Scandi Escape Part 1 - Stockholm

On the Waterside

I was off to a Nordic country famed for Ikea, smorgasbord and Volvo, and probably Abba and meatballs as well.

I needed a travel fix. I was finding confinement ignites a desire for freedom, and in this weird pandemic world of 2020, this was becoming increasingly difficult and my options for a trek were becoming reduced by the day. My original intention was to fly into Gothenburg to check out Sweden’s second city and use it as a base to travel by train northwards to Oslo, the Norwegian capital, and then westwards via a spectacular railway route through rugged mountainous terrain with picturesque panoramic views of Norwegian fjords to Bergen on the wild North Sea coast.

I then proposed to retrace my steps, stay in Gothenburg briefly before taking a ferry over the Kattegat strait to Denmark for a quick look-see and then head up to Stockholm, the Swedish capital by train or coach for a day or two before taking a train back over to the west and return to the UK from the airport I arrived at.

Plans unravelled first when Norwegian Air abruptly cancelled my flight. At around the same time, it became apparent that travel to Norway and Denmark was going to be off-limits because of newly introduced COVID-19  travel restrictions in both countries. Travel to Sweden was still acceptable, and I could get flights with British Airways to Stockholm and decided that was what I would do, focussing my week-long visit on exploring the country’s two major centres of population.

Stockholm, the “Venice of the North”, is the Swedish capital, a city of around a million people. It is attractively located on fourteen larger main islands and many smaller ones on the Baltic Sea, in the eastern part of the country. At least fifty bridges service the needs of the population, enabling them to cross the many stretches of water.

The geography of Stockholm’s archipelago became clear to me from my window seat as we flew in to land at dusk. There were sparkling necklaces of orange, red and yellow lights picking out the roads, causeways and bridges in complete contrast with the voids of inky blackness in between.

The overall population of Sweden is around 10 million, with about 25% being foreign-born or first-generation immigrants. 86% of the population are urban dwellers and overall, the country has the second-lowest population density in Europe. There is a lot of space.

As I was arriving early evening, I felt it would be prudent to have accommodation pre-booked, at least for the first night, when I could review options. I had reserved a room at the cheapest non-hostel place I could find (Stockholm can be pricey on the accommodation front). The Unique hotel was conveniently in the Norrholm district of the city, around a mile from the central station.

I picked up a map and other bumf from the tourist information desk at the terminus where I had arrived by efficient public transport from Arlanda airport some 45 kilometres to the north. I quickly got myself orientated and headed off on foot.

They only manned the reception until 7 pm, so I had to work out the instructions to open the key safe and get my room card. Having overcome this task without too much difficulty, I walked up two flights of the wide and grandly curving staircase of this lovely nineteenth-century building. I went through a huge double door onto a newly carpeted corridor with the walls covered with artwork, including, incongruously, English hunting scenes. I found my acceptable but tiny accommodation along the hall. The ceiling height was the room’s biggest dimension, but it was warm, clean, and tidy and would be more than adequate.

The Nobel Museum

I read through some of the literature I had picked up at the tourist bureau earlier and discerned that 67% of the country was forested and there were over 100,000 lakes in the country. There were also 400,000 moose roaming around, although I didn’t expect to see one walking down the street. I had once had an early evening confrontation with a brown bear in Jasper, Canada, some years previously, though, so you never knew.

Other facts I picked up were that Sweden was so efficient at waste recycling that the country even imported waste to process (for a fee), the vat rate of 25% was the highest in the world and they also had the greatest number of McDonald’s per capita in the world.

I needed some food now, but it would not be from that ubiquitous burger emporium. The evening air was crisp. I had not eaten since indulging in a smoked salmon and scrambled egg breakfast at the upmarket Caviar House at Heathrow. The place was very quiet and made social distancing easier. I was under strict wifely instructions to be very COVID aware.

When I left home that morning, on a bright, blue sky, November day, with a light frosty covering on the fallen Autumn leaves, the news was that the USA election result was still very much on a knife-edge and I checked my phone; I learned nothing had changed. They did not expect the result for a couple of days.

I had had a long day and was increasingly hungry now, so I was not intending to venture too far. Around the corner, I found Brisket and Friends, a craft beer and barbequed meat restaurant which fitted the bill. I ordered a portion of brisket burnt ends, something I did not recall having ordered previously, with salad and pickles and a very palatable amber craft beer that was very much to my taste. The food came on brown paper on a tray with the sides in small cardboard containers – saved the hassle of any washing up, I suppose.

The eatery had a North American cowboy style feel with basic refectory style tables and benches and American rock playing at about the right volume. There were about a dozen other youngish twenty to thirty-something diners, and the place had a pleasant and friendly atmosphere. So much so that I stayed for a second beer.

