facing the quay. A second coastguard boat moves behind and gently nudges the trawler alongside the quay. They seem to know what they are doing.

A small crowd of people has gathered on the quay to watch the spectacle.

“Look out”, someone shouts. “They’re going to hit the pole. Someone do something.”

Sure enough, as the trawler comes alongside, a dinghy suspended on davits that protrude beyond its beam catches a pole with a life-ring and defibrillator on it. Being closest, I try to push the dinghy up out of the way, but I am too late. The pole snaps off at the base. The trawler gradually comes to a stop and is made fast to the quay.

“We are a theatre group from Helsinki”, explains one of the girls sitting at the bow. “We are on our way to Hanko to give a performance. We thought it would be cool to go by sea. But about an hour after we left Barösund, thick white smoke started coming from the engine. We were just thinking of going down to have a look when it stopped completely. Luckily we were in mobile range, so we called the coastguard and they came and towed us back.”

“What about your performance in Hanko?”, asks the First Mate. “Won’t you miss it?”

“Luckily it isn’t until the day after tomorrow”, she says. “We’ll just have to try and get a bus or something there. There should be enough time.”

“Quite a drama”, I say to the First Mate as we walk back to the boat.

We push on eastwards the next morning. Soon the skyline of Helsinki appears on the horizon and we make our way through the dozens of small islands and rocks that guard the entrance to the city, keeping a vigilant lookout for the many ferries and cruise ships coming and going.

We eventually tie up at the Helsingin Moottorivenekerho marina with the spires of the Eastern Orthodox Uspenski Cathedral towering over us.

“Look at the way the sunlight is reflecting off those onion domes”, says the First Mate. “Let’s go over in the morning and have a look inside it.”

In the morning we unload the bikes and cycle over. Inside, it is as sumptuous as it is outside. Commissioned by Tsar Alexander II of Russia, it was completed in 1868. I am surprised to learn that many of the bricks used in its building were ferried from the fort at Bomarsund in the Åland islands that we had visited last year.

“Apparently two of the icons were stolen”, says the First Mate. “One was stolen in 2007 in broad daylight at lunchtime with dozens of tourists present. They still haven’t got it back yet. The other was stolen in 2010 in a break-in, which they did recover eventually.”

The Lutheran Cathedral is a little bit further on, in Senate Square. Completed in 1852, it was originally built as a tribute to the Russian Tsar, Nicholas I. True to Lutheran philosophy, it is a lot less ornate than the Eastern Orthodox cathedral.

Continuing, we find the Temppeliaukio church, carved out of solid rock, with its translucent skylight and copper dome.

“Apparently, the acoustics of the rock are so good, they hire it out for music concerts”, says the First Mate, guide book In hand.

On the way back, we pass the Kamppe Chapel of Silence. Located in one of the busiest squares in central Helsinki, it is built of three different types of wood – a spruce exterior, internal walls of alder, and furniture of ash – and offers a quiet refuge almost completely shut off from the noise and bustle outside. I close my eyes and imagine I am back in the bay at Skedöfladen surrounded by live trees of spruce, alder and ash, with only the calls of the grebes, heron and black-headed gulls. It kind of works.

“We certainly did pretty well for churches today”, says the First Mate over dinner that evening. “But one thing I know nothing about is what the difference is between Eastern Orthodox and Western Christianity. Why did they split up?”

“There was what they called the East-West Schism, as far as I remember”, I say, racking my brains. “In 1054 AD, or thereabouts.”

I consult our well-worn copy of the History of Europe by J M Roberts.

After Christianity spread through the Roman empire, the western and eastern parts slowly drifted apart, with different languages, rituals and practices, it tells me. The Eastern church promoted the use of icons, or pictures of Christ, Mary, the dead, the saints and the angels, to give people the feeling of being surrounded by the whole church. The Western church saw this as worshipping idols and were dead against it. They also disagreed over whether leavened or unleavened bread should be used in communion. And there were differences in some points of theology – the Eastern church saw the Holy Spirit coming from God directly, the Western saw it as coming from God and Christ.

“All pretty arcane, isn’t it?”, says the First Mate. “If God exists, I wonder why he didn’t make it all clearer so that there would be no room for misunderstandings?”

“Well, it was probably as much politics as theology”, I continue reading. “The Eastern church also didn’t accept the authority of the Pope in Rome over a universal church – they were much more into smaller national church groupings with their own leaders – the Armenian, Assyrian, Ukrainian, Russian, and so on. Anyway, to cut a long story short, they decided that their differences were irreconcilable, and split up into Catholicism in the west and Orthodox in the east. Of course, since then there have been any number of subsequent splits into sects and cults, each with its own interpretation of specific bits of scripture and claiming to be right.”

“Well, they can’t all be right, can they?”, says the First Mate.

The next morning we continue exploring Helsinki on the bikes.

“I’m impressed”, says the First Mate. “Absolutely stunning. A real library of the future.”

We are enjoying a coffee in the sunshine on the outdoors balcony of Oodi, Helsinki’s central library. She has a point. Commissioned as part of the centenary celebrations of Finland’s independence from Russia in 1917, it really is much more than a traditional library.

“Oodi is in effect a living room for the 21st-century city”, says the blurb. “As with other libraries in Finland, it is open and free to all. Their purpose is to promote reading, literacy, equality, and freedom of speech, as well as a sense of community and imagination.”

In addition to light, airy spaces for reading, there are also music and video production studios, a cinema, the café, and a restaurant. Meeting rooms on every floor can be used for lectures, talks and conferences. Weekly language classes are offered. On the second floor is an ‘Urban Workshop’ with laser cutters, 3D printers, sewing machines, and soldering equipment.

In addition to normal books, it is also possible to borrow e-publications, sports equipment, musical instruments, power tools, and other ‘items of occasional use’.

“It must be a great place to come during those long Finnish winters”, I say. “You could spend all day here, just reading, writing, keeping warm, meeting people over coffee or lunch. I am starting to see why Finland tops the ‘Happiness Index’ every year.”

“Did you see the robot which transports books from one part of the library to another?” asks the First Mate. “I had to wait while it got into the lift.”

“I read that a book that was borrowed from the library in 1939 was just returned the other day“, I say. “Apparently it was at the time the Russians invaded Finland in the Winter War. It seems that the borrower might have had other things on his or her mind and forgot to return it. It languished in an attic all those years, but someone came across it just recently and returned it.”

“I wonder if they had to pay an overdue fine?”, says the First Mate, standing up to go. “It would come to quite a bit for being 85 years late.”

In the afternoon, we meet up with Outi. We had first met her when we were on Kökar in the Åland islands, and we agreed to get in contact when we arrived in Helsinki, where she now lives. Over a coffee in the Kapelli restaurant near the Old Market Hall, she tells us that she comes originally from eastern Finland, in a part called Karelia.

