Category: Norway & Sweden 2025

It’s always the smallest and simplest things in life that offer up the most enjoyment. Gifts of pleasure strewn along each day’s journey a blessing.

Many of our Norwegian days are travel. Towns are few and far between. Roads encumbered by fjord and mountain. Multiple route options not an option. You go this way, or not at all. Tunnels and ferries seamlessly link the impossible impassable.

An array of glistening silver nuggets line today’s transit . . .

It’s can’t be easy providing for your kids, especially when they’re not . . .

57K of today’s 165K inside tunnels, today’s longest . . .

Today’s most unusual – you don’t expect to encounter one of these inside a tunnel . . .

Roadside Tvindefossen – a perfect photo shoot . . .

Our road runs out onto Camping de Borgund, where we receive a warm ugly welcome . . .

Tour operators, travel gurus, bloggers (present company excluded), airlines, sealines, adventure providers, you name it, they have it covered. ‘It’ being the holiday of a lifetime.

Media moguls are having a ball. A holiday abroad no longer a luxury. It’s a right. Something you demand, for fear of missing out. Not living a life. Long gone are the days when it had to be scrimped and saved for. Now there are so many ‘must sees’ it can be bewildering, even when touring one single country.

Touring as we are, we can’t escape the wily web of touristic enticements. Not that we want to. The world is our oyster. There to experience. Some of the ‘must sees’ are our retirement’s raison d’être. Like a couple of rampant butterflies, we’re happiest when we’re flitting from flower to flower.

Today we flit the 240K over to Borgund. Alight on its 800 years old Stave Church. We’ve seen a couple already, but this one is hugely different. Looks as if it wouldn’t be out of place in the far east.

Mental and physical faculties are taken for granted. Their ageing decline one long slippery slope, from which, none of us escape. It’s a question of relative degree. For some, it’s gradual and gentle. For others it can be like falling off the edge of a cliff. Most of us sit somewhere in between.

You know you’re getting too old, when a decade that you’ve lived through, is referred to as history. You find it easy to look back to a particular time and place as if it was only yesterday, yet you can’t remember where you actually were yesterday. When your stretching exercises consist of reaching up to get a plate from a shelf, or bending to do up your shoe laces; even then with some difficulty, as one arm seems shorter than the other.

Day 34 – Lillehammer, world famous home of the Winter Olympics in 1994 is our home for two nights. We arrive early afternoon. Go visit the Kunstmuseum [art]. Embed ourselves in a bit of culture for a couple of hours.

You know what it’s like when your plate arrives with something on it you’re not keen on. You have a choice. Bite the metaphorical bullet and down it first; mix it to try and disguise the flavour, or texture; leave it on one side to be thrown away.

Unknowingly and luckily for us, the bullet is first course on the menu. We’d paid our money, not giving a thought to what the Norwegians may consider to be art – was this going to be it? Argh . . .

One floor down, the gallery offers up a series of enchanting scenes.

A couple of hours whizz by and are topped off nicely with a sunny stroll back and forth along Storgata.

Day 35 – I can’t believe that it’s almost sixty years since I first put on a pair of skis. March 1967. Austria. Penny Lane & Ruby Tuesday were fighting it out for the top spot, along with many other greats from that sixties’ year. A ten day Easter experience that involved more time in a cafe listening to a juke box, than skiing. Almost every day a whiteout.

Our combined day ticket includes a visit to the Norwegian Olympic Museum. A state of the art complex combining a plethora of displays, brilliant wrap-around cinematic films with wonderful excerpts from past and present games, plus a biathlon simulator.

Earlier, we join an international group for the 11am guided tour of Maihaugen Open Air Museum. A chance to brush up on our ‘old timber houses’ database, as well as learn things anew. Simone, our know-it-all guide, holds the key to many of the structures to which the average punter cannot enter, along with answers to questions thrown at her from different parts of the world.

Anders Sandvig, a dentist – the brainchild behind Maihaugen. He foresaw the inevitable changes industrialisation and modernity were to bring and wanted to preserve the way life had been, for posterity. [obviously dentistry ‘paid’ even in those days!]

The site consists of traditional working farms, a typical small town with shops & businesses and a large post office that displays a fascinating timeline detailing the evolution of the Norwegian post.

The photographer was out for lunch, but his empty studio was soon put to good use.

Poets are often overlooked & under-rated. Certainly in these days of ear-through-ear music. Superceded by the lyricists. Some, in themselves, no lesser poets.

• We wandered lonely, us two cheeses
• Along roads that flow o’er vales and hills
• And those we pass and all at once
• Between the verges and the fields
• We find they’re filled
• With hosts of . . . golden dandelions!
• Fluttering and dancing
• And that pleases, us two cheeses

The Norwegians have missed a trick. Under severe conditions, around a dozen vineyards currently coax their land into yielding up a suitable grape variety, worthy for consumption. Yet right under their Nordic Noses, they have a massive natural supply that springs up every spring.

Today starts wet and ends wet. We’re getting quite used to it – NOT. Our journey to Trysilelva Camping has two highlights. One, Beastie scares the living daylights out of a huge roadside Moose. In that brief second that separates life and death, he considers jumping out in front of us in some wild kamikaze dive. Then thinks better of it. Skulks off into the trees out of camera shot.

Number two. The day couldn’t look any more grey. Everything looks bleak. Yet – nature always finds a contrast. Pulls a glorious brightening surprise from out of its winter sleeve.

In this hi-tech era, humanity, a word full of contradiction, has never been more connected. Perversely, from what we see and hear on a daily basis, that’s clearly not the case.

As a general rule of thumb, our trips have remained free of any TV and current news items. Since the bloody invasion of Ukraine, the madness of the Hamas slaughter, the genocidal response of Israel and now the daily US sit-com called Blow Your Own Trumpet, Mr S travels with his very own foreign affairs correspondent on board.

