Scandi Escape Part 2 - Gothenburg.

Bikes Parked at the Ferry Terminal

At least my civilised train departure of 10.26 am and the extended weekend breakfast hours allowed for a bit of a lie-in. I had a substantial breakfast with three reviving coffees and could cobble together a couple of filled ham and cheese rolls for lunch and I was on my way.

The train was not at all busy, so distancing was not an issue. I relaxed in my comfortable seat and looked out of the panoramic window as we headed out of Stockholm, passing through my haunts of the previous night and catching glimpses of Soderholm before we dived through a series of tunnels and were out into the Swedish countryside. Lakes and trees. Lots of both. It was probably not the most inspiring countryside and with the warmth and the train's gentle soporific motion, I had soon succumbed to a bit of a doze.

The train only stopped two or three times, at Katrineholm, Skovde and Herrlijunga, and we crossed from the Baltic to the Atlantic in three hours, averaging pretty much 100mph. Train travel to me is the best.

I ate my homemade rolls in the final half-hour and was wiping the crumbs away from my chin as we eased into Gothenburg. It was a very overcast and cool day and with no sun to help me with orientation, I had to ask for the basic route once I had got outside the station. I had picked up a map from the information desk but with no landmarks, I needed a little help.

Keeping the Gotha river on my right, once I had found it, I crossed a canal and could see a huge Stena ferry at berth in the distance. I was going the right way.

First impressions of Gothenburg were that it was not as smart as the capital. It appeared a little grungy, a blue-collar town which indeed it was, an industrial port city rather than one where the vast majority worked in the service sector. A giant Volvo plant lay just across the river to the north and a whopping 25% of the working population owed their livelihood either directly or indirectly to the car and truck giant. The city had also been a huge centre for shipbuilding, but that had all fallen apart in the 80s.

The blue and white trams were noisier and older than in Stockholm, clanging along and ringing their bells as they clattered through the city. You certainly had to keep your wits about you to avoid being taken out by one, looking in all directions and then double checking was the order of the day.

After clearing a neighbourhood of bars, shops and hotels, I walked on through an almost deserted port area with great warehouses and some high chimneys belting out spumes of white smoke. I double-checked the map, but I was walking in the right direction.

I soon came to the district of Jarntorget where there was a bit more action. There was a bit of a cobbled square ahead of me, with bars and restaurants on the periphery, and a sizeable station area in front where several tram routes coincided.

Half a dozen old ne'er-do-wells were banging out some tunes on an ancient saxophone, a battered trombone, three sets of varied percussion instruments and singing for their supper. Literally trying to make some beer money.

They had decked out a row of small trees at the edge of the square in pink festive lights, which helped to cheer up the drab, dull day.

I was only a couple of streets away from my destination, the district of Masthugget and next to the now gentrified cobbled streets of Haga with its fashionable coffee shops and independent arty-crafty shops. I liked the look of this.

The trams reminded me of Sofia, Prague, or Lisbon. There were certainly plenty of them. If you missed one, there would be another within five minutes. Quite a few people were milling around this area for a Sunday afternoon.

I reflected that I loved arriving in a new city and getting to know my way around so that within a couple of days or even less, it all became familiar territory. In my mind's eye, I now had the geography of Gothenburg sorted out.

Finding my street, Tredje Langgatan, I walked right to the end past a couple of interesting bars and found the Gothenburg Mini Hotel. It looked like an apartment block, pretty basic, lacking in any distinctive character but clean, tidy and cheap.

The reception was on the second floor and I booked in, having paid online. The lady on duty gave me my door key and some bed linen (obviously I had to make my own bed here) and went down the corridor to find a spacious room with two single beds and a pair of bunk beds. I had paid for single use so would not be expecting house guests. I put the television on to see whether there might be an English language news programme on but all I could find was an episode of Antiques Roadshow where the presenter pleasantly surprised some old biddy from Birmingham, telling her that some ugly old piece of pottery was worth twenty or thirty grand. Why this was being shown in Sweden, I could not work out.  

The well-appointed and new looking loos and showers were opposite the corridor. The room was not en suite, but that was not a great deal.