“It’s actually now in Russia”, she says. “Finland lost it at the end of the Continuation War.”

“I don’t know much about Karelia”, says the First Mate. “Where is it exactly?”

“Well, it’s an area between the White Sea and the Gulf of Finland”, she says. “We have our own culture and language, Karelian, which is very similar to Finnish. Unfortunately, because Karelia is only a small region with some large neighbours, we have never been an independent country. Back in the 1200s, we were fought over by the Swedes and the Novgorod Republic. In the 1300s we became part of the Swedish Empire. Then in the 1700s we became part of the Russian Empire along with Finland, and then part of the autonomous Grand Duchy of Finland. So we have been close to Finland for quite a while.”

“What happened then?”, I ask.

“Well, Finland became independent in 1917, and Karelia along with it”, she answers. “That was fine, but the problems started in 1939 when Russia attacked Finland in the Winter War. The Finns fought bravely and held the Russians off, but the resulting peace treaty in 1940 meant that the Russians got to keep the land they had occupied, much of which was Karelia. A lot of Karelians fled at that time rather than be under Russian rule. My own mother fled with her family to north Karelia which was still in Finnish hands. She was only five years old.”

“So is that where she grew up?”, asks the First Mate.

“No”, says Outi. “When the Nazis invaded Russia in 1941, Finland decided to fight on their side to try and get Karelia and the other territories back. This became known as the Continuation War. They were successful for a time, and so a lot of Karelians, including my mother’s family, moved back to their own homes. Unfortunately, though, when the Germans started losing, the Russians pursued them, and fought the Finns too, regaining the land in Karelia. So the Karelians had to flee all over again. Now she lives in South Karelia, which is in Finland. We are going over this coming weekend to celebrate her 90^th birthday.”

“It’s fascinating”, says the First Mate. “My mother has a similar story of having to flee from the Russians in Ostpruessen. What a terrible time it was for innocent civilians then. A whole continent in turmoil.”

“Yes, we are so lucky not to have experienced that in our lives”, says Outi. “At least not so far.”

“I think we have seen all the things we need to see in Turku”, says the First Mate over breakfast. “I wouldn’t mind a few days in the peace and quiet of the islands now. There’s an island not too far from here that I have been looking at. It’s called Seili, and is only about three hours away. We could sail there this afternoon.”

“Sounds like a good idea”, I say. “Let’s go.”

The wind is from the south-west, but we manage to sail close hauled, tacking a couple of times. Before long we reach the small bay to the north of the island. There is a pontoon there for boats to tie up to, but it is quite shallow and we decide to anchor.

We inflate the small dinghy and row ashore. It is new this year, having been bought to replace the old one which had decayed beyond repair. This is the first time we have used it. It floats at least.

A path leads up to an imposing looking building in the centre of the island.

“Apparently it used to be a leper hospital back in the 1600s”, reads the First Mate. “People with leprosy arriving there even had to bring their own planks to construct their coffins. Very few ever left the island alive. The church was even constructed in two separate parts – one side for the patients and the other for the staff. That way, they didn’t come into contact. Later the buildings were used as an institution for those with mental illnesses.”

“All a bit gloomy”, I say.

“But from the 1960s, the buildings have been used as a marine research station by the University of Turku”, she continues. “They are doing research in the Baltic Sea, particularly in relation to climate change and pollution by microplastics.”

After a cup of coffee in the small café in the building we walk over to the small harbour on the other side of the island. As luck would have it, the inter-island ferry arrives at the same time.

“We just came over for the day for some walking”, explains one of the small group of people waiting for it to arrive. “We’re heading back to Turku now. Others live in Turku, but come over here to work in the research station and café. The ferry can get quite busy.”

Well, in relative terms, I suppose, as we watch the seven people walk into its ‘mouth’.

For the next few days, we hop from one island to the next, staying two or three nights at anchor, before moving on to the next one. Each has its own character and set of memories. Birsskär, on the edge of its beautiful sheltered lagoon, the spectacular nature walk to the top of the highest point of the neighbouring island Stenskär, the friendly sheep we meet on the way, and the smoked fish we buy from the small shop. Norrfladen with its large bay surrounded by forest.

At Ejskäret we find the small bay on the western side of the island, and anchor in about 4 m of water. We set the anchor by motoring backwards until it bites into the mud.

“I think we will be very protected in here anyway”, I say. “It’s only open to the east, and the winds are coming from the south-east and south according to the forecast.”

“Still, it’s better to be safe than sorry”, says the First Mate. “I can see some thunderclouds over there.”

Luckily, the southerly wind takes the threatening clouds around us and leave a beautiful warm summer evening. I take some drone shots of us anchored in the bay.

We settle down for the night and are soon fast asleep. In the early morning I am awoken by a loud crack. Like something has hit the boat. I leap out of bed and look out.

“It’s thunder!”, shrieks the First Mate, as there is another crack.

A sudden squall buffets us, the wind increasing from-near calm to 40 knots in a few seconds. It starts to rain heavily. A flash of lightening! I count the number of seconds between the flash and the peal of thunder. Two! It’s almost overhead. Then another flash, then another. They’re all around us. We huddle in the cockpit, not touching anything metallic, and hope that the next flash doesn’t choose the mast as a conductor.

“Look out, we are getting very close to that pontoon!”, shouts the First Mate. “I think the anchor is dragging!”

We are certainly closer than we were the night before, but we don’t seem to be moving, only swinging backwards and forwards. At least, I hope it is.

I grab a boathook to fend off the pontoon if we do happen to be blown closer. Not that I could hold the weight of the boat and the force of 40 knots of wind, but it feels better than doing nothing. We cower lower and wait agonisingly, wondering when it will all end.

Gradually the lightning flashes seem to be moving away from us, and there is more time between the flash and the peal of thunder. The wind begins to lessen.

“I think it’s easing “, says the First Mate, white-faced. “Phew, that was scary.”

Half an hour later, the clouds have disappeared, the water is calm, and the sun comes out. It all feels like a bad dream.

“We did move a little bit”, I say, after looking at the GPS track. “But overall the anchor held remarkably well. I am not sure what we would have done if it had dragged and we had collided with that pontoon.”

We weigh anchor and push on, reaching the busy harbour of Hanko in the late afternoon.

“I think I might just get some washing done before we have a look around”, says the First Mate. “You have to take what opportunities you can when you are sailing.”

Hanko was a Russian naval base when Finland was a Grand Duchy of the Russian Empire. During that time, it was also a favourite spa resort that the Russian elite would come to holiday on account of its warm sunny weather and fine beaches, sometimes being called the “Riviera of Finland”.

