Stuffed swans and seven types of biscuit. Those were the days.
I’m an anthropologist. I’ve even got a certificate to prove it.
I don’t use my anthropology officially in my day-t0-day life, but unofficially? I find it a great excuse for being nosey. I love finding out about how other people live and think, about their beliefs, culture and traditions. Learning about other cultures is one of reasons I love travel so much.
Whenever I’m in a city with a cultural museum I put it high on my list of must-see places.
The Nordiska Museet (Nordic Museum) in Stockholm is Sweden’s largest museum of cultural history, so of course I had to spend a few hours there.
It’s situated next door to Sweden’s biggest tourist attraction, Vasa, so I combined the two on the same day. They were both included in the 3 day Stockholm Pass I’d bought as well, so I didn’t have worry about separate admission costs.
Here’s the blurb from the website:
The Nordic Museum has exhibitions about life and work, trends and traditions, in Sweden from the 16th century to today. Our collections include clothes and fashion, textiles, furniture and interiors, jewellery, photography, folk art, glass and china. The Museum was founded in 1873 by Artur Hazelius.
I wasn’t sure how interesting this was going to be from the description. Clothes, jewellery and china aren’t amongst the things I find most scintillating, but as I was already in the area and it wasn’t going to cost me anything, it was worth a look.
As it happened, I found it far more interesting than I’d hoped and I ended up staying until closing time.
Here’s some of what I found.
Around the turn of the last century it became more common to invite people round for coffee than for dinner. This wasn’t necesarily the easy option though, as it was expected that you would offer seven types of biscuits. And, get this, guests would be expected to try all seven types. It would be rude not to. With my love of all things fika, I’d have been in my element at one of these gatherings!
The upper echelons of society didn’t compeletely give up on their posh dinner parties though. Tables would glitter with gilt bronze, crystal, silver and mirrored glass. Each place setting was completed with a menu written in French (very posh) and a whole set of glasses. Each course was served with a different wine to accompany it and each wine was poured into a fresh glass. There were a lot of courses.
Dishes on a typical menu included chicken farce in broth, filled puff pastry, steamed turbot fillets, venison steak, ox-tongue farce, roasted hazel hen, goose-liver terrine, asparagus, English plum pudding, ice cream, cheese and fruit.
These weren’t choices; each dish was served as a separate course and everyone got a helping of everything. I don’t even know what half of them are, but it seems very meaty. I think I’d have stuck to the biscuits. And maybe the wine.
This dessert table had me salivating. I doubt I’d have been allowed to eat any of it though. Laws stated what the different classes could serve on their dessert tables. What? The poor were limited to nuts and honey-soaked fruit, whilst the rich could serve pretty much what they wanted.
For festive occassions the rich really went over the top. The centrepiece of this table is the roast swan that has been stuffed back into its plumage. The same plumage could be used over and again with a new roast sitting in it each time. Not sure I’d fancy that. Wouldn’t it get smelly?
The museum wasn’t all food. There were also displays on Swedish festivals which I found quite interesting. The displays on furniture, costume, and jewellery were ok, but it was the food through the ages that most caught my attention.
I found a herd of white deer, some very large pumpkins and mansions galore on this stretch of the Thames.
I had to drive home from Kent on Saturday and as it was such a beautiful day, despite being the first day of November, I really didn’t feel like spending it sitting on the M25 and the M6. Instead I detoured to Marlow and spent the day walking along the Thames to Henley and only completed my drive in the evening.
I parked in Marlow as this is an easy place to return to by bus from Henley and the street parking is free. I had wanted to walk from Bourne End as this was where I’d had to finish when I walked the Thames Path at New Year and flooding prevented me getting through to Marlow. Backtracking to Bourne End from Marlow proved quite difficult as the trains were only every two hours and my timing was out. I didn’t want too late a start as I knew I’d have to be finished by 5pm as it’s getting dark so early since the clocks went back last week. I never thought to check out the buses, so with hindsight maybe I could have got there. But not to worry, I’ll try to do this ‘missing section’ next time.
Marlow was buzzing with Saturday morning activity. The sun was out and so were the people. Some were wandering up and down the high street, others wandering by the river. The local park was full of families with young, and not-so-young, children and the ice-cream van was doing a roaring trade.
I popped into the church, an impressive building with a chequer-board tower just by the river. All Saints was rebuilt in 1835, replacing a 12th century church. Inside I met a sprightly old lady who spotted my walking boots and informed me brightly that she was 93 years old, and not so brightly, that she’d recently had to give up walking as an activity. Her face momentarily clouded over as she remembered the day she’d taken her boots to the thrift shop. She brightened as she added that she’s still driving and still attending yoga and aerobics classes regularly. Feeling inspired, and determined to make the most of my next fifty years’ walking before I have to hand my boots over to the charity shop, I strode down to the river and started walking west. A man sat on the river bank shouting commands and encourgement through a loudspeaker to rowers whizzing past making it look easy. Large boats with families and groups on board chugged past, not allowed to exceed 4 knots per hour.
