Helsingor – 1,571km completed
Ugh! Not much past 4am – it was the earliest start of the ride so far. But I really wanted to be on an early ferry to get some of the lost time back. The chap on reception was true to his word. I’d already got coffee in my room, and he hustled quickly back from the kitchen with two bananas to start my day off. He may have offered coffee too – but I figured the short ferry crossing would probably provide that I must have ignored his promise of safety, because I remember unlock the bike as I ate one of these, loaded up the gear, and stashed the other in my back pocket. Worringly, in the process of tightening everything up a small piece of plastic flew of one of the ratchet locks on my saddle bag. On closer inspection though, it was just the small cam locker and the rest of the buckle was intact. I felt reasonably sure it wouldn’t loosen even without the added security of the locker – but made a mental note to email Revelate later and see if they had any shops in Sweden where I might get a replacement.
The streets were deserted with the early hour – having missed the chance to be in Sweden yesterday, I didn’t want to delay getting there today. The port was even closer than expected – back across the railway bridge, down the lift, a short whiz downhill to the lake front, and the entrance appeared almost as soon as I turned left. I was so focused on the sight of the dock and boat coming in ahead that I rode straight past the booth.
Oi !
Or words to that effect cried out from the little hut. I swung back, apologised, paid the fare and grabbed my ticket. I wasn’t just the first bike onto the waiting boat, I was the first vehicle of any kind. I knew the routine now – lash the bike to the railings, and go eat. Although on the way I did note the amusing sight of EV chargers in the front positions of the deck. Don’t get me wrong, this is an excellent idea, but they’d have to be lightning fast units to get much charge in the 30 minutes of the crossing. It was probably a generic ferry design I figured – maybe these boats sometimes served other, longer, crossings.
The couple of flights of stairs opened directly into a small self-serve café. I have no idea what else the boat offered, because I didn’t get beyond this 50 square metres or so. I paid for coffee and one of those lovely yellow cream danish pastries, and sat there enjoying my early snack breakfast. The crossing was so short I didn’t even have time for seconds before a klaxon and announcements were instructing us back to our vehicles. Getting out of the port involved a massive U shaped turn, straight ahead off the boat, and then back on myself for a few hundred metres before reaching the streets of Helsingborg (trivia reminder, if you listed to The Sounds track “Painted By Numbers”, after reading Day 1, I was now in the band’s home town). Heading through and up out of the still sleeping town, I had to pinch myself.
Fuck – I’ve made it to Sweden!
I guess part of me didn’t quite expect to get this far. Although a bigger part of me was daunted by what lay ahead – nearly 2,000km of one country. For most of the the next 10 days, there’d be no Gate, no borders, nothing but more Sweden. I had a strong feeling that if I could hang in there mentally and physically and just grind that out then I’d probably finish this thing. But I had no frame of reference with which to judge what lay ahead. This one country was almost as long as any ride I had done before. I felt like I was at the bottom of huge mountain, dwarfed by its scale. The only consoling thought was I knew how to tackle it – one pedal stroke followed by the next, and don’t stop – except for sleep or food. With a McDs in sight as I reached the top of the town, a second breakfast demanded felt like the latter. Just the fuel needed to kick off this gargantuan leg of the odyssey.
It was a slightly scruffy outlet – not that it bothered me as I tucked into a breakfast sans egg. It was still early on Sunday morning, and the staff were slowly clearing up. So perhaps they’d not had a chance to get square for the day’s trade. Cars, vans and trucks came up to fill up with gas as I polished off the fare. I was still the only customer sat inside by the time I left. It took another 10km or so of riding along cycle paths and around the usual array of industrial parks before I was out of the town and heading into open country. On the way I passed my first actual IKEA in Sweden – instinctively I took a picture, half with the intention of posting a rant about how shitty the customer service was on their mattresses (I’m still sore over the way they handled, and refused to honour their 8 year warranty). I hadn’t ridden much further before I realised that would probably get me sued. I did hatch an alternate plan of sharing photos of every other Swedish brand I could find (starting with Volvo who I had also just passed) until someone asked where IKEA was. To which I could open the taps fully and vent my rage. But in the 20 minutes or so my mind was spinning on this topic, I found I had worked rest of the anger out of my system anyway. They won’t get my custom again – but the desire to try and publicly shame them had subsided. Most big corporates don’t really give a shit anyway, so my breath was better used on the gradual hill up into the countryside away from the coast.
