Stockholm

In the Royal Palace

 Stockholm, 17 - 21 September 2026

As the 16-carriage express train pulled into Stockholm station around 4 pm, my phone buzzed with news that the Social Democrats and their potential partner parties had won a 3-seat majority in the General Election. Eureka!  The journey from Goteborg had taken three and a quarter hours, through a landscape of forests and lakes with the occasional settlement, usually hosting more industrial buildings than houses. I stood outside the station and got my bearings; my hotel in the heart of Norrmalm was about a mile north and uphill from the station. I decided to walk so I could soak up the vibes of this capital city, with its array of impressive buildings, green spaces, and pedestrian- and cycle-friendly urban realm.

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 were 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 was 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 spilt out into the road, and being in 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 on arrival I was confronted by docklands and a longish walk to the nearby parkland.  I had already walked miles, so I decided to travel back to the hotel to read my novel and watch some news on TV.

The next day, a Saturday, 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 were 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. 

Sunday was an early start to catch a boat from the quay at Strandvagen through the archipelago. The boat made rapid progress, slipping past dozens of islands, most of which had jetties and boathouses for islanders. Some islands had small beach huts, some larger dwellings with boathouses for larger craft. After an hour and forty minutes, we arrived at 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 was open, and the holiday cabins were all closed at the end of the season. Two of the clearings were reserved for campers, and at the season's end there were a few tents and groups of campers were barbecuing lunch. The walks were splendid, particularly those that followed the coastline as they snaked around through the trees and pillows of granite.

I had circumnavigated the island after 3 hours and had chats with campers, islanders and fellow tourists. I had an hour to kill, so I pitched up on the verandah of one of the closed cafes and read my book. As I returned to the jetty, the heavens opened, and the forty or so visitors squeezed into a large wooden shelter to await the boat for the return trip. I had enjoyed the day, but it had that end-of-season feeling, and I would be travelling home the next day. I rewarded myself with a return visit to the nearby Italian restaurant for some prawn linguine and a glass of wine,

Monday breakfast was another chance to enjoy fresh fruit, muesli and yoghurt, pancakes with raspberry jam and excellent coffee before grabbing some fruit for the return journey. I packed and caught a metro down to the station to stash my small suitcase in left luggage and free myself for a final lap of the city centre. The goods on display at the department stores were high quality and reasonably priced, but I had no space. The furniture was particularly appealing, making IKEA look very ordinary. By noon, I was weary and found a bench in a square opposite the Parliament Building to read for forty-five minutes before returning to the station for a snack and to reclaim my luggage before catching the train to Goteborg.

I was joined on the train by a Swedish Scientist for the last hour, and we had a long conversation about Swedish life and world events. He had a huge resentment about the use of electric scooters in the cities, which were a danger to pedestrians. I returned to the bookshop where I had bought my novel on the first day and thanked the assistant for recommending it. I had, unusually, managed to read 537 pages, and it had helped me understand some of the cultural problems, although being a crime novel, it seemed a lot darker than the easy-going vibe that had been the undercurrent of my visit. 

I caught a bus to the airport and was confronted with the news that an air traffic control glitch at Prestwick meant the return flight was delayed by a couple of hours and would not be departing until after midnight. Fortunately, Goteborg airport is a well-designed, clean airport with ample seating and numerous modest cafes. Getting through customs and passport control was a cinch. Unlike the arrival at Edinburgh, where we had to await a bus to take the passengers from the landing stand to the other end of the airport. We climbed four levels of steps and walked about 600 metres to the Passport Control, where the queue at 1:30am was 15 minutes, and about one in four passengers, including myself, were sent to a manually controlled gate because the passport readers were unable to detect our bleary-eyed faces from the passports. Then another 10-minute wait for the luggage to arrive before the half-a -kilometre walk to the airport buses to the car parks. It had taken 1 hour and ten minutes from landing to getting into the car. Edinburgh Airport never fails to disappoint. Take me back to Sweden.