With nothing to keep me, I just dumped my bag and went out to explore.

I went to the end of the street and turned right down Linnegatan, aiming to go down this major thoroughfare and then take a left loop around Skansparken, a park on a hill, and come into the top end of the Haga district.

Skansen Kronen

The broad Linnegatan cut through quite a prosperous area with smart looking apartment blocks, more than a few decent restaurants and several upmarket shops. I could see the park to my left and turned to where the street climbed the Risaberget. At the top of the hill was the area's crowning glory, a seventeenth-century fortification, built for protection against the marauding Danes, standing prominently with commanding views over the city below. The Skansen Kronen was now a wedding and conference centre.

It was now nearing dusk and the increasingly steep walk up to the fortress rewarded me with a spectacular view of the twinkling lights of Gothenburg, the broad Gotha river, and the low hills beyond. In the park, I came across a memorial. The artist had etched a face in stone and paired it with a poignant sculpture of two sleeping boys below, and I immediately recognised the face. It was that of the Swedish humanitarian Raoul Wallenberg who rescued thousands of Hungarian Jews from the Nazis in World War 2.

I cut down the other side of the hill and immediately came into Haga. The small area of just half a dozen cobbled streets and magnificent wooden houses built on stone or concrete plinths, presumably to prevent the ravages of rising damp, is now a bohemian area of coffee shops, bakeries, boutiques, vintage clothing places and antique emporia. Gothenburg's oldest suburb, the place dates back to 1648; it was a pretty rough area way back and then had a period as a hippy hangout in the sixties and seventies before its current incarnation.

There were at one time even more of the beautiful wooden buildings, but a series of devastating fires in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries reduced the numbers significantly, although there was still a sizeable legacy remaining. It was a fascinating district to wander about in.

A couple of places were open on this gloomy early Sunday evening and people were having a coffee outside one welcoming café, blankets wrapped around their knees. As I had seen in the capital, the Swedish loved to embrace the outdoors even when the weather was not at its most benign.

A Café in the Charming Haga District

After my mega Saturday night, I had decided on a quiet evening, just something to eat and back for another instalment of the Antiques Roadshow, perhaps.

I could not make my mind up about what I wanted to eat but then happened across a Chinese/Indonesian restaurant which seemed to be nicely busy, always a good sign. I was soon tackling a plateful of Nasi Goreng, washed down by the only beer I had all day.

I then headed back and took an early night, reading for a while before dropping off.

Invigorated from a long night's sleep and a hot powerful shower (and appreciating the underfloor heating in the shower room) I ventured out into the dull, cloudy but relatively mild day. I walked off for more exploration, this time taking a different route for half an hour before circling back to enjoy a breakfast coffee at a smart independent shop and bakery in Haga. The pleasant and entrepreneurial lady owner persuaded me to have one of the ubiquitous cinnamon buns with my Americano.

Council employees were busy getting Haga ready for Christmas, putting up evergreen branches and festoons of lights across the narrow streets.

A Typical House on Branno

Walking I on I came across Hagabaden, on the northern edge of the district. This was a large, handsome pale yellow brick building that originally housed a swimming pool and bathhouse dating from the late nineteenth century, when presumably residents could have their weekly bath as their homes would not have such facilities. Today it had undergone a substantial refurbishment, and the privately owned listed building was catering for the burgeoning middle-class spa and gym market. It all looked very plush. They might have persuaded me to have a swim and a sauna, and maybe a workout, but the admission fees, like the similar provision in Stockholm, were a bit on the top side for me at around 600SKR.

From Haga I wound my way into the city centre, zigzagging over canals, down side streets, across small parks and through churchyards to come out at the large market hall. Quite impressive, but not of the same grandeur and scale as the capital's; I had a quick look around.

The real purpose of me coming into the centre was to go to the main information bureau opposite the market hall. I wanted to know how I could explore some of the offshore islands on the southern coast. I was told that it was straightforward and involved taking a tram out to the end of the line. I would then need to take a ferry to any of several small islands which were dotted around the North Sea, forming what they knew as Gothenburg's Southern Archipelago.