Bisham Church soon came into view on the opposite bank. Next to it, one of the UK’s National Sports Centres can be found at Bisham Abbey, the 13th century manor house near the church which replaced the original priory. It was on this stretch of the Thames that poet Percy Shelley spent his time bobbing about in a skiff whilst writing about a boat and river in ‘The Revolt of Islam’.
Passing Temple Mill Island, I soon reached Temple Lock. A young couple were launching dinghies which they then paddled out of the lock and downriver. I sat and ate a sandwich, watching a boat pass through the lock as I enjoyed the sun on my face.
Remembering I still had a lot of walking to do before I’m 93 I didn’t linger for long and was soon off towards Hurley Lock and Islands. First I had to cross to the other bank using Temple Bridge which, with a span of just under 50 metres, is Britain’s longest hardwood footbridge. Once at Hurley Lock I followed the path over a shorter bridge to reach Hurley Island, then walked the length of the island before crossing back to the towpath.
The path, which so far had led through trees and was deeply littered with autumnal leaves, now took me across open meadowland and fields. Looking back, the opposite bank rose into a high cliff with a mansion house sitting right at the top. This is Danesfield, named after the Danes who built a fortification in the field here. The present-day mansion is a hotel.
A large caravan park lay to my left, the river was to my right. Large, expensive-looking houses soon came into view and the path joined a road labelled as private. The houses were to the left of the road and what seemed to be private gardens alongside the river were to its right. I puzzled for a moment, before realising that the path doesn’t follow the road, but actually goes right by the river through the gardens. A couple of them had seats, lanterns and potted plants and looked like wonderful little spots for sitting and reading or just watching the world go by.
Medmenham Abbey soon came into sight across the river. The Abbey had been founded in 1201, but all that remains of the original building is one derelict tower. The rest has been rebuilt over the years and now forms a luxury hotel. In the 1700s it became infamous as a meeting place for Sir Francis Dashwood’s notorious Hell Fire Club. Members became known as ‘Franciscans of Medmenham’ after their host was said to have performed obscene parodies of religious rites there.
Walking through more meadowland and crossing several bridged ditches led me to Culham Court. The strange looking sheep I saw from a distance turned out to be a very large herd of mostly white deer. A few were browner with spots and as far as I can make out they were fallow deer. I could be completely wrong on this. The house with its sixty-five surrounding acres is a privately owned family home, bought by financier Urs Schwarzenbach and his wife Francesca in 2006 for £38 million.
After passing in front of the house the path then veers away from the river to reach the small village of Aston. The Flower Pot pub is a local landmark with chickens running around the garden. Outside was the largest pumpkin I’d ever seen. It was carved for Halloween and the inside could easily have held a small child. I touched it to check as I couldn’t quite believe it to be real. Walking from the pub along Ferry Lane to return to the river I passed several more huge pumpkins. One had an array of ‘normal’ sized pumpkins around it which looked tiny in comparison.
Back at the river, it was through a kissing gate and just a short way along a grassy path until Hambleden Mill came into sight. A long weir glinted in the low sun, backed by a splendid display of autumn colour. Realising I’d easily make it to Henley before dark, I sat awhile on a bench scoffing a snack and looking at my map.
Greenlands was the next mansion to appear. White and palatial it stood proudly on the opposite bank, facing the river, and making me think of the White House in Washington DC. It had been built in 1853 for bookseller and First Lord of the Admiralty W H Smith. These days it houses Henley College.
The sun was started to set behind the trees as I approached Temple Island. This is the start of the Henley Royal Regatta which runs to Henley Bridge. The ‘temple’ on the island, now a private fishing lodge, was designed in 1771 by James Wyatt who added frescoes inside. It was originally built as a folly to draw the eye to the view from Fawley Court which is situated a little further upstream.
Facing Fawley Court is the hamlet of Remenham with its 19th century church. It was built to replace a Norman church and has its apse built on the line of its Norman predecessor.
Houses and dog-walkers started to appear more frequently alongside the path and, rounding a bend, Henley itself came into view. The light was fading now and lights on the bridge and in the shops and houses along the bank produced bobbing gold reflections in the water. A raft of ducks, strung out in single-file, were out for a final swim of the day. I walked into Henley as the town was closing up for the evening. A bus was waiting at the stop when I arrived and twenty minutes later I was back in Marlow.
