Baltic Treasure

Published in the sweden issue of Lodestars Anthology

It’s curious that I’d never been curious about Sweden before. My Scottish father was seconded to Stockholm in the sixties as part of his medical training and my Cotwolds childhood was peppered with Swedish notes: breakfasts of knäckebrot and Kalles kaviar branded smörgåskaviar (crispbread and caviar paste); evening feasts of my Australian mother’s take on svenska fisksoppa (fish soup) and late night snacks of ‘Anna’s Pepparkakor’ (ginger thins) as a result. Aside from the odd delirium-inducing trip to Ikea, a passion for Wallander, and late night cook-ups with friends of vats of that same fish soup, Sweden had somehow fallen off my radar.

 It was a late-night conversation over a whisky with my father that ignited a longing to discover the country that had helped shape my taste buds, and the place he had discovered at around the same age I find myself now. He regaled me with stories of the Stockholmers’ easy hospitality, long kitchen suppers, summer’s days messing around in boats and nights spent wild camping out on the islands in the archipelago, making the most of the Swedes’ law of Allemansrätten (The Right of Public Access). This sort-of AAA pass gives any person the right to visit somebody else's land, bathe in and boat on any water, and gather wild flowers, mushrooms and berries, amongst other things, on any land, so long as you’re suitably respectful of the owner’s rights. It sounded bucolic. But memory can apply a soft-filter to the mind’s eye, through which the past can appear honeyed and mellowed, and we were going just on the cusp of winter, so I didn’t know quite what to expect from my first experience of Sweden’s quiet Baltic treasure, the archipelago islands.

Flying in to Stockholm gave a tantalizing first glimpse of the some 30,000 islands and skerries that make up the archipelago’s Skärgården and as we touched down I could hardly wait to get out on to the water to start exploring. With a few hours to kill in the city it became apparent that you could ask any Stockholmer about the Archipelago and their enthusiasm would have you heading straight down to the port to hop on one of the many ferries heading East out in to the Baltic sea. Luckily that’s exactly what we were doing, so with bellies full of the hip SoFo district eatery Urban Deli’s recommended special of pea soup and pancakes (apparently the ruminations of the Nobel Prize for Literature Committee are conducted over this very meal) we boarded a Waxholmsbolaget ferry for the first stop on our four-day archipelago adventure: Vaxholm.

 You could go by road to Vaxholm, crossing the water at the bridge over Pålsund, but why would you when you could go by sea? For year-round islanders, the trip would be a very ordinary commute home, so naturally they stayed below deck in the warm for the hour-long journey but as virgin voyagers we couldn’t resist zipping up our coats and venturing up to the back deck for a face-full of Baltic Sea air.

It’s easy to imagine these islands and waterways buzzing come July, filled with sailing enthusiasts, day-trippers, and seasonal residents toing and froing from summer houses but on a cold November weekday, the water was calm and the air still, and as dusk fell and the city’s lights winked and flickered in the distance, I could feel the grime of a London winter and the wear and tear of a day’s travels seeping from my skin; it felt cleansing, stimulating, a reprieve from the stresses and strains of everyday life. I was hooked already.

 Embarking at Vaxholm Harbour cries of Tak and Hej då rang through the cold air as islanders hurried down the gangplank and across the harbor towards warm homes (and steaming bowls of svenska fisksoppa, no doubt) and we headed towards the welcome sight of the Waxholms Hotel looming out of the dusk.

 This splendid old fishing hotel was opened in late 1902 by Augusta Karlsson, an extraordinary woman from Sweden’s southern district of Vetlanda. Augusta was a true early archipelago entrepreneur who, having been orphaned in her early teens in the 1870s, moved to Stockholm to make a living. She worked as a maid, a seamstress and in catering on the railroads before going to work on the boats where she went in to business with the Waxholmsbolaget ferry company to purchase the Waxholms Hotel, becoming the General Manager - no mean feat for a woman at the turn of the century. With one of only three liquor licenses on the island, a thriving music scene, and spectacular views out across the archipelago, Augusta and her hotel helped put Vaxholm on the map. At the time of our visit the Waxholms Hotel was coming to the end of a refurbishment project, having recently changed hands for the first time in 35 years. After several decades of nauticalia inspired décor, the new owners were carefully restoring it to its original 1880-1920s glory, complete with a grand bar, fittingly named ‘The Augusta’ for its pioneering founder.