I walked up one of the city's principal streets to come out at the railway station, where there was also a sizeable tram terminus. I found I could get tickets from a variety of places, but Pressbyran, one of a chain of little kiosks cum convenience stores, was ideally situated right by the stop for tram 11. This was the route that I needed to take to get me to the little seaside town of Salt Holmen. The ticket also covered the ferries and was pleasingly inexpensive. I waited all of a couple of minutes before a number 11 clanked into view.

The journey took around thirty-five minutes and afforded me interesting views of the suburbs. After about half a dozen stops, the tram rather than sharing the road morphed into a light railway system as we passed through a poorer looking area of drab concrete apartment blocks.

As we neared our terminus, the detached wooden houses, many with broad balconies, became grander, reflecting the area's position as an upmarket dormitory suburb.

A very popular destination for sea bathing in the summer, Salt Holmen was looking drab and forlorn on this grey Monday. I could see the ferry terminal about a hundred metres away and walked on over. The lady at the ticket office, when I explained my requirements, simply to have a boat trip and get a flavour of the southern archipelago, suggested I take the ferry over to Branno. I could see the boat, number 282, at berth, engine throbbing, in readiness for departure in ten minutes, which was ideal.

Branno, I learned, was car-free but was quite a settlement with a substantial number of houses scattered around and some basic amenities including a shop, post office and an inn. It was worth exploring. I picked up some literature which included a map of the island where I could see a pub-restaurant marked virtually in the middle. That would do very well for a lunch stop.

To our north, as we cast off, I could see a few large commercial vessels going about their business in the Gotha estuary. Our comfortable, clean, modern ferry darted around the waters of the North Sea, past several granite skerries with gently shelving sandy beaches, which looked ideal for a lazy day of picnics and swimming in the summer but not particularly inviting at the moment. We put in briefly at a couple of smaller islands, including Aspero, before, after about half an hour, we slowed to negotiate the entrance into Branno's little docking area. About a dozen fit-looking retirees were grabbing their bikes on the open bow area in readiness for disembarkation and exploring the island on bicycle. I waited for them to make it to dry land and followed suit.

It all looked quite wonderful. An undulating landscape of grey granite outcrops, appealing wooden houses, painted white or in attractive pastel shades, and green fields dotted with sheep lay before me. Immediately around the port area, I could see hundreds of bicycles on racks, randomly placed on the grass or more level sections of granite, waiting for their owners to return from work or school. Using the ferry daily seemed a way of life for many of the inhabitants of Branno. Most of these bikes were pretty rusty and shabby. It was not worth bothering to have anything expensive on the island - the cycles were simply a means to an end.

I quickly found the narrow tarmac road and headed inland. I had walked for around twenty minutes when I chatted with a lady outside a most attractive white clapboard house with many substantial balconies. She was happily tending her extensive garden. She confirmed I was going the right way for the inn but unfortunately, she told me it was closed on Mondays. The other option for a snack would be the post office, which was just a couple of hundred metres along, but they closed for a couple of hours for lunch from 12.30 to 2.30 pm! It was not looking good for the lazy lunch that I had in mind, or even grabbing a sandwich.

I was feeling quite pleased the coffee shop lady had convinced me to have a cinnamon bun earlier, which now would have to sustain me for a few more hours. The return ferry left two hours later.

Marching onwards in a philosophical frame of mind I picked up the pace, treating the walk as a bit of a workout. My map told me I was in the middle of the island as I passed the large inn known as Branno Vardshus, the old pilot's house. Cursing the fact that it was a Monday, as the place looked like it would have indeed fitted the bill for a pleasant lunch, I hacked on aiming for the opposite side of the island where, according to the map, there was a second quay where the ferries docked, Branno Husvik. 

I noticed construction on the island was difficult because of the terrain, and house designs had to be changed to work around the unforgiving granite. Large outcrops also became features in several gardens. Many homes, dating from the 1800s, were looking well maintained and in good shape, but others appeared to require a bit of upkeep. I saw several small motorcycle trikes whizzing about carrying building supplies and quite a few builders going about their projects. Other islanders went by occasionally on mopeds.