However, Mrs S goes much further with her reporting than Kate Adie ever did. Each morning’s news is thoroughly investigated, corroborated, dissected, and analysed. Those in positions of power and authority lambasted for showing any weakness in standing up against those she sees as evil. Praise forthcoming whenever an ounce of common sense emanates from any quarter. In another time and place a career as an activist, or resistance fighter, may well have been right up her street.

It goes without saying that the first hour, or so, of each day’s journey passes rather quickly and relieves Mr S of having to personally scan the news.

At an altitude of 630 meters, Røros, the only mountain town in Norway and a UNESCO World Heritage site, draws us towards its quaint wooden housing structures, built upon the success of its 333 years of copper mining, which ended in 1971.

Being a mountain town, Beastie needs to point his nose upwards. He’s getting quite used to doing that over here.

12K further up the road we end the day at Røste Hyttetun og Camping.

Not thousands. Not Millions. Maybe even more than billions. Natural selection has been at work. Striving to achieve perfection.

One should be forgiven for assuming that after a few billion years, or so, evolution would have run its course and perfected humanity. Discarded all of those genetic traits that jeopardise its very existence. Nurtured all of those that would guarantee the best means of a lasting survival. Yet it continues to fail. Incapable of eliminating evil.

Within this rugged landscape, the tourist spots, like the scattering of barely inhabited villages, coin the short phrase ‘go-to’. So to find two relatively (37K) close together, a bonus.

The Cultural Museum at Stiklestad constructed and built upon the history and myth surrounding Norway’s patron saint, AKA King Olaf, relieves us of 190NOK. Not quite a bargain. Parts are still being prepared for the summer season, which starts mid-June. We’re treated to a balcony of hanging banners. Cartoon-like images linked with bite sized info, cut and pasted from some memoire or another, of historical legend, chronologically lead us through his life, death and subsequent canonisation. A QR code leads us to the English translation as we share a mobile screen.

We tend to think of the Nazi camps from WWII as a more central Europe affair. A late afternoon visit to Falstad Concentration Camp in the village of Ekne, counters those thoughts.

This stone reads . . .

From the Falstad Prisoners 1941-1945

To all of you, who at your own risk, smuggled food, sent letters and greetings and opened your home to all those who wanted to visit us in the camp, we stand in eternal gratitiude.

Thanks

A short drive into the nearby woods we find the location of a memorial dedicated to the Polish and Soviet prisoners who were executed here, then hidden in mass graves.

Today’s overnighter, Korsnes Camping, occupies a beautiful location. Balancing upon the tip of a small peninsular, ariel photos make it look like a dream piece of nature. Which it probably was. Down at ground level however, the owners have ninety static caravans with chalet attachments crammed together, ghetto style. Motorhomers allocated leftover spots. We choose the only one that’s close to the service block. Mistake. A 24/7 humming motor, barely audible daytime, morphs into a between the ears buzzsaw at bedtime. This, coupled with a thumping party bass that didn’t end until 5.45am kept Mr S’s neural oscillations waving up and down as if he was experiencing a cardiac arrest. After only three hours sleep, he’s not someone you’d want to mess with today . . .

When you’re tired, hungry, fed up and have been sitting for far too long, the end of a day can’t come soon enough.

We feel like that sometimes. Especially when the weather isn’t lending a helping hand. We’re keeping our chins up. With heads barely above the waterline.

Day 29 – Velfjord Camping & Hytter is where we end today’s journey. In this neck of the woods, that’s mainly what is on offer. More woods.

But there are woods. And there are woods. This spot is a hidden gem. In the middle of nowhere. Nicole & Marcel bought this farm nine years ago. Converted some of the outbuildings into guest accommodation and created a rustic eight place camping utopia.

The grey miserable day relents briefly and we have the place to ourselves. It’s still early in the season. A forest walk entices within this picture-postcard setting. The perfect pick-me-up.

Day 29 – Another sodden day. We’re not being encouraged to stay more than one night. Prefer to travel on wet days. Stay in the dry and warm of a Beastie Belly. Hence, we’re doing a lot of travelling. Today ends at the working farm of Strindmoen Gard og Camping – another peach of a site. Another end of day pick-me-up, as the rain relents for a couple of hours.

We stretch up high into the forest that overlooks the site. In search of our noisy prize.

The first recorded sawmill on this site was in 1722. Subsequent family generations have seen and implemented many changes and improvements during their lifetimes. The force of this waterfall, now harnessed by a small powerplant, furnishes the camp with it’s supply of electricity.

In 1945, this farm and its neighbour, hosted 400 Nazi POWs for twelve months, until they were eventually shipped back to Germany. During his time here as a POW, Officer Rudi Wagner, became very close to Waldemar Ostvik, the farm-owner. After the fall of the Berlin Wall, Rudi phoned the farm and shared a very emotional call with his erstwhile friend.

When tackling a new task, it always pays to think twice. Check. Then double check. A wise adage. Like the Green Cross Code, it’s better to be safe than sorry.

Today’s route holds an unwelcome surprise. We leave Furøy with the same cloudy hangover hovering above. Kestrel-like. Searching out any unsuspecting prey. We ignore it. Refuse to let it get its talons into us. Don’t let it dampen our spirits. These are the days we put to good use. Eat up some of the black stuff. Although it’s mainly grey stuff over here.

What do the Norwegians do when a road meets an immovable object? Tunnel. Through mountain and fjord. Each route is littered with them. Hardly surprising. Norway has over 1,200. [tunnels] Some just a few hundred metres. Others go on for kilometres. Most poorly lit and narrow. Headlights make little impact. Sometimes, when an extra-wide load is on the move, an advance vehicle blocks off oncoming traffic before it can enter the tunnel. Radios back the all clear.

Mrs S dreads meeting the many juggernauts that steam through, all lights blazing. She feels far too close to the firing line.

From here-on-in, the day brightens. Becomes one of the warmest of this trip. It’s touching 15C. Feels like 20C. No wind. Time to take time out. Relax. Take in the magnificent 360 view along this Helgeland coastline. Islands, mountains, fjords. A perfect combination. Soul refreshing.

