The second bottle of wine: Exploring the Cradle of Sweden
Crossing over to Sweden, the land softened, verdant fields with pristine red painted houses appeared, and we could park ”Gudridur” for the night by peaceful country churches on a hills or by lakes, with geese flying in formations in the sky, or landing and eating themselves fat in the fields for that long flight that waited them.
We headed for Vestergötland, the land between the two huge lakes in the middle of Sweden. The cradle-land of the Swedish Kings, where the first kings gathered and strengthened their power, building churches and homesteads, forts and monasteries. Arnes being the heart of the fortress-farms, from where Arn went to Jerusalem as a crusader and came home with as much gold as he could carry, enough to get over a 100 farms. But he built a church instead, the only church for pilgrims in all of Scandinavia so they would not have to do the perilous trip but could do it here, closer to home. After all, Forshem had almost the whole center beam of the Cross as a relic, still nailed to the wall, like a huge fallen tree trunk. It's strange to think of all the sincere, hopeful people who must have wandered here, hoping for miracles in their difficult lives.
Only ruins of Arnes survive, the stones too valuable to have been left to stand, the cellars just about visible, witnessing to the expert work of the stone masons from Jerusalem, who came to build it in a cold country, far from their home.
It was like looking through the gate of the centre of Sweden, where kings were born, and the royal princesses incarcerated into monasteries like Gudhem for their sins, for falling in love and knowing a man...whipped, dropped into a dark dungeons, sometimes saved by friends, or whipped even harder by those opposed to the present fighting king. The ruins of Gudhem were the most beautiful I have seen for a long time, the places echoing of forced nun- hood, chilled fingers sewing, dropping needles and thimbles, eyes straining to see as the candle light hardly lit the stone walls around them, but even that slight heat was a comfort worth attaining.
It had beauty too, and safety for those who had nowhere else to go.
We sojourned in Småland too. The country of Astrid Lindgren and Emil, houses hiding from the roads behind lilac hedges and roses and white fencing, dry stone walls as wide as roman roads skirting fields and lakes glittering around most swings. After a bit of searching we found the ideal place for the night, a patch of sand by a swimming place overlooking a lake, fed from underground springs, as the kind lady told us when we asked if we could camp here. The water already a bit chilly, but still swimmable, silky and soft and so much nicer than an indoor shower! Even though strands of lake weed tangled themselves round my legs, at least they were not burning jellyfish. An elderly couple had a pick-nick on the little peer, as the sun went down in a golden shower of small fish feeding on the lake, spattering the water with rings.
No birds, no cars, nothing at all. Not even an evening breeze. Silence. How lucky to live in these countries with free camping and no fear of anything, just nature brooding about the soon coming winter, preparing itself for the onslaught of frost.
Feasted on tiny new potatoes and herring in a marinade so delicious it beat all meals up to now, found in Mariestad, though a dying town, it had the best fish shop for hundreds of miles!
A funny night with smells of pipe smoke, owls hooting and the lake breathing silently, like a long sigh. Who walked out there smoking in the autumn dark?
Crossing over to Sweden, the land softened, verdant fields with pristine red painted houses appeared, and we could park ”Gudridur” for the night by peaceful country churches on a hills or by lakes, with geese flying in formations in the sky, or landing and eating themselves fat in the fields for that long flight that waited them.
We headed for Vestergötland, the land between the two huge lakes in the middle of Sweden. The cradle-land of the Swedish Kings, where the first kings gathered and strengthened their power, building churches and homesteads, forts and monasteries. Arnes being the heart of the fortress-farms, from where Arn went to Jerusalem as a crusader and came home with as much gold as he could carry, enough to get over a 100 farms. But he built a church instead, the only church for pilgrims in all of Scandinavia so they would not have to do the perilous trip but could do it here, closer to home. After all, Forshem had almost the whole center beam of the Cross as a relic, still nailed to the wall, like a huge fallen tree trunk. It's strange to think of all the sincere, hopeful people who must have wandered here, hoping for miracles in their difficult lives.
Only ruins of Arnes survive, the stones too valuable to have been left to stand, the cellars just about visible, witnessing to the expert work of the stone masons from Jerusalem, who came to build it in a cold country, far from their home.
It was like looking through the gate of the centre of Sweden, where kings were born, and the royal princesses incarcerated into monasteries like Gudhem for their sins, for falling in love and knowing a man...whipped, dropped into a dark dungeons, sometimes saved by friends, or whipped even harder by those opposed to the present fighting king. The ruins of Gudhem were the most beautiful I have seen for a long time, the places echoing of forced nun- hood, chilled fingers sewing, dropping needles and thimbles, eyes straining to see as the candle light hardly lit the stone walls around them, but even that slight heat was a comfort worth attaining.
It had beauty too, and safety for those who had nowhere else to go.
We sojourned in Småland too. The country of Astrid Lindgren and Emil, houses hiding from the roads behind lilac hedges and roses and white fencing, dry stone walls as wide as roman roads skirting fields and lakes glittering around most swings. After a bit of searching we found the ideal place for the night, a patch of sand by a swimming place overlooking a lake, fed from underground springs, as the kind lady told us when we asked if we could camp here. The water already a bit chilly, but still swimmable, silky and soft and so much nicer than an indoor shower! Even though strands of lake weed tangled themselves round my legs, at least they were not burning jellyfish. An elderly couple had a pick-nick on the little peer, as the sun went down in a golden shower of small fish feeding on the lake, spattering the water with rings.
No birds, no cars, nothing at all. Not even an evening breeze. Silence. How lucky to live in these countries with free camping and no fear of anything, just nature brooding about the soon coming winter, preparing itself for the onslaught of frost.
Feasted on tiny new potatoes and herring in a marinade so delicious it beat all meals up to now, found in Mariestad, though a dying town, it had the best fish shop for hundreds of miles!
A funny night with smells of pipe smoke, owls hooting and the lake breathing silently, like a long sigh. Who walked out there smoking in the autumn dark?