I kept on the primary route but occasionally there were tracks off heading off westwards towards nature trails and the uninhabited adjacent island and nature reserve of Galtero, now connected to Branno by a small wooden bridge. Unfortunately, I did not have the time to trek over to and to take advantage of the Swedish "right to roam" concept enshrined in their constitution.

The road sloped downwards and I could see the ocean ahead. There was a small boatyard as I approached the jetty and I watched a chap precariously lifting a boat from the water on a glorified forklift. Checking the noticeboard, I could work out that no ferry was due until 4 pm, so there was nothing for it but to hike back over to Branno Rodsten. It was not an issue. The cloud cover had broken up a little, there were swathes of blue sky, the sun put in an appearance and it had become a pleasant day for a walk.

At the dock over the other side of the island, there was a little wooden shelter with seating and bookcases with a range of charity books, many in English. I picked something up of interest and read for fifteen minutes before I could see the ferry chugging through the narrow approach inlet.

When it moored a few minutes later, the hordes of schoolchildren and commuters coming home took me aback. They were all racing down the gangplank and heading off to pick up their bikes. It was only 2.30 pm, so maybe schools closed earlier in the winter (it was pretty dark by 4 pm) and the adults had probably just done half a day in the office, finishing the day by working from home.

It looked as if all of them were pleased to be back home on Branno, and I could see why. It is a lovely spot even in November, in the Spring and Summer it must be spectacular. What I appreciated was that it did not seem to be a wealthy place, it wasn't a "rich man's ghetto" with massive six-bedroom houses and ostentatious swimming pools but more a place where a family could grow up living a simple, outdoor, eco-friendly life.

Whilst waiting for the ferry, I had noticed the temperature drop. It was chilly by now so I was pleased to take a comfortable seat in the warm for the cruise back.

A tram was waiting when I returned to Salt Holmen, I just had time to grab a sandwich from a nearby kiosk, and half an hour later I was back on to home territory, alighting at Jarntorget.

Early evening, having undertaken a little more exploration on foot and discovered some more hidden corners of this intriguing city, I came across a hostelry proclaiming itself as the Haket Pub and purporting to sell "Probably the best beer in the world". It certainly had a good range and at very reasonable prices. The place was a little shabby, but quite popular and very welcoming. So much so that I had a couple of beers before I found somewhere to eat.

I could have eaten Somali style, Greek, Iranian, Lebanese, Australian, Thai, Italian, Palestinian, Persian, Afghan, Turkish, Chinese, Mexican or Spanish, as examples of all these cuisines were all to be found in the immediate area. I could also have gone Swedish, of course, but decided I had not had an Indian meal for a while, so plumped for that.

The Beautiful Approach into Branno

I had stepped into a Palestinian restaurant as I didn't recall ever tasting their culinary offerings, but it looked so drab and tired and there was no one else there so I decided it was not for me. It was a pity, and I felt sorry for the lady running it. Round the corner I found just what I wanted, a more upmarket Indian restaurant with just the right number of other diners.

Having not eaten much all day, I could indulge some of my favourite tastes - chicken tikka, sag, daal, a naan and pilau rice and a Nepalese beer. Excellent.

Quite tired from having walked upwards of 18km during the day, and full from my curry, I walked around the block before turning in for another relatively early night and my book. Must getting old.

Tuesday dawned dull, grey, damp and cold. It wasn't raining, but it had been recently and the cobbles glistened in the still morning air. Haga was quiet, but the workers had finished decorating the streets and the area seemed ready for the holiday season, looking pleasantly festive.

I strolled past the various boutiques with their elegant window displays. The business owners would hope for an uplift in trade in the run-up to Christmas, and I wondered what sort of festive season we could enjoy back home. There would be tighter restrictions about numbers gathering for family celebrations and at the moment pubs, restaurants and gyms were all closed. There was a bit of good news, though, with the announcement of the imminent availability of a couple of efficacious vaccines. However, to my mind, we would not be approaching any semblance of normality before Easter. With thousands of companies and individuals struggling, huge job losses and the economy in free fall, it was going to be a long hard job to rebuild the country's fortunes.