Re-energised after some food and drink, I decided I would go for a little exploration and walked back down towards the station and what was the centre of the city. The air was still and the temperature similar to at home, cool but not cold, and the bright half-moon was visible in the clear night sky. Traffic was quite sparse, and any vehicles that were about seemed to be electric or hybrid, including buses and trams that ran on environmentally friendly fuels, so it all seemed spotless and quiet. Many people were whizzing around on electric scooters and others getting around on “sit up and beg” bicycles on specially designated cycle routes whilst a couple of patrolling police officers came past on Segways. My initial impressions were that Stockholm seemed very Germanic and Dutch in style, prosperous, and with a sophisticated Northern European character. Walking in downtown Stockholm, the realisation that the capital was interestingly almost devoid of skyscrapers seized me.

I walked on to the Bishop’s Arms, a very English-style pub close to the station, with an impressive range of beers on offer, including Fuller’s London Pride, a favourite from home. I decided, however, on a tasty Eriksberg after discussing the merits and styles of fresh brews with the landlord.

Hand sanitiser was readily available. They allowed no sitting at the bar and social distancing was in place, although masks were not being worn, nor were they required. There was also no early closing curfew. I reflected over my beer that from the next day English pubs, restaurants, gyms and shops selling non-essential goods would be closed for the best part of a month at least, as a second lockdown was being imposed on November 5th. If I had booked my flight for a day later, I would not have been able to travel at all.

I had read about Gamla Stan, the historic and geographical heart of the city to the south of where I was in Norrmalm. Checking on the map, I could see it was not very far and as it was still relatively early, I determined to investigate the medieval centre immediately rather than waiting until the next day, as I only had a short amount of time in the capital. 

I drained my glass and left the pub, and walking south, picking my way through various sections of roadworks. I needed to take care to avoid bicycles, trams and scooters coming seemingly at me from all angles. I found one bridge that took me over to the picturesque old medieval area of narrow cobbled streets and beautiful tall, pastel-shaded old merchant’s houses. Many of these were now transformed into shops, bars and cafes.

I randomly came across the Stortorget, a wonderfully evocative cobbled square flanked by ancient Dutch and German-influenced buildings and home to the Nobel museum and venue for the annual eponymous prize presentations. I was virtually alone in the square, which would surely not be the case in the tourist summer season’s height in non-COVID times.

I explored some more, entranced by the living history laid out in front of me in the calm, still, moonlit evening. After around half an hour of enjoyable meandering, as I was now the best part of a couple of miles from my home base, I decided I should wend my way back.

Refreshed from a good night’s sleep, I showered and dressed and headed down to the dining room for breakfast. Signs showed they had reduced the range of breakfast dishes on offer because of the impact of the pandemic but there was still an impressive buffet available with processed meats and hams, hard-boiled eggs, juices, coffees, pastries, preserves (including an intriguing spicy fish paste) and different breads. There were about half a dozen other diners, all carefully maintaining social distance and taking turns to approach the food table.

I enjoyed a pretty comprehensive breakfast, which I felt would sustain me for a full day’s exploration and I could save myself for a decent dinner with no lunch being required. On my way out, I stopped to speak to the young woman who had just come on duty as a receptionist. I decided I would stay in Stockholm until Sunday when I would take the train across to the North Sea coast and the country’s second city Gothenburg. I quickly established they had rooms available and it would be possible to extend my stay, but it would mean moving to a larger double room and paying a small premium for the upgrade, but this I felt was acceptable. I bounded back up to my little box room, threw my stuff into my lightweight rucksack and took it down to where the helpful receptionist placed it in a lockable storage room.

Having, I felt, a reasonable handle on the geography of the city I walked in an easterly direction initially before turning south down what appeared to be Stockholm’s premier pedestrianised street, Drottninggaten, with its array of chain stores, independent shops, cafes, bars, beauty salons and theatres. The theatres were advertising “meals, drinks and a show” packages.

Most of the shops appeared to be open, although some were closed apparently because of the current health crisis. I also noticed, a Systembolaget, the state-controlled alcohol store, which effectively looked like a spacious, well-lit and extensively stocked Off Licence. Historically, the State felt the need to control alcohol sales and in the past, these stores were often austere in appearance and Draconian in management style. Prospective purchasers used to have their acquisitions closely scrutinised by an uncooperative custodian before being given the nod or otherwise. It would appear, however, that times had changed and the purchase of alcohol was now a more acceptable practice. However, even today, supermarkets can only sell beer with up to 3.5% alcohol content. Stronger beers, wines and spirits need to be bought at the Systembolaget.

I passed the impressive flagship H&M store, a giant of Swedish retailing with a turnover close to the GDP of Scandinavian neighbours’ Iceland. Even an enormous company like this was suffering in the current economic climate and had announced a store closure programme as part of a restructuring programme to ensure its long-term survival.

I walked the full length of Drottninggaten and crossed a different bridge over to Gamla Stan beyond the grand and extensive Swedish Government buildings, the Riksdagshuset set on its own little island.