Reluctantly, we say goodbye to this idyllic spot. Bardal Camping is still a minute spec on the out of sight horizon. A little further though, curiosity gets the better. Around the corner, Grønsvik Coastal Fort looms. Lying dead, but not buried. Its multiple gun emplacements perfectly positioned to cover the sea lanes and archipelago during WWII.

We try to fathom how the Germans were able to conduct a war on so many fronts, yet could also organise the building of a series of fortifications along the Atlantic Coastline. Stretching from the Pyrenees right up to the Arctic Circle. We discover that more than 350 forts were built along this rugged Norwegian coast. Soviet and Polish POWs put to task here.

When planning today’s route, Mr S forgot the golden rule. Leaves this afternoon’s navigation duties with blind and dumb Hoo-Ha-Henry. All ferry crossings are technically part of the numbered road system. Henry is not sophisticated enough to differentiate. He’s not Ai. Not even A-minus. Gets a D-minus. Along with Mr S, who didn’t double check. Physical road 17 suddenly runs out. No warning. A surprising dead-end at Nesna quay. Beastie hasn’t packed his water-wings. A queue of cars patiently wait for the next ferry. We join them. Not quite as patiently. It’s our third of the day. One frustrating extra hour added to an already long day.

Mrs S sympathetically remarks “Ah well, it’s a good lesson to have learned”. Doesn’t realise Mr S hasn’t packed his measuring tape . . .

Whatever life throws at you, you just have to make the best of it. Things happen beyond your control. A flexible attitude comes in very handy at those times.

Weather is definitely one of those things beyond our control. A grey, overcast day, full of rain chases after us from start to finish. Do we care? Not much. Every cloud has a silver lining. Like the first 1933 drive-in movie, we sit warm and dry inside. Enjoy the flickering images as we hug one fjord after another, on our way to a very wet and rainy Furøy Camping.

Our fjord edging melds into seaboard. A swordfish demands “Stop!” We do.

It’s a war memorial. Operation Seagull foiled by a German sea mine. The Uredd Fearless submarine lay at the bottom, undiscovered for forty-three years. Its mission was to secrete six agents into German held territory and sabotage an iron-ore mine.

Most of us take the mighty sun for granted. It rises. It sets. That’s what it does. We pay little heed to its profound effects – on man and nature. Too little, we feel sad. Too much, we feel more than glad.

Here, sitting above the Arctic Circle, in the Land of The Midnight Sun, we’re experiencing twenty-four hours of light. Technically the sun sets for about a couple of hours, though it never gets dark. In this region, it will stay light now until 20th July.

Since 2002, Norway has had a national mountain. It’s called Stetind. A 1,400 metre tall granite monolith. We’ve seen it from afar. It’s massive. It’s pointy. Different from its kissing-cousins. Now we want to get up close and personal. Maybe give it a hug from the UK. Our journey will take us right past it. We can’t miss it.

We do! Maybe it looked completely different close up.

Norway’s roads, along this western coastline, have a habit of stopping at every fjord. It’s as if they’ve had enough. ‘Can’t someone else take over for a bit then? Give us a break?’ When this occurs, the road officially continues above water, onboard a ferry. Previously all crossings were paid for, but since 2023 the majority are now free, regardless of the distance travelled.

Today, is our first ferry crossing. We get a different, slower, more leisurely perspective as the scenery glides by. [That is to say, Mr S does. It’s blowing a gale on deck. Mrs S is nowhere to be seen]

We end the day at Saltstraumen Camping. But our day doesn’t end there. We’re in splashing distance of the world’s strongest maelstrom. A phenomenon we daren’t miss . . . we dont!

If you could come back as an animal, which one would you choose? I’d choose to be a seagull. They’re incredibly noisy, gregarious, very inquisitive, wonderful flyers and more than anything, love ice-cream.

Mrs S thinks I should come back as a goat. They’ll eat anything, friendly, can be quite annoying, expert at head-butting, but above all love climbing . . .

So, at the end of our day-off from travelling, that’s exactly what Mr S does. Goes in search of a lonely goat herd. Heads up. Clears throat. Just in case a spot of yodeling is called for too.

Earlier, our day starts with a lovely calm morning walk around the bay into the tiny town of Ballangen. It doesn’t last for long. Unbeknown to us, gathering gusts of tsunami proportions have been waiting high up in the mountains, preparing an ambush. Like a crazy marauding army of Ninjas. Unwilling to show any mercy. At times, we feel we could take off. Emulate James. Go ‘Walking in the air’. Afterall, there is plenty of snow around . . .

We get confined to barracks for the afternoon. Sit it out. A game of Bananagrams and Othello to the rescue.

Mrs S, of course, has eyes on coming back as a heavy plant operator . . .

Like left and right, hope and optimism go hand in hand. Each day comes with a new set of circumstances and possibilities. Sometimes challenging. Often rewarding. There’s always a glimmer of light at the end of every tunnel.

Today we turn our backs on Sweden, just for the moment. Eager to bring some colour back to our cheeks. Make them pink and rosy again. Very soon it will be time to turn left, then left again. But before we do that, there’s one last port of call. We’ve heard there’s an unusual church in town.

Ah well, time for Beastie to drop down into third and head up into the mountains . . .

From 9 April to 8 June 1940 this beautiful, but bitter landscape, was site to the Battles of Narvik. 9,500 Norwegian troops fought off the Nazis trying to deny the Germans access to the ice free port and a supply route for the coveted iron ore being shipped out from Kiruna.

We sail over and down through the snowy Norwegian border. Keep left (briefly) choose the ‘Nothing to Declare’ option. Not a soul in sight. All alcohol confiscation concerns alleviated. Beastie’s belly is fully loaded. He’s way over the limit – hic!

Our jolly jaunt ends at Ballangen Camping, south of Narvik.

All good things come to those who wait. So the saying goes. Yet, I suspect the jury may be out on that one.