A couple of cycling mums, young children on board, rattling over the cobbles, pulled me out of my reverie. I watched a lady setting her chairs up outside her café. I could hear the trams clattering and clanging along the next street as I continued walking into town to sort out my train ticket back to Stockholm.

Changing my route to embrace more of Gothenburg, I zigzagged my way to the station without losing my bearings, where I went straight to the information desk. A young blonde woman told me I couldn't get to the airport without going into the city, so that ruled that plan out.

"Where are you from?" I asked, perturbed by the girl's cut-glass English public school accent.

"Weymouth" she returned with a smile, and then explained, "I am half English, half Swedish".

I used the vending machine to get my ticket for a mid-morning train the next day, which would give me plenty of time to reach the airport for my early evening departure back to Heathrow.

I decided that I would have an indulgent lunch on my last full day in Sweden. The first minor task of the day completed, with the acquisition of my ticket, I stopped off for a break, having a latte at a large classy coffee house displaying an inordinate amount of exquisite cakes and pastries. They looked quite enticing but I don't have a sweet tooth and anyway, I was saving myself for lunchtime.

Enjoying my coffee, the comfortable armchair I had sunk myself into and the plush surroundings, I decided Sweden seemed an agreeable place to be visiting. Fiddling about with my phone I looked up various polls like the "ten best places to live in the world" variety. There were several that I could google and Sweden featured highly in all of them. It surprised me, however, that they always seemed to be outscored by all of their Scandinavian neighbours. Finland seemed to be consistently top, but Denmark, Iceland and Norway also always placed well. A summary of all the rankings that I looked at would show that besides the five Scandinavian countries, three European countries – The Netherlands, Austria and Switzerland always featured - and two ex UK colonies, Canada and New Zealand completed the lists. It would annoy Australia to find themselves just outside the top ten. As far as the UK was concerned, it was probably a case of "must try harder".

I was reflecting on my thoughts about Sweden. It was not a scientific survey, but a few things struck me about the approach to life in what is the largest country in Northern Europe. First, any dealings I had with people in shops, bars, restaurants, tourist information bureaux, guest houses and transport links had been without exception positive, friendly and helpful. The default attitude seemed to be "can do" and it had always been "service with a smile". People seemed to be contented with their jobs and eager to please.

Something else I had appreciated had been the "joined-up" nature of any dealings in obtaining tickets and travel information. For example, when I first arrived at Arlanda airport I went straight to an information desk, quickly got a city map, clear information about the best way for me to reach the city centre and indeed a combined bus and train ticket. Later, when I visited Gothenburg's southern archipelago, I went to a newsagent and bought a linked tram and ferry day ticket with no fuss. It was all very easy.

While chatting with my American GP friend Josh the previous Saturday night, we had discussed how we found the Swedes. Adjectives we used included friendly, cosmopolitan, English speaking, relaxed, fit, sporty, outdoor-loving, eco-friendly, rock music-loving, generous-spirited, "grown-up" and organised.

I had certain misconceptions before I visited. One was the cost and availability of alcohol. I thought I might have to queue at the state-controlled outlets for a couple of exorbitantly priced beers, but no. The Swedes have a very strong pub culture and though drinks were expensive (partly of course because of the 25% vat), by shopping around, drinking local brews and drinking more slowly, I could overcome this issue.

The other thing was that I was visiting at possibly the worst time of the year - in drab, cold and dark November. But again, the weather pleasantly surprised me. Temperatures were, because of the warming effects of the Gulf Stream, about the same as in the UK. Yes, it became dark at around 4 pm but the Swedes seemed to embrace the winter gloom and sit outside with a coffee, particularly at fika time, or a beer, dressed for the weather and making use of chairs and blankets thoughtfully provided by hospitality operators.

