It's pronounced Yurn-Shopping

July 20, 2017

Bolmsö to Jönköping

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I needed my alarm clock to wake me up good and early, so I could attempt to get the chain ferry I'd been gazing at all the previous day across the lake and so cut out a twenty mile diversion back along the East side. The final leg to my first goal of Jönköping looked on paper to be the longest I had yet attempted at 70 mile (not to mention the least populated) - and given that I was adding 10-20% onto the distance each day I needed to get an early start. The ferry left at half 7, but then not again until 9, and I was keen not to waste too much time getting going.

Fortunately the tiny ferry dock was just around the corner from the beach and the forested shore where I'd camped. After a reverse of the rigmarole of the previous night (carrying my panniers back out to the bike in stages) but this time in complete solitude, I loaded up the bike and recharged my water at the public facilities next to the dock. The weather looked to be fine and still, so I anticipated good if hot riding and made sure I filled my "bladder" up with a couple of extra litres.

Half seven passed, but there was no sign of the ferry plying along its chain. On the ferry shelter was a phone and a rather prominent sign with "use the phone to summon the ferry!" in several languages. Not generally being one to ring bells at hotel receptions etc, I'd put off using it, but during quiet times it did seem this was an on-demand ferry. Picking it up and speaking a few words of badly pronounced Swedish into it yielded the gruff response of "I come ... I come..." - and sure enough the ferry started to move across the lake.

As it came into dock, the ferryman greeted me with a rather effusive grin and wave - I was glad my dodgy Swedish hadn't given a pushy impression - and after we boarded (a tractor was the only other traffic) immediately started chatting to me in fairly perfect English. He asked me where I'd stayed, and I (slightly sheepishly) told him about the little wood around the bay from the beach. He looked puzzled ... and then asked me why I hadn't just ridden the bike into the wood as well. Clearly, he'd clocked my (to be fair, somewhat distinctive looking bike) chained up to the barrier in his evening trips on the ferry, and was far more concerned that it could've been nicked than where I was camping. I wasn't too worried on that score - I don't think there was a soul about after about 8pm - but his concern was touching.

As we reached the other side of the lake, I hung about slightly awkwardly, not quite sure how much I owed him. He hopped down out the cabin, and breezily told me - he had an hour until the next crossing, so he was going for a walk in the sun. A free crossing and a very relaxed ferryman - with the sun shining and the lake a brilliant blue, I felt very warmly towards Sweden.

Right after setting off and pulling up the gentle slope away from the lake, I did a double take and had to double back - a field full of llamas! I took this as a good omen and pulled out of the hamlet of Sunnyard.

I was quite surprised to see this sign immediately after Sunnaryd. But no, the sign is for "S" Unnaryd, a completely different town. Nothing confusing about that!

The plan for the first half of the day was to wend my way North, taking advantage of the relatively open countryside and network of country lanes to find my way to Bredaryd and Gnosjö, two small towns on the East-West rail lines running through the relatively populated area to the coast. At Gnosjö I would take the opportunity to stock up for lunch - I had quite exhausted my supplies after pigging out on the beach the previous afternoon, and I knew the forest closed in again, and there would be no more settlements of significant until I hit Taberg, just south of Jönköping.

The weather was idyllic, fine and still; the road was open and gently rolling; and navigation was a synch as rolled up towards Bredaryd. The area seemed quiet and prosperous: I passed many houses which looked to be holiday homes, some of them occupied, and more than a few with disc-shaped lawn mower robots patrolling the gardens. Most of the lawns in this part of Sweden continued right to the road or pavement verge: I found myself wondering how many robots wandered into the road. Given the almost complete absence of traffic I doubt it would have ended in disaster.

North of lake Bolmen the land opened up again for pretty vistas and a gently rolling road

Robot lawnmower - these seemed really popular around the prosperous holiday homes I passed. Not once did I see one straying into the road (and there was little traffic even if they did)

Maypole wreaths, remains of midsummer celebrations I think. Of course, the ashes from the wicker men had been cleared away by the time I passed through...

I found the road from Ås (not pronouned "Ass", apparently) to Bredaryd without difficulty, and passed through the town and past the railway rapidly. To avoid spending any time on the Red route 2, I travelled a couple of kilometres on the Orange 152 instead, and was pleased to leave it by cutting to the West as the traffic was comparatively intense and there was little shoulder.