We’re in Lappland, so a question we keep asking ourselves – “Will we ever get to see some reindeer, other than the stuffed variety”? As we get closer to leaving this huge area, it’s as if it’s become the most important thing in the world. With what seems like endless kilometres and endless days of the same old same old, we’ve been patiently waiting, yet ready to accept disappointment too.

We’re still on E45 as it jinks its way from one tiny town, or hamlet to another. Heading towards Camp Ripan and the iron-ore mining city of Kiruna, the most northern city in Sweden. It feels desolate; surrounded by massive ugly slag heaps; and slowly subsiding. So much so, that works are currently in operation to move the town to a new location. Completion date 2040. At one point, its mine was the largest and most modern in the world.

Virtually every day, Mrs S sends grandson Jason a video of some kind. Usually mechanical based. He loves tractors, diggers, steam rollers and the like. If there’s workman about, she gets her camera ready! Today Jason receives something different – as do we . . .

Earlier, before leaving Jokkmokk, we spend a couple of hours in the Swedish Mountain & Sámi Museum [we ought to be expert by now]. Hopefully our last museum for some days.

It’s by far the most complete Lapplander’s museum. It describes in detail the reality of life in this harsh northern environment – from pre-history to present day. How the Sámi and then also the settlers have been able to fine-tune their knowledge and skills to overcome the everchanging Arctic climatic conditions.

Always able to find time for creativity too.

With some things there can be no doubt. There are certain laws that govern the universe. No question. Guaranteed. Fixed in stone. Written in the stars. You do this, that happens. You do that, this happens.

Day 21 – Luckily for Mr S, green just happens to be his favourite colour. With trillions upon trillions of acres of forest either side, he should be in heaven. Luckily for Mrs S, blue is hers. So far we’ve had plenty of blue skies. But, an inevitable change is looming on the horizon.

Today’s destination, Arjeplog sites our overnight stop at Kraja Hotell Camping and the Silvermuseet.

This small town featured once in an episode of Top Gear. Still a winter test site for the Asian and European car industries. Not that many of us have a desire to go skidding across a frozen lake.

A dusty pink, wooden-coated church is open. Always a good time and place to give thanks for a safe journey . . .

From the early 1920s, Einar Wallquist, The Lappland Doctor, as he was known then, worked as the district physician. Twenty-five years later he decided to open his fascinating museum of local culture, based around his incredible collection of historical artifacts that he’d accumulated.

The museum leads you through a dramatic landscape of wilderness life. Hard times. Managed by hardened people. Willing and able to live off the land. And be thankful for it.

Reindeer and the Birch tree provide the backbone of subsistence. Lappland has an abundance of both. Using every part of tree and animal to carve out a minimal existence. With an amazing ability to work with and fashion from nature, a wonder.

[below] This man, Lill-Per, famous for using this stick on weak ice. Testing its thickness in autumn. Making sure it’s safe to navigate.

The Sámi love to snazz-up their belts with intricate silver work . . .

Day 22 – Arctic Camp – Jokkmokk, our penultimate stop in Sweden. The journey northwards has not been as imagined. Without a better means of transport, exploring the wilderness impossible. 95,700 lakes, huge areas of dense forest, oceans of swampland and rivers, and very few Beastie-suitable interior roads curtail that romantic notion.

So the E45 it is . . .

There’s more to be sure . . .

Each day does bring about at least one unexpected little surprise, or two. Photo opportunities are rare along the route. Beastie skids to a halt at the merest whiff of anything that doesn’t resemble a tree or a lake . . .

Then, with the temperature hovering between 2-4C, the laws of mathematics and science were bound to take over . . .

30K further up the road, we cross over the invisible and constantly moving Arctic Circle – supposedly . . .

We live in a twenty-first century with high expectations, coupled with low boredom thresholds. Have we lost the ability to just ‘exist’?

“What can I do?” – a child’s favourite. “Go out and play” – a mother’s favourite reply. A scenario now long gone. In our rush to enter the modern age of industrialisation, leisure and technology, the art of boredom no longer exists.

Day 19 – We’re on our way to Östersund; home to the Sámi and Jamtli Museums. With Lappland’s border getting closer by the day, we’re keen to learn more about the indigenous populations of the north. How they lived then. How they live now.

It’s local election day. The Sámi museum is being used for voting. Since 1993 there’s been a Sámi Parliament of Sweden; allowing for representation in Sweden’s mainstream political system. Today the Sámi get to vote for their thirty-one representatives. Like many worldwide indigenous they’ve had to fight long and hard to receive recognition and gain some rights. For generations they’ve been looked down on by the Swedes.

We learn from Emma, the museum manager and a Sámi herself, that the Sámi people don’t like to have their names registered. As a consequence only about 10,000 vote out of an estimated population of between 20,000 and 40,000 – to an extent this undermines their parliamentary power. Yet their centuries old way of life existed without such impositions – until Swedish settlers moved here! In search of iron ore.

The Sámi Museum seems no more than a glorified shop, with a couple of exhibition rooms tagged on either side. One room is closed, due to the election, the other houses a collection of antlers and lassos.

Made-up games of Cowboys and Indians are a long gone distant memory. Lasso mastery self-taught, with help from Roy Rogers. Mr S is keen to rediscover his craft. Out back, they have a docile reindeer with huge antlers. Visitors are encouraged to have a go . . .

We mosey on over to the Jamtli Museum. It’s a brilliantly conceived time-line walk-through.

An add-on room houses an interesting and unusual display of artworks – this wind shoal our favourite.

Day 20 – Mile after mile of massive swathes of forest are centrally dissected by the Inlandsvägen – AKA E45 – our south to north mainline route. With hardly any other vehicles occupying our space it makes for comfortable, yet at times boring driving. We’re Beastie hopping between camps that are dotted along this way. Today, Storumans Camping is targeted.

Reindeer, bears, lynx, wolves – a sighting of any of these would be welcome – especially now that we’re in . . .

After hours of cab-sitting, a refreshing lakeside walk works wonders – a swim is off the menu.

