Sweden. A country that, at best, evokes IKEA, at worst Zlatan Ibrahimović, and for those with a sweet tooth, Wasa, Krisprolls and cinnamon rolls. But to stick to that is to miss out on what this long territory of islands and vast plains really is about. To ignore, for example, that its lakes are vast and fresh, and that in summer they reflect a sky bathed in the colors of a perpetual sunset. To miss its dark, verdant forests, deep-red farmhouses and flowers that sway along the sidewalks, perfuming the warm air with their sweet scent. Or to deprive yourself of the pleasure of a fikka, that little daily break you can have in one of the countless cosy cafés – a drink, a sandwich or a sweet treat.

I discovered Sweden by train. On my own. I left Geneva in a very early morning of June, before daylight. My life fit into a big backpack, and as I walked towards the station, I felt an indescribable sense of freedom. This movement towards the unknown was radiant, powerful. I wanted to say to the people I passed – do you know what I’m about to do? I’m off to discover Sweden by train, for 3 weeks. 3 weeks!

It was my first solo trip.

It took me exactly 15h54 of travel, and five different trains, to reach Copenhagen, crossing the whole of Germany from south to north in the process. I couldn’t wait to get back to this joyful capital, which I’d already visited in 2016. However, the 36 hours I spent there were tinged with a strange melancholy – which, with a little hindsight, wasn’t all that surprising, as the beginnings of solo travels always have a slightly bitter-sweet taste.

Copenhague – Ystad
via Malmö – 2 trains / 1h49 of travel

First stop: Ystad, a small village on the south coast. In an almost empty train, I cross the Scania countryside, its green plains and hills, dotted with white houses. The sky is silver, the temperature around 15°. I try not to complain, and I keep my hopes up: it’s only the first day. But who knows, maybe it’ll be gray and rainy for three weeks, and I’ll just have to deal with it.

Another thing I hadn’t calculated was that it’s Sunday. Not a soul to be seen on the wet cobblestones. I scout around looking for a nice café for lunch – hallelujah, I end up at the Graffiti Café – and spend at least two hours there. The thing is, I don’t know where I’m going to sleep tonight. Apart from Stockholm and Gothenburg, where I booked hostels, I’ve decided to camp out the rest of the time. I even leave myself the possibility of bivouacking if I find a nice spot. And I don’t feel the least bit stressed. It’s a little weird. It’s not my style.

The exploration of Ystad, which I start after my break, takes less time than expected. The town is small, and most of the shops are closed. But I hang around. I enter the church, which surprises me with its purity – immaculate whitewashed walls, simple furnishings, a few beautiful chandeliers. No ornaments, no fuss. It’s definitely far from the pomp of southern European churches, but it has its charm too.

When there’s nothing left to explore, I’m off to the sea. A storm threatens above, but I’m counting on the support of the trees lining the road to protect me. When I finally reach the water’s edge, rain starts to fall heavily. I spot a bench, on which I imagine sitting and waiting for the downpour to pass. I last about three minutes. Eureka, my bag came with a rain cover, and I with a nice mint-green k-way. I grab the k-way and unroll the cover: my bag and I are ready to face the elements.

And you know what? I feel a strange joy, walking like this in the rain. It’s not that cold, I feel fine. I’m not even disappointed. The beaches offer themselves up to my gaze in a beautiful bareness. Thin, tall grasses give a little relief to the grey immensity of the horizon. There are long, wide, soaked pontoons, on which I walk carefully.

I feel like a child, who plays outside whatever the weather. Adults become precious, requiring a good reason to cut back on comfort. Here, now, I’m in communion with the elements. I walk aimlessly in the sand, enjoying the feel of raindrops on my hood.

The rain was torrential when I arrived at the campsite, but luckily, the sky calmed down a little as I took possession of my pitch and unpacked my bag. After a hot shower, I tried to find something decent to eat at the local mini-market, ending up with plastic cheese, bad ham and bread rolls that looked good (but only looked). It’s not even 7pm and I’ve already finished eating. And as everything outside is wet, with a temperature of barely 10°, I have to confine myself in the tent. Good occasion to organize my belongings in this small living space.

I open my eyes at midnight, to find that it’s not pitch black. Then again in phenomenal clarity, convinced that it’s at least 6am. Wrong. It’s only 4am. I’m not going to lie, it’s not a fantastic night. Blame it on the railroad tracks that gently border the campsite. And the ground, which is a bit hard – the ground being the ground.