Stockholm’s Excellent Food Hall

It was easy to lose myself twisting and turning around the streets of the old heart of the city, checking out the Kungliga Slottet, the royal palace, which was undergoing some major refurbishment, and stumbling across other interesting if lesser buildings. I came to the Stortorget from an unfamiliar angle and was again taken with its timeless beauty. I had read that on this very square the Danish King Christian II, who was also King of Norway and soon to have the throne of Sweden as well, tricked, trapped and beheaded 82 rebellious Swedish burghers, bishops and nobles in 1520. I doubt if those awaiting their awful fate took time out to ponder the wonderful architecture as I was, unbelievably, some five hundred years later.

Medieval Gamla Stan

Gamla Stan is not that large an area and once I had felt I had done the district justice, and also earmarked some bars and restaurants for later visits, I meandered southwards to take yet another bridge over to Sodermalm, apparently the southern, edgier, more bohemian part of town.

Being careful to stay on the area designated for pedestrians as opposed to drifting into the adjacent cycle route, busy with bicycles, delivery tricycles and electric scooters whizzing down the hill from Sodermalm, I looked over eastwards where serried ranks of commuter ferries bobbed about on the water. Going to work by ferry was a way of life in Stockholm, but with so many choosing (rather than being mandated to) to work from home, they had recently seriously reduced the number of ferry movements.

Beyond the ferries and over a short stretch of water, I could see the small island of Skeppsholmen. In front of the island was the former, gleaming white, sailing vessel Af Chapman resting at its permanent berth and now in use as an unusual youth hostel. The island used to be of military importance but now, whilst home to several museums housed in the old former old martial properties, it is essentially a parkland area. Scores of paths wind through trees and grassland and it is a popular area used by relaxing families enjoying the fresh air and an army of joggers, older power walkers and cyclists getting their fitness miles in.

This is something that quickly becomes apparent in Stockholm - they are a pretty sporting lot, with many people of all ages looking impressively fit as they pound the streets on foot or race by on their bikes. As a nation, they certainly did not seem to suffer from any form of an obesity problem.

I walked up the hill and turned left up Gotgatan, which seemed to be the way to go to find the essence of Sodermalm. The slope increased dramatically as I turned the corner, causing some older cyclists to puff, pant and wheeze as they struggled up the hill. Whilst not exactly puffing and panting myself, I was feeling the need for a break and stopped off at one of the ubiquitous coffee shops, Wayne’s Coffee, which was located directly opposite another, Espresso House. The coffee shop explosion had reached Sweden.

Sipping my Americano, I studied my maps and other information and enjoyed a relaxing half hour.

Sodermalm, as I was expecting, seemed somewhat bohemian in style, with a lot of independent shops with an arty twist. There were many photographic shops, book shops (featuring a surprising number of English-language books), places selling art of all genres, florists with wonderfully colourful displays, antique emporia, classy and stylish high-end furniture places and, interestingly, several places selling vinyl records. Pet Sounds was an immense place that I ventured inside with thousands of LPs on sale, including many British and American classic albums from the sixties and seventies with which I was very familiar.

It also intrigued me to see the number of retro and second-hand clothing stores. These were selling top quality, stylish and well-made classics that were carefully curated and attractively displayed. Sweden seemed to be at the forefront of the sustainable fashion movement, taking recycling seriously and making a stand against cheap throw away clothing.

I walked pretty well the length of the main street of Gotgatan before taking a different route back to Gamla Stan, crisscrossing several side streets to ensure I had absorbed the full flavour of the district.

I walked on to the station. I needed to check on train times to Gothenburg and went to the information desk to find out what my options were. It was a pleasant experience being able to speak in my native language to a helpful young chap and then find that I could book and pay for advanced tickets with a seat reservation there and then. Such joined-up administrative detail was impressive. I would take the 10.26 train on Sunday morning, timed to take a leisurely breakfast, and be in Gothenburg three hours later, quite remarkable for a journey of 468 kilometres – an average speed of 100mph.

“Tack,” I said as I left.

A useful word that. It means both please and thank you and made the little phrase-book I had been carrying about somewhat redundant. It was the only Swedish word I used on my entire trip, apart from the occasional “Skol” or cheers. I was fluent.

As I had not officially checked in to my new room, I thought it might be best to go back to the Unique and do so, particularly as they did not staff the reception area after early evening and I wanted to make sure I could access my baggage. Ridiculous to the sublime, my new double room was the size of a tennis court, so I took full advantage of the space, made myself a coffee lay on the bed and started re-reading Peter Mayle’s “Encore Provence”.

I ventured out later, in the early evening, picking out an unusual roundabout route and taking a different bridge over to Gamla Stan. I quickly came across a music place called Stampen, which I had spotted earlier in the day, and popped in to have a drink and see what would be on later.