We set off to explore the town. The Russians built graceful villas, most of which still survive.

“I just love these villas”, says the First Mate. “I just can’t stop photographing them. Though what I am going to do with all the pictures, I just don’t know.”

“This looks like a nice place for lunch”, says the First Mate, as we reach the Hanko Casino. “We can pretend that we are the Russian elite come to take the waters.”

Despite its name, it was a banquet hall in Russian times, and is now a restaurant. Three Barnacle geese roam the garden welcoming visitors.

We help ourselves to the buffet of salmon, brown rice, and salads of different sorts, and take a table looking out over the lawn to the sandy beach and bay beyond.

“Phew, we’ll need to go for a walk after this”, I say. “I am full. And there’s still dessert to come.”

“I saw a sign saying that there is a nature walk in a loop around that rocky headland over there”, says the First Mate. “We can do that. Apparently, it’s where the high-society Russian ladies used to walk for fresh air.”

There are also fortifications where the Finns fought against the Russians in the Continuation War in 1941.

We continue on exploring the town and come to the city water tower. There is a lift to the top.

“The original wooden tower was built in 1886”, the woman at the small desk tells us. “The Soviets blew it all up when they left after the Continuation War in 1941. It was rebuilt out of local red granite in 1943 to supply water to the townspeople. It gives a great view out over the city. Look, you can see the naval ships arriving for tomorrow’s Flag Day.”

Mother duck and her ducklings, I think.

On the way back to the boat, we pass a sculpture of birds in flight. The guide book tells us that it is to commemorate the many Finnish emigrants who left for a new life in North America. Apparently, Hanko was the port of choice for their departure.

The next day, it is the National Flag Day for the Finnish Defence Forces.

“There is a particularly close bond between the FDP and the general population”, one man tells me. ”Not only because they guaranteed our freedom by stopping the Russians from invading the whole country during the Continuation War, but also because every citizen must do six months’ national service, and so they know what it is like to be in the armed forces. ”

We wander around the equipment display. Tanks, missile launchers, field radar, navy patrol boats, mines – they are all there. Weapons of death, but unfortunately necessary in today’s world – not only for deterrence, but also for actively defending against unprovoked aggression.

We are struck by how young most of the personnel are – barely out of their teens.

 “The military parade is at 1230”, I say. “Let’s get a quick bite to eat, and we can go and find a good spot to watch the parade go past.”

We find a place just opposite the War Memorial. On it, the words “For our Freedom” are engraved. It seems appropriate. The parade begins. Unit after unit of fighting men and women march solemnly past, led by their commander followed by the standard bearers carrying their particular flag.

The tanks arrive, clanking and belching smoke from their engine exhausts, their tracks scraping the tarmac with a sound like cut glass as they turn the corner.

“They are pretty big when you see them up close”, says the First Mate.

“And a lot noisier in real life compared to just looking at them in pictures”, I say. “It must be horribly claustrophobic being cooped up inside them. I am not sure that I could cope with it.”

The air force fly-past is at 1530.

“Why don’t you come up to the roof area of the Harbour Office?”, says the harbourmaster. “It’s mostly for staff, but you’ll get a better view from up there. By the way, your mail arrived this morning. Here it is.”

We climb the stairs to the roof. There’s not long to wait.

“Here they come”, someone shouts.

Sure enough, on the dot of 1530, four aircraft appear flying low. As they zoom past just above us, they release their smoke, and for the next half an hour, we are treated to a dazzling display of aerobatics and smoke trails.

“Apparently, when they fly in formation, there are only two metres between the wing-tips”, the harbourmaster tells us. “No room for any error.”

When we get back to the boat, two burly men in black uniforms are waiting for us on the quay. On their shoulder labels, we see the word ‘Tulli’. They are Customs officers.

“Is this UK-registered boat yours?”, they ask. We reply in the affirmative.

“Can we see your papers, please?” they ask. “In particular, we want to see that your boat is here legally and that VAT has been paid in the EU.”

I disappear into the boat and start rummaging. I find the documents and take them out. One of the men takes photos of the documents stating that VAT was paid on the original sale when the UK was still in the EU, and that the boat was lying in the EU on 31 December 2020, meaning that she is classified as ‘Union Goods’ for tax purposes. Luckily everything seems to be in order, and the mood relaxes.

“Everything is fine”, says one. “We hope you have a good time in Finland.”

“Interesting”, I say to the First Mate later. “That’s the first time we have been asked for our documents since we have been in Europe with her. It just shows that it pays to have everything in order.”

In the evening, there is a jazz concert. A giant stage has been constructed just in front of the Casino where we had had lunch the day before. After a quick bite to eat, We take a rug, something to drink, and join the crowds of people heading to the same place.

“Let’s sit on the beach”, says the First Mate. “The sun will last longer over there, there are not so many people there, and we can still see as well.”

We find a place to sit. All around us are little groups, families, couples, enjoying the balmy evening with an air of expectancy. Soon the music begins, and the dissonant chords of well-known traditional jazz and soul music are booming across the bay.

“I always enjoy a bit of jazz”, says the First Mate, as the band makes its last encore and leaves the stage. “The next band on is called the ‘Showband of the Defence Forces Conscript Band’. A bit of a mouthful. Apparently they are chosen from this year’s conscripts.”

They are exuberant, to say the least. A Freddie Mercury imitator prances across the stage, microphone in hand, giving it his all. Not to be outdone, a young woman follows. Both excellent performers. Perhaps not as musical as they could be, it is nevertheless hugely entertaining.

Soon the last rays of the sun reflect off the cupolas of the Casino one last time and are gone. Immediately it begins to cool down.

“Come on”, says the First Mate, pulling on her fleece. “It’s been great, but I am starting to get cold now. Time to get back to the boat and get warm again.”

“We enjoyed the jazz band at the beginning”, our neighbours in the marina say when we get back. “But not so much the last band. Too much noise and not enough music. Nevertheless, it was great to see the young people getting together and produce something, even if it is not to our taste.”

Like us. I suddenly feel old.

We set sail in the morning for Turku. It’s nearly 60 nautical miles, but the winds are from the southeast giving us a comfortable beam reach, so we want to make the most of it.

As we sail, my mind drifts back to the conversation we had had the night before with Robert, the harbourmaster at Sandvik harbour on Kökar. He had cooked us dinner at the harbour café, two massive chunks of salmon, potatoes in herb butter, and a salad. Oh, and a dessert of his special rhubarb ‘experiment’, as he called it.

With us the only customers, he had stopped to talk to us. The conversation had turned to the Russians and their attempts to interfere with the GPS. He had heard the stories, but didn’t believe that it would have much effect on marine navigation, but could be quite serious for aircraft.