Church at Odenplan

Royal Apartments

Crown of King Karl XIII

Gamla stan

Cathedral

Stortoget

Nobel Museum at Stortorget

Perfectly laid cobbles everywhere

Hagaparkan lunch stop

Hagaparkan Lake

Royal Palace

Strandvagen

Archipelago Trip

Island summer huts

Island residencies 

Grinda

Perimeter path on Grinda

Grinda

Grinda beach

Grinda Trails

Leaving Grinda

Djurgarden Fun Fair

Baltic Ferry

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.

Scottish Hill Running Relay Championships

Comrie Relay Championship HQ

It was late August, a mellow, sunny day that was just perfect. Gregor collected me for the journey up to Comrie, a picture-book village on the edge of the Highlands set in glorious landscapes. The Comrie Relay Races have been going for 19 years and were selected to host the inaugural Scottish Hill Running Relay Championships. The setting was mesmeric on the edge of the village, at the cricket ground with the pavilion built on a south-facing slope that was nature's design for basking in the sun as autumn beckoned. 

It was Gregor's first hill race. He had been invited to join the new Queen's Park Athletic Club, which had broken away from Shettleston Harriers earlier in the year. He had joined the previous week and been selected to run the first leg for the V40 team. It was serendipity that we had lived next to Queen's Park for seven years. In the year before Gregor was born, I started running competitively again, beginning with a half marathon in June 1983 and then the Glasgow Marathon in September. My training was largely around Queen's Park most evenings, trying to achieve a PB on every run.

Gregor had raced for ten years entirely on the roads; he had run 2 hours 21 minutes for the marathon and been selected to represent Scotland at International Events. He had always enjoyed running in the hills but was hesitant about competing in hill races. After his 420-mile Running Scotland earlier this year, much of it on trails and in the mountains, he was open to giving hill running a go when Queen's Park called.

When Gregor went for his warm-up before the start of the race, I set off for the first changeover point, walking up Glen Lednock on the Laggan trail, initially on the route of the first leg of the race, then climbing more directly through the spectacular native woodland and crossing the River Lednock on the Shaking Bridge. Across the river was the Lord Melville Monument at the top of Dun Mor. To the north were the craggy slopes below Ben Chonzie that were ascended on the third leg of the relays. 

The handover station was buzzing with 50 or so runners who were to take over on the second leg. I met Matt Ogston, an old running partner, who was a marshal, and Malcolm Patterson, the coach of Queen's Park AC. He was one of many who had transferred from Shettleston Harriers. He had a clear objective for Queen’s Park AC  to become competitive with tthe all-conquering Carnethy Hill Running Club, Scotland's premier hill running club. He seemed to know a lot about me from other runners I had competed with in the 1980s and 90s. I have always regretted that I didn't have the time to train and race for hill running and only competed in about ten races, although I did manage a dozen 2-day mountain marathons. The enthusiasm of the hill runners today reminded me of the easy friendship and companionship that is given in hill running circles. 

Gregor made a good start on the first leg, plugging his transponder chip at the handover station in third place, a couple of minutes behind Carnethy. He decided to run up the Glen to the next handover point to support his team. I returned down the west side of Glen Lednock and called in for a coffee in Comrie before returning to the cricket ground in time for the finish. Carnethy won in 3 hours and 5 minutes, a new course record. Queen's Park men's team came second and the women's team third,  whilst the V40 team were the first vets team home. 

The afternoon sun was beating down on the slope in front of the cricket pitch as the runners arrived and soaked up the sun and some seriously good food served by Strathearn Harriers. A perfect place to enjoy a grand day out and the companionship of the hill running fraternity, complete with happy children and well-exercised dogs. The last team arrived in just less than 5 hours as the prize-giving began. Every team that came in got a rousing reception from the crowd on the hill. There were no fools here.

Path in the Laggan Wood

Second leg summit - Crappich Hill

Lord Melville's Monument on Dun Mor

Shaking Bridge over River Lednock

Handover point for second leg

G finishing first leg

Time to relax at the finish

Queen's Park win V40 team prize - beer

London in the Time of Climate Change

From Primrose Hill

It was my first visit to London since February. Scotland had been washed clean by heavy overnight rain, but from Darlington down, the fields were drained of colour. It looked more like Spain with far too many settlements. The sun was out at King's Cross; a cooling breeze made it a pleasant welcome as I crossed to St Pancras for my local train. As I alighted, the heavens opened, and I had to retrieve my Gore-Tex jacket. I stopped under a shop sun canopy; the man next to me said, "At last". I figured he meant the rain and said: "You should have seen it in Scotland this morning". "Ah, so you've brought it with you" was the jovial reply. The rain hammered down for the 15-minute walk to my destination; my jeans had acted like blotting paper.