BB King was playing on the sound system as I took in the eclectic mix of old brass instruments and other ancient artefacts dangling precariously from the ceiling. I ordered a beer. At the end of the room, some musicians appeared to be setting up and the friendly pink-haired and heavily tattooed barmaid confirmed that there would be a live performance later on, around 9 pm. It seemed a great place with an intriguing vibe and I decided I would find somewhere for dinner and be back for the show.

As is the law in Sweden, Stampen served food, all pubs and bars have to have a food offering, but it appeared to be of the basic burger or hotdog and fries variety and I was looking for something a little different.

I found a suitable place a couple of blocks along, the Gamla Stan Hof, which was offering a deal on elk steak, roasted vegetables and a side salad with a beer which seemed pretty irresistible to me. It was a smallish place with just half a dozen other diners, nicely spaced out, bleached blond furniture and a scandi-minimalist feel about it. I like venison and I presumed the elk would be similar, which it proved to be. The tender, juicy and flavoursome steak was most enjoyable. I sat back, replete and satisfied, relaxing as I finished my beer.

It was still early to go back to Stampen, so I walked on to the southern end of the little island where I had spotted another place earlier, Engelen, a large rambling old pub that was advertising a live band.

I went in and there was a five-piece rock band playing to an audience of eight. The band were all men of late middle age vintage but were playing some decent stuff, if a little clunkily, like ‘Play that funky music’ and ‘Route 66.’ It was the first live music I had heard for eight months, so I appreciated their efforts. When they took a break, I thought it was a good time to head back to Stampen but whilst I finished my drink the PA system played a Swedish band, playing in Swedish, which was to be the only time in my visit I heard indigenous music, everything else had been British or American.

Back at Stampen, the band, Slim Jim and the Tonics were almost ready to take the stage. My timing had been immaculate. Led by a charismatic singing drummer with a great bluesy voice and fronted by two virtuoso guitarists with a skinny, pony-tailed bassist hiding in the background, they were excellent. These guys were all highly accomplished musicians, probably in their late thirties and therefore comfortably younger, by some twenty years than the Engelen outfit.

I calculated that as my beer was costing me the equivalent of £7.30 for, in reality, with the size of the head well under 500ml, I had to sip more steadily if I were not to break the bank. But, never mind, the music was wonderful. A little later on, the band invited two young guys up to the stage to swap guitars with the two frontmen for a couple of numbers. They introduced them to the audience. One was Felix, from Amsterdam, who was in his early twenties and the other was a precocious young Swede of just sixteen, called Maurice. Both were amazingly talented.

In a break later, I chatted with Maurice about guitar greats such as Joe Bonamassa, Rory Gallagher and the Allman Brothers and also mentioned I was a fan of Steve Winwood, who was also a musical genius at an early age. I told him I had seen Winwood when I was sixteen and the Spencer Davis Group’s frontman was just seventeen, having already been playing the clubs and pubs for three years. Maurice had not heard of him but was soon googling.

Maurice also told me of another local music venue, the Santa Clara beer house just around the corner, which had a cellar bar where he would jam the next evening with a random collection of blues musicians. I made a note to be there.

The band came on for a second and even third set and wrapped up around midnight after playing some great numbers and getting the sizeable crowd happily involved. It was then time to take the increasingly familiar walk up to my Norrmalm base.

I wanted to see something of the Stockholm archipelago whilst staying in the Swedish capital, so after breakfast the next day, I walked down to the station again. I found out from the information bureau that whilst tourist excursions were not currently operating, there was a limited commuter ferry service running. The helpful official told me my best bet was to go to Vaxholm, a journey of about an hour, winding through a maze of smaller islands and making brief stops. I could stay awhile and have a look around the pretty little town before taking a return boat back to the city. The ferry left from its berth just in front of the Grand Hotel.

Taking the Ferry to Vaxholm

It was a bright sunny day; the temperature being an acceptable 8 degrees Celsius (he was Swedish by the way, old Anders the astronomer who gave his name to the scale), but less breezy than of late. I found the quay as described and found a timetable, but the ticket office was closed. This also perturbed other people, but when the boat arrived, the young man in charge of getting passengers on board said he would sort tickets out on the boat. The vessel, modern and comfortable, could accommodate probably a hundred and fifty or more passengers, but we numbered only about twenty, so could spread out readily. I bagged a comfortable seat with a panoramic window from where I could enjoy the views of the Baltic waters and the many islands.

I was pleased to be taking a normal commuter ferry, which I found to be more authentic than being herded along with a bunch of tourists. I had enjoyed taking the Manly ferry across Sydney Harbour in the past and the Star ferry service in Hong Kong over to Kowloon, and this would rank alongside those memorable trips.

As we set off, I fetched a coffee from the little onboard café and settled down to enjoy the trip.

We quickly passed the National Museum before heading out into the clear waters of the archipelago, passing some quite grand waterfront buildings, many signifying their importance with verdigris pigmented towers, spires and domes. We passed several small granite islets with stands of conifers and silver birch but few or no buildings on at all before putting in briefly at Nacka Strand and then moving off rapidly into clearer expanses of water, probably getting up to twenty or thirty knots and throwing up a sizeable wake.