A teletype end of job message that has stayed with me since my very first days as a trainee computer operator in 1970. With a central processing unit housed in a cabinet the size of a double wardrobe, the miracle of the Elliott 4100, with its flashing vacuum tubes, would diligently trundle along. Sometimes through hours of processing. Then when finished, without taking breath would type out …wotnexdo ?…

Day 17 – End of day finds Beastie diligently trundling in to Vildmarkscenter, Nederhögen for a two night stop. Mrs S is eager to get her hands on a washing machine. Duvets, sheets, clothes et al are piling up. The forecast is set to remain sunny; no need to check on the wind. Its persistently in hooley-mode.

A warm greeting from Ellen plus a show-around put our minds at ease. First impressions almost led us to turn and hi-tail it for the mountains.

Ellen and Jean-Pierre bought this ex-school, plus fifty hectares of surrounding land in 2022. Converted the school into a hotel and set up a camping area. With three kids on tow and the nearest junior school 22K away (senior 60K) – no mean feat.

With a lifetime of work and change ahead of them we imagine they will now be in a constant state of wotnexdo ?. . .

A very cosy indoor games room, including a table tennis table, provides the perfect ‘just like home’ pre-dinner apéritif. 

Day 18 – A bright and breezy day. Mrs S is happy.

Mr S is happy too. Bike-time. A couple of windy hours spent within trees and tracks and tracks and trees . . .

For any sufferer from insomnia, this recording could just be the cure . . .

Sometimes we wish we could turn back time. Never say those hurtful words. Regret the day we wanted the ground beneath our feet to open up and swallow us.

No need for us to say sorry. We’re a couple of Time-Lords. Beastie our touring Tardis. We set the dial. Hey Presto. It’s the day before yesterday already.

Unable to visit Falu Gruva then, we pre-book a 2pm English speaking tour of the famous copper mine. Famous, because without it, Sweden’s iconic wood houses would have ended up a mish-mash of random colours.

We leave the pretty camping village of More-Lite and backtrack 90K south.

So far we’ve been pleasantly surprised by prices in general. Diesel averaging £1.26 per litre and Swedish supermarket prices no more than 5% higher than back home. We are paying premium prices for camping though, despite this being the quiet season. Road speeds are much lower and with virtually all drivers heeding the limits, it makes for calmer driving days.

With an underground temperature of 7C, we’re all advised to tog up. Our menagerie of orange capes and hard-hats play follow the leader and head sixty-seven metres down.

As a mining by-product, Falu red, an iron oxide pigment, is traditionally used in the manufacture of the red exterior paint that so many Swedes use to protect and decorate their wood houses.

Then we continue our northbound journey. Get back on the beaten track. Head back up, not down. Pass through a small town called Sveg, known for its subarctic climate and its huge wooden bear. A planners’ brainwave to try and attract more visitors into town. We do our bit. Stop off for a look-see. Swell the indigenous for twenty minutes. Although the fourth largest in this county of Jämtland, with a population of around 3,000, it has little else going for it.

The church looks pretty though. It’s open. The creaking door echoes down the bare interior. Not quite harmonising with the sombre organ. An altar-facing small congregation of mourners, do their best to ignore. “Sorry”.

We end the day being the only campers at Ratvik in Massarbäcksgården.

Owners not on site. Full instructions given. Even a plan indicating exactly where Beastie should sleep.

We take regional accents for granted in the UK. Of course, they occur worldwide, but as a visiting Brit, they’re more or less impossible to detect.

To Mr S, who only went through the motions of learning a second language at school, these shared Scandinavian Old Norse ‘regional’ sounds seem unreal. Surely they’re not proper words, just a load of gobbledygook nonsensical utterances? Quite a mystery as to how they seem to be able to understand each other. Amusingly, every now and then, an English word gets thrown into the melting pot. Fortunately, it’s not the word ‘like’.

To the untrained ear, you could be forgiven for thinking Danish and Swedish are virtually the same language. However, if you listen very carefully . . . the Danes seem to chew on their words, half-choke on them, then spit them out in disgust, like a piece of unwanted gristle, that’s spent far too long in their mouth. Swedes, on the other hand, breath out their words in huffing, puffing chains of low, then high notes. As if they’re a singer methodically warming-up their vocal chords before an important performance; somehow always managing to end each sentence with a questioning mini-exclamation, just to exaggerate their point.

Fortunately, our untrained mouths and ears have absolutely no problem communicating easily with either Dane, or Swede. They all understand and speak English better than the average Brummie . . .

Our two night stay at Mora-Lite Camping is perfectly positioned close to Mora. It’s home to Sweden’s most famous painter – Anders Zorn. We go visit his legacy. Left by him and his wife to the Swedish Nation.

Of his time, his considerable talent earned him a fortune. Royalty, famous and wealthy, from home and abroad sought him out. Willing to pay virtually any price for a portrait.

Inside the gallery, Mrs S is in her element. Eyes mesmerised. Inches from each masterpiece. Follows the lines of each brush stroke with awe. Mr S is not far behind . . .

Three hours of pleasure get interrupted by a different type of masterpiece. We rediscover the virtuosity of the Scandi open sarni. This one entitled “Pulled pork on Rye”

We’re based in the heart of Dalarna region, staying within swimming distance of Lake Siljan, Sweden’s seventh largest. Beastie canters a little way south to the small town of Nusnäs – home to another worldwide favourite – the Dala horse. Created in 1928 by brothers Nils and Jannes Olsson.

Elias, a family member and shareholder in the business, demonstrates his dexterity. His personal record is 2,760 in one day. Apart from on-site orders, they ship worldwide, with demand highest from the Asian and US markets. At the end of his demo he hands Mrs S a free gift for grandson Jason – something to paint when he’s a little older.

Local villager Stephan has been working in the business since 1986. The speed and accuracy of his work is astounding. Even while we ply him with questions.

When your ‘to-do’ list is as long as your arm, there’s always a choice to make. Do you start with the easier tasks, reduce the list more quickly? Or start with the more enjoyable one’s, imagining that the others less favoured, might disappear into the ether. Then again, do you prefer to tackle the most hated job first, just to ‘get it out of the way’? Of course, it could all depend on the mood you’re in.