Apparently, all the Nordic countries share the same philosophy in terms of social welfare. 30% of the population in Sweden work in the public sector, the workforce is strongly unionised and there is universal health care, tertiary education and extremely generous provision for maternity and paternity leave. The government strongly promotes social mobility. There is now a greater commitment to private ownership in a mixed market economy and a growing trend towards the privatisation of services. It seems to work well. It was a pity that the COVID-19 situation prevented me from visiting Denmark and Norway on this trip to see how the countries compare, but the visit had opened my eyes to the Scandinavian way of life, and I liked it.

Another major point about Sweden is that in 2014, the country celebrated 200 years of peace, outdoing even Switzerland on this measure. 

Whilst googling, I also looked up traditional Swedish seafood restaurants and decided I would try Sjobaren in the Lorensberg district for lunch and would head there later. There was a branch in Haga as well, but somehow I had missed spotting that.

I extricated myself from my comfy chair and left to explore more of central Gothenburg. Stockholm's slightly scruffier, blue-collar sibling was certainly growing on me.

After strolling through the attractive Baltespannaparken, I negotiated my way through a maze of side streets to Sjobaren for lunch. Whilst not strictly on the menu, the owner, who had found me a decent corner table, indulged me by saying yes, they could offer me the toast Skagen, the Swedish take on prawn cocktail but with smoked salmon and caviar on toasted sourdough. The popular and well-regarded restaurant recommended a salad buffet as part of its lunch offering, so this, combined with the Skagen, made for an exceptionally tasty but light lunch.

After further post-prandial meanderings around the city centre and the canals, I walked back vaguely towards Jarntorget and took advantage of the "after work" discounts at a large and not unattractive bar. I felt that I had done enough walking by now and had earned a lazy couple of hours having a beer, relaxing and reading my book.

I eventually dragged myself away but probably less than a mile or so later I wandered into an interesting looking Mexican themed pub which appeared lively and welcoming despite being not overly busy.

I chatted to the young waitress who I had learned was called Ebba, was 19 years old and had just graduated from High School. She was bemoaning the fact that rather than being a barmaid and running out food, she should be enjoying a gap year in South East Asia, but COVID-19 had put the block on that. A couple of family camping holidays in France had been the limit of her foreign travel to date, so she had really been looking forward to her first real grown-up adventure.

I sympathised with her and said my nephew should be enjoying six months of study and vacationing out in Australia as part of his degree course but that was also off the menu because of the situation and he was wintering in dull and drab lockdown Farnborough rather than enjoying the summer vibe at Surfer's Paradise.

I tried to get her to take a positive view of being able to gain some work experience, always useful in my book. She would undoubtedly have travel options soon enough when the pandemic had finally been brought under control, probably by an extensive vaccination programme.

She listened politely but was probably thinking, "What does an old English git like him know about how I feel?" I sincerely understood, though, that for a generation of youngsters like her, 2020 had been an abysmal and very disconcerting year.

I was enjoying my final evening in Sweden. At least I could go to a pub and have a pint. When I got home the next day, I would immediately go into isolation for two weeks' quarantine.

Lunch was now only a distant memory, and I was feeling the need for something to eat, although not wanting a full meal. I compromised by having another beer and thinking I would have a kebab from the chap in the square at Jarntorget later.

I walked on and did just that, chatting with the amiable Iranian owner whilst he prepared my supper. He was pleasant and outgoing, despite moaning about Sweden being too cold for him. He was now living at around 60 degrees north, whilst his birthplace was at around 32 degrees. That might have something to do with it, I explained to him. He nodded in agreement, accepting I had a point.   

And so ended my ultimate day in Sweden. I chomped on my shish kebab (the healthy, proper meat version) sitting on a bench in the square opposite the festively lit trees and reflected on my trip.

A House on the Island of Branno set Amongst the Granite Outcrops

On a whim, I had come out to have a brief look at Scandinavia. The tour was supposed to have embraced Denmark (via ferry from Gothenburg) and Norway (via a spectacular railway journey to the capital, Oslo) but the pandemic had prevented that. However, I now had a feel for Sweden and particularly its capital and its second city, as well as an understanding of the psyche of the Swedish people. It had whetted my appetite for further Scandi explorations, which, hopefully, I could undertake soon.