We negotiated a quite narrow passage between Boo and Lindingo before stopping off at Gashaga on the latter. There were lots of pretty but quite modest little wooden summer houses with small concrete quays or wooden jetties to tie the family boat up to. They also had metal ladders up the sides for bathers to clamber up after a refreshing swim. It would be idyllic in the warm summer months.

There were several more very brief stops, the skipper just skilfully went in bow first, throwing the vessel into reverse just at the right moment to avoid a collision with the docking area, the crew member putting out the gangplank and passengers were on and off in seconds, no requirement to tie up at all. They were well practised.

After Karlsudd, I could see Vaxholm a mile or two ahead with a more sizeable collection of pretty cottages and bigger buildings tumbling down to the harbour area.

I disembarked with about a dozen others at the pretty port, only then realising no one had been round to collect any fare. The attractive and busy little town boasted a couple of hotels and restaurants and a parade of shops - a veritable metropolis. It only took me around forty minutes to circumnavigate the place at a modest pace. When I came around to the far side, I could see Vaxholm’s castle, now a major tourist attraction in the summer months, on a tiny offshore island. The entire area was tidy and prosperous looking.

I still had half an hour before my return trip, so parked myself on the sunny terrace of a little tearoom cum bar overlooking the water and enjoyed an early beer.

For the return trip, I sat in the same seat as for the outward journey to enjoy the opposite aspect. Before embarking, I chatted with a young guy who had turned up on his top of the range racing bike. He had ridden out from Stockholm for a couple of hours before being able to get a ferry ride home. That seemed a great idea. He told me he had several alternative ride-ferry options he could take, so never became bored with the same route. I was quite envious. There was still no ticket collection, so my day on the water had been free.

Back in the capital, I explored some areas I had not visited before, but ended up back on the familiar Drottninggaten, where the many independent and chain coffee shops were busy with people enjoying “fika”, a vitally important part of Swedish life where people make time to have a coffee and pastries with friends, often cinnamon buns, and chat and socialise. In Swedish, the word is both a noun and a verb.

After relaxing with my book back at base for a while, it was time to venture out into town to see what Stockholm offered this Friday evening.

A lot of bars use the English phrase “After work” to market their early evenings, offering discounts in the way we used to do in the UK with “happy hour” promotions. So, I popped in to one of these bars where they had posters proclaiming after-work deals. It was only when I paid over £10 for less than a pint I realised the discounts did not apply on Fridays. Mondays to Thursdays only. Ouch, schoolboy error.

After finishing my expensive mistake, I headed off to my favoured Gamla Stan district where I was looking to have something to eat before catching the music at the Santa Clara Beerhouse. 

I found a lovely narrow cobbled street in the lower, western part of Gamla Stan where I had not been before and found a collection of attractive looking restaurants. Swedish cuisine historically had been about comfort food like meatballs and fried herring, often served with large portions of mashed potato. Ok, but not that imaginative. Over recent years there had been a revolution in Swedish cuisine and Stockholm now boasted a dozen Michelin starred places and I was standing outside one now.

Djuret looked very welcoming and stylish and I toyed with going in but decided I should explore further. I passed several enticing places, then suddenly, a hundred metres down the street, I came across Santa Clara, where I was eventually aiming for. I had thought it would be a grungy music dive, but it looked very classy. The music venue was in the cellar, so the upstairs restaurant was something completely separate. On a whim, I got my culinary and musical fixes at the same location.

I could get a table. The pandemic had had some impact on suppressing demand for eating out, and I was soon enjoying an aperitif and perusing the menu.

The menu was Swedish and International cuisine with the traditional local favourites to the fore. I felt I should go Swedish tonight and at the back of my mind, thought I would indulge with the Djuret five-course offering the following evening. 

I started with a sublime Toast Skagen. This wonderfully combines hand-peeled prawns (for better flavour) in a mayonnaise and graddfill (sour cream) sauce and seasoned with grated horseradish, tabasco and brandy, on toasted sourdough with smoked salmon and topped with kalix caviar.

With the second course, I also plumped for traditional Swedish food with fried herring, Stekt Stromming, according to the menu. The herring was fine although the fiddly little bones that remain on the periphery are a bit of a pain. They served the offering with just a large portion of mashed potato and lingonberries, so I was a little underwhelmed with my main course. The Skagen more than made up for it though.

After dinner, I went down to the cellar where the music was starting up. I had noticed quite a few musicians and followers going through while I was eating. I descended into a spacious but low ceilinged subterranean room where four guys were playing some self-penned blues numbers. The singer-guitarist was a Geordie who I learned later used to live and play in Stockholm, but when his Swedish girlfriend left him he returned to his north-eastern roots. Not being a great time in the UK for someone who earns their living playing music, he had decided recently to try his luck again in Sweden, where there was at least an opportunity to play in front of a live audience.