“That’s why Finnish Air have suspended their flights to Estonia”, he says. “The airport at Tallinn relies purely on GPS data for guidance and has no traditional equipment that other airports have for backup. But it is so typical of the Russians. They are intent on sowing as much confusion and doubt in the West as possible.”

It resonates with a book I am reading at the moment, Road to Unfreedom, by Timothy Snyder. In it, he describes how Russia’s aim is to destabilise the West. One of the ways to achieve this was the creation of a company called the Internet Research Agency in St Petersburg in 2015, whose purpose was to use social networking sites and other online platforms to disseminate Russian propaganda from fake accounts. This even extended to influencing elections and referendums in the West. But why do they want to do it, I think?

“You have to remember that Russia sees itself as engaged in an existential war between itself and the evil West”, says Spencer from the canopy over my shoulder. “Central to this is the concept of ‘hybrid war’, which is a mixture of traditional warfare and cyber warfare.”

“What do you mean?”, I ask.

“Well, cyber warfare aims to create chaos in the enemy by sowing doubt amongst its citizens so that no-one trusts anybody or anything, even when it is true”, he responds. “Often several different narratives are developed so no-one knows what to believe. Western media even unwittingly help this process along by reporting on obvious lies and untruths. It doesn’t even matter anymore whether something is true or untrue – what is more important is that it is in people’s minds and they are talking about it.

“But aren’t people clever enough to know what is true or false? Won’t it backfire in the long run?”

“Well, it seems to work”, he says. “Both the Brexit referendum and Donald Trump’s election were influenced by the Russians. And they got the result they wanted.”

“Are you talking to that spider again?”, calls the First Mate from the cabin. “You’d better stop now. There’s a huge cruise ship coming up behind and we need to be careful it doesn’t run us over.”

We approach Turku in the early evening. We furl the sails and motor through the buoyed channel to the Aura river that runs through the city and to the City Marina, passing on the way some stately tall ships.

The moorings are box berths, which are not so common in Finland. We approach them with trepidation, as our experiences with box berths have been usually confrontational, with the box-berth normally coming out best. Especially when there is a strong cross wind. Luckily there is no wind this time and we manage to tie up in masterclass fashion. I receive admiring glances from the audience of seagulls perched on the tops of the neighbouring posts.

“A perfect mooring”, says one. “Congratulations! Top marks!”

“It was nothing, really”, I say nonchalantly.

While the First Mate goes to pay at the harbour office, I have a quick scan through the guide book.

Turku is the major city of southwest Finland, it says, and also Finland’s oldest, having been founded in the 1200s AD. The cathedral was built in the 1300s, and the city was part of the Hanseatic League of trade in the 1400s. Finland was part of Sweden until 1809, when Sweden had to cede it to Russia after the Finnish War. For a short time, Turku was the capital of the Grand Duchy of Finland under the Russian Empire, but Tsar Alexander I felt it was too aligned with Sweden, and decided to make Helsinki the capital. Then in 1918, Finland became independent and Turku along with it.

“Quite a story, isn’t it?”, says the First Mate on her return. “I am quite looking forward to exploring it.”

The city centre is a little way from the marina. In the morning, we unload the bikes and cycle along the river bank until a street market and thronging browsers block our way.

“There’s no way we can cycle through these crowds”, I say. “We’ll just have to push the bikes.”

We slowly make our way through the market, stopping to browse at the occasional stall. Lunchtime approaches and we are both feeling peckish.

“Look, there’s a stall selling Lapland food”, says the First Mate. “Let’s try some of that.”

We go for the fried muikku – a small freshwater fish caught in the lakes and rivers of Lapland and other parts of Finland. In English it is called vendace.

“It’s one of the favourite foods of Lapland”, the vendor tells us. “We make the batter from rye flour seasoned with salt and pepper, and fry them in a mixture of butter and oil, and serve them with a delicious garlic sauce.”

“Mmmmm, it is good”, says the First Mate. “I could have another plate, but I had better not.”

As we leave, a group of girls singing and shouting passes.

“We’re celebrating my wedding”, one of the girls explains to the First Mate. “I’m getting married tomorrow. This is my, how do you say it in English, …?”

“Hen party?”, prompts the First Mate.

“Yes, this is my hen party”, says the girl. “Tell me, what is the best love song in English?”

The First Mate thinks for a few moments.

“Well, the one that comes to mind is that of Ruby Tuesday by the Rolling Stones, where it says ‘Catch your dreams before they fly away’. That’s what you need to do.”

“Oh, yes, I like that”, says the girl. “I’ll remember that.”

“That was quick thinking of you”, I say afterwards.

We eventually reach the cathedral. It is closed to the public for a wedding. It is obviously the season for weddings in Turku.

“This notice says you can come back at 1700”, I say. “Never mind, let’s go to the museum. The archaeology and art gallery are in the same building. You could go to one and I the other.”

The museum and art gallery are closed for refurbishment.

“We aren’t doing too well”, complains the First Mate. “It’s nearly summer. You’d think they would have things ready for the tourists.”

We decide to split up and do our own thing. I opt to go and see the castle while the First Mate chooses to see the Wäino Aaltonen Museum of contemporary art and sculpture.

I take the small foot ferry across the river and cycle along the right bank of the river until I come to the castle.

“The castle was originally built in the late 1200s when Finland was part of the Kingdom of Sweden”, the girl at reception tells me. “It was then on a small island at the mouth of the river, but land rise eventually joined it to the mainland. It was gradually added to over the mediaeval period and the Renaissance until the 1500s. Over that time, it has been both a defensive fortress and a royal residence. In fact, we have a special exhibition on Catherine Jagiellon at the moment. She was one of the queens who lived here. I am sure you’ll find it interesting.”

I have no idea who Catherine Jagiellon was, so I have something to learn.

As I wander through dimly lit rooms of the older medieval part lower in the castle and the bright and spacious rooms of the Renaissance period on the top floor, it strikes me how closely the history of Finland at that time was connected to Swedish history. And for good reason – Sweden ruled much of what is Finland nowadays from the 1100s to the 1600s. All the old familiar names we had learnt of during the last two years of exploring Sweden reappear here – Gustav Vasa I who threw off Danish rule and converted the countries from Catholicism to Lutheranism, his two sons John and Eric who fought each other for the throne of the Swedish Empire.

“Ah yes, I remember them”, says the First Mate, when we are talking later. “Wasn’t one of them imprisoned in Gripsholm Castle in Mariehamn which we visited a couple of years ago?”

“Yes, that was John”, I answer. “When Gustav I died, Eric was crowned king, while John became the Duke of Finland. However, Eric took exception to John marrying Catherine Jagiellon. a Polish princess.

