Day 35
Location: Alta, Norway
Miles covered: 2710
Location: Alta, Norway
Miles covered: 2710
Lakeside supper, Sweden Sweden was good to me. The people friendly; the camping spots idyllic and abundant; the roads good; the traffic light; and (excepting a couple of thoroughly drenching days) the weather kind. Because food prices are high, and currently the pound doesn't exchange favourably, I found a way to counter the costs that could prove so caustic to a low-budget wanderer's wallet.
A few days after entering the country I spotted a cyclist who appeared to have an unreasonable amount of kit. Derek was Dutch, in his mid-fifties and had no thumbs. His bulky baggage consisted mostly of empty drinks can and bottles. He informed me that in the Scandanavian countries, one can receive money for feeding these into the automated recycling machines in supermarkets. You only get a small amount for each one but it is nonetheless an interesting incentive which set me thinking. I decided to conduct a little experiment. I began plucking the the discarded drink containers off the roadside and was soon simultaneously amazed and appalled at how many I could amass on just a short stretch of road. I tried to see it as a wealth redistribution system whereby moneyed motorists leave their recycling revenue to be collected by the less fortunate. However, the majority were alcoholic or energy drinks. I imagined drivers rushing from A to B and, in a frenzy fuelled by Redbull and dated Europop, furiously flinging their cans out of the window. I blame Abba's timelessly aggravating sound.
For two days I gathered what I spotted and in each town would produce the fruits of my labour to cash-in on the country's wealth of wanton waste. Each time I stooped to collect a can I would chuckle as I pictured sepia footage of myself appearing on an Oxfam advert while a gravelly voice informs in a grave tone with a faintly northern accent "each day Charlie must collect so many cans and plastic bottles to afford the food he eats in his home made of plastic sheets. For just two pounds a month you could do something amazing..."
At the end of those two days I had made almost 200 krona (£18) which is more than I spend on food in four days. I was pleased to have stumbled upon, thanks to thumbless Derek, an alternative method of living off the land, albeit a liberally litter-strewn land. I should add that the rubbish is confined only to the roadside and the rest of the country is blissfully unspoiled. Also, for those friends and family currently wondering whether I've resorted to this vague form of vagabondage indefinitely, I stopped after two days as the stop-start cycling became tedious.
For two days I gathered what I spotted and in each town would produce the fruits of my labour to cash-in on the country's wealth of wanton waste. Each time I stooped to collect a can I would chuckle as I pictured sepia footage of myself appearing on an Oxfam advert while a gravelly voice informs in a grave tone with a faintly northern accent "each day Charlie must collect so many cans and plastic bottles to afford the food he eats in his home made of plastic sheets. For just two pounds a month you could do something amazing..."
At the end of those two days I had made almost 200 krona (£18) which is more than I spend on food in four days. I was pleased to have stumbled upon, thanks to thumbless Derek, an alternative method of living off the land, albeit a liberally litter-strewn land. I should add that the rubbish is confined only to the roadside and the rest of the country is blissfully unspoiled. Also, for those friends and family currently wondering whether I've resorted to this vague form of vagabondage indefinitely, I stopped after two days as the stop-start cycling became tedious.
Breakfast on the road, Sweden It follows naturally to give a brief insight into what I eat to keep expenses down. Breakfast involves four or five sandwiches stuffed with chocolate spread and sliced banana accompanied by strong and sugary coffee. Second breakfast is a similar affair a couple of hours later. Lunch normally comprises bread and cheese with several cups of delicious Lifeboat Tea. Teatime calls for more tea, more chocolate and banana sarnies and some biscuit. Supper is the main event with pasta sauce, maybe a vegetable, occasionally the cheapest meat I can lay my hands on, and generous mounds of rice. The aforementioned meat is usually tinned tuna and one day I thought I'd struck gold. On the end of a supermarket aisle, where the deals are displayed, I found a stack of tins bearing a drawing of a tuna-esque fish and Swedish text, incomprehensible to me. It was laughably cheap so I bought three tins, one for each night until my next re-stock. That night, as i forked the first tin's contents onto my rice, I was surprised to see that it had a paste-like appearence and texture. It was also dotted with lumps of an opaque gelatinous substance. Ignoring the questionable taste, I diligently wolfed it down for three nights and entered another supermarket where, walking absent-mindedly down an aisle, I spotted the very same "tuna" in the pet food section. Thus ended my period of feasting on feline food.