The best preserved church village in northern Sweden is a World Heritage Site and a very busy wedding venue. Tourists are not particularly welcome.
I hadn’t planned to go to Luleå, but when an older Swedish lady in the hostel in Jokkmokk told me I must go there so I could visit Gammelstad and then the hostel owner said the same thing, I changed my plans.
I hadn’t had the best of starts in Luleå and so far wasn’t impressed. After a few trials and tribulations I finally got on the bus that would take me to Gammelstad.
The bus driver put me off at the main stop near the church in Gammelstad and showed me where to wait to get the bus back.
As I was near the church, I thought that should be the first place I visited. Unfortunately a wedding was just about to start so, rather than crash the wedding, I wandered over to the tourist office and museum.
Gammelstad is the best preserved and largest of the unique church villages found in northern Sweden. So much so, that it is now a World Heritage Site.
Church villages grew up because parishes were spread far over inhospitable terrain, making it difficult for church-goers to pop in for a quick visit. Instead, people built small houses around the church and would stay overnight when they came for Sunday services. The villages not only provided a place a to sleep, but a sense of community for neighbours who lived too far apart to socialise during the week.
Four hundred and twenty four tiny red houses are packed in tightly around the church. The wooden sides are painted with ‘Falu red’, a paint that originated as a by-product from all the copper mines in the northern parts of Sweden. It was found that mixing copper with paint protected the wood from the elements and people would make their own paint, mixing up the ingredients on the stove.
Window frames were (and still are) painted white making for a very striking look.
The houses in Gammelstad were used as intended up until the 1950s. Now most of them are privately owned by people in Luleå who use them as weekend getaway cottages. They are under contract to keep them in a good sense of repair and to not change the look of them.
One cottage is open to visitors and has been kept as it would have been.
I wandered in and out of the maze-like gaps between the houses and then took off over the fields to check out some of the barns and other farm buildings that form part of the site. Various brides were leaning up against the buildings with their new husbands having their photos taken.
It would have been nice to sit in a little cafe and have a coffee, but the cafe was closed. Saturday afternoon at a World Heritage Site, why on earth had I expected it to be open? Silly me.
The larger pub/restaurant was in full swing with the wedding party. I didn’t know if they would’ve served me or not, but didn’t particularly feel like going in and sitting amongst all the wedding guests anyway.
Going back to the 15th century stone church, there was yet another wedding in progress. I sat outside and waited for it to finish, watching another wedding party arrive as I waited. It all seemed a bit like a factory production line. Feed them in one end and out the other.
As the bride and groom exited the church, I dodged the confetti and slipped in behind them. The church was beautiful, but some kind of manager guy was not happy with me being there.
I pointed out that I’d come an awful long way and it’s not as though I could just pop back another time. I also pointed out that there was no wedding in progress and I’d been considerate and patient enough to wait until it was between weddings to have a look around. And I pointed out that surely anyone choosing to get married at a World Heritage Site on a Saturday afternoon in the middle of August is going to expect a few tourists to be around. And the people setting up for the next wedding didn’t seem bothered by me at all. But still, I felt like I was being thrown out. I snapped a few photos and left feeling rather frustrated that I hadn’t been able to have a proper look round.
I’d pretty much exhausted the ‘things to do’ in Gammelstad by this time and a bus was due so I headed back to the bus stop and back to Luleå.
Was Gammelstad worth my lengthy diversion to Luleå? I seemed to spend most of my time there feeling very frustrated (the only time and place I’ve ever felt like this in Sweden), but the church village was interesting and I’m glad I’ve seen it. I’ll probably never go there again so I don’t regret taking a few days out of my trip down the middle of the Sweden to head to the coast to see it whilst I had the chance.
A young English woman was staying in my dorm in Jokkmokk. She was travelling with her Swedish mother who was staying in the same hostel, but had opted for a private room. As you do, I chatted to my room-mate and then later, in the kitchen, was introduced to Mum.
Mum had spent most of her adult life in England, returning to Sweden only for holidays and to visit family. On this trip, she and her daughter had been at a wedding and then decided to tag on some travelling time.
“Go to Luleå,” Mum said. “From there you can make a day-trip to Gammelstad, the old church village.”
“Church village?” My RE teacher ears perked up.
“Yes, in the old days when people would come together for church, many of them would have to travel from their farms miles away. They built tiny houses to stay in and these weekend communities built up around the church. Gammelstad is the biggest and best preserved of these church villages in Sweden.”
“And Luleå itself is a really nice city,” added her daughter.
I’d planned to head south by train the following morning, but after hearing this AND having the hostel owner also tell me how wonderful Luleå was, I changed my mind and decided to take a late-afternoon bus to Luleå instead.