I pack up everything in the calm of the morning. It’s still cold, but the sun is definitely out. I’ve got an hour to get back to the station, and I’m going to do it by foot. I want to enjoy again the seaside panorama and discover it in a different way. The washed beaches are bathed in light, wildflowers dry their wet petals, there are rows of colorful little shacks, and I stop every 50 meters to take photos. It’s a mix of the beaches of the Atlantic coast and the wild, melancholy beauty of Normandy.

YSTAD – KALMAR
via Malmö and Emmaboda – 4 trains / 4h47 of travel

Have you ever heard of Kalmar? I bet you haven’t. Don’t worry, me neither, not until I was preparing this trip. To get there, it’s a white and red train with a retro look that awaits me on the platform. Outside, the scenery has changed. The peaceful meadows have vanished to make way for pine forests, leaden lakes peeking through the foliage, broad farmhouses with deep-red, ancient facades. From time to time, a herd of cows lie motionless, contemplating the ballet of greedy, hurried men. The heavy sky breaks here and there, to reveal the promise of the blue sky that waits above.

When I get off the train, it’s 6pm and it’s all bright outside. A warm, golden light cheers the air up. Ever since I took a long walk along Ystad’s beaches, I think everything can be done by foot. That’s how I set off on a three-kilometer walk towards the Stensö peninsula, where the campsite I’d spotted is located. I can’t describe enough the charm of this part of the world at this very moment: the flower-filled parks, the old facades, the sweet, suave smell that wafts through the air, the feeling of invisible life that can only be guessed from the sounds you hear through the gates and open windows.

And then, there’s the campsite. A haven of peace. Immense. Quiet. Filled with trees and birds chirps, criss-crossed by small roads and paths. I pitch my tent in a gently sloping clearing. In just two days, I’ve already gained in organization, and found how to optimize space and access to my belongings in a way that satisfies me greatly. Amazing how diverse and varied sources of joy can be.

After a frugal meal with questionable logistics – imagine some instant noodles being eaten in two times, under the judgmental gaze of old Germans, because I could only find a coffee paper cup as container -, I can’t resist the urge to go for a walk, as over here, the end of the day stretches on forever. This is how I discover a small beach with a floating pontoon, which will become my designated happy place. I sit, and watch the calm water dilute the bluish hues of an immense sky, streaked with long pink and grey clouds. Kalmar Castle looms in the distance, on the left. A family of soft-feathered ducks silently crosses my little landscape. I think this is the first time I’ve ever been so happy just to be here and do nothing.

Morning. Today’s program: discovering Kalmar. I set off on foot, down a small path that runs along the shore, through thickets and a fishing village. The water sparkles under an already high and fierce sun. Fortunately, a nice breeze lightens the air a little. As I approach the castle, I find myself facing a long anthracite stone wall, behind which stand majestic trees, superbly aligned, leaving me gently dreaming. I get closer, and realize that this is a cemetery. Scandinavians obviously don’t have the same relationship to eternal resting places as we do. Here, everyone strolls and bicycles freely through cemeteries. But there’s nothing morbid about it. This place in particular moves me: there’s such a delightful atmosphere, peaceful and beautiful, protective. Far above my head, an ample breeze stirs the tide of leaves. I tell myself that the dead must be comfortable there.

Once in Kalmar, I take the time to get familiar with the place before throwing myself at the first spot that comes along. In any case, it’s still a bit early – very few cafés open before 10 or 11 am in Sweden. In the meantime, I stroll along the ramparts, through the cobbled streets, visit Klapphuset (a wash house built in 1857), then the church and one or two stores. With all that, it’s almost noon. As I haven’t had breakfast, I brunch at OAS café, and take some time to get on with my travel diary. I end my sightseeing loop with a visit to the tiny gamla stan (old town), full of hollyhocks, and to the medieval castle, built in the 13th century. Its realistic yet playful settings from old times instantly transport you to another era.

Sitting by the water on the campsite pontoon, I study the map of the island of Öland, which I’ll be exploring by bike the next day. In the evening, I continue my tour of the peninsula, discovering its western shore. A fabulous golden light covers the peaceful water of the lake, and the little boat that cruises along it. As on previous nights, I’m woken many times by this unsettling day that dawns at 3am. Even the mask doesn’t help.

