Stockholm

In the Royal Palace

The 16-carriage express train pulled into Stockholm station around 4 pm. Three and a quarter hours of travelling through a landscape of forests and lakes with the occasional settlement, usually hosting more industrial buildings than houses. My hotel was about a mile north of the station in the heart of Norrmalm. The hotel was modern, with a large corner room on the top floor. Very Swedish, with all amenities available, and the receptionist gave me recommendations for good nearby restaurants. I spent an hour or so exploring the neighbourhood before selecting an Italian restaurant. The waitress was Palestinian and had settled into Swedish life with ease and gratitude. It appeared that Stockholm was a well-integrated cosmopolitan city, although my novel suggested a darker side. I began to plan the next few days, taking into account the weather forecasts, which were for mellow autumnal days with an occasional shower.

I bought a three-day ticket for the metro and buses for £16 and decided to head for Gamla Stan, the heart of the city, an island wedged into the waters between Norrmalm and Södermalm. The Royal Palace, Cathedral, and Nobel Museum were there, along with the panoply of attractions that gravitate around these magnets of global tourism. It was still early, and the streets were quiet. I admired the patterns of the cobbled streets and felt my way towards Stortoget, the square adjacent to the Nobel Museum. I entered the museum when it opened, and a guide was assigned to the first group of visitors. It is not a large museum, and the talk she gave was so much more revealing than I could have achieved by pottering round in my usual style. 

Alfred Nobel was a chemist and linguist whose wealth arose from the invention of dynamite and gelignite. He became the owner of Bofors, a steel producer that he transformed into an armament manufacturer. His wealth came from inventing ways to kill people; this reputation rankled with him, leading him to bequeath his considerable estate to more noble causes. Five prizes to be given annually to eminent people of any nationality in the fields of physics, chemistry, medical science, or physiology, and for literary work. His final Prize was for the furtherance of international fraternity or Peace and to be managed by the Norwegian Parliament who would nominate five independent judges. This was to ensure that Sweden would not be seen to be influencing the decision. I was greatly moved by the tour and spent the next half hour in the cathedral, seated on a bench and reflecting.

I had thought about a visit to the Palace, but there is only so much culture to be observed in a day, so I walked down to the harbour areas and booked a boat trip to the archipelago for Sunday. And then along some of the busy pedestrianised shopping streets where I called in for a late lunch in one of the cafes that spilled out into the road, and being Stockholm was in a dining pod. I spent the late afternoon travelling to one of the coastal stops on the Metro. The weather was changing, and I had already walked miles, so I travelled back to the hotel to read my novel and watch some news on TV.

I had read that there were tours around the Parliament and made that my first objective for the day. The guard on gate duty told me that there could be no tours when the Parliament was not sitting and that it could take weeks for the next government to be agreed upon following the election. The Royal Palace was close by, and the posters in the square outside made it look appealing. It was a monstrous building that could hold Buckingham Palace in its basement, where the crown jewels were kept with a collection of swords and crowns that belied the modest lifestyle of the Royals. They had been married on my birthday, 50 years ago, and from the photographic exhibition, they seemed to lead a very normal life despite the history and opulence of the crown estate. 

Meetings of the Parliament took place in the Palace several times a year, and receptions for visiting heads of state were held in the Palace. There was a gallery based on the Palace of Versailles and a reception room adorned with furniture, clocks, and uniforms that were probably even more expensive than if they had been sold by Fjällräven.

This made me think it was time to visit one of the large parks that surround Stockholm. I headed by Metro and then bus to Hagaparken, a Royal National City Park founded by Gustav III. There is a large lake that provides a 12-kilometre path that would have made a perfect run a couple of years ago. The University of Stockholm is located on the other side of the lake. I had a late lunch in a massive tented structure and walked around part of the Lake. The park is home to many royal palaces and follies. I returned to the hotel, getting in before some heavy rain. 

The next day was an early start to catch a boat through the archipelago to the island of Grinda, where we had 4 hours to explore an unspoilt island, lush with oak, pine, and birch trees, and clearings for sheep and cattle. Unfortunately, it was out of season, and none of the three cafes were open, and the holiday cabins were all closed at the end of the season. Neveteless the walks were splendid as they snaked around the coast.