Now I’m not implying that 2 Cheeses hate big cities, per se. Each one can offer good reason to make a visit. Stockholm being no exception with its unique waterways and islands structure, plus its many verdant spaces. Yet there is always something lacking within these man-made jungles. An invisible mystical force that can’t be defined. A soul perhaps.

Despite this, over 50% of the world’s populations reside within these concrete confines.

Our journey starts from the elevated platform of Bredäng Station. It sits nicely alongside the dozen 1964 apartment blocks, within a lush green park, that also contains a fantastic mix of designated sports facilities for the locals. Sixty-one years later they still look as impressive as they must have done then.

Then we go about striking off another from our list. With transport system now fully sussed we hop on, and hop off metro and bus with both eyes shut. It’s that easy! No longer blind bunnies. When we open them again, we find ourselves on Djurgården island, entering the massive Skansen open air museum, one of the world’s oldest. Opened to the public in 1891. Housing twenty-two museums and other attractions, the island is the go to place for all visitors.

From the 16th century onwards and still to this day, the majority of Swedes have their wood build houses painted Falu Red. An iron-rich long lasting pigment. Commerce and industry followed the trend. Wealthy, or not. It was and still is, the ‘in’ colour.

How on earth the buildings were dismantled and rebuilt is quite astounding – an IKEA pre-cursor perhaps . . .

The site is laid out like a town, with a farmstead on the outskirts, a nordic zoo, plus our favourite – a seal enclosure. We arrive at Scooby Snack time.

We hoped the very patient onlooker would be rewarded – but he never was . . .

He rids himself of his frustration with some playfulness . . .

There’s a time and a place for everything. An accepted criteria that applies under appropriate circumstances. Going against the grain, or sailing into the wind, can sometimes be ill-advised.

Day 11 – A short squirt of 169K into the suburbs of Stockholm, almost feels like a rest day. It starts with a local LIDL shop. We leave as ‘dry’ as we entered, which is unusual to say the least. There’s no wine in store. That’s due to the fact that all drinks with an alcoholic percentage of more than 3.5% can only be purchased from the Swedish government owned chain of outlets called Systembolaget. But where are they?

Pitched up at Bredäng Camping, which abuts the Sätraskogens Nature Reserve puts us in easy striking distance of the capital. Tomorrow’s look-see.

Day 12 – We all have slightly different ways of doing the same thing, don’t we? Whether it be loading the dishwasher, or tying our shoe laces. You’d think that there would be only one or two ways that a public transport system could be organised too, but no. Like an IKEA flat pack instruction leaflet, it’s only once you’ve completed said task, that you can then fully understand the mentality of the creator and where he intended those two ‘extra’ screws to go. Every major city seems to adopt their own system for essentially doing the same thing. Even the associated travel app’s can confuse rather than help. United, Europe may be, but divided in its approach to directing passengers along its transport network. And so it was this morning. After purchasing two metro tickets, the app indicates they need activating before use. So like the obedient user Mr S is, the ‘Activate Now’ button gets tapped. Mistake! A countdown starts. The ticket expires in 75 minutes. We’re just finishing breakfast and nowhere near ready to leave. Plus, it’s a twenty minute walk to the station! [The second ticket does not get activated.] The first one expires less than thirty seconds before platform entry! A quick explanation to the kind understanding woman in the kiosk and she lets me through the ‘idiots this way’ channel.

With a grey and cool windy start to enjoy, we step off onto one of Stockholm’s many islands – Gamla Stan, AKA Old Town. The capital’s fourteen islands are all inter connected, by umbilical cords of either bridge or ferry. The old town shows no signs of revealing any quaintness. Most likely because, as was common during the 17th century, you could substitute the word quaint, for ain’t. As in, ‘it ain’t ere no more, on account that it got burnt down – again’. Instead, high rise regal looking buildings of bricks and stone, tower over and shade the not so narrow streets of cobble. The man-made mini wind-tunnels remind us to keep layered up.

Despite our disappointing Royal Palace visit in Copenhagen, we venture into its Swedish namesake. In for a penny, in for a Krona, so to speak. More to get-get warm than anything else. Also, as we’re now in the land of master builders IKEA, could this Royal Palace possibly outdo its cross-border neighbour?

Like many cities, some of its more ancient history is discovered ‘below stairs’. The Royal Palace no exception, having literally risen from and now resting upon the ashes of Tre Kronor Castle, burnt to cinders in 1697. Housing over 1,400 rooms it required, and still does, an exceptional amount of heating. In those days, an abundance of wood was always to hand. [it probably still is] Now in the Palace, as in over 50% of Swedish homes and businesses, they utilise a system they call ‘District Heating’. These are local waste-to-energy power plants, that efficiently manage residual heat from various sources. A sort of turbo-charge system. As a result, only 4% of Swedish waste ends up in landfill.

Time and tide waits for no man (unless you’re the skipper of the Vasa), so we head over to the museum dedicated to that warship and its sad demise.

Under pressure from the King, a too-quick faulty build resulted in an unstable hull. A freak gust of wind caught the sails and with the lower set of canon port holes open ready to salute the King, it rolled to one side. Water gushed in to the open port holes. It sank quickly. The rest is history.

Salvaged in 1961, it took courage and strength for the divers who were tasked with digging a series of tunnels underneath the hull, to house the 6″ steel lifting cables. Their primitive suits weighing 100kg. The murky muddy water a sobering 4C.

There’s only one thing certain in life – and that is its exact opposite.

The closer we approach the inevitable, the more thought we give to where and how, we’d like our body to be laid to rest. If on land, then the chances are we’d like it to be somewhere pretty. Under the branches of a spreading oak tree perhaps; or scattered amongst a garden of roses. Do we harbour these thoughts for our benefit now? For surely once we’re dead it hardly matters, does it? Or does our final resting place simply help to bring succour to those we leave behind?