The going quickly became laid back again, and as I continued North the forest closed back in and I found myself skirting a very pretty lake on my left (sadly not pictured). At the Northern tip nearest Gnosjö a well-appointed campsite was very much operating - I was somewhat relieved to find the campsite closure I'd experienced on Bolmsö was not general, and with campers swimming in the sunshine on the lake it looked very jolly.

By bike, the route into Gnosjö is very straightforward with a dedicated bike path cutting passed a church and straight into town: cars are forced to go around to the bypass junction. I rolled into Gnosjö, and peddling up a suburban street soon found the ICA supermarket. As I left and started loading my panniers with provisions - lots of cheese, fruit, chocolate, bread for lunch - and a brainwave, Holloumi that I could cook on my stove - I came across a fellow tourist, of indeterminate nationality and language, having a very confused English conversation with a local.

It turned out he was looking for a place to camp - specifically (and he was very emphatic on this) a Stuga, which is a simple wooden chalet. I let him know about the opportunity near the lake, and pointed out some other possibilities on my map (with the requisite warning that sites may or may not actually exist). Of course I had no idea how to drive there: I hope he found the way.

I set out from Gnosjö to find a lunching spot. Gnosjö was perfectly pleasant but had an odd vibe to it. The whole town is split by the railway, and I had to cycle all the way along to find the crossing point. One house what I can only describe as gigantic gravestones in its garden. The petrol station looks like something from the Jetsons. I also got mobile reception for the first time in a while, just in time to handle a bizarre call from an IT helpdesk at work - it took a lot of insistence for them to accept that I was in the middle of Sweden, and no I could not try logging into a particular server...

Gigantic gravestones. I really should have got a closer look at these...

The only place to cross the railway which bisects the town

It was an easy run through now dense forest to Åsenhöga, the last village of any size before I entered what would be my first really unpopulated stretch - a good 20 miles of dirt roads, forests and lakes with no settlements to speak separated me from Taberg and Jönköping. I had a simple lunch on the obligatory bench outside the pleasant church in the village - it was sweltering.

My lunch spot. The secular Swedes, having less use for their lutheran churches, have repurposed them as waymarks and lunching spots for touring cyclists.

After lunch I found the well-signed turn to Tranhult and set off, with more excitement than trepidation. The road began with a made surface, but as I passed through the last farms and the forest closed in quickly turned to compacted dirt. I was pleased to see an absence of gravel - under dry conditions both slower and more perilous on my 35C tyres. I fairly zipped along the deserted and increasingly silent roads.

Typical composition of roads away from the main arteries in lesser-populated area. In good weather and with my tyres, this compacted dirt is significantly smoother than gravel.

In places the surface became a little rougher, and the road wove through dense pines. I trusted my compass, and there was little opportunity to get lost. The sense of isolation became quite real, though.

First evidence of snakes. I saw a fair few dead ones on the roads in Southern Sweden. Later, I would see more animated specimins...

I passed briefly back onto a paved road at Tranhult - not a settlement at all - and then back onto the dirt roads to the North, heading for Bondstorp which would signify the end of the wilderness.

Soon after I reached a major metaphorical milestone in my journey - the changing of the maps! I parked my bike against a (literal) milestone, and took a photo to commemorate passing from Freytag & Berndt "Southern Sweden" to "Southwest Sweden". This involved removing the cardboard jacket to be used for notemaking, and expertly folding the new map before violently stuffing in my bar bag.

It was interesting that such an obscure route still had quite frequent mile markers - it seems it must have been a historically more significant North-South route through Jönköpingslän. At first I got confused (and dispirited) clocking my progress against these milestones, until I realised that they measure distances in Scandinavian miles - where one mil is equivalent to 10km! It seems they just need a bigger scale in Sweden... Generally they indicate 1/4 mil intervals.

Map changing ceremony with blue shift leant up against a "mil" stone

Over the last few miles I had been distracted by a nice rhythmic clicking coming from my drivetrain. It wasn't causing any trouble, but I noted that I should take a look at it as soon as I'd found civilization.