“Why was that?”, she asks.

“Well, unfortunately Sweden was at war with Poland over Livonia, which is roughly present-day Estonia. Eric interpreted his brother John’s marriage to Catherine as supporting the enemy. Which may have been partly true, as John seemed to have his own designs on Livonia. Moreover, she was Catholic, and Sweden and Finland were now Lutheran.”

“So what did Eric do?”, she asks.

“Well, he sent his army against Turku castle where the happy couple had taken up residence”, I say, “They were captured, taken back to Sweden, and imprisoned in Gripsholm Castle.”

“A bit tough for Catherine, wasn’t it?”, she says. “Just married, coming to a country where you don’t speak the language and has a different religion, imprisoned in yet another country where you don’t speak the language and has a different religion, all with a man you hardly know.”

“Yes, it can’t have been easy”, I say. “And the exhibition on her at the castle shows her personal side – letters she wrote to her sister back in Poland, her thoughts about Catholicism, Protestantism and the Counter-Reformation, and the like. I think that she must have found it a bit lonely.”

“But I seem to remember that John eventually became king of Sweden?”, asks the First Mate. “So she would have become Queen.”

“Yes, eventually Eric upset too many people, including his own nobles, so they all rose up against him, imprisoned him in Kalmar Castle, had him certified mad, and declared John the king. John wasn’t too keen on having Eric stay around, even if he was imprisoned, just in case his supporters stirred up trouble, so he slowly poisoned him by adding arsenic to his food over the next few years.”

“So much for brotherly love”, says the First Mate.

“Well, they were half brothers actually”, I say. “So perhaps that explains it.”

On the way back from the castle to meet the First Mate, it begins to rain quite heavily. As luck would have it, I am close to the Sibelius Museum, and I decide to take cover there and more learn about the famous Finnish composer at the same time.

“Jean Sibelius was born in 1865 in Finland, which was at the time an autonomous Grand Duchy of the Russian Empire”, one of the wall panels tells me. “He made a major contribution to the development of a Finnish national identity at a time when there were attempts to ‘Russify’ the country.”

I put on some headphones and listen to the stirring chords of Finlandia, one of his most well-known works. Written in 1899, it is a representation of the Finnish national struggle against foreign rule, and to avoid Russia censorship, had to be played under different names to avoid crackdowns by the authorities.

The particular version I am listening to was played in 2015 on the 150^th anniversary of his birth, with different sections of the orchestra located on one of the seven hills of Turku, with the music from each mixed electronically.

Downstairs is an eclectic collection of various musical instruments. One organ in particular looks as if it needs the player to have a commercial pilot’s licence.

Luckily the rain has stopped when I leave.

“How did you get on at the other art gallery?”, I ask the First Mate.

“It was closed”, she says morosely. “No surprises there. But I did have a good poke around the shops in the city centre.”

In the morning, I prepare my fruit and muesli. The First Mate has spilt some sugar on the worktop the night before. Casually, I lick my finger, wipe it up, and put it into my mouth. Instantly, I realise from the harsh metallic taste that it is a mistake. It’s not sugar. I read the label on the side of the package that I hadn’t noticed standing there: ‘Dri-Pack Soda Crystals, suitable for use in septic tanks’.

“I was using it last night to clean a few things, including the tea stains from your cup”, says the First Mate, as I imbibe my third cup of water, slosh it around inside my mouth, and spit it out vehemently. “It’s only sodium carbonate decahydrate. It’s not poisonous. At least not in small doses. Look on the bright side, you won’t have any tea stains on your stomach lining now.”

Ah, what it is to have someone who cares for you.

“We could stop at Fejan”, says the First Mate, looking up from the harbour guide. “It’s not far from here, and it would be a good jumping off place for the Åland islands. It’s just up around the next headland.”

We have started our summer voyage at last. We had left Svinninge marina in the morning, and had wended our way through the islands of the Stockholm archipelago, managing to dodge all the ferries coming and going. The wind had been fitful – sometimes strong gusts, then dying to nothing. Nevertheless, it had been an opportunity to check that everything was working on Ruby Tuesday, and accustom ourselves to the art of sailing again.

“Fejan sounds fine to me”, I say.

The small harbour comes into view. We tie up alongside the outer pontoon. We are the only boat there. There appears to be no-one on the land either.

“It looks like there has been quite a storm here”, calls the First Mate. “This steel signpost is all buckled. And look at this bridge to our pontoon. It’s been ripped from its metal fixings on the main pier. I am a bit scared to even put my foot on it.”

We had heard while we were preparing the boat that there had been a violent storm in the Baltic back in November and that many of the small harbours and marinas had been substantially damaged. There was doubt in many cases as to whether they would be repaired in time for the 2024 season.

“The harbour guide says that Fejan used to be a quarantine station”, says the First Mate. “It was built way back in the early 1800s when cholera was spreading through Europe, so any new arrivals to Sweden had to stay here until they were cleared to enter the country. Needless to say, many of them died before they were cleared.”

At the end of WW2, a lot of Estonians fled their country as they feared retribution for being on the wrong side of the invading Russians, while others didn’t want to live under communist occupation. The ones that came to Sweden were kept on Fejan in quarantine.

We explore the small cluster of houses surrounding the harbour, dominated by an imposing-looking restaurant. Apparently it used to be the autopsy building and morgue for the quarantine station. There is a feeling of sadness, not helped by the solitude.

“Come mid-summer, it’ll be a hive of activity, though”, says the First Mate. “I wonder if they will realise that there were once dead bodies on the tables they are happily eating their fine food from?”

“The meat-eaters amongst them are eating dead bodies anyway”, I say wryly.

We set off the next morning sailing for Kökar, an island cluster in the south of the Åland islands. It is nearly 60 miles away, but the south-east winds are favourable. The sails fill on a pleasant beam reach, and soon we are comfortably speeding eastwards at 7-8 knots.

We near Kökar in the evening. Furling the mainsail, we turn to the north to round the headland into Sandvik harbour. On the hill above us, we see the white walls, red roof, and spire of Kökar church.

“Have you seen that ferry behind us?”, says the First Mate, just as we enter the narrow buoyed channel to the harbour. “I am not sure there is enough room in this channel for both of us.”

I had seen it. Luckily the channel widens a little just before the ferry dock, so I furl the genoa and tuck into there. The ferry passes with mere metres to spare.

We soon reach the small harbour for sailboats at the top of the bay and tie up. Once again, we are the only boat there. A beached ancient hulk greets us.

“Did you know that you are supposed to pronounce Köker ‘Shirker’?”, I ask. “The K often has a ‘sh’ sound in Swedish, and the ‘ö’ has a short ‘ir’ sound a bit like in German. And it has nothing to do with the inhabitants being work-shy.”