I visited the tourist office in Jokkmokk to get help with sorting out accommodation. It wasn’t easy. The universities were starting back and all accommodation was filling up with students who tend to stay in hostels and guesthouses until they can find somewhere more permanent.
Eventually, the lady in the tourist office found me a bed in a hostel a couple of kilometres walk from the train and bus station.
She looked at me apologetically, “The only problem is that you’ll have to share a room with five young, male Swedish students.”
Hm, five young, male Swedish students? And that’s a problem because …?
Actually, I could see why it might be a problem, but it was only for two nights and I really had no other choice if I wanted to go to the wonderful city of Luleå and the amazing church village of Gammelstad.
It was evening by the time I arrived in Luleå. I hoisted my pack and looked around the bus station for a clue as to which way I needed to walk. I had a map, I just needed to orientate it.
Street names would have been helpful. A ‘this way into town’ sign would have been useful. Even a bus station map with a ‘you are here’ dot would have assisted me to hold my map the right way up. Did any of these exist? No.
Eventually I found the train station and with my back to it, was able to orientate my map. I set off walking in the direction of the city centre. The hostel was on the far side. I now knew I was going in the right direction, but had no way of knowing which street I was on. I wanted to be sure, so I didn’t walk right past the hostel on a parallel street.
The streets were quite busy with young people heading out for Friday night. I tried to stop a few to ask if they could tell me exactly where I was. The first couple of times, people just looked terrified, put their heads down and scurried past. When I did get anyone to stop, they would shrug and tell me they were newly-arrived students and they didn’t have a clue where they were either.
How could this be so difficult? I’d just spent the best part of a month walking several hundred kilometres in the Arctic wilderness and not got lost once. Finding my way round a city should be easy-peasy.
Eventually, I found a street sign, located myself on the map, made a slight adjustment and got to my hostel.
It was on a busy road leading out of town in an area that was starting to look quite industrial. I rang the bell at street level and the stooped manager came down in the lift to let me in. He complained about his chronic back pain that was causing him to walk doubled over as we went upstairs so he could check me in.
The hostel was a bit grubby and definitely in need of a bit of loving refurbishment, but it was good enough for a couple of nights. Clothes strewn around the dorm floor were the only evidence of my five young, male, Swedish student room-mates. Of course, it being Friday night and Freshers’ Week they were out on the town. In fact, apart from one young guy watching TV in the common room, I had the whole hostel to myself for the evening.
Next morning, the beds in my dorm were filled with zonked out young men. I got myself ready and studied the big map on the hostel wall to check where the tourist office was.
It wasn’t far, so I headed there first. I walked round in circles several times before I accepted that the tourist office was not where the map claimed it would be.
Back in the town centre, I found a street map that showed the tourist office was now located at the train station. I walked all the way down to the station, only to find it pretty much deserted and definitely no tourist office. I finally found it in the middle of town, in the same building as the library, theatre and art gallery. It was closed.
Saturday. Lots of new people in town. The tourist office was closed.
All I wanted was to know how to get to Gammelstad. I asked the lady in the box office and she thought the buses might go from the end of the street. Only thought, mind you.
Checking out the bus timetable, I decided she was probably right. As I was studying the timetable and trying to figure things out, I must have looked a lot more knowledgeable than I felt because people asked me for help.
“We’re students,” they told me, “we’ve just arrived and don’t know where anywhere is.” Then again, maybe they were just desperate.
The bus eventually arrived. Yes, it was the right one. Could I go to Gammelstad? No. Why? Because the buses in Luleå don’t accept cash. I could’ve paid with my debit card, but by the time I’d paid all the bank charges I’d incur for using my card outside of the UK, that would have been one very expensive bus journey.
I needed to find a newsagent that sold bus tickets and buy my tickets from there. Once I’d done this and had my bus tickets I realised I had to wait an hour for another bus. Rather than hanging around the bus stop, I took myself off to the art gallery.
It was surprisingly interesting AND it was free. At last, I’d found something positive about Luleå.
Finally, I made it onto a bus and headed for Gammelstad. So much for my early start, it was now the afternoon. Gammelstad had better be worth it!
Luleå is a city in the far north of Sweden on the Baltic coast. Its large port means of lot of Swedish steel is shipped through here. It’s also an important hub for the technology industry. Even Facebook has located its first data hub outside of the US here. They apparently chose Luleå for its cheap electricity, political stability and cool climate (less money needs to be spent on keeping the systems cool). The large, popular technology university sees an influx of new young people every August. The student population of Luleå is around 13,500. As the entire population is only 47,000 this explains why so many of the people I saw seemed to be young students.
