Stockholm – Falun
via Gavle – 2 trains / 3h01 of travel

In the still-sleeping dormitory, I quietly repack my bag. My freshly washed clothes and underwear, hanging from the railing of my bed, are put back into their bags. I stack everything carefully. Everything has its place, every pocket its purpose.

I leave Stockholm under a gray sky. The cobblestones of the old town glisten with fresh rain, and I take it as a sign: the capital is saying goodbye. I can leave without regret. Through the train window, I glimpse landscapes subtly different from those I have already passed through. They seem wilder, more remote. Like an allegory of the north. But perhaps it’s just my imagination… I am only traveling as far as the first third of the country.

FALUN

A simple courtesy stop on the day’s journey, Falun had been described as a point of interest not to be missed. It is home to Sweden’s largest copper mine, a UNESCO World Heritage Site. It is from this crater that the pigments used to produce the red paint emblematic of Swedish architecture are extracted.

While the town itself is not particularly memorable, the mine site is truly remarkable. Vast and freely accessible, it spreads around a large circular crater, dotted with original buildings and reconstructed dwellings that take us back into the daily life of Swedish miners seventy years ago. I hesitate to take the tour, my body violently resisting any effort. I am hot and aching all over, having quickly forgotten that walking for miles with fifteen kilos on my back is not quite the same as walking without it. In the end, I agree to the visit. Reason tells me that this is probably the only time I will ever be here, and letting laziness get the better of me would be a waste.

As usual, I do not regret the extra effort. The view from the other side is refreshing. I even arrive in time for the guided tour of the mine, taking advantage of the museum guard’s good nature. He is only too happy to practice his rudimentary French and agrees to let me leave my bag under his supervision, since it is too big for the lockers. With my orange helmet and matching fluorescent cape, I set off to explore the bowels of the earth.

Falun – Tällberg
via Borlange et Leksand –  3 trains / 1h21 of travel

The mine tour turns out to be surprisingly interesting. Back at the station, I experience my first train delay. In fifteen days of travel, that is not too bad. I practice patience, sitting on a bench on the deserted platform. I am now heading toward the northernmost leg of my journey. Two days by Lake Siljan, in the small village of Tällberg. And small is not an understatement, nor merely a charming way of describing it. Tällberg is literally microscopic, with a couple of hotels and a campsite, but no grocery store or café.

As I leave the station, I am greeted by beautiful sunshine and colorful houses with flower-filled gardens, perfectly maintained. The road slopes downward, and I follow it. A little over three kilometers ahead, according to the sign. It is lined with vegetation and neatly mowed lawns, and the shoulders are dotted with lupines and daisies. Otherwise, there is nothing. I do not meet anyone. I have never been so far from civilization since the beginning of this trip. And the road goes on and on. I cannot walk anymore. The pleasant atmosphere is not enough to make me forget my legs, stiff as sticks, my burning feet, my back covered in aches and raw patches. Over and over in my head, I tell myself that this lake had better be worth it. And this road never ends. Damn it.

When I finally spot it, it is still far away, below me. The road begins to descend steeply, and my first thought is that I will have to climb back up again. Please help. Then the shore comes into view. The pontoon, the languid boats, a few rounded rocks. So much silence, so much space, so little movement. That thick, enveloping feeling of being far away from everything. Of inhabiting calm, splendor, simplicity. My suffering, like my grumpy complaints, is already just a memory. All that remains is this incredible opportunity I have been given to experience what I am experiencing.

I take my place at the campsite, with a private picnic table, no less, and rush to test the dark, cool water, which I enter almost without shivering. The gray pontoon floating a few meters from the shore becomes my anchor for the next hour.

My stay in Tällberg is a departure from my usual temperament. I do not know how to do nothing. I always need to be busy, filling my time usefully, moving around, discovering new things. Dalarna is also known for its cultural traditions and the many activities on offer. Cycling, kayaking, hiking… I was spoiled for choice. But I do not know whether it was the logistical complexity, the strict monitoring of my budget, or the simple desire to try my hand at idleness that led me not to make any plans. In any case, it was the best thing I could have done.

I find myself cooking in the small, very cozy common area, where two Swedish women are playing a lively game of cards. A mustachioed Florentine is on dish duty, and I serve him what remains of my years of Italian. Through the window, I see the sky taking on surreal hues, so I end up sitting by the water until after 11:30 p.m. I melt into the landscape, with my music and this gentle, slow energy, this glow of the midnight sun showing me the way.

I spend the next morning reading in this same wooden kitchen, with a cup of bad coffee in my hand. But that does not matter. Later, I walk back up the long road to the station, this time without my backpack, to go to the neighboring village of Leksand. There is a scent of cinnamon and flowers in the air, rising from the asphalt and the wet roadsides after the night’s rain. The sun peeks timidly from behind a cloudy sky. It is hot. Heavy.