I have to confess, it was only after checking my posts and messages with Yoli that I could recall any details of the stretches which followed. One of these was a steadily building headwind, something that would become mildly troubling across this day – and an increasing battle over days to come. Another was a random sign in the corner of a garden alongside a gravel forest track: Allez Allez NordKapp. There was no one around to thank for the message of support, but it was very welcomed. And yep, I did say gravel. In the countryside proper at times, most of the route was lanes but some sections were proper gravel trail. I’d gladly have taken more of the latter but was grateful for the few sections there were.
Through deep dark pine forests, Sweden smelt awesome too. I’d probably missed a few restaurant options for lunch by the time my need for a refuel arose again. In Markaryd I recall asking a couple in a passing car if they knew of a cafe nearby, but their uncertainty of opening hours on Sunday made me to opt for the safer option of an obviously open small roadside shop. The tables outside indicated they probably served some kind of food. I’d already passed up the certainty of a large supermarket a junction or two back. Inside I loaded up with drinks, snacks bars and was on the verge of opting for a hot dog when I spied the fridge of wraps and sandwiches. Spicy chicken was much more what I fancied – although I wasn’t sure how well it would pair with strawberry milkshake. The young lass serving was friendly, and curious at my odd assortment. A flicker of recognition passed across her face though at my explanation. She’d served other riders and heard some of the stories of our crazy event. She wished me well as I headed back outside.
It was too hot to sit in front of the shop, so I headed for the shade of the benches in front of the library opposite. Yoli excitedly messaged that the tracker (my Inreach satellite one, not the official app) was so good she could zoom in on the individual trees and buildings around me – including the library. I can’t remember which of the other riders pulled over for a chat whilst I sat there, but he didn’t linger beyond our brief exchange of words, or visit the shop. Little else was moving in the village/town – the rail station opposite was quiet, no trains seemed to be running, maybe because it was Sunday. A growing chilliness in the shade caused me to quickly finish or stash my remaining provisions and hit the road again.
60km is not an unusual distance for me to take between food stops – and I’m aware that the blog here is in danger here of just becoming a description of the places I stopped to stuff my face. But the next section was a sequence of forest trails and roads that are mostly lost in my memory. I do recall battling headwind across stretches where the road was open, and also trading comments to this effect with riders I passed or who passed me. I also recall the pleasant shade where we went through forests, or in the lee of a hill which offered shelter from the wind. Our path through Ljungby was through back streets and parks on the edge of town. Maybe my radar was not tuned into Sweden properly yet, but although I spied a couple of supermarkets I did not spot an cafes, and I was hankering for more substantial food. I was almost through the next town of Lagan before I spied flags at the entrance to a golf club, and signs indicating they had a restaurant. But I was out of luck – inside the small wooden clubhouse, I trudged upstairs to the dining area only to discover they had just finished serving. The girl behind the counter did at least server me a can of coke to keep me going. Back outside, swigging the can, the flags shifted from fluttering to bent double. The wind was now becoming a proper storm. What started as drops of rain, soon became lumps of hail as thunder and lightning crashed around. I took advantage of the somewhat sheltered porch to fish out my full wet weather gear (leggings, shoe covers, waterproof shorts, jacket, and gloves) and kit up for what looked to be a much less appealing ride back down the driveway than it had been coming up a few minutes earlier. The girl who had served me was now leaving at the end of her shift. I asked her if there was anywhere to eat in town. She showed me on Google Maps the location of a nearby pizzeria, and I decided getting slightly wet going there was better than fully drenched on the open road with no food, and no bed sorted yet for the night.