I didn’t particularly like Luleå, mainly because I found it frustrating. And probably because it was the first big place I’d been to after my time in the Arctic wilderness and the small empty town of Jokkmokk. It did have a bit of a buzz about it though, and I imagine if you’re young and involved in the student scene it would be a great place to study and live for a few years.
I’m working hard on my book at the moment. Even to the extent of inventing my own language! (Dutlish anyone?)
After a lot of research into travel books (good excuse to do lots of reading) I’ve come to the conclusion that most books have around 200 pages and 100,000 words. Give or take 10-20%. This is reassuring because this is what I’m aiming for with the book I’m trying to write at the moment. I’m not looking at bestselling travel writers as they tend to have much longer books, but more the sort of writers you only discover when researching books on a particular region or way of travelling.
At the moment I’m about a third of the way there with around 32,000 words. I’ve divided the writing of my first draft into three phases:
Phase one was typing up my diary notes. I kept quite a detailed diary as I was walking, but as I was hand-writing and, more importantly, not wanting to add a huge notebook to my load, it was in note form. My typing up in phase one involved writing it up into proper sentences and paragraphs rather than just copying up notes. As I’m a fairly fast typist this was completed quite quickly.
I’m now working on phase two, which is much slower going. Phase two involves the factual side of my walk and means lots of research. One of my USPs (unique selling points) is that the book will be useful for anyone planning, or thinking about, a walk along the Kungsleden. Although it’s not intended as a guidebook, I do want to get quite a lot of solid information into it. One of the reasons I wanted to write this book is because so few people in the English speaking world are aware of this walk and there is very little written on it in English. The very reason I want to write the book is also the reason my research is going quite slowly – there’s very little written on it in English.
I’m finding quite a lot on the internet, but it tends to be in Swedish. Although I picked up a few Swedish words, my language skills are definitely not of the proficiency needed for reading Swedish websites. I’m ploughing through, picking out the words I know and finding myself doing a complicated process of translating into English via Dutch. Yes, Dutch. When I was in Scandinavia in February I noticed how a lot of the words in both Danish and Swedish seemed to share a similar root to Dutch. I don’t speak Dutch, but my Dutch vocabulary is far more extensive than my Swedish vocabulary and whilst I was travelling over the summer I found this came in very useful. I’m finding it just as useful now. When I’ve read through a page and got the gist of it in Dutch and English (Dutlish?), I’ll put any relevant bits into Google translate to double-check. Although it comes up with a few strange translations and the word order is sometimes rather jumbled, I’m quite impressed with it. I wouldn’t use it to translate anything of importance, say a legal document, but for my purpose it’s fine.
Once I’ve done some research and made my own notes, I’m then inserting this into whichever part of my draft I think it’ll best fit. This is all taking quite a long time. I’m aiming to have roughly 50,000 words by the end of the phase two. That’ll be half the book dedicated to my first USP. Only 18,000 words to go then …
Phase three will be dedicated to my second USP which is something along the lines of stressed, middle-aged woman/teacher gives up job and goes for a long walk in the Arctic wilderness. I think I’m going to enjoy writing this part. Not that I’m not enjoying what I’m doing at the moment, but I’m conscious of time and want to get as much done as possible before the need to pay bills means I have to go back to work.
Of course, once it’s all done, that’s only really the start of it. My first draft will be a collection of disorganised ramblings and will be in need of some serious editing. But I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.
The weather conditions have to fit a very precise set of criteria before a hot air balloon ride can take place.
Three times a friend and I have booked a hot air balloon flight and each time it’s been cancelled because of the weather. I knew when I first bought the voucher for this that balloons are dependent on the weather, but I didn’t realise just how perfect the weather has be.
Wind, rain, storms, temperature and visibility all affect whether the balloon can be flown and some even affect whether or not it can be inflated.
Wind
The optimum speed for a balloon flight is 4-6 miles per hour.
The balloon is inflated with cold air using a fan. The fabric of the balloon is basically a giant sail and winds over 6 miles per hour can make it difficult to fill the balloon. The wind will cave the side of the balloon in and cause it to roll around and drag anything it may be attached to. This can damage the balloon and basket as well causing harm to participants.
The wind has to be blowing in the right direction – the balloon can’t be steered in a particular direction and so the pilot has to be sure it won’t be blown into an area that could be unsafe or where there aren’t any suitable landing sites. Unsuitable areas include: built-up areas; wooded areas; large bodies of water; and restricted air space.
Once airborn, if the wind speed is less than 4 miles per hour, the balloon won’t really go anywhere. If it is more than 6 miles per hour, it can be blown off course, over-reach the landing place, and will also need more space to land. The basket may bounce along the ground, eventually tipping over, before the balloon comes to a standstill. A balloon doesn’t have brakes and relies on the friction caused between the basket and the ground to slow it down and bring it to a stop. The balloon will be travelling at whatever speed the wind is. The stronger the wind the more friction will need to be built to bring it to a standstill and the further the balloon will need to travel along the ground.