After the rains stopped, my daughter suggested a walk through the nearby cemetery and dinner at the local pizza cafe. We entered the cemetery at a new gate and walked for about a kilometre to the other end; the gates had been locked and padlocked. We walked back to the new gate, which also had been closed and the padlock was on, the stone walls were high and we pretended not to panic in front of the grandchildren. Then I noticed the padlock hadn't been locked. We escaped, and the pizzas tasted great, even better than they would have without the cemetery adventure.

The next day we were joined by Gregor; it was fresh and sunny, about 25°C, so we decided on a bus trip to Borough Market for lunch and a jaunt along the South Bank. The afternoon culminated with a humongous ice cream cone at Herne Hill Station. We sauntered back home; hot town, summer in the city, walking on the sidewalk, hotter than a match head. The day reminded me of 1967 when, wherever you were in that balmy summer, the airwaves reverberated to the Whiter Shade of Pale.

The next day we visited Whitstable, one of the more salubrious beach towns along the north Kent coast. I had two friends at University that had lived there, and it has always been an intention to visit. Greenwich to Manston is the longest stretch of the UK coast that I have never set foot on. It took over an hour on the train from south London. Whitstable was alive with day trippers; the emergency services and RNLI were giving displays of their equipment and sounding their sirens at the busy harbour. The main street was bustling with seaside shops. The grandchildren went fishing off the harbour walls for crabs and jellyfish whilst we sampled the local ales. Whitstable was slightly disappointing, confirming what an Irish woman from nearby Faversham had told me during my last visit to London. She had decided to move back from North Kent to Ireland. 

Sunday was a lazy day at home, although Gregor managed a long walk in Richmond Park followed by a 22-kilometre run back to Dulwich. The highlight was an Indian meal from Kricket Brixton, a restaurant that never fails to deliver. On Monday the grown-ups went back to work, leaving the children and retired folk to potter about. I decided on a pensioner's day haircut followed by a trip to Regent's Park, a place I had never visited. It was parched and a paler shade of brown. Unlike Dulwich College grounds, which were infinitely greener than their most distinguished alumni, the Royal Parks were not able to water their extensive lawns. The park was far larger than I had imagined and absorbed the lunchtime joggers, the foreign tourists and the well-heeled citizens of St John's Wood with ease. The boating Lake was awash with families and the cafes were busy. 

I decided to pop up Primrose Hill to get a view of the City; it was heaving with young people looking like a mob of Meerkats as they peered over London's impressive skyscape. I had never been to Camden Market, so I dropped down to the Regent's Canal and followed it to the Market. The canal was lined with houseboats and shaded by overhanging willow trees. A punt-like boat glided past with a violinist serenading her friends or customers who were splayed out on deck sunning themselves. 

Camden Market was a hotspot for young people and tourists. The offerings of market tat were outrageously priced, and this continued along the crowded Camden High Street, a contender for the worst shopping street I have ever trundled down. The bonus was to stumble on  Mornington Crescent Underground Station just across the road from the Lyttleton Arms. I had got there from Primrose Hill, a game winner! 

My London trip was almost over, although I was enticed into the massive Evans cycle shop at St Pancras and was almost seduced into buying a Checkpoint Gravel Bike at a 20% discount. The problem would be getting it back on the train. As always, the journey home the next day from King's Cross was on a fairly full train and five and a half hours sitting down is never good for your posture. I treated myself to an Ocean Pie from M&S and watched the Vuelta Mountain stage from Andorra on arriving home. 

Heading for Borough Market

South Bank vista

Whitstable Harbour

A meadow fit for climate change deniers

Regent's Park Boating Lake

Regent's Canal

Camden Market

Got there -the shrine to Humphrey