I had almost crossed the expanse of forest, and signs of civilization had started to appear in the odd farm house. Passing a particularly pretty lake, I paused to take a photo - as I remounted the bike on the hill, I stood up on the peddle only for there to be a loud snap and top jerk forward. Of course, I had snapped the chain.

Being a veteran of many chain breakages (I now have my theories about what is causing them) this didn't worry me too much: I had a chain tool and plenty of length to spare, it was just a matter or removing the broken link and connecting back up. But for some reason - the heat, or my tiredness - it gave me the devil of a job. First, I didn't want to have to remove all the luggage to invert the bike, but I couldn't find anywhere to lean it. In the end I settled for wheeling it up a verge and leaning it against a utility box (which was oddly in the middle of nowhere). There was then a lot of swearing and getting oil on hands and trousers as I tried to take the tension off the chain to get it in the chain tool. A five minute job when calm can become very frustrating under bad conditions. Anyway, feeling slightly foolish I got the job done, and in some disgust left the link that had let me down on top of the utility box.

The chain worried the back of my mind for the rest of the ride, but in the event I didn't have any more trouble with it. But after I got home, it failed again repeatedly, and soon it became clear it was defective. What caused its poor performance? It was good quality, and brand new. I strongly suspect now that the waxing treatment which I had given it - repeatedly - had adversely affected the integrity of the chain. In terms of lubrication, it was excellent, but I am beginning to suspect that many chains rely upon the stickiness of factory lubricant that never gets displaced between the links for proper adhesion. Without this - and soaking in molten wax presumably acts as a solvent and removes it - it doesn't take much to pull a chain plate over a pin. Once this happens it begins to catch - the sound I had heard - and failure of that link is inevitable.

What a beautiful view! Unfortunately it was because I stopped to take a photo and then put some extra strain on the chain that I managed to snap it...

Somewhat relieved that nobody was around to hear my swearing, I got under way again, and was soon coming across individual houses around the lakes nearing Bondstorp. I had crossed the forest and was now entering the orbit of Jönköping: the roads were again tarmac, I felt good and picked up speed, heading all the time for the town of Taberg.

Tarberg is famous hereabouts for the bizarre geological anomaly that towers over the town. It forms a huge outcrop in an area of gently rolling hills that is referred to the "miracle in Småland", and is made of unusual minerals (iron and vanadium) that may be of interstellar origin: the mountain is thought to have been formed by an impacting meteorite. It also apparently hosts all sorts of unusual alpine flora: Carl Linneus made many trips here to study the diversity of species.

I could see Mt Taberg for many miles as I approached the town. It towers over the road, forming a kind of gate guarding the beginning of the long descent to the shore of lake Vättern and Jönköping. As I came into Taberg I joined a more major road, and was sharing it with traffic coming down through the town. The road gets narrow as it passes beneath the mountain, and I had to keep my wits about me even as I was distracted by the sight.

The weird geological anomaly of Mount Taberg towers above the town

Passing beneath the mountain I felt I was on the home stretch, and happily pushed the bike into the descent on the increasingly busy road. I hadn't warranted on just how extensive the suburbs of Jönköping were, though. Taberg and its surrounding settlements are strung along a long valley, and the descent seemed to go on and on. Even though I was losing height, battling the traffic and occasional roadworks was becoming exhausting.

Soon the road flattened out, and I passed around 10km pushing myself through outer suburbs with increasing exhaustion. I forget how punishing arriving in a large city can be at the end of a long ride. At long last I approached the motorway interchange after Hovslätt, and managed to find a bike route beneath. All of a sudden, I was in suburban streets, with comparative high-rises of the centre of Jönköping before me. With an obvious landmark, I pushed towards it, and was soon in what was obviously the centre.

First view of the centre of Jönköping. I was very glad to see this.

On top of my exhaustion, I didn't have an obvious destination for the night's stay, and I knew I needed to find somewhere before it became too late: there would be no wild camping in the biggest city in the region, and I was very keen to find a formal campsite after three nights in the wild. I knew there was a good city campsite, but had no idea on how to find it.

Writing this up several months later, I surprise myself with what details my memory has retained. It's also surprising at how much my exhaustion coming into Jönköping stopped me registering what I was doing. I found the campsite, many kilometres away over a strange town, somehow and with remarkable efficiency, but looking back it has the automatic texture of a dream I am genuinely not sure how it went some smoothly. It's not the first time something autonomous has taken over during exhaustion - but I find it amazing that it works in navigating an unfamiliar city, rather than for basic survival.

