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Torslanda Beach In the morning twenty campers and ten cars were in the parking lot. Sharon complained she hadn't slept well, waking up every time someone new pulled in. Sharon felt safer sleeping in the woods than at a rest stop. We headed off, continuing in the direction we had approached the rest area, and went about three kilometers before the sun verified we were going north rather than south. With some speculation, we found the small road south. No numbers adorned non-major roads, so it was always somewhat of a guess at which road we were on at any given moment. For breakfast we took a detour to a harbor and sat on the rocks overlooking the row boats, sailboats and fishing boats in the marina. A bus dropped off passengers; mostly backpackers, but also a few elderly folks who looked like residents. An inter-island foot-passenger ferry loaded and chugged away. A late arrival bounded up. The ferry operator kindly returned and half-docked its front prow while the latester leaped aboard. He reminded me of Tarzan, on Saint Marguerite island in France, but at least this guy was dressed. Two swans tried to gain flight. Their giant wings pushed the air with such force we heard great whooshes each time they flapped. It took two passes across the bay before they were able to lift their hulking bodies off the water. Their long slender necks extended straight ahead, making them look like white Romulan spaceships. Picking blackberries, Sharon's numerous scratches on her arms and legs outnumbered her efforts of minimal harvest. The thorny bushes made wild raspberries look tame in comparison. Sharon resolved not to pick blackberries again, unless they were easily accessible. We took another free ferry across a body of water. I wheeled aboard confidently this time, just like I knew what I was doing. Once across on the cable-pulled ferry, Sharon was still on board after the cars had unloaded. She peered intently over the side, admiring the exotic jellyfish floating placidly around the quay. At the beach near Torslanda we ate a late lunch of cucumber and tomato sandwiches. Prone bathers enjoying the warm sunny weather covered the beach. A dozing un-reformed alcoholic hadn't moved from his awkward face-plant position since we arrived. The beach was served with an efficient regular bus from town. I noticed many darkly tanned Swedes. They must lay out constantly all summer to bake that black. They were athletic too. Many of them swam, jogged and rode bikes, that is, when they weren't lying in the sun. We were near Sarö, where Yvonne, friends of Arran and Rebecca lived. I tried to phone twice, but there was no answer. At eight-thirty I went to use the campground phone. Arran answered. They wanted us to meet them tomorrow at noon in Göteborg. As night fell, everyone left the beach area, except four teenagers celebrating their last summer day before classes. They gathered up driftwood for a fire. One came over to borrow our lighter. Their fire blazed cheerily for a half-hour, and then it was out of wood. Campfires didn't burn half the night like in North America. |
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