Church at Odenplan

Royal Apartments

Cathedral

Nobel Museum

Perfectly laid cobbles everywhere

Hagaparkan lunch stop

Hagaparkan Lake

Royal Palace

Archipelago Trip

Island summer huts

Island residencies 

Grinda

Perimeter path on Grinda

Grinda beach

Leaving Grinda

Djurgarden Fun Fair

Sweden and Göteborg

Lunch at a Haga Cafe

I grew up with fantasies about countries from watching films, TV series, listening to and reading about countries in encyclopedias. They always fascinated me. America had everything: scenery, modern inventions that everyone seemed to have, red indians and lots of fun things to do. Our family Doctor was Jewish and regaled us with tales of the kibbutz, which reshaped collectivism and drew in young people from all over the world, an international outlook with a cooperative way of living. Russia was the biggest country, with immense resources, amazing technologies that took them into space, and they topped the medal tables in the Olympic Games. And Sweden was awash with ideas, talented people from Alfred Nobel to Bjorn Borg, and innovative products that belied its small size. 

Dislodging these childhood fantasies has happened gradually. The USA had plundered other countries for raw materials and cheap labour, and had become one of the most unequal societies in the world despite its size and immense wealth. Israel had forsaken its role as a model for international collectivism and had become a belligerent and military state. Russia has imploded on itself as it has adopted a totalitarian form of capitalism and aggression towards Europe. 

What about Sweden? I had never been there, although I had owned Saabs for 10 years, bought furniture, and admired their commitment to a form of social democracy that made it a wealthy egalitarian country with quality universal health, education and family policies. It encouraged a partnership between the state and businesses with workers' participation. It had a relatively low Gini coefficient, like most Scandinavian countries, but that has risen in the past decade in parallel with its output of Scandi Noir novels, TV series, and films. 

I had not travelled abroad for 15 months, and when I spotted low-cost flights to Göteborg from Edinburgh, I booked a 6-day trip. I would have a couple of days in Göteborg and then travel by train to Stockholm. The early morning 90-minute flight took us over the southern tip of Norway and the northern tip of Denmark at Skagen. The contrast between the commercially driven, crowded, dysfunctional and design disaster that is Edinburgh Airport and the well-designed, efficient operation of Gothenburg Airport was palpable. The one-hour time difference and excellent bus service from the airport meant I was in the centre of Göteborg by 11am. I bought a Swedish novel at a bookshop on the way to the hotel, where the receptionist gave me a room straight away. One of my daughters had always given positive reviews about Göteborg; she was not wrong. 

The buildings in the city centre were substantial and pleasing, as were the 6-storey blocks of well-designed flats that were well served by local shops. The urban design was people-centred with city squares, walkways and cycleways. Trams and electric buses were plying through the wide boulevards, planted with trees and interlaced with canals. All embellished with stylish and robust street furniture. The pavements and roads were mainly granite and cobble sets that were impeccably maintained. 

There were no empty shops, and bicycles and scooters nipped through the streets at a pace that was competitive with car travel. The majority of cars were electric. I twisted my way through the massive Nordstan shopping centre and found an information pop-up stall on a nearby square where two helpful guides gave me their recommendations of what to visit in the city. This place was seriously sustainable, and the food was good, as I discovered when I dropped into a cafe in Haga, a city centre suburb that was alive with locals and autumnal tourists. The German couple sitting next to me at a large table were equally impressed; their young daughter wanted to practice her English with me.

Next up was a climb to Skansen Kronan, a high point that gave a bird's-eye view of the city. As my step count mounted, I decided to visit the Göteborg Art Museum for some respite. I trekked past the University, through busy central-area suburbs dotted with institutional buildings like libraries and galleries. I had wanted to see some Scandi modernism, but was also intrigued by the museum's collection of impressionist paintings. I headed for the top floor and found Van Goghs and Picassos amongst the Swedish Modernists. I was feeling exhausted as I tramped back to my hotel in the centre on a footpath running alongside the river in one of the many parks. I was too tired after a 4am start and 23,000 steps to be bothered going out, so I read my novel and had a snack in the hotel before an early night.