It was a great atmosphere, and the band were all accomplished players and singers. Other musicians were getting ready to take their slots, but I had not seen Maurice as yet. I stayed for a while, but when more people arrived, I became a little uncomfortable with the social distancing arrangements and felt it prudent to call it a day.

I stopped by Stampen but there was a guy on the door there saying they were full under the new conditions, so it looked like the musical entertainment for the evening was over. It was about 10 pm by now, so I took a stroll back, breaking the journey around halfway back for a last beer.

After breakfast on Saturday, I ventured outside where I quickly did a U-turn to put on an extra layer, as it was cold under a blanket of grey cloud and the biting Baltic wind was making matters even colder. Stockholmers did not seem to be early risers, and I had the streets virtually to myself earlier on. I had a sketchy plan to check out the indoor market, the renowned Ostermalm Saluhall and go across to the little island of Skeppsholmen and probably have a further look at Sodermalm.

My first stop, though, was the Centralbadet, the old spa and swimming baths, built in 1904. It was located just off Drottninggaten and housed in a beautiful and substantial brick building. They had given the place a sympathetic makeover and added modern spa and gym facilities while keeping the atmosphere of fin de siècle Stockholm. A helpful lady showed me around the premises, and might have considered using the facilities, but at 600 SKR (£53) that would have been a little extravagant.

Moving on down the main street, I saw a market setting up a block to my left. With more stallholders than customers at this relatively early hour, I went across to have a look. A dozen or more units were selling flowers and plants and in a scene more closely associated in my mind with Amsterdam, the stallholders were putting the finishing touches on some wonderfully colourful and artistic displays. Not to be outdone, vegetable sellers were creating their own vibrant presentations of pyramids of shiny produce. Chaps at a couple of places selling just mushrooms were also putting a creative spin in exhibiting their exotic fungi. Similarly, the soft fruit and berry specialist stalls were presenting an eclectic and colourful range of raspberries, loganberries, lingonberries, cloudberries, blueberries, bilberries and arctic brambles. Berries play an important role in Swedish cuisine. 

I turned up a street on the left, towards the east and came to Ostermalm Saluhall, the market hall, a magnificent brick building about 30m square with high ceilings and an air of understated eminence. Smarter than any similar place I had ever encountered apart from the food hall at Harrods, it was indeed on a par with that magnificent emporium. Very impressive displays of produce of the highest quality be it meat, fish, shellfish, smoked fish, fruit, vegetables, cheese, bread, pastries and cakes were on sale at the counters in the middle of the hall whilst on the periphery coffee shops, cocktail and champagne bars and restaurants were gleaming in anticipation of customers. Sales staff were all immaculately turned out with crisp white full-length aprons. There were a few people about, but again, it would seem that COVID-19 was affecting the numbers.

I took a break and had a coffee at one of the smart cafes and on checking my phone was concerned to learn that the pandemic situation had worsened in Sweden in that regard and I was now going to have to self-isolate on my return for two weeks. Cases had spiked somewhat, and the government planned further restrictions in the coming days. Earlier closing of restaurants and bars and a reduction of the size of groups who could meet together were to be introduced.

The number of recent cases was seven times higher in Sweden than in Norway and twice the comparable number in southern neighbours Denmark. Their laissez-faire approach to the pandemic seemed to be unravelling to a degree. This Swedish approach to the pandemic had been a reliance on “folkvett”, good manners and respect for fellow citizens, and from what I had experienced, it seemed to work. People were being careful and certainly socially distancing.

The other big news I gleaned from my phone was confirmation that there would be a change of administration in the USA. Biden had won, although Trump was disinclined to accept the result and was threatening legal suits right, left and centre. Not the best of losers, our Donald. 

Leaving the market, I spoke to a young chap in sports gear and carrying what I thought to be a padel racket. I asked him about it and he said that yes; he was off to play padel and the game was increasingly popular in Sweden. This game, a cross between tennis and squash, is extremely popular in Spain and South America and is breaking in the UK. As a squash player, I was interested in giving it a go.

I found myself down by the area where the commuter ferries were all berthed and then walked around the quays to where a narrow single carriageway bridge with a separate pedestrian section crossed over to Skeppsholmen. The island was essentially a parkland area with extensive areas of conifers and silver birch, where families enjoyed their leisure time and the walkers, runners and cyclists exercised in the clean, cool, pine-scented air. I just enjoyed a brief walkabout to get a flavour of the place before heading back over and round, crossing Gamla Stan and walking on to Soderholm.

I explored hidden side streets and come across a couple of flea markets to investigate before deciding it was time for a late lunchtime pint. I would have nothing to eat as I had decided on a Michelin starred gourmet adventure for my last evening in the Swedish capital.