At any rate, this is what I remember. I blindly headed into the centre of town, wheeling my bike through pedestrian streets that seemed uncomfortably crowded to me after my time in the woods, I somehow and not by design managed to locate a tourist information centre. Rather fussily locking up my bike - I was convinced I was in the big city here, and it would be stolen as soon as I left it - I dashed inside, but of course it had closed (it was around 6pm at this point).

But there was some success - they had left out city maps. I grabbed one, and correlated the very vague indication I had on my cycle map (somewhere to the East of centre). The weird thing is, is that I have the map in front of me now, and there is no campsite marked on it. I must have figured it out somehow, but I just can't remember.

I set off again, heading East along the lake shore in a rather haphazard fashion. At first I was on a very busy street, but soon I managed to work my way to the boardwalk along shore. I began to relax: this was much more pleasant, I couldn't really get lost, and surely the camping site would accept arrivals.

At the Eastern end of the beach, I pushed the bike up a steep slope into the district of Rosenlund. After some casting about in the little streets of the area I spotted a lot of tents on the other side of a fence, and found the entrance. I think I looked so delighted when told I could stay the woman on reception looked rather surprised.

I found myself a secluded spot at the bottom field, and rather sluggishly put up the tent. I had my first warm shower in 4 days and changed into my oil-free "city" clothes. Feeling lightheaded, I headed back down towards the town to find something to eat. A path from the campsite lead through the woods and back down to the beach. It was serene and rather unreal walking along the brilliantly lit beach.

My camping site. Again, I was too exhausted to make much of an effort in putting the tent up.

View through the woods from the path to the campsite, looking over lake Vättern

The "boardwalk", with lots of happy families enjoying the sun, and my shadow, which is what I felt like

A reworking of the nuclear power classic. I like the idea of Jönköping marketing itself as the resort alternative to Stockholm

Nice mural on a mysterious cylindrical building on the lake shore

It may look like the seaside, but it's all fresh water, as the ducks reminded me

It was a longer walk than I expected, and it was past 8pm by the time I got into the town proper. I was ravenous at this point, but had quite time finding any restaurants. I wondered out onto the harbourside, where there were some (frankly not too impressive looking) chain restaurants which were heaving with punters. Thinking anything would do, I got in line (!) for an American sports-style place, but the service looked chaotic and it didn't move for about 10 minutes. I gave up, and dodging a young kid who was on a mission to interest me in Jesus, spotted a Chinese restaurant that looked decent.

This was Gamla Wok, and I'd definitely recommend it if in town - they served me a delicious meal of noodle soup and huge amounts of tofu, and even with starköl it was pretty reasonably. This was my first meal not cooked over my disposable hexifuel stove for 4 days: I have rarely eaten a meal so fast. Between my stuffing myself, two things stand out. My fellow diners behind me were speaking English - curious, I eavesdropped, and found they weren't tourists, but logistics experts from some local shipping centre. This detail captures much of the feel of Jönköping to me: it's a working, slightly gritty city, far from the tourist trail.

The second was my attempt to order further beer, but (to be easier on the wallet) to try the light beer, lättöl. This lead to mystification from the waiter, even when pointing at the menu. Confused myself, I persisted, and went to point to it in the fridge cabinet. They still looked confused. Suddenly the penny dropped: oh, lEtt - OOl. It seems my pronunciation was so far out it made matters worse than pointing. The lättöl was interesting but it's a bit of a stretch calling it beer: it's sold next to the soft drinks, and that's really what it tastes like. Refreshing though.

Truly exhausted now, I made my way back along the lake shore as the sun set over the western side. It was really very dark as I came to the end, and it crossed my mind that at it might be a dodgy place after dark, but I think this was largely my perceptions being uncallibrated to the city. At any rate, I got back to tent without mishap and collapsed in a dreamless sleep.

An English-style pub. I like the way it's just *slightly* off - I can't think of a real English pub called "The Bishop's Arms".

Today's ride: 72 miles (116 km)
Total: 287 miles (462 km)

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