I spent the next morning visiting the parts of the city centre that I had not happened upon the day before. The market building had local produce to activate my taste buds. I walked along the canals and visited some shops in the extensive range of retail establishments that were well curated and full of well-designed items. I could have done my Christmas shopping; the quality of items was better, but prices were not much different from the UK. However, the cost of additional luggage on Ryanair would have raised my blood pressure; the cost of seats had been more expensive than the flights, and they were less comfortable than a park bench. My train to Stockholm left at 12:30pm. Göteborg had whetted my appetite for Stockholm and would be worth a return; train and bus journeys to Oslo were available and took about the same time as getting to Stockholm, about three and a quarter hours. Oh, and there were lots of Volvos.

Kronhuset, Goteborg's oldest building

Central Canal

Goteborg Stadsmuseum

Goteborg Cranes

View from Skansen Kronan

Fish Market and dealers

In the Market

Albert Edelfelt - At Sea

Van Gogh - Olive Grove, Saint-Rémy

Picasso - The Straw Hat

Bad 'uns

Boring, Boring....

Sally was my grandparents' neighbour in the terraced street of 20 houses where we lived until I was four. She lived at no 19, diagonally across the cobbled street from my grandparents at no 18. The street was twenty cobbles wide, and with little or no traffic, crossing the cobbles was a more exciting way to learn to count than an abacus. Sally worked the morning shift at a local mill and would come across for a cup of tea and a chat with my mum and grandma when she got home. Her language sparkled with Lancashire idioms, although she toned down the expletives in my presence: "bloody hell" became "bleeding 'erry "

Unlike the Queen, who tied her headscarf under her chin, Sally always tied hers on her forehead to keep her hair out of the looms. She would arrive with the headscarf still on and curse her husband, Wilf, with occasional affection. She held no such store for some others in the street, who she said were "bad 'uns". The Doyles had two sons in Borstal and were always on the take, and the Hudsons had 5 children and smelt of fish, not surprising given that they lived in a 2-bedroom flat above Macfisheries. She could let fly at bin men who dropped rubbish or window cleaners who missed a window with undiluted mill speak. Apart from these traits, Sally, the pride of our alley, would help anyone in trouble; her rough demeanour concealed a heart of gold.

It was her reference to bad 'uns that has always stuck with me. She meant people who could not be trusted; they would steal and do unacceptable things to other people. I realised this at school; the bad 'uns were the boys who would cheat, lie, bully and steal. You could easily spot the bad 'uns; they acquired reputations, and you had to be wary of them,  

In adult life, bad 'uns often presented positive attributes, but they could do far more damage. It was still possible to spot them. Many folk were attracted to them as they displayed their power or celebrity and, by doing so, this encouraged their bravado and sense of entitlement. Hence, I could never understand the popularity of Jimmy Savile; he was an obvious bad ‘un as well as a crap DJ. I remember in a Glasgow Marathon getting stuck behind him and his fan club of a hundred or so runners as we ran along Bath Street. He had started ahead of his expected finishing time and subjected a thousand or so runners who had been more honest in their predicted times to being stuck behind him and his entourage as he waved to the crowds and wallowed in his fame. What a wanker.

Lots of others appeared to be obvious bad 'uns years before they were outed: Gary Glitter, Robert Maxwell, Nicolas Fairbairn, Mohamad Al-Fayad, ex Prince Andrew, Owen Paterson, Russell Brand, Michelle Mone, as well as neighbours and work colleagues you steered clear of.

The whole world yearns for the dismissal of global bad 'uns like the US and Russian Presidents, Netanyahu, the Israeli PM and his ministers, Smotrich and Ben-Gvir. In the UK, there are quite a few political bad 'uns; I watched some of the Reform conference: the shady money deals and serial duplicity merely confirmed what we already knew; Farage was a bad 'un. The jeering, cruel handling and abuse of demonstrators at the conference, just days before they cheered black-shirted and hooded demonstrators at Portsmouth and Dover as Asylum seekers landed, showed it was contagious.  Farage was leading the delegates by chanting " boring, boring at the demonstrators like a Dulwich College schoolboy. I then caught clips of the speeches of his acolytes and concluded that Nigel Farage, Robert Jenrick and Zia Yusuf are not just part of the establishment that they claim to abhor but also the UK's top team of bad 'uns. We need more good 'uns like Sally to give them a good skelping with a side helping of mill speak.