Toast Skagen

There was a grungy sports bar where some football action was being shown. The beer was, by my calculations, a very modest £3.34 a pint - cheaper than at home. The No Name bar, decorated with old classic album covers and the toilets covered in colourful graffiti, was an interestingly bohemian hostelry and, having walked quite a few miles, I stayed for a while to give my legs a rest.

Dark by 4 pm and pitch black by 5 pm, the evening came round quickly. I headed over to Gamla Stan, passing many people sat outside cafes embracing the cold and dark, some using the blankets that are thoughtfully provided by all such establishments. No such thing as bad weather, just bad clothing is a Swedish byword. Some places had outdoor heaters, though, which I thought would be counter to the green Swedish consensus. 

I reached Djuret where I could see they were setting up for the evening. It was closed, but I knocked to see if I could make a booking. The young guy who came out in response did not seem to take an immediate liking to me. Maybe I was a little underdressed for his liking, or perhaps it was that I was just a single diner.

“Have you seen the menu?” he asked sneeringly, as if I did not know what I was letting myself in for when I asked if I could book a table for one.

“Yes, it is just what I would like. “

He made an almost inaudible sigh and looked down his nose in a supercilious manner, biting his tongue to stop himself from telling me McDonald’s was just down the road.

He went back inside to discuss with his superiors and the outcome was that he dismissively offered me a table at the small bar. I said that would be satisfactory and that I would like to book for 6.30 pm. I smiled and thanked him. Arsehole. I could have told him what I thought and stomped off, but that would have been cutting off my nose to spite my face. I wanted to eat there.

I had an hour before dinner; I went to find a place for an aperitif. Geronimo’s is a Swedish version of a Mexican bar.

The approachable barman was happy to charge my phone, which was most helpful, and I settled on to a comfortable sofa with a beer. A couple came in and were looking around for somewhere to sit, so I offered them the sofa and moved over to an individual chair. They thanked me and, sitting at an appropriate distance away, introduced themselves. They were Alberto and Karina, a married couple. He worked on the airport train, the Arlanda Express, and she was a nurse. In chatting with them, they seemed to epitomise some aspects of Swedish society. They were both second-generation Swedish, Alberto’s family coming from Bolivia and Karina’s from Chile. She had three kids, 18,10 and 7, from a previous marriage and he had an 18 and a 21-year-old. They were happy with their Swedish lifestyle and full of praise for the high-quality education and health systems and the generous social service provision. 

“I love London and like to go usually about three times a year,” said Karina. “It was looking scruffy and jaded last time I went though. I think it is a little behind the times,” she added.

Presumably, she meant behind Sweden. Compared with clean, pollution-free and outdoorsy Stockholm, I could see that.

We chatted more, and they told me they liked to both cycle and walk in their leisure time. I told them I could see Swedes were sporty and quite fitness orientated and told them of my little conversation earlier in the day with the padel player.

“Yes, Zlatan is opening up a new padel centre soon,” Alberto told me.

Zlatan, obviously referred to Ibrahimović. Alberto thought he only needed to use the first name to identify the Swedish superstar footballer of Bosnian extraction, but who was born in Malmo and was an all-time Swedish icon.

Dinner was now calling and my phone had sufficient charge, so we said our goodbyes and I walked down the cobbles a hundred metres to my restaurant.

The welcome this time was much more acceptable, and I was pleased to see they had allocated me a very nice single table with a good view of the whole dining room. My most pleasant server, I think from a Tunisian or Moroccan background, was the antithesis of the other rude chap and I relaxed and made myself comfortable in anticipation of the culinary experience that awaited. I stuck with beer rather than indulging in a bottle of expensive wine, and having studied the menu outside, could quickly give my server my order for the five-course offering.

It was in for a gastronomic treat, and to my mind, for a very reasonable 500 SKR (around forty pounds), I was looking forward to:

Carpaccio of halibut and lobster with aged tomato vinegar, Marcona almonds, tomato and olive oil

Diced tartare of moose top round with spruce shoot vinaigrette, pickled girolles, forest mushroom emulsion, forest champignons, lingonberries and cress

Blackened scallops with butternut pumpkin and sesame cream with sesame seeds, lemon poached butternut pumpkin, Gotland lentils and lovage oil

Spicy wild boar sausage with caramelised point cabbage, crisp celeriac, lemon thyme pickled red cabbage and a roasted jus with coriander seeds and fennel

Herb fried fallow deer saddle in fried leeks served with crisp fried Jerusalem artichoke puree with blond miso, grilled leek and a sauce Bordelaise.

Everything was delightful, full of wonderful tastes and textures, and I thoroughly enjoyed the experience. My attentive Tunisian friend told me about the provenance of each dish as it arrived.

I had my notebook on my table and had made a few notes, which I saw the obnoxious waiter who had been less than accommodating earlier had noticed.

He came back to my table a little later and asked if I wanted another drink. I said no thank you, as I have to be elsewhere shortly.

“Just maybe refresh your beer a little?” he insisted as we made eye contact.

“Yes please then,” I concurred, still maintaining eye contact.