“Ho, ho”, groans the First Mate with a look of weary resignation. “I think your jokes are getting worse, if anything.”

The next morning we borrow some bikes from the café and cycle up to the church we saw on the way in. It is locked, but the key is kept by one of the islanders living nearby who is usually happy to open it to visitors. It turns out that he is the church organist.

“Originally, there was a Franciscan monastery here dating from the 13^th century”, he tells us. “You can see the ruins of it within the small museum behind the church if you are interested. Then a wooden church was built in the 14^th century. Of course, both were Catholic, dedicated to Anna, the grandmother of Jesus, but in 1544 AD it became Lutheran when King Gustav of Sweden split from the Catholic church and converted the whole country to Lutheranism. Åland and Finland were part of the Swedish Empire at that time. But this actual church we are standing in dates from 1784 when it was rebuilt, although the baptismal font over there is from the original church.”

”And this beautiful ship here”, asks the First Mate, pointing to a model of a ship suspended from the ceiling. “What does that signify?”

“Well, the story is that a local farmer was travelling somewhere by ship in the 1700s, but was captured by North African pirates”, the organist explains. “He was held by them for several years, but eventually managed to escape, and when he made it back to Kökar, as a mark of his gratitude to God for saving him, he decided to build a model of the pirate ship that captured him.”

“A poignant little story”, I think, although the thought crosses my mind as to why God would be interested in a model of a pirate ship.

We walk to the top of the hill overlooking the vastness of the Baltic Sea interspersed with islands of the archipelago. Behind us the wind whistles through the pines surrounding the church, conveying a sense of loneliness. And yet, to weary seafarers arriving from a long storm-tossed voyage it must have looked like a sanctuary offering protection from the elements. I read later that Kökar was one of the resting places on the ‘Danish Itinerary’, a 13^th century sea route from Utlängan in south-east Sweden to Tallinn in present-day Estonia.

A sailboat appears from behind one of the islands from the north.

“I wonder if that is Simon and Louise?”, I say. “They are certainly coming from the right direction.”

Simon and Louise are a couple we met on the Cruising Association Rally in Åland last year. We had arranged to meet up again this year if we are near each other. We are, so they had suggested meeting up today.

We watch the boat until it passes below us.

“It’s definitely them”, says the First Mate. “I recognise the boat. Look, there is the Red Ensign on the stern.”

We wave, but they don’t see us.

We meet them as they arrive in the harbour and give them a hand tying up. Over coffee and cakes we catch up on everything each other has been up to since last year.

As the sun goes down and it suddenly grows cold, we decide to adjourn to the local hotel restaurant for something to eat.

“We had a bit of an ‘adventure’ here in Kökar last year”, says Simon over dinner. “One that we are not too keen to repeat.”

“We were just about to leave”, Louise continues. “We were reversing out, and suddenly there was a horrible graunching noise and the engine stopped. Something had caught itself on the propeller. Simon put on his wetsuit and went down to investigate – it turned out to be a submerged stern buoy that was being held down by its chain. You couldn’t see it. We had reversed right over it, and the chain had caught around the propeller.”

“Every sailor’s nightmare”, I say.

“Luckily, the harbour did eventually accept responsibility and agreed to pay for the damage”, says Simon. “But trying to get the money from them was the next part of the saga. We kept on emailing and phoning them, and they kept saying, it’s alright, we’ll pay for the damage. But the money never appeared.”

“In the end, we found their insurance company”, continues Simon. “They confirmed that the damage would be covered, and told the harbour to pay us. So in the end they did, but it was a lot of hassle. With all the delays, it ruined our sailing season.”

On the way out of the restaurant, we briefly chat with a German girl at the next table.

“I am on a project at the University of Trondheim in Norway”, she tells us. “Trondheim used to be a major Christian pilgrimage centre in medieval times. People would come from all over Europe to visit the shrine of St Olav who was buried in Nidaros Cathedral there in 1030 AD. We are trying to resurrect some of the major pilgrim trails leading to the city, both for those wanting the spiritual experience, but also for recreation. The one that I am working on at the moment is called St Olav’s Waterway, starting in Turku in Finland. It’s about 340 km long, and the only water-based route. You walk through the islands on the route and catch a ferry from one island to the next. Kökar is one of the islands on the route. When you get to Eckerö near Mariehamn you take a ferry across to Hudiksvall in Sweden. From there you can walk all the way through to Trondheim in Norway.”

“That’s quite a walk”, says Louise, no stranger to trekking herself. “Why are you doing it?”

“I am not religious myself”, the girl says. “But people go on pilgrim walks for all sorts of reasons – the sense of achievement, creating the time to resolve crises in your life, enjoying the camaraderie of others doing the same thing, pondering the big questions of life. Most people say it is a life-changing experience one way or another. For me it’s being in the great outdoors and the sense of achievement.”

“I wonder what was so special about St Olav?”, the First Mate asks me later.

I read that he lived from 995-1030 AD, was a king of Norway, and instrumental in bringing it together as a country. He was made a saint as he was credited with introducing Christianity to Norway. This was despite not actually having all that much to do with it, and what little he did do, did fairly violently in that people who refused to become Christians had their heads cut off.

“Interesting criteria for becoming a saint”, says the First Mate.

“Perhaps it’s the results that count in religion, not the means”, I say. “Anyway, it says that miracles starting happening near his remains after he died, so they thought this deserved a sainthood. People then started making pilgrimages to his grave hoping some of the miracles might rub off on them.”

“I am sure the church didn’t do too badly either from the influx of pilgrims all coming to spend their money on indulgences and the like”, says the First Mate. “The forerunner of modern tourism. Create an attraction, and just wait until the punters roll in.”

“Now, now”, I say.

“Let’s take the bikes and go out to the museum today”, suggests the First Mate over breakfast the next morning. “It’ll be a chance to see another island.”

It is about 8 km. We pass over a bridge to the next island and through some gentle rolling pastureland. Only two cars pass us on the way.

“It’s so peaceful here”, says the First Mate. “It’s so nice not to have the noise of cars everywhere you cycle.”

We arrive at the museum. It’s closed. But in one of the small adjoining buildings near the entrance, we see a girl in her 20s with a furry dog. A Finnish Lapphund, perhaps.

“Yes, I am afraid it is closed”, she tells us. “But two buildings – the traditional farmhouse and traditional fisherman’s cottage – are open all the time. You can go and have a look through those if you like.”

“Are you one of the staff?”, asks the First Mate.

“No”, says the girl. “Not museum staff, at least. I have just started a small business here making ceramics. But I have lived on the island for nearly seven years. I came originally from Helsinki.”