Even with her directions, I fumbled around getting to the restaurant. At first turning away from the town, and then riding past the turn off, mistaking a different café further along as the destination. Eventually, doubling back, I found it. The rain had done it’s worst, but I tried to shelter the rig from more rain under the short overhang of roof. I was dripping wet as I went inside. A Hawaiian pizza is deeply unfashionable I know, and not my usual taste either. But they are perfect ride fuel – carbs in the base, protein in the eat, fat in the cheese, and short term sugars in the pineapple. Trust me, they work. And nothing remained of the massive one I had ordered just minutes after its arrival. But it was still pissing down outside, and I was still scanning accommodation options. So I lingered there alone, in the dark restaurant side of the building (everyone else was getting Sunday afternoon takeaways). The day was already ebbing away, and pushing over 200km on such a windy day and with the ferry duration added to the normal riding time. But a highway motel 65km ahead in Skillingaryd felt like the right option, despite the mixed reviews. I was sure if I could get there in time, being a highway service stop they would have food. And the rooms did not look nearly as bad as some of the reviews suggested – plus some mentioned helpful staff, which was always useful with the odd demands of bike packing. So I followed my instinct and made the booking. There had been other options with space – but this one just felt right.
The rain had mostly stopped by the time I rolled out, but vast puddles lay across the road which I splooshed through and around. On the long curve heading out of town a bedraggled couple, somewhat older than me, passed by. The chap riding at the front muttered something about the conditions but seemed in much better humour than his wife behind, who barely even grunted. She was soaked and looked to have been dragged through the very centre of the storm. I doubt I’d have been any happier than she appeared. They remained in sight ahead of me across many kilometres of riding as the clouds cleared and blue skies returned. Beyond Lagan, Sweden really began to reveal itself – the route running alongside the shore of a sizeable lake. Over days to come I lost count of how many lakes I passed – certainly in the hundreds. But at no point did I tire of the stunning views of them, through the pine forests. Studying my track now, I can see an apparently random stop between Varnamo and Horle. With nothing obvious there I can only assume this was a stop to shed layers, the day now having cleared up I was probably too warm. It could have been to duck into some trees to take a leak also. I do remember chatting with one of the guys from the Philippines across these closing sections of the day. I mentioned my Motel, but he was looking for a camp spot. I reminded him of the conversation on the boat with the guy from Copenhagen – wild camping is allowed in Sweden, so he could stop anywhere reasonably far from housing. I’m not sure if this was useful, or where his riding companion was, but it was the last I saw of them for a few days (maybe even the rest of the ride).
A few km before my destination I spotted a Motel on the other side of the road and wondered how I’d missed it, or whether it was a better option. I became even less certain of my choice as I passed through the middle of Skillingaryd with no sign of where I was staying. Only mounting my phone with Google Maps re-assured me. I had to go beyond the town, and take a small dirt track through the woods on my right and under the E4 highway which we had been following north for many km. Emerging from the tunnel, a semi-circle of gravel led up to a slightly dilapidated (almost Bates-esque) Motel sign, and the buildings of the service station to the side. I did not even contemplate leaving my bike outside and wheeled it boldly through the double sliding doors. Once again, excellent service stood out above the modest surroundings. The young girl and guy behind the counter got me sorted quickly with a room key (they apologised for it being upstairs but said I could take my bike up, if I was able). They went way beyond this though. Officially, the restaurant was closing – but the chap (apparently also the duty chef) said the machines were still on and he could rustle me up Schnitzl and chips whilst I took my bike to the room. Which proved oddly easier than the concrete spiral staircase outside first appeared. I managed to get a good hold of my seat tube and the hike up seemed surprisingly easy. I chucked the chargers out quickly, and hooked up the GPS and gear before heading back for my food, The plate which arrived was massive, and delicious – and, bonus, included veg (broccoli, yum!). The guy apologised that they would not be open at the time I wanted to leave, but breakfast was included – so he let me choose a pastry, a juice, and a cold Starbucks can in lieu of the included breakfast. I decided the people leaving bad reviews were just full of shit and didn’t appreciate good service, adding a glowing review to counter balance the misery guts. The room was a tad bright and warm initially (which I did not put in my review), but cooled as darkness fell and a deep sleep came with it.