Day 9 – Situated in the Swedish Bible Belt, Värnamo Camping is today’s end of the line – so to speak. A convenient third of the way to Stockholm. A cheap and cheerful stopover with all facilities in good working order.

Earlier we negotiate the ‘Bridge’, made world famous by its namesake series from 2011. With no sign of a torso blocking our lane we sail under and over the 15.9K Øresund Strait, that links Denmark with Sweden.

Day 10 – Shortly after setting off, Beastie gets reigned in, left grumbling kerb-side. There’s a nip in the air and he’s not had chance to warm his toes yet.

Mrs S has spotted an interesting cemetery and is intrigued. Its partly symmetrical and orderly layout adds strength in honouring those who are laid to rest here. Immaculately trimmed hedgerows divide and unclutter. There’s one thing in life Mrs S loves and that is ‘tidy”. And very tidy and well cared for it is. I’m sure it’s the sort of spot she’d be very happy to ‘retire’ to!

Later and a further 278K north east, we come to rest, so to speak, at Skeppsdockan Camping, Söderköping.

Dinnertime is put on hold as we venture down canal-side into ‘old town’. It’s a delightful amble into its quaint history. Information boards add a sense of reality to the ancient village.

As children we learn the useful adage ‘never judge a book, by its cover’. The premise being, that what we see with our eyes from the outside, doesn’t always reveal what’s on the inside.

Nowadays, it can be all too easy to gather opinions. Get fooled. Make snap judgements. Without giving too much thought. Like fishermen in open waters dragging nets along the murky deep. Catching all and sundry. Giving little consideration as to what’s worth keeping, or what should be thrown back as worthless.

Yet, what we hear, see and read across every media platform does exactly that. Fills those nets. So called influencers’ continuous snippets swim freely across the airwaves. Alongside edited news-reels. Creating shoals of masterful mind-bending illusions. Undercurrents flow with a caustic cauldron of truths, half-truths and lies. What to believe, or what not to believe becomes paramount.

Day 7 – The town of Nyborg, presents us with a welcome break en-route to today’s two-nighter at Absalon Camping, Copenhagen.

One would be forgiven for thinking that we stumbled on a delightful and ancient township. Yet after an hour’s stroll, accompanied by a bone-chilling north easterly, we wonder why we’d stopped here, wishing we’d never even bothered. Agree to give a wide berth when passing on the way home.[true or false?]

Day 8 – We catch the commuter train into ‘bike-city’ – AKA Copenhagen. We have an 11am walking tour booked. With a 1.3K walk at either end, we surpass ourselves. Arrive at the meeting point with seven minutes to spare. 15C, little wind and clear blue above. Perfect city gawping weather.

Highlights of Copenhagen, by Politically Incorrect Free Tours is led by ginger-nut Conrad, our half-English, half-Danish guide. Before we set off, Conrad warns that if there is anybody who is sensitive, or easily offended, then this walk is probably not for them and they may as well f*** off now. The couple of dozen in our young group (apart from us and the two Scottish ladies), are a mix of English, Canadian, Scots, American, French, German, Spanish, Andorran, one girl from Japan, one from India, plus one from Burma.

Conrad’s spiel is a comedic mix of facts, hearsay and invention. He quickly has us hanging on every (swear) word and quip. At each stop he doesn’t stop to draw breath. Most countries in the world can find good reason to take the mick (not his word) out of their nearest neighbours. Danes are no exception, as Conrad constantly reminds us, that amongst other things, the shape of Sweden resembles a flacid penis, with that connotation somehow reflecting on the Swedes’ national character.

Two hours fly by, but not before everyone’s mobile receives a Public Warning from the Danish Emergency Management Agency. They are about to test their air-raid siren!

We come away remembering very few facts (the whole point of the tour perhaps), other than at whichever building, or establishment he chose to stop, then at some time in its history it had burnt down, often more than once – it became the groups’ mantra.

After lunch we have the afternoon to ourselves. A calm relaxed mood emanates over the city. There’s no rush. Not much sound. No exhaust fumes.

We amble over to Rosenborg Castle – highly recommended on-line. A must see. It houses, amongst other things, the Danish Crown Jewels.

Inside, it’s a disaster darling. Ugly, or dark and dreary empty rooms, do nothing to conjure a feeling of the grand and luxurious past. It just goes to show, that you can’t . . .

We drag ourselves around the meaningless distraction. Feeling only too happy to drag ourselves away, but not before a spiral down to the cellar to view the prized possessions.

We finish our recce, but not before being reminded of the Genocide occurring in Palestine.

That greatest of biblical travelers, St Paul, when writing to the Philippians, claimed to have found contentment in all situations faced. Whether he had much, or little; whether he was starving, or not; whether he was in danger, or free from it.

2 Cheeses don’t lay claim to being a couple of saints, but since retirement we’ve found that being either at home, where we enjoy all the comforts of an easy lifestyle, or out on the road, away from family and friends, often cooped up inside Beastie’s tiny belly (in comparison) for hours on end, we both find ourselves capable of ‘being’ content.

Of course, as we head further north, the possibility of much lower temperatures may test those feelings of contentment in one Cheese, more than the other . . .

Day 4 – We end today’s journey at Camping Hümmlinger Land, just outside Werlte. At an en-route stop off, courtesy of Mr LIDL, we take possession of twelve bottles of familiar reds. All for the very notable price of €39. [UK cost would have been £70+] – it’s not often one can come away from a supermarket shop and feel quite as contented as this.

Day 5 – Entry onto Campingplatz Vogelzunge, just outside Bad Bramstedt, treats us to our first and short dousing. Like a couple of squirrels, preparing for the onset of winter and armed with knowledge of a certain lack of wine outlets in Sweden and Norway, coupled with their much higher prices, we repeat yesterday’s foray!

Is contentment that easy to find . . .?

Day 6 – We’re now pitched up a further 206K north, on the very new and spacious Dancamps site at Kolding, Denmark. Showering facilities here and the previous two stops have been first class and with evening temperatures hovering below the nether regions, underfloor heating has been a welcome luxury.