“You must find it very quiet here compared to the city”, says the First Mate. “Most of the people we have met here so far seem to be of retiring age. Don’t you miss your friends in Helsinki?”

“It’s true that most people on the island are older”, the girl says. “And yes, I do miss my friends a little bit. It’s not like I can just pop around and see them after work, and it’s quite an effort for them to come over here and visit me. But I had had enough of the city stressing me out, so I decided that what I needed was peace and quiet – ‘me-time’ – so I came to Kökar. I love it here. I find the landscape and the coastline very inspiring, and, yes, the people too. I try to incorporate my inspirations into my ceramics.”

“And you have your dog for company”, I say, stroking the fur behind the dog’s ears. “He or she is beautiful.”

“It’s a she”, she says. “But unfortunately she’s not mine. I am just looking after her for someone.”

“I think I would find it too lonely to be here all by myself”, says the First Mate as we look around the traditional fisherman’s cottage. “I need people around. And the number of potential partners on the island must be limited.”

“It takes all sorts”, I say trying to be profound. “But I can see where she is coming from. Maybe you need isolation to be creative. Away from the distractions of civilisation. Including potential partners.”

“Well, that was quite a coincidence”, says the First Mate, as we drive off the ferry at IJmuiden in Holland. “Fancy meeting your old colleagues like that.”

We have just arrived in Holland. The day before, we had driven down to Newcastle to catch the ferry across to IJmuiden on the long journey back to Stockholm to re-join Ruby Tuesday. Just as we had emerged from the car deck clutching our overnight bags, we had bumped into three of my former colleagues who were on their way to northern Germany to do some fieldwork. We had arranged to meet in the bar after dinner. Much reminiscing over several beers ensued.

“Yes, it was great to catch up on everything that had happened since I saw them last”, I say. “It seems that nothing has changed, yet everything has changed. They are having another round of redundancies at the moment. I don’t regret retiring when I did. It seems that funding is as hard as ever to get. Brexit didn’t make it any easier to work with the rest of Europe.”

We stop for a few days with the First Mate’s family in Germany. Her mother had just gone into a care home a few months previously, and we spend time visiting her each day. She is happy to see us.

“You look so thin”, she tells me. “Aren’t you eating properly? Here, have a piece of this cake someone brought me.”

I politely decline. But I feel secretly pleased that my efforts to lose the winter flab over the last few weeks are recognised. Worth the pain.

We eventually set off northwards, the car laden with cheap food and drink from Germany, heading for expensive Scandinavia.

On the way, we stop off for lunch with Gabi and John, fellow sailors whom we had met in the Åland islands last year. They live in Ostfriesland in Germany.

“Come and have a look at this map”, says Gabi, showing me one of those old medieval maps hanging on the wall. “Frisia is all this bit along the Wadden Sea, stretching from the Netherlands to Germany. There are three parts to it – West Frisia in the north of Holland, East Frisia, in Germany where we are now, and North Frisia, which is up in Schleswig-Holstein in the north of Germany. Each has offshore islands associated with them as well.”

“Ah yes, we visited a few of the Frisian Islands as we sailed that way in 2021”, says the First Mate.

“The modern Frisians are not actually descendants of the original inhabitants, but of the Angles and Saxons who emigrated here from further east after the Romans left”, continues Gabi. “Here’s Saxony here. We all know where else the Angles and Saxons emigrated to.”

“We were in the Angle homelands the year that we overwintered in Kappeln”, I say. “There are still a lot of place names that refer to them.”

“Although West Frisia and North Frisia still have their own languages, here in East Frisia they speak Plattdeutsch, which is a German language, not a Frisian one”, says John.

Finishing our excellent lunch, we bid our farewells and continue our journey. We have arranged to meet with some more sailing friends, Axel and Claudia, who are preparing their boat for the season in a marina on the Kiel Canal near Rendsburg. We had first met them in Dover many years ago on our circumnavigation around Britain, and had kept in touch since then. The last we had seen of them had been in Kalmar in Sweden two years ago.

Google seems to think they are further along the canal than they really are, and takes us along a muddy track following the canal side for two to three kilometres. Eventually we come to a bridge leading across the water to a small island where their marina is located. We spot Astarte, their boat.

“Great to see you”, says Axel. “We thought that you had got lost, but what with Google Maps, that’s almost impossible these days.”

“You’d be surprised”, I say.

They are leaving the next day to sail along the German Baltic coast, so we have caught them just in time. It’s good to see them again.

Over kaffee und kuchen I tell them about my project for the next four years to update the IMRAY Cruising Guide to Germany and Denmark, one of the guides used by cruising sailors. I had been asked over the winter by the publishers if it was something I would be interested in doing, and I had accepted. One of the things they want me to do is to take more drone photos of various harbours to illustrate their layout. We have just bought a drone, so we are complete novices, but Axel & Claudia are seasoned drone fliers.

“You need to be careful taking drone photos in Germany”, says Claudia. “Especially if they are published. I don’t know about the other countries, but there are so many rules and regulations here.”

“You can get sued if you take pictures of private property and use them for commercial gain without written permission from the owner”, says Axel. “The same goes for identifiable people in the photo. It makes it almost impossible to take aerial photos of harbours as there is always bound to be private property and people in them, and you can’t go around them all to get their written permission.”

I begin to wonder if I am taking on an impossible task. That evening, I write to the publishers to see what their take is.

We have arranged to stay the night in Kiel with Volkmar, one of the First Mate’s old friends. In fact, Volkmar has already sailed with us in 2021 along the Kiel Canal from Rendsburg to Kiel. Over breakfast the next morning, he asks us where we are planning to explore this year. We tell him.

“Ah, the Baltic States”, says Volkmar, buttering his brötchen. “An interesting part of the world. There was quite a German influence there, you know. Back in the 13^th century, the German Teutonic Knights invaded the area to convert the pagan Balts to Christianity in what are known as the Prussian and Livonian Crusades. However, their activities there were less to spread Christianity than to acquire large estates, and many of them settled there, marrying into the local population and becoming the de facto rulers.”

“I guess there must have been other Germans that followed them?”, I say, reaching for the mettwurst.

“Yes, lots of German merchants and clergy followed in the wake of the Knights”, he says. “Eventually they formed the medieval country of Livonia. Over the centuries they retained their German-speaking identity despite being part of various empires, such as the Swedish and Russian, that came and went. Then just before the start of WW2, most of these Baltic Germans were coerced by Hitler into resettling in Nazi Germany and present day Poland. Many more were expelled after WW2 ended. Nowadays there are not many of them left in the area.”

“It’s fascinating stuff”, says the First Mate, pushing the plunger down on the coffee. “My mother’s side of the family came from Ostpreussen, or East Prussia in English. I have always wondered how they came to be there. Perhaps they were some of the settlers that followed the conquests of the Teutonic Knights. They were farmers.”