The small station, shutters closed, which reminds me of the one in my village, sees the train arrive. I get on. I think I am the only passenger.

from Leksand, I bring nothing back . I only take with me the immense joy of a delicious, typically Swedish meal: a salad bar, soup, a single dish of the day – a divine chili con carne – and a dessert buffet complete with a waffle iron for making your own waffles on the spot. Meanwhile, torrential rain pours down outside.

On the way back, the sky is dry, but the rain has stirred the atoms of nature. Petrichor. That is what they call those strange, heady scents that awaken memories after the rain. Lush grass. Freshly turned earth. I walk through a world of scents and movement.

I stumble upon two unlikely shops. One is a ceramics workshop that also sells second-hand clothes, from which I emerge with a fabulous floral skirt that fits me perfectly. Or perhaps it was fate at work. Another shop is a haven of beauty and a paradise for the senses for lovers, like me, of English atmospheres filled with flowers, warm lamps, fragrant soaps, velvet cushions, and antique engravings. The parquet floor creaks under my feet.

Who would have thought that Tällberg would be home to such places?

Tällberg – Motala
1 train / 4h27 of travel

I leave the campsite early in the morning, having taken care to settle my bill the day before. It is early, but already warm. My arms are bare. I start my journey up the road, music in my ears. I did consider asking someone at the campsite for a quick lift to the station. But it would have felt like cheating.
Despite the fatigue and the pain, walking has become an integral part of this journey. I have discovered what connects me to it, as a human being. This intimate, archaic connection. Walking is a power. It is what we have left when there is nothing else. It is movement, it is sustenance, it is hope. Without it, I would never have had the feeling of truly passing through places, of experiencing them, of feeling them. Nor would I ever have discovered how robust my body is, or how combative and resilient my spirit can be. It has become my companion, as much as my challenge.

My final destination is not Motala, but Vadstena, a medieval town on the shores of Lake Vättern, the second largest lake in the country. From the train station, I catch a bus that drops me off at the entrance of a cobbled street. Here, everything is a maze of old streets, colorful wooden windows, and overflowing flower boxes. It looks like something out of a picture book. I see an old woman pulling a wooden cart loaded with a metal coffee pot and cakes. She stops to offer them to the shopkeepers who have small stalls along the street. It must be flea market day. Several of them are amused to see me there. A French woman lost in Vadstena. That is not something you see every day.

I eat a salad I made myself, thanks to Picadeli buffets, by the lake under an almost irritating sun. Then I debate at length with myself whether or not to visit the castle, to finally decide in favor of yes, for the same reason that prompted me to tour the Falun mine. I did not travel halfway across Europe just to look at lakes and take pictures of flowers.

It is more stripped down than the one in Kalmar, but still pleasant to see. My real pleasure, however, comes from the coffee break I treat myself to on the way out, at Bageri Hamilton. I try a sugar bun – usually they are cinnamon or cardamom – and this one is amazing. I take the opportunity to finish reading Narcissus and Goldmund by Hermann Hesse, a book recommended by a friend and chosen to accompany this adventure. A very fitting choice when you are wandering.

I wander a little longer through the charming streets of the village, then collapse from the heat at the bus stop. All I want is to reach the campsite, pitch my tent, and dive into the water. I feel as if hot steam is escaping from my body.

Far from the trees and birds of Tällberg, the campsite here is huge and teeming with people. It takes me nearly ten minutes to walk to my spot. I keep my goal in mind: the water, the lake, me in it. 

Once my tent is set up, I make a detour to the showers to change into my swimsuit. In the middle of getting ready, I notice a nasty spider near the window. Big body, small pointed legs. A typical field spider. I ignore it and continue taking off my clothes.

Then I notice a second one and look up. There is a third on the ceiling. Then four, five… In fact, they are everywhere. Hanging randomly above my head. I start to feel sick, with unpleasant shivers down my spine and a slight tachycardia. It is ridiculous, but knowing they are there fills me with absolutely unreasonable anxiety. I imagine them all dropping on me at the same time. It is oppressive. And I am completely naked, incidentally.

The final straw comes when I see the one near the ceiling light. It is huge. And it is moving. Total panic. I have never put on a swimsuit so fast in my life.

I run out of this hellish room, only to realize a few meters later that I have left my bathroom access badge on the sink. For sure, I will never be able to do Fort Boyard.

I find peace in the mirror-like water. Lake Vättern is so vast that it looks like the sea. You cannot see where it ends. The sand is soft, and I walk far and long until the water reaches my hips. The sun reflects so strongly that it feels as though I am swimming in liquid tin.

I have dinner on the grass, enjoying a memorable sunset. The night is just as memorable, though for different reasons. A storm rages outside, and the wind wakes me abruptly, making the tent flap violently. It takes me a few seconds to realize that it is only the elements unleashed. A few seconds during which I feel this unpleasant shock run through my gut. Fear. It makes me realize that I have not been afraid once since the beginning of this trip. And if it takes a tent battered by the sky to remind me of that, I will gladly take it. 

[to read the previous episode of my train journey through Sweden, head over here!]

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IN MY EARS