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August 13 Sunday sunny Bicycle touring Norway and Sweden Sharon rouses me with "You better get up or you'll miss the show." We're still 12 kilometres from Sweden, but somewhere along the way, Sharon's usual natural inhibition has disappeared and she goes skinny dipping, diving in off a rock. She's intent on making quite a splash. I could tell it was going to be a good day when the morning started so fine. Breakfast by the lake consisted of eggs with tomato and cheese, cereal and raspberries. As we bicycled back to the picnic area to dispose of our trash, Sharon found a blueberry bush. She emerged a short time later with blue-stained fingers. Maybe she needs another quick splash? We pedalled off down the road, happy, and bathed in warm sunshine. The only thing announcing our entry into Sweden was a road sign. No border guards or passport checks. My bike meter showed 744 kilometres cycled during our week of bicycle touring in Norway. The first sign for a town pointed to some place named Ed. Another directional sign pointed to a place named Mo. Man, they certainly have some short town names in Sweden. A grocery store in town was open when we pedalled up on our loaded touring bicycles. And the grocery store accepted Visa credit cards. We bought lunch and supper and then sat by a closed railway station beneath a stately tree on a short trimmed lawn and ate yogurt. Welcome to bicycle touring in Sweden. Across the train tracks, tennis lessons commenced. Children frolicked in the water. After our cycling break, we got back on our touring bicycles and pedalled off on a meandering country lane that soon turned to gravel. We hadn't been bicycle touring in Sweden long before we discover that they take their free camping seriously here. We pedalled past an old lady on a rickety bike, herding milk cows up a road. Switch in one hand, handlebar in the other, pedaling along in her rubber boots. We waved as we cycled by. A couple of hundred metres later, we pulled our touring bicycles to a stop to take off our fuzzy pullovers. The woman came pedaling past, going in the same direction as us. She pedalled around the corner and then reappeared a few seconds later. As she passes us, she is waving and pointing to a promontory beside the lake and saying what a good spot that is for free camping. Alas, it was still too early for us to call it a day for our bicycle tour. We pedalled down the road. In the next town we found a bank machine and withdrew 1000 SEK. Swedish krones exchange is about 5 for every Canadian dollar. Loaded down with money, we bicycle out of town and take a wrong road. We climb a steep hill. The sign we come to is a jackpot of sorts. It is showing not one, but two, dead end roads pointing off into the distance. Whoops. We retrace our bicycle route and then go and ask directions from people sitting out in their yard. Somehow, the busy E6 highway we saw as we cycled on our way into town has disappeared. When we pedalled into town, the route was on our right and now, mysteriously, it's on our left. Hmmm. Following their directions, we bicycle back through town and find route E6. We take the busy route only as far as a turnoff so we can get away from the steady drone of traffic on it. We see our first "No Camping" signs. My illusion of Sweden being blessed as a camper's paradise of set-up anywhere is dashed. Actually, the tourist literature Sweden hands out says any field or forest is fine for freelance camping, so I wonder how the actual enforcement of these signs takes place? We opt not to find out and continue bicycling, looking for more conducive surroundings. We bicycle up to a small lake. At a trailhead we discover two outdoor toilets. We haven't seen outdoor toilets at a road pullout since we left our bicycle tour of North America. Sharon goes in one. I go in the other. There is a pail on the floor that is to poop in; it's not a long drop hole like I had expected. I gingerly snap open the pail's lid and am greeted with a bucket that is brimming with liquid shit. Yikes. It looks like someone has emptied their motorhome toilet in it. I let the lid drop as I hear a scream from Sharon. Has she discovered the same thing, I wonder? Nope. She has discovered something worse. I see her stumble out of the stall clutching the nape of her neck. Several angry yellow jackets are swarming above her head. The toilet door is open and I can see a huge paper wasp nest suspended from the ceiling like an ashen moon. The bees must have known she was going to open that ghastly pail and decided to sting her before she could release the beastly odor. She yelled at me to get away from there. Having previously had an allergic reaction to a bee sting, I didn't need to be told twice. We pushed our bikes to a clearing away from the nest, getting away from where the yellow jackets were still hovering about. A metal fire pit was enclosed by wooden posts laid out in a surrounding fashion around a tent site. The wooden posts would make good seats. I found a disposable barbecue that had hardly been used. We packed it in a plastic bag and tied it onto the back of my bike. We also found a barely used Teflon frying pan for Arran and Rebecca, our bicycle touring buddies from New Zealand, when we see them again. I prepared our finicky stove. I always take it apart now and clean the jet before even attempting to light it. I rapped the fuel jet end on a rock. Lo and behold, a lump of lead fell out. At first I thought it was a tiny rock, but upon examining it more closely, I found I could scrape off the black and it was shiny underneath. All that leaded gas from our bicycle tours in Italy? We fired up our Whisperlite stove and made pizza on flat bread with hamburger, cheese, tomato, and pineapple. Divine. Our bicycle touring stove has made a complete recovery. |