“Could be”, says Volkmar. “A Balt tribe called the Old Prussians originally lived in that area, with their own Indo-European language. However, when the Teutonic Knights conquered them, they were either killed if they resisted Christianisation, or assimilated if they accepted it. Their language died out in the 1700s, although there are some similarities to present-day Lithuanian. Nowadays the area is in Poland. It would be interesting to find out more about why your mother’s ancestors ended up there.”

It’s time to press on. We bid farewell to Volkmar and hit the road.

“We’ve done pretty well so far on this trip in learning about movements of people around Europe”, says the First Mate. “First the Frisians, now the Baltic Germans. I wonder who will be next?”

We push on up through Denmark, catch the ferry across the Øresund to Sweden, and continue on the long drive up north. Trees. And more trees. And still more trees. Late in the evening we arrive in Stockholm and find our AirBnB near the marina where Ruby Tuesday has been for the winter having repairs done.

In the morning after breakfast we drive down to the marina, not quite knowing what to expect. We needn’t have worried. The work done to repair the bow and the keel and hull is finished, as is the polishing. The keel had been removed and the hull strengthened.

“It’s all much stronger now than when it left the factory”, says John, who did the work.

“They’ve done a really good job”, says the First Mate after a close inspection only she can do. “She looks like she can’t wait to get back into the water and continue her adventures.”

A familiar face appears over the stern. It’s Spencer, overjoyed to see us.

“Boy, am I glad to see you two”, he shouts in excitement. “It’s been a terrible winter for me. Down to –20°C! I almost didn’t make it. And then the dust! Some guy came on board and started sawing into poor old Ruby Tuesday with a machine. I did my best to stop him, but of course he didn’t take any notice.”

“I thought that we told you that she was having some work done on her”, I say sympathetically. “You must have forgotten. But thanks anyway for keeping an eye on her over the winter.”

We spend the next few days preparing Ruby Tuesday for the season. Back on with the anchor, which had been removed and stowed on board. The propeller had been serviced by the manufacturers in the UK, so it is reinstalled too.

This year we have decided to replace the zinc anodes with aluminium ones, as they are supposed to work better in both freshwater and saltwater, more suitable for the brackish water of the Baltic. We’ll see how they work out.

My phone pings. It’s a text from Andy, the leader of the Cruising Association Rally around the Åland Islands last year. We had kept in touch over the winter, and in fact we had met up in Perth in Australia. He has overwintered his boat just south of Stockholm, and has just had it put back in the water. He has his brother, son, his son’s partner, and another friend with him. He invites us for a drink that evening to catch up.

The waiter takes a photo of us all.

“It’s terrible”, says the First Mate later. “You can’t put that in the blog.”

“I know”, I say. “But at least it gives a flavour. Readers can use their imagination as to who’s who.”

“We did the Baltic States a few years ago”, Andy says. “I think you will enjoy them. Lots of history, lots of culture, and the people are very friendly. In fact, I think I still have the charts and harbour guides somewhere you could borrow. Let me go and have a rummage.”

He disappears downstairs. There are sounds of things being moved around. He emerges, beaming.

“Here they are”, he says. “Charts and harbour guides for southern Finland, Estonia and Latvia. You’ll find them useful. Especially with the Russians interfering with the GPS. You can use traditional navigation like we used to before the age of electronics.”

We had been discussing reports that the Russians had been transmitting signals to override the real GPS supposedly with the aim to disrupt aircraft and shipping. One of the most intense areas or interference is the Gulf of Finland, right where we are headed.

“That puts my mind at rest”, says the First Mate. “I have been worried sick about us taking the wrong course, ending up in St Petersburg, and imprisoned as spies.”

She isn’t joking.

The day arrives for the relaunch. The transporter arrives and Ruby Tuesday is lifted on. Before we know it, she is back in the water. John comes over to check for any leaks in his handiwork. There are none.

Then over to the crane to have the mast lifted on again.

“She’s starting to look like a real sailboat again”, says the First Mate.

We finish the unloading of items from the car to the boat. We have bought a new rubber dinghy to replace the old one which was deteriorating rapidly. It has done good service, lasting for 17 years, but the wooden transom is now rotten and letting in water. We fold and pack the bikes and stow them on board. We are pretty much ready to go.

In the evening, we sit outside on the cockpit seats eating our taco kits that the First Mate had bought earlier in the day, waiting for the much-feted Aurora borealis to appear.

“Well, that was a bit of a disappointment”, says the First Mate as we prepare to go to bed. “I was really hoping to see the Northern Lights. Especially in Sweden. We are pretty far north.”

“At least it was a beautiful sunset”, I say trying to see the bright side, although I too would have liked to see them. “I am sure that there will be lots of photos in the newspapers tomorrow. We can see what they were like then.”

“It’s not the same as seeing them yourself”, the First Mate complains, as she disappears downstairs. “It’ll be just our luck if they appear later tonight when we are sleeping.”

My mind drifts back to memories of my youth. I am driving along the Summit Road of the Port Hills near Christchurch one night, and round a bend in the road looking down into the vast volcanic crater where the port of Lyttleton nestles. There, in front high above me are the eerie green and purple lights of the Aurora australis as the charged particles streaming from a solar storm reach the earth’s atmosphere. I stop the car and watch spellbound as they writhe this way and that like giant glowing curtains.

No wonder ancient peoples had imbued them with meaning from their own lives, I think – the smoke of fires for the Australian aborigines, the souls of the dead for the Sámi people in Lapland, a fire-fox dashing across the sky for the Finnish, and bringers of good luck in fishing for Swedish fishermen. I cross my fingers that their non-appearance doesn’t mean any bad luck for our upcoming voyage in Ruby Tuesday. Superstitious, moi?

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

I look at the clock. It’s 0800.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It sounds a bit ominous. I clamber down.

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

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

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

The First Mate and I have a confab.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But we will be back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you on the run?”, I ask Hans.

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

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

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

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

The conversation turns to politics in Germany.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sure enough, there are mushrooms in abundance.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The goats look at us wistfully, nodding in agreement.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Pardon?”, I say. “What did you say?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We go up to the hotel reception to pay.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There is a crack in the fibreglass of the bow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The conversation turns to the news of the day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It must be cold”, I say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We return to Ruby Tuesday and prepare to leave.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The First Mate appears at the companionway.

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

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

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

I decide to go for a walk and explore.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After a cup of tea we go ashore to explore.

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

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

It doesn’t.

A little bit further on is the Ulrika Eleonora church.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The First Mate fetches our torch from the cabin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I take the steering wheel.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We meet Gavin and Catherine for a coffee.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“They were tough times”, I say.