Just because the wind seems ideal at ground level, doesn’t mean it’s not blowing a lot faster higher up. The pilot will not only check the wind speeds at ground level and at the level you will be flying at, but also wind speeds much higher up as these could drop to the flying level during the flight, or cause other problems such as turbulance.
Fronts
There must be no fronts in the area where the balloon is being launched and flown. Fronts usually come with a change in wind direction or increased wind speeds.
Visibility
Balloons do not fly at night or in fog.
There needs to be at least 1-3 miles visibility depending on the area and the hazards and the terrain.
Rain
Rain can damage the balloon as well as decreasing visibility.
Storms
There must be no thunderstorms within 100 miles of the launch point.
Thunderstorms present hazards to any type of aircraft, but balloons are affected most of all. A plane can turn around and fly away from a storm; a balloon will get sucked in to it.
Not only is there the chance of lightning striking the balloon, but gusts of wind can occur up to 100 miles away from a storm.
Temperature
Hot air is lighter than cold air and so rises. The air inside the balloon is heated and this causes the balloon to rise up through the colder outside air. If it is very warm outside it may not be possible to heat the inside of the balloon to a temperature that is sufficiently higher than the outside temperature.
So there you have it. With the weather needing to be SO perfect, it’s a wonder anyone ever gets to go on a balloon flight at all.
I’d gone to Dorotea to visit the caravan museum which turned out to be closed. But I still found plenty to do.
I’d gone to Dorotea specifically to visit the caravan museum. As the owner of a tiny campervan I’d thought I’d be able to pick up lots of ideas and tips that I could adapt.
Although it was still August, the summer season was over, leaves were just starting to turn golden and the caravan museum had closed for the winter. In fact it’s only open for about three weeks, so chances of catching it open are always going to be pretty slim.
I chatted to the Dutch couple who ran the campsite and they said they didn’t understand why the season finished so early either. This wasn’t just the caravan museum that was closed, but many other places in northern and central Sweden. Yes, the weather was turning autumnal, children were back at school and students were back at university, but for foreign tourists it was still the height of their summer holidays and there still seemed to be plenty around. Okay, maybe not in Dorotea, but certainly in other places.
As I didn’t have a caravan museum to go to, I had plenty of time to do visit the other tourist attraction in Dorotea – the Open Air Museum.
First, I headed up the hill past the museum to the small church to find Björn Martinius’ large sculpture ‘The Last Supper’. I’d read that this was a set of life-size wooden carvings, but was still taken aback when I pushed open the door to the small chapel by the church’s graveyard.
My first thought was that I’d walked in on someone. A second later I noticed the people sat beside him and a second after that I realised these were the carvings.
On closer inspection they were obviously wooden. That they appear so realistic at first glance has, I think, a lot to do with their size and the way they fill the space. As soon as you slip inside the doorway, rather than standing back as with most sculptures, with The Last Supper you could be an extra guest.
The church itself dates from 1934 and was designed by Evert Milles, brother of sculptor Carl Milles. It was built to replace the original 1799 church after it burnt down in 1932. I wanted to have a look inside as it holds some sculptures by Carl Milles. However, the church was locked and I couldn’t see through the windows. I had to wait until I got back to Stockholm to get my fill of Carl Milles’ work.
I plodded back down Kulerbacken hill to the open air museum. There was no-one about and I had a quick wander before finding the curator in her office. She told me she was waiting for the police because they’d had a break-in the night before. Several of the buildings had been broken into and because each building is stuffed with so many artifacts it wasn’t an easy job working out what had actually gone missing.
She took the time to wander round with me though, explaining about the ways of life in days gone by. Once the police arrived she left me to wander on my own.
Once I’d finished, I called back into the office to thank her and say goodbye. As we’d walked round she’d told me I’d missed the traditional bread baking display earlier in the day. Now, as I was about to leave, she presented me with a bag of the traditional bread as a gift.
I hadn’t got to see the caravan museum, which had been my sole reason for coming to Dorotea, but I’d still enjoyed my day and like that I still have a reason to come back one day. Though I’ll check that the caravan museum is actually open first.
Arriving in Jokkmokk felt a bit like entering a ghost town.
Jokkmokk (pronounced ‘Yokkmokk’) lies just 7km inside the Arctic Circle in the far north of Sweden and is one of the main centres for the indigenous Sámi population.
I’d met a few Sámi people and seen some of their villages whilst I was walking the Kungsleden. When I left the path, Jokkmokk was the first place I headed to. I planned to stay overnight to give me plenty of time to visit the Sámi museum as well as have a look round the town.