 Vaxholm itself is steeped in seafaring history, famous for its role defending Sweden from marauding would-be conquerors throughout the centuries and its fleet of ‘strömming’ (Baltic Herring) fishermen. History enthusiasts may spend hours exploring its fortifications, citadel, museums and winding lanes but its wide-ranging charms include birch and fir woods for balmy walks, beaches for bathers, boutique shops, restaurants and chic B&Bs for pleasure-seekers and foodies. The islanders urged us to come back in the summer to revel in the archipelago party season, but for us hyped-up city-dwellers it was the cold, grey skies, the rich autumnal hues, the closed sign of the ice-cream parlour clattering in the breeze, the unmanned gas pumps, covered cars and houses shut up for the winter months that signaled paradise.

Once filled with fishermen, farmers and sailors eking out a living from the islands and sea, the archipelago’s economy now feasts on summer residents and tourism in the summer months, but come winter the population shrinks, and today’s islanders need to be creative to keep vital lifelines open through the short dark winter days. We heard stories of local entrepreneurs including cheese-makers, craft beer-brewers, boutique B&B owners and even a mobile slaughterhouse that travelled from island to island to service farms and small-holdings. Enter one such creative soul, Captain Anders Borjesson; a charming grocer-cum-skipper who invited us onboard his taxi-boat for a private tour of the local waterways.

 Passing through the strait with traditional wooden houses on one side and the imposing citadel on the other, we raced through narrow passages and weaved in and out of spiky skerries and smooth rocks before reaching open water, where the real magic of the archipelago’s natural beauty revealed itself. This watery wonderland with its silvered rocks, windswept pines, grass-covered hillocks, white sandy beaches was breathtaking, and we had it all to ourselves. Waterside cabins and summer houses of all shapes, sizes and colours adorn most of the islands, from modest huts painted in the traditional ‘"falu rödfärg’ rust-red paint with their jaunty white-trimmed windows and corners to elegant pastel-coloured mansions. We hopped ashore at a white sandy beach on an uninhabited island and, filled with the Swallows & Amazon spirit of small children, raced up a small hill to find the perfect camping spot, the fire would go here, the tent there, here we’d bathe in the shallow waters, there we’d forage for berries, if it wasn’t quite so freezing . . .

 Reputedly come summer it’s difficult to find a Swede in Stockholm as they all flee the city for their holiday homes and, with this natural paradise on their doorstep, it’s not hard to see why. The Swedes take their summers very seriously and messing about in boats on the archipelago would be a serious treat under the Scandinavian sun. But for a couple of weary Londoners, puttering about on a very cold, quiet corner of the earth with its expanse of iridescent water, island havens, open skies and rich hues of green, copper and gold, it was the autumn archipelago and its calm beauty that captured our hearts and imaginations. And, just in case we needed any more persuading, as Captain Anders turned about for our return leg to Vaxholm we were offered up one last treasure. A giant eagle, perched atop its rocky maroon beat its wings once, twice, a third time, and made for the heavens, circling up and up into the low grey skies.

Returning to London, I waxed lyrical about the archipelago to anyone and everyone, including my permanently insouciant and well-travelled father. ‘Well, yes’, he said, ‘the Stockholm archipelago is a wonderful corner of the world and certainly you should go back in the summer. But if you want a real Swedish Midsummer’s adventure . . .’ I poured us another whisky and let the storyteller take me on a road trip up the East Coast, round the Gulf of Bothnia, across the Finish border at Haparanda and on a tiny plane from Kimi to the transient sunshine state of the Arctic Circle where ‘it was blazing hot, there were flowers everywhere and we partied all day and night long under a never-setting sun’. Time to get the road map out.