This journey was never intended to be meticulously planned. Even so, during the past year leading up to my departure, I scribbled down the names of places that came highly recommended, thinking I might visit them. When casually glancing at maps, it seemed plausible to set off in mid-June—just as I did—cross all the countries I've crossed, and make my way up to the Lofoten Islands or even Nordkapp, before looping back into Sweden and somehow reaching Stockholm. However, once confronted with the vastness of these countries and the undeniable challenges posed by their climates, I had to admit my ambition had been rather naive. A journey like this only makes sense if undertaken without haste. As a result, the dream of the Lofoten Islands was abandoned as soon as I reached Denmark, and the demanding nature of a month in Norway quickly dispelled any notion of crossing Sweden, en route to Stockholm next. Fortunately, along the way, I encountered Jussi—a fortuitous meeting—who told me of his relatively hassle-free experience of loading his bike and luggage onto a Flixbus. This low-cost bus service, it turns out, can hang up to four bicycles on a rear rack and carry you far, all for a modest fare. His bike had arrived in pristine condition, which meant that, on a particularly rough day in Norway, I found myself contemplating that summer would soon end and that I shouldn't squander precious time traversing a country I had already cycled through for a couple of weeks.
Here I am, on a cheap Flixbus from Oslo to Stockholm, scribbling down paragraphs to pass the time. For reasons beyond my understanding, the bus company decided not to take me directly to Stockholm. Instead, they thought it more interesting to reroute me back to Malmö, retracing my journey through the very places along the western Swedish coast that I had just cycled. Only after this detour could I continue on to Stockholm, adding twelve hours to an already lengthy trip—more than enough time to take in the country, I suppose. Naturally, I was anxious about whether my bike would survive the journey and still be securely hanging on the rack. The only reassurance I had came from brief glimpses during turns at roundabouts: the low light of the evening sun casting long shadows of inverted bikes on the tarmac. I hoped one of those shadows was mine...
Stockholm was not merely a stepping stone to Finland; it deserved at least a couple of days to be properly appreciated. In good weather, the city revealed itself as a remarkably attractive place, built around a labyrinth of tiny islands. I was particularly enchanted by Gamla Stan, its historic centre, with its colorful wooden buildings and narrow cobblestone streets as well as the green space of Djurgården.
Jussi not only suggested this alternative mode of transport but also took the time to craft a detailed plan for navigating the scattered dots of the Åland Islands. He generously mapped out a feasible route for me, one that would involve a few days of alternating between cycling and ferry rides. I had mentioned the idea to him in passing while in Copenhagen, casually noting that the islands seemed like a sensible way to reach Finland, his home country. He was quick to encourage me, assuring me that the islands offer a few delightful days of cycling. Now, having left rainy Oslo and Norway behind, the Swedish weather forecasts looked promising, with temperatures warm enough to rekindle the joys of what has, at times, felt like a missed summer.
A ferry that felt more like a cruise liner carried me to Mariehamn, the main town of the Åland Islands, an archipelago that belongs to Finland, despite its Swedish-speaking population. This unusual situation arose when Russia occupied then Swedish owned Finland, including these islands, severing them from their homeland. After Russian forces were driven out with the help of British and French troops, Finland gained its independence and the Åland Islands were, somewhat inexplicably, declared Finnish territory. Speaking with the islanders, I found that few seemed to mind, as long as they were free to live their lives. They were granted a local government, their own symbolic parliament, distinctive car registration plates, and their own flag—and have lived contentedly ever after.
A day cycling past Mariehamn, I found a quiet spot on the bay, near the ruins of a Russian fort where one of those battles had been fought. A couple was basking in the sunshine after a swim, and the unusually warm water tempted me to join them. After the unseasonable cold in Norway, it felt like a blessing. I asked if pitching my tent near the archaeological site might cause any trouble, and they reassured me that it would be fine.
“Just make sure to not light a fire or they’ll wake me up at night…” the man told me.
He was a local fireman. I joked, asking for his mobile number and promising I would call him at the first sign of sparks.
"112!" he replied, laughing.
In Torsholma, I disembarked from the ferry and immediately recognized Jussi with his bicycle—yet another of those comforting sights of a familiar face in a foreign country. We rode together, hopping on ferries and crossing countless bridges that linked a series of pristine islands. We stopped for the night at Mussalo, where Jussi had told me about a campsite by the sea that had its own sauna. The campsite turned out to be so popular that it was completely full of Finns eager to savor this unexpected extension of summer. There’s nothing quite like a relaxing sauna after a day’s ride. As dusk settled, with the sun dipping below the horizon, Jussi suggested alternating the sauna with refreshing dips in the Baltic. Jussi turned out to be a true blessing. Not only did he plan my journey through these islands, but he also rescued me from being locked inside the sauna.
After my second swim, I entered the wooden hut, looking forward to another round of sweating. Just then, someone rushed in, shouted something in Finnish, and quickly disappeared, closing the door behind him. I assumed he was searching for a friend or something of the sort. As I was enjoying the balmy heat pouring more water on incandescent rocks that turned it into steam, Jussi opened the door and said I should get out. He had been looking for me, and realized I had been locked in. The impatient man I had heard was a campsite employee, informing everyone to leave as he was about to lock it.
It was the weekend, and the large camping crowd had indulged in a late night of music and partying. At 8 a.m., the loudspeakers crackled to life with a cheerful jingle, announcing that life was good—the sauna was hot and ready to open. Slowly, the campsite stirred as the early birds, still groggy, began shuffling toward the wooden building in their bathrobes.
We prepared ourselves for more cycling. I stayed close behind Jussi as we navigated through island after island, with him shielding me from the wind, until we were firmly on Finnish soil and the Swedish language was no longer spoken. We took a pleasant break for ice cream in the quaint town of Naantali before continuing to Raisio, where Jussi and his wife had invited me to stay. They treated me to the Finnish classic of fish soup, followed by a delicious dessert, bringing a wonderful couple of days to a perfect close.