Arriving at the bus station, I hoisted my backpack and headed straight down the main road to the museum.
The main road was very wide and very quiet.
2,786 people live in Jokkmokk, but I guess most of them were out of town the day I was there. Many of the Sámi spend time in the mountains with their reindeer during the summer and only move into the towns during the winter months, so maybe they really were all out of town.
The museum – called Ájtte – was quite large and rather spacious with a good bookshop and a restaurant selling tradtional food. As this was heavily meat based (reindeer), I settled for coffee and cake.
The museum itself, was quite informative and had some good exhibits, but there wasn’t as much to see as I’d expected.
I liked this mural on the wall near the entrance. It’s a modern day work of art, but is based on the rock paintings from thousands of years ago that can still be seen today in some places.
There was a replica traditional home inside the museum as well as several different examples in the grounds outside.
There were also examples of traditional costume. The colours decorating the costume all have meaning, as do the patterns. A person can tell where another comes from by looking at their costume.
This man was wearing a bird on his head.
This tilted globe shows the Arctic. I found myself feeling quite disoriented as I tried to pick out the different countries from this angle.
Leaving the museum, I had a look in the church which seemed very white.
The inside was beautiful and there was a wood planted in the grounds around the church.
I had planned on walking a little way out of town and camping, but after a visit to the tourist office to use the free internet and find out about onward trains and buses, I had a change of heart and decided I wanted a bit of luxury.
So instead I checked into the very homely youth hostel.
The town was still just as quiet when I came to leave. This is what should have been rush hour at the bus station. About 5pm on a Friday evening!
The Swedish Museum of Architecture is housed in what used to be the drill hall when the island of Skeppsholmen was a naval base. When the base was decommissioned the drill hall was originally turned into the Museum of Modern Art (Moderna Museet). It was in 1998 when the Museum of Modern Art got a new modern building that the old drill hall was handed over to the Museum of Architecture.
I’d spent most of the day looking at the amazing sculptures in Millesgården, the former home of sculptor Carl Milles, and then gone straight to late-night opening at the Moderna Museet. So I was feeling pretty tired, hungry and arted-out.
But as I still had an hour before closing time and a ticket that allowed me entry into the Museum of Architecture, which is right next door, I couldn’t resist popping in.
I was glad I did and ended up staying until closing time.
The main exhibition hall had an exibition on cycling and all things bike.
I particularly liked this bamboo bike.
The information panel pointed out that bamboo is strong, versatile, cheap and fast-growing; all attributes that make the bikes ecological, sustainable, recyclable and energy-efficient to produce. Although bamboo bikes date back to 1894, these attributes make them perfect for answering today’s issues of global climate change, poverty and unemployment.
I want a bamboo bike.
I also want a bike like this. One where I can make myself a smoothie as I cycle along.
Or maybe I can install a coffee machine instead?
This push-bike comes with a motorbike-style sidecar attached.
I’m not sure I’d want to pedal a passenger around, but if I had a bike like this I’m sure I could convert the sidecar into an office or bedroom.
This is a Swedish military bike from 1950. It was used by a dog-handler who would sit his dog on the little platform.
I’m thinking it would make a great table or desk.
And then there was this one. An all-enclosed trike. It’s orange, so I wouldn’t change a thing.
The exhibition wasn’t all bedazzling bikes, but had a serious and informative side too.
This diagram shows how most road planners assign usage of the road systems. It contrasts it with a much more ideal way where bikes and pedestrians come first, rather than cars.
The information panel pointed out that although bikes used to be seen as a means of transport for the less well-off and as a way of giving access to public spaces for all classes, they are now much more likely to be seen as a social signifier identifying the middle-classes. Encouraging a cycle culture that includes all classes should be a priority for every city.
Besides the bike exbibition there was also an exhibition on the design of buildings, but it was getting late by this time and I had to rush through it.
I did learn how the use of space in our homes has changed over the decades. No-one really has a parlour anymore for example. Also kitchens, which used to be the heart of the home, shrank in size with the advent of technology in the 1950s – the future was seen to involve the mere reheating or rehydrating of food rather than actual cooking, and the kitchens reflected this, giving more space to leisure rooms instead.
I finally left the museum and made my way, with aching feet and a rumbling belly, back to the hostel. I’d had a whole day immersed in sculpture, art and architecture.
My time in the wilderness has taught me that the goal of not having a goal can be the best goal to have.