When it’s finally time to wake up, the sky is all gray. A little disappointed, I slip my k-way into my bag, hoping that the weather will turn in my favor. I take the path I’d taken the day before, the one that runs alongside the sea. It takes me an hour to get to the bus station, and believe it or not, my bus arrives the second I set foot on the platform. That kind of synchronicity. It takes me to Borgholm, the main town on the island of Öland, which faces Kalmar. It’s a big island, 137 kilometers long, and you need several days to explore it from top to bottom. But I’ve only got one day, my thighs and a bike to do it. So I decided to concentrate on the coast north of Borgholm.

Today’s objective: to reach Byrum, approximately 50 km away. Estimated pedaling time: 2h47.

Despite what I’d read, Borgholm isn’t very interesting. I don’t linger, and head off to pick up my bike instead: a beautiful red bicycle, wide saddle and basket, mechanical as it is (the electric one was a bit out of my budget). I set off into the forest, heading first towards the castle on its promontory (which I’m not going to visit, as I already had my amount of old-stone the day before), then for the Solliden castle, one of the royal family’s residences, renowned for the beauty of its gardens. After the visit, I stay to grab a bite in the small cottage-like café that borders the estate, watching the sky oscillate between stormy mood and sunny mood.

When I set off again, it’s almost 1pm. I’m going to have to pedal hard if I want to reach Byrum. I take a quick look at the map, trusting my good sense of direction and the route signs for the rest. Very naturally, I find myself stopped on the side of the road 500 meters further on, turning my phone on every way, as I try to understand where I am. Same again another 500 meters later. Let’s be honest: staying on the main road bores me a bit. But the small adjacent roads, although much prettier, go in directions that (I’ll realize it later) don’t work on my favor. All in all, they allow me to discover a few picturesque places, but mainly to lose myself in the countryside.

It’s only once I’ve reached the middle of a cornfield, crossed a farmyard and thought I’d come across a lake, that I decide to return to the main road and follow it, no matter what. To sum up the situation: I’m only 4 kilometers away from my starting point. Thinking I was heading for the north of the island, I was heading more or less towards the center, at the exact opposite of the coastline. I feel like an idiot, but I can’t help but to laugh at myself on my bike, as I turn back to the right direction. I also realize that reaching Byrum is impossible. If I reach the town of Sandvik, 30 km away, that’ll be good enough, and if I really can’t make it, I must at least reach the sea.

My little setbacks aside, Öland lives up to its promise. The scenery is enchanting: vast bright fields, peaceful meadows overflowing with white and purple flowers, arid plains with yellow grass and dry stones, reminiscent of the American West. At last, I reach the long-awaited fork in the road that will offer me the reward I’ve been coveting all afternoon: the sea. It reveals itself below, dazzling in its moiré blue dress. I’m stupidly happy at the sight. I’d seen the sea before, but never in Äleklinta, a tiny village planted with two old blood-red windmills, strewn with purplish flowers and lavishly flowered houses.

I find a pebble beach where the silence is disturbed only by the breathing of the waves. No matter how hard I concentrate, I hear nothing else. Not a movement, not a presence. What a privilege. 

After this meditative pause feet in the water, I set off for home. That’s when I realize that on the outward journey, the wind was at my back. I stop a few more times to immortalize my island trip, especially at a small winery estate where I witness a family of chickens crossing the road. On my bike, I sing, and sometimes even talk to myself. It’s blowing pretty hard and nobody would hear me anyway. The air smell is golden, like the light: warm earth, dry grass, flowers, wind.

I return my bike, dizzy with the wind that was blowing quite strong in the last kilometer (and really not at my back) and head off to catch the 5.30pm return bus. I’m delighted to be back in Kalmar, needing a bit of civilization after this immersion in the empty plains of Öland.

I buy myself some caramel-coated peanuts, and slowly make my way back to the campsite, observing the coast life, which strikes me as the allegory of simple pleasures: the local orchestra giving a concert in the park of the Museum of Modern Art, cute hares running around, groups playing croquet and ball in the wide expanses of grass, picnic tables covered with beautiful tablecloths, bottles and colorful dishes. People are still bathing. This country is enchanting.

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Playlist of the trip