Earlier in the day, Mr S decides to make an ad-hoc turn off. An enticing UNESCO World Heritage sign leads the way to a mid-afternoon sunny leg stretch. Founded in 1773 by the Moravian Church, Christiansfeld is a delightful and charming example of 18thC town planning.

Baked to a secret spice recipe from 1773, we’re further enticed into Café Morgenstjernen. Sit and sample the town’s famed chocolate covered honey cakes . . . obviously contentment comes in many guises . . . 😇😇

The human brain craves pleasure. It will go to extraordinary lengths to satisfy that need. Send its body on masochistic errands of error even. Unwittingly transform that need into greed. All for its own sake. Often at the sake of others.

Today, we allow ourselves to get hooked. Forget the weed. Become a couple of junkies of a different kind. Indulge in some social pandering. Stimulate those hedonic parts of the brain that get high on ‘the visual’.

For a short eight weeks of the year, Koekenhof Gardens are in full bloom. Magical multi-coloured carpets, predominantly tulips, laid out in regal fashion, welcome its 1.5 million visitors. We go tread that light-fantastic show. Join today’s 26,000, in this, its 76th year.

Our expectations are exceeded. We came anticipating a typical flat Dutch landscape. With endless rows and rows of plantings. However, in places, it’s like a New Forest Wonderland.

Each year, the chief designer draws up new and different plans. All old bulbs are dug up. New ones shipped in by over one hundred different suppliers – gratis! Then it’s over to his team of forty gardeners to get to work. During October, November and December they plant seven million bulbs. [my knees flinch at the thought]

A perfect blend of formal and informal designs lead the visitor on a journey of joy. In order to maintain as much colour as possible throughout the eight weeks, some sections are planted in tiers of three. With the latest flowering bulb buried below the earlier two.

Brought over from Türkiye in the sixteenth century, the tulip is now synonymous with the Netherlands. Eight hundred varieties are put on display at Koekenhof, within a landscape of 2,500 trees.

We depart on an exuberant high . . .

No one knows your body better than you do, so we tell ourselves. But that is generally based on the way we are feeling at any given moment. What’s causing those ‘feelings’ – aches, pains, sickness, racing heart, giddiness, burning sensations and the like, is another story.

Of course, nowadays, the second something doesn’t feel quite right inside, we go ask that clever Dr Google. Describe our symptoms in detail. Hope he’ll sympathetically say “It’s nothing to worry yourself about. Just take two paracetamol and get a good night’s sleep” Then we get paranoid and overly concerned when his newly appointed Ai assistant reels off a huge list indicating we could be suffering from virtually every known disease under the sun.

We break today’s short journey of 96K, just shy of our destination – Camping Op Hoop Van Zegen. Go visit the Corpus Museum. A 3.15pm pre-booked walk through of the human body. Fortunately it’s a dry run, so wellies aren’t required.

The museum is situated within the Leiden Bio Science Park – a picturesque combination of ultra modern buildings, allotments, pathways and cycle lanes, seamlessly blended, as only the Dutch do, alongside the road network.

With time to spare we take advantage of today’s tropical temperature – go exploring.

The one hour audio guided tour takes us on a journey through the digestive, blood and reproductive systems. A few special 3D side-shows thrown in for good measure, emphasise and aid memory recall. Aimed at young teenagers, mainly for educational purposes we suppose. First year Biology springs to mind. Bodily functions presented in an interesting, easy to understand and sometimes amusing way. The brain is given pride of place, naturally. Yet even this brilliant super-structure, described as the most complicated and sophisticated organism in the Cosmos, is capable of getting things very wrong. Visual perception a typical example . . .

Perhaps this predisposition can be explained by the fact that a human has 25,000 genes. The same number as a fruit fly, a worm and . . . a potato!

Dilemmas come in all shapes and sizes. Decision making put upon us. Sometimes brought about by our own volition. Sometimes by uncontrollable outside forces.

Daily life is full of them and not always a choice between the lesser of two evils. Pleased as punch when the right one is made. Sad and frustrated when not.

When two people are involved, especially if differing opinions of a possible outcome are forthcoming, then the possibility of right and wrong can come into play. Pointing fingers; laying of blame. “Didn’t I warn you that would happen!”

Fortunately for Mr & Mrs S, joint decisions don’t come with that sort of baggage. Acceptance of whatever the outcome being key. No need to worry unnecessarily. Why build a mountain where only a molehill exists?

Even before we set off, a number of decisions needed to be made. The most important one (for Mr S) was whether, or not, to take Scoot. At 100kg, would he hinder our very steep (so we’ve heard) uphill climbs in Norway? [a real fear born from Beastie’s backwards slide going up Mount Nemrut in Türkiye.] Would the weather ever be suitable? [we’re really fair-weather bikers] With limited availability of wine outlets in Norway and Sweden, plus the extortionate cost of alcohol in general, the decision was made more easy; or should that read more palatable? The thought of stashing away up to 100kg of wine for the duration a no brainer!!!

For Mrs S, it was all about what clothes to take. What footwear to take. Just how many seasons are we likely to encounter? According to what’s secreted inside her on-board cubby-holes, it seems all four.

Since Brexit, it’s been against EU regulations to take any dairy, or meat products across from the UK. We’ve ignored that ‘precept’. Justified our decision on the basis that everything we bring is for our own consumption and in any event, never leaves Beastie’s inners, until inside ours. However, to minimise the possibility of confiscation, or even worse, a whacking great fine, before entering Le Shuttle, we’ve previously emptied the fully loaded fridge and freezer of said items and concealed them until over the border. A real bind. But a necessary one. Today, after never previously being searched, we agree to take a gamble. Come over all blasé. A question of Que Sera, Sera.

We get off scot-free . . .

And now, after a very tiring day’s travel we’re happily pitched up at Recreatiepark Klaverweide, Netherlands. 308k up the road from Calais.