After two weeks I entered Lapland and the domain of the reindeer. The first few I saw were an excitement but soon I was quite used to them casually strolling across the road and curiously nosing around my tent at night. When they run, the adults manage to maintain a perfectly straight and horizontal back with their antlered heads erect. The adolescents, by contrast, bounce and gambol merrily around them as if every day were christmas. Not only did these animals appear but so did their ancestral herders; the Saami. With their dark skin, broad youthful faces and wide, smiling eyes, the Saami have lived here for at least 2,500 years. They speak a beautiful language which is gutteral yet mellifluous and they wouldn't call themselves Swedish, Finnish, Norwegian, Eskimo or innuit. They are simply and defiantly Saami.
On my 30th day from home I crossed the Arctic Circle at latitude 66° 33′ and was fiddling with my tripod to take a horribly posed tourist photo when I some brakes screeched and an old car, covered in stickers, pulled over. The Mongol Rally had come to the Arctic. Ed, Rich and Mike were bound for Ulaan Baatar in Mongolia via Russia and had comfortably come in just a few days as far as I had slogged in a month. Sat around the campfire, I greedily enjoyed the beer and burgers they proffered. Most of all I relished an evening of effortless conversation. The next night, while I pitched my tent 80 miles further north, they would have been a few hundred miles away in Western Russia.
One day I met a German travel writer also on a bike. Kristen invited me to join him on a pike fishing excursion with a local man that evening. Jan-Erik was drunk when we arrived at his house. He swayed where he stood and his heavy eyelids drooped. Beers in hand, we boarded his little boat and motored into the middle of a wide and fast-flowing river. Our host told us he fished each evening to escape. He enjoyed the quiet and the natural beauty of the place. However, he never cut the coughing Yamaha motor and nonchalantly tossed his empty beer can into the water.
I spent a day crossing Finland's finger which points north-west, wedged between Norway and Sweden. From here northwards, the mid-summer insects worsen. Day and night, it is impossible to stand still for three seconds without being swarmed by a tirelessly tenacious multitude of mosquitos. These pests are large, determined and ridicule repellent. I've found the only way to excape them is to keep moving so my bicycle has become a refuge. At night I attempt to keep calm while erecting my tent but this always proves futile when they start biting through my clothes and creeping up my nostrils. I momentarily unzip the tent to throw in my kit followed by myself and then set about my first task - the systematic mass-murder of the forty or so that scrambled in with me. When I undress it is always to find a few intrepid explorers bloated on my blood and squashed against my skin. I sleep blindfolded as, although I'm a couple of weeks too late for the midnight sun, due to refraction of the sun just below the horizon it never gets dark and is light enough to easily read in my tent throughout the night.
On my first day in Norway I stopped at a petrol station and encountered a four-car convoy of Israeli feminists. They proudly, if a little scornfully, informed me that they had driven their 4x4s around Scandanavia for a whole seven days without the help of men. Moments later, as they were leaving I laughed inwardly while helping to give a push start to one of their cars. I was not noticed until after the engine spluttered into life and I was already mounting my bike and rolling away down the hill.
I now push on for the nothernmost point in Europe, Nordkapp, and hope to reach it in a couple of days.
One day I met a German travel writer also on a bike. Kristen invited me to join him on a pike fishing excursion with a local man that evening. Jan-Erik was drunk when we arrived at his house. He swayed where he stood and his heavy eyelids drooped. Beers in hand, we boarded his little boat and motored into the middle of a wide and fast-flowing river. Our host told us he fished each evening to escape. He enjoyed the quiet and the natural beauty of the place. However, he never cut the coughing Yamaha motor and nonchalantly tossed his empty beer can into the water.
I spent a day crossing Finland's finger which points north-west, wedged between Norway and Sweden. From here northwards, the mid-summer insects worsen. Day and night, it is impossible to stand still for three seconds without being swarmed by a tirelessly tenacious multitude of mosquitos. These pests are large, determined and ridicule repellent. I've found the only way to excape them is to keep moving so my bicycle has become a refuge. At night I attempt to keep calm while erecting my tent but this always proves futile when they start biting through my clothes and creeping up my nostrils. I momentarily unzip the tent to throw in my kit followed by myself and then set about my first task - the systematic mass-murder of the forty or so that scrambled in with me. When I undress it is always to find a few intrepid explorers bloated on my blood and squashed against my skin. I sleep blindfolded as, although I'm a couple of weeks too late for the midnight sun, due to refraction of the sun just below the horizon it never gets dark and is light enough to easily read in my tent throughout the night.
On my first day in Norway I stopped at a petrol station and encountered a four-car convoy of Israeli feminists. They proudly, if a little scornfully, informed me that they had driven their 4x4s around Scandanavia for a whole seven days without the help of men. Moments later, as they were leaving I laughed inwardly while helping to give a push start to one of their cars. I was not noticed until after the engine spluttered into life and I was already mounting my bike and rolling away down the hill.
I now push on for the nothernmost point in Europe, Nordkapp, and hope to reach it in a couple of days.
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