Göteborg, Sweden’s second-largest city, represented another small milestone in my lengthy journey. The Norwegian app had alerted me that, after two days of generous sunshine, a new weather front was rapidly approaching. I allowed myself three days’ rest to escape the worst of it, unwind, and experience the city a little. My legs, too, needed a break from all this pedaling, and thanked me.
Sweden is by far the country with the most islands—231,000, according to those who had the patience to count them. I hopped on and off a few of them and loved the scenery on Malo and Flato. Forests of silver birch, aspen, spruce, and pine trees have become a common feature of the landscape. I spend entire days immersed in their green hue and soothed by the sound of leaves rustling in the wind. Those Swedish lawmakers had quite the foresight; the outdoors nourish and are good food for the spirit.
Getting closer to another border, the first serious hills appeared, and I climbed some gradients for the first time. Nothing exceptional, just constant up-and-down gentle rolling hills that could be fun unless you are cycling on a heavily loaded bicycle. A kind soul was hosting me the next day, and I needed a shortcut from the meanderings of the cycleway. The straightest road, and only option, turned out to be a motorway. Unaware of the legality of it, I accessed it with caution, making sure to check for any signs banning bicycles. There weren’t any, so I went along a rather narrow emergency lane that could be mistaken for a cycling lane. All seemed well, and traffic was ignoring me. After a while, a few cars started hooting at me; initially, I thought they must be cycling enthusiasts encouraging me. The hooting increased as I went on. I had to stop and Google it! My search answered clearly: all Swedish motorways are banned to cyclists. Not wanting to risk a Scandinavian fine in those expensive Krona, I took the next right turn and was back on a cycleway.
At times of extreme boredom, I ponder the meaning of those nods we share with passing cyclists. Is it a tribal sign of approval, or empathy for our suffering? Somehow, it never happens with motorcyclists. We think they are cheating with engines, while they probably think we are losers or lunatics.
I reached the border crossing with Norway, another country arrived full of expectation and, if possible, even higher prices! At a campsite, I chatted with an Italian traveling with his dog in a camper. He had been around Scandinavia a few times and decided to be a little more enterprising this time.
“It’s good I don’t drink!” he said smiling. “Norway taxes alcohol so much that a drinkable bottle of wine can leave you 18 Euros poorer…”
Well aware of this, he left Italy carrying 100 bottles of decent Italian wine and had a Norwegian text on his phone that he showed and translated for me. It said something like he was returning to Italy and had two bottles of good red wine left, asking the person if they were interested in buying them. They were so popular that he sold out halfway through his trip, regretting not having brought twice as many.