He then brought me a beer on the house. I think he had me down as a restaurant critic or something, anyway I enjoyed the little game and getting one over on him.

Michelin experience over, I settled the bill, tipping the staff with some cash I had and headed over to Stampen.

A lady of mature years greeted me. She was in control of the door and collecting 100SKR for entry. I did not begrudge this, as I knew the quality of musicianship would be of the highest class from my earlier experiences. Anne, as she introduced herself, was quite a character.

“Just call me Queen Anne, dear,” she told me before adding she used to be a regular at the legendary live music venue The Marquee, in London in the sixties.

I had arrived at just the right time. The band were readying themselves, fiddling about with their instruments and tuning up as musicians are prone to do, and the place was filling up nicely. Queen Anne’s function as well as collecting the money was organising the seating arrangements to ensure that we all abided by the social distancing protocols and friends could sit together as far as possible. She required me to move to a small table to the side with two chairs. Pretty shortly afterwards, she reappeared with a portly, middle-aged chap.

“John, this is Josh and I am sure you two will get along fine,” she threw over her shoulder as she rushed off to do some more furniture rearrangement or collect more money, or both.

The band started up, with the singer and frontman on keyboards starting up with a JJ Cale song ‘They call me the Breeze’ which I recognised as being covered by Clapton. ‘Cocaine’ was another song by the American recorded and popularised by Slow Hands. The band was wonderful and soon the place was buzzing.

In between numbers, Josh and I became acquainted. I learned he was an American GP who consulted online and was, until recently, living in Paris. The lockdown impositions became too much for him in France, he said, so he left his French girlfriend and upped sticks for Stockholm, where he had lived some years before. The nature of his work meant geography did not restrict him, so felt he would appreciate the more liberal pandemic regime in Sweden. That might change, I told him and he resignedly said that yes, that might well be the case.

It can be sometimes difficult becoming involved in political discussions with someone you have only just met, but it was easy to discern that this liberal-minded doctor was not a fan of “the Donald”. Obviously, though, news of the US election result was the major item on the agenda this November Saturday.

“It is a relief that the US has got rid of their major embarrassment - he was making us a laughingstock worldwide,” he was quick to tell me, “Let’s see what young Joe can do to restore some gravitas and respect to the position of President,” he continued.

He then went to the bar and came back with two glasses of his favourite “Maker’s Mark” Kentucky Bourbon. Not a huge fan of whisky, I took a sip, and it was indeed very soft and smooth, and really quite palatable.

“To Joe Biden and restoring the good name of the US of A,” he said, and we clinked the cut glasses they had entrusted us with.

He then took a cigar out of a case and made for the exit door for a further, tobacco-induced celebration.

The band continued playing some excellent upbeat bluesy numbers, and everyone seemed to have a great time. I went to the bar whilst Josh was outside and got him another bourbon whilst I reverted to type and ordered a beer, saying “Obrigado” to the barmaid who I had picked up was Portuguese.

Josh returned and thanked me for the drink. “I like beer. I really like Old Speckled Hen,” he told me, “but I can’t handle the volume like I used to, so I stick to the bourbon.”

He had been thinking things through whilst outside enjoying his cigar. “The New York DA’s office has Trump in their sights,” he continued. “They wouldn’t do anything whilst he was President but now it will be open season. Tax. You know he claimed deductions of $70,000 for haircuts in one year alone?”

I made a mental note to follow that story with interest.

Being thrown together with Josh was a good outcome. It is sometimes difficult when travelling alone but Queen Anne’s actions had made for a convivial evening and the drink was flowing. Both of us had consumed more than a few.

It surprised me when the band took a break from their second session and announced they would be back in ten minutes. They were doing three sets.

Josh left a little unsteadily around 12.30 am. We shook hands warmly, and he gave me his business card. We had enjoyed a great evening. The drunken, cigar smoking and considerably overweight GP was a credit to his profession.

I saw it out to the bitter end, leaving at around 1 am, as the band signed off with ‘Green Onions’ the Booker T and the MGs classic. I said goodbye to Queen Anne and, pulling my coat up against the rain, trekked back towards the Unique hotel.

Just over the bridge from Gamla Stan, I passed a Thai restaurant where I could see a full-scale party going on. The Asian clientele were obviously in a celebratory mood. There was no social distancing, as everyone had abandoned their tables and were enthusiastically dancing in the aisles. Stockholm was partying hard this Saturday night.

I walked on and soon came to a Mexican Bar which was still lively with some James Brown reverberating around the place. There was a guy at the door and when I asked whether the hostelry was still open, he said,

“Sure, depends on how much you have had to drink.”

“Me? I am teetotal,”

“That’s ok then,”

So in I went. I had a large beer and made it last for the best part of an hour while I enjoyed the music. It meant I was going to have a later night than expected, but after a gourmet dinner, an evening of live music, convivial company and a few beers, I was not complaining.