The next morning I showered, dressed and packed, leaving the Mini Hotel in plenty of time to walk up to the station. There was some drizzle in the air and it was chilly, but as I got a bit of a march on, I soon warmed up.

Reaching the station in good time, I sat down to enjoy a coffee whilst going online to download my boarding card. I input my data only for the screen to display "Error". As normal when I am involved with technology, I then repeated my actions assuming the website would change its mind and it would present me with the boarding card and wish me "a pleasant flight". But no. It went round and round in circles for a while before a message came up "we have cancelled this flight". A bit disconcerting. I had had no communication from BA at all and even checked through my junk emails to verify this.

Not that big an issue for me as I was only returning to two weeks of isolation, so if it meant a couple more days in Sweden, it would not be a problem. If BA had to pay for the stay, that would be even better. I quickly decided I would go to the airport and see what I could find out there.

The train was not very busy, but they had allocated seat numbers. I wanted to move to a better seat with a table and a better view and the pleasant lady ticket collector smilingly told me that was quite in order. Another example of exemplary service and a "can-do" attitude.

The miles slipped by with a vista of endless forests and occasional lakes as before. Modestly sized, but attractive, wooden holiday cottages were dotted in clearings, on river banks or lakeshores. What did strike me was that Sweden did not seem mountainous. I had expected a more Alpine aspect but no, any peaks were decidedly modest. In fact, Sweden's highest mountain only reaches just over 2,000m, Mt Kebne in the country's north. This central belt was more gently undulating, although I understood that going north up to Oslo from Gothenburg, which I had originally hoped to do, the railway line traverses some spectacularly mountainous terrain.

By the time I had finished my lunchtime sandwich bought from the buffet car, we rolled into Stockholm. Timings were spot on, so I could get a ticket from a newsagent displaying the relevant logo and board a coach that ran directly to the airport within ten minutes of disembarking.

At the airport information desk, they directed me to the desk of a company that handled British Airways administration on behalf of Britain's flagship flyer. After a bit of a delay whilst another frustrated traveller was being dealt with, I explained my situation. The lady said someone should have emailed me, but I confirmed I had received no communication at all. Initially, she told me there would not be a flight available until Saturday and I was resigned to this. Suddenly, after the rapid and persistent bashing of computer keys, she came up with another solution. I could get a seat on an SAS flight, the Swedish airline, which was leaving in an hour. It was all sorted in a matter of minutes and I was on my way.

After an uneventful flight, I landed at Heathrow. I had completed the lengthy form giving details of where I would be self-isolating whilst waiting at Arlanda Airport and had the confirmation on my phone which had to be shown at passport control. The airport was almost silent as the country had gone into a full lockdown and airlines had cancelled most flights.

On emerging into the arrivals hall, I needed to find which bus stop I could catch the coach to Woking from for onward rail routes. There was no one at the information kiosks and no one around to ask. Outside was a dark, dismal, dystopian world with few travellers around and seemingly no staff. I finally found the coach station where I was told the service I required was not running. I thought about getting the underground into London and then come out again on the British Rail line, but dismissed this idea as it would take an age.

I tried getting information on bus times and destinations from an automatic information machine but came up with nothing. I then found a display board showing a few departures, including to Guildford and Reading. Both could work, although connections were not straightforward. As the Reading coach was leaving first, I went to Reading, twenty-odd miles west of where I needed to be. The Nero coffee place was closed and the vending machines were out of order. I was hungry, could have done with a coffee, and the extremely drab, cold surroundings were not improving my mood. I still had half an hour to wait.

Reading station looked desolate when I finally got off the coach. There were just a handful of staff hanging about, chatting at the barriers. I waited on the dark platform the twenty minutes for the train that would take me most of the way home. I would then need to walk a mile to another station, take a short one-stop journey and finally walk home and close the door on the world for two weeks.

Still, I had had my travel fix for a while. I had seen a little of Scandinavia and enjoyed scratching the surface of Stockholm and Gothenburg. Hopefully, I would return for a more comprehensive trip soon, when the pandemic was under control and travel restrictions and social mixing were again possible. I could look forward to it.