I mentioned previously that my long walk in Sweden had given me a new mindset on walking. So, what would that be then? In the past I’ve always seen a walk as a kind of challenge: a list of places to be ticked off; a certain time to get somewhere; a set-in-stone quota of miles to be covered. This hasn’t been something I’ve done consciously as my main reason for walking has always been that it’s something I enjoy. But because I do enjoy my walks, I’ve always found it easy to get distracted. I’ll sit and gaze at an idyllic view for twenty minutes, then spend another ten minutes trying to take a perfect photograph of a leaf. Add in distractions like tea-rooms, old churches or obscure little museums and my walk can easily take twice as long as it’s ‘supposed’ to. Although I finish my walk happy, I’ll have a little niggle at the back of my mind telling me that I haven’t done well enough. On the other hand, when I have to rush to finish the walk to make sure I’m in time for the last bus or that the gates on the car park aren’t locked, then I don’t feel so happy. I feel like I’ve missed out. It should be obvious really shouldn’t it? That I should walk with the intention of doing what I want, when I want and enjoying myself rather than trying to achieve some self-imposed target. However, it took a long walk in the Arctic with plenty of thinking time for me to figure this out.
At first I was concerned that I wasn’t putting enough miles in each day; that I was starting too late in the morning; that I was taking too many gorgeous-view breaks. I justified it by telling myself I’d never be here again. If I don’t absorb the view fully, or camp at that amazing spot by the waterfall and enjoy pottering around in the sun the next morning, I’ll never get another chance. In the Peak District, I can always nip back for another look. In Swedish Lapland? Not so easy. Not when I have to take a plane, then a very long train journey, then a bus ride of several hours to the end of the nearest road, and then walk for a few days to get there. It’s easier to come back and walk a part of the trail I haven’t touched on, than it is to go back to the sections I’ve already walked just to see a bit here and a bit there because I rushed it first time round. Once these thoughts started to sink in I began to relax and enjoy myself a lot more. I was learning to stop feeling guilty about something that there was no reason to feel guilty about anyway. I met lots of Swedish people, including some quite young ones. Although some were rushing along with only a few days to complete a long section of the trail, others were enjoying moving slowly and making the most of their time spent in the wilderness. Rather than rushing from target to target, their goal was to find a nice campsite, cook some good food and chill. Swedes seem to have a different attitude to the great outdoors. From an early age, it’s quite normal to spend time walking, carrying a pack, wild camping and jumping in rivers for a wash. Have you ever tried walking with a five-year-old? If so, you’ll know how long it can take to even get a few hundred metres down the road. Everything is fascinating to them. They have to turn every stone, pick up every stick and sometimes sample every worm. Give them a backpack to carry and the chance of finding bits of reindeer antler in the stream beds and you’ve no chance of getting very far. This is fine. The point of the trip isn’t to walk a long way, but to enjoy being in the wilderness.
Once they hit their teens they’re chomping at the bit to get out there with their mates. No grown-ups allowed. And you know what? The grown-ups are fine with this. They walk a bit further than when they were younger, but still seem to get far more out of ‘just being there’ than they do for breaking records of distance or speed walked. As adults, the annual trip to the wilderness is a time to de-stress away from busy lives in Stockholm or other cities. It’s quality time with family and friends, or time to be perfectly alone with no-one else to worry about. Yes they have targets; goals they want to achieve, but the targets are not the main reason for being there. So why do I always have this feeling of needing to achieve a goal? Is it a general British attitude to walking? There’s no point doing it unless you’re going to achieve something? I don’t think I’m alone in feeling this. Is it because we don’t have any ‘real’ wilderness to spend days alone in? Even the remotest parts of Scotland are not that far from civilisation. I could have driven to the Highlands three times in the time it took just for the train journey from Stockholm to Lapland. Does this mean we never really shed our city feelings of targets, goals and everything at a specific time? Is it because walking is an ‘adult’ pastime and so we never have the opportunity to learn lessons from five-year-olds about the joy of going slowly? I know some Brits will take their children on short walks, but I don’t know any who wouldn’t shudder at the thought of taking them into the wilderness for two weeks at a time. My time in the wilderness has taught me that the goal of not having a goal can be the best goal to have. Of course sometimes it’s good to challenge yourself; to keep yourself on your toes rather than sat on your bum taking yet another gorgeous-view break. And sometimes there is no choice in the matter. Why do so many last buses depart at 5pm even in the long, light summer evenings? So how am I going to apply these lessons now I’m home? I’ll still walk according to other people’s criteria, whether that’s people I meet (it only took us three hours) or what the guide-book says. Or, more importantly, what the bus timetable says. But I also want to walk without a plan or goal. To just wander wherever I think looks interesting. To stop when I want and where I want for however long I want. Will I achieve this goal? Or am I just setting myself another target that I’ll feel guilty about not achieving? Is it even possible to have a target of not having a target? Watch this space …
When your campsite looks like this, why would you be in a hurry to leave?