Out on the water, paddling across the straits between two small rocky islands, the dusk fades and the stars appear. Jennie has done her best to coach me in local geography before darkness, showing me the map with its patchwork of islands and bays, and describing the shape of each landmark. All to no avail. I’m more than happy to be lost at sea, leaning back in my kayak to gaze at the constellations, occasionally checking that the red light on the stern of her kayak is still visible ahead. We stop in the sheltered lee of an island and hear a hoot. “Eurasian eagle owl,” says Jennie. “They nest here.” Then she switches off all the lights. “Let’s paddle slowly close to shore. Watch what happens.”
As soon as we move, the sea flickers into life, every paddle stroke triggering thrilling trails of cold, blue sparkles. When we stop, I slap my hand on the surface and the sea is momentarily electrified into a nebulous neural network of light, like some great salty brain figuring out this alien intrusion. Below that, squadrons of jellyfish pulse their own spectral contribution.
“When I was a child,” Jennie whispers (we are both whispering), “there was no light pollution. We would throw stones from the shore to see what we called ‘sea fire’.” I spend a pointless few minutes attempting to photograph this elusive bioluminescence, then relax and simply enjoy it. Travel should broaden the mind, not the iCloud.
We are in the maze of deserted islands off Hälsö (population: 569), one of 10 inhabited islands in Sweden’s northern Gothenburg archipelago. To get here, all it took was a short bus ride out of Sweden’s second city, a brief ferry ride, then a leisurely hike along the new coastal trail that snakes round these islands, using bridges, causeways and ferries to connect. It does not feel like a lot, not for the sensation of being on the far side of the Milky Way in a kayak-shaped flying saucer.
My own definition of an island is any land mass surrounded by water that is large enough for Robinson Crusoe to survive on. I want a beach, a lookout point and enough driftwood to build a shack. The Swedish mapping office, Lantmäteriet, however, defines an island as anything more than 9 sq metres, an area sufficient to pitch a small tent. Using this definition, Sweden boasts in excess of 260,000, though only about 8,000 have ever been settled and less than 1,000 are now inhabited. My aim on this trip is to visit about half a dozen in the Gothenburg archipelago.
The new footpath is a 21.7-mile(35km) section of the much longer Kuststigen trail that goes from Gothenburg to Oslo, but this small slice is worth taking a little time over. I base myself in Skärgårdshotellet on Hönö, where there are a few cafes and restaurants. It’s a quiet place outside school summer holidays. On the first morning, I walk over a soaring bridge to the southernmost island of Fotö and discover why the relatively short distances can take time. As soon as the path leaves the road, you are on a maze of boulders, a massive adventure playground for anyone who loves leaping and scrambling. The fantastical patterns of striations, crystallisation and lichen only cause further delays.
I am almost late back to Hönö for my boat trip with Lasse, an avuncular computer expert turned sailor, who takes visitors out on his veteran fishing vessel. We do not spot any seals – the ostensible objective – but that doesn’t matter. We spend a couple of hours wending our way through the uninhabited islands out to the archipelago’s farthest point, the rocky outcrop of Vinga. This was once home to Evert Taube, one of Sweden’s great folk music balladeers, whose father was the lighthouse keeper.
That evening, back in Hönö, in the Tullhuset restaurant at the harbour mouth, I sit with the owner, Preben Pedersen, and watch the Vinga lighthouse flash. “The islands are very proud of the Evert Taube connection,” he tells me. “Music has always been important here. The church played a big part in that.”
As usual, however, the devil had the best tunes. While the islands were once officially “dry”, smuggling and illicit production were rife, and had their own geography: Moonshine Bay was a popular hangout for local folk music heroes such as Arne I Bora (real name John Arne Jansson) who blasted out a rougher kind of melody. (He made one album, after relentless encouragement from locals). Preben’s brother, Leif, upholds the tradition, occasionally playing at the restaurant. The church retains a strong presence: I see signs out for prayer meetings. “Don’t miss the old church on Öckerö,” Jennie had told me while we were kayaking. “As kids, we were terrified of it!”
Next day, I meet local climber Andreas Lundqvist at Ersdalen, a vast boulder-strewn coastal area on Hönö. Andreas brings a crash mat and I turn myself inside out attempting routes that he breezes up without any apparent effort. The mix of the otherworldly seascape and Andreas’s storytelling about growing up on the islands and subsequent adventures makes the whole experience hugely enjoyable.
Exploring the archipelago is made simple with the Västtrafik app on your phone, so I catch the ferry out to the last, most northerly island, Rörö. The weather has turned from blue skies to thick mist, but this suits the sparse, mysterious splendour of a remote island. I squelch through bogs, scramble over lichen-crusted boulders and come across wild ponies.
The ferry back connects promptly with a bus that takes me back across the islands. There is one more place I want to explore: the old church on Öckerö. Why did local kids such as Jennie grow up terrified of this place?
It is a simple red-roofed Scandinavian church dating from the 1450s, but the door is locked and the windows too high to see anything. Determined to get inside, I ring around local contacts and get the number of the verger who agrees to come down. Ten minutes later, he arrives and unlocks, but does not enter. “Text me when you’re finished,” he says.
In the small vestibule there are some ancient stones and a sword. I step into the nave. There are 17th-century models of sailing ships in cases either side, and everything is as might be expected, with robust, precise woodwork. Then I see the ceiling frescoes. The rear of the church roof is a painted hell. No wonder the island kids were terrified: fire-breathing monsters and demons dance across the barrel-vaulted timbers, torturing sinners who are sinking into scarlet flames. But then a suspended sailing ship points the way to salvation, the colours lighten, and by the time I reach the altar, everyone is floating on clouds and blowing trumpets. I guess those are the ones who stayed away from Moonshine Bay. Painted in 1792, it is a tour de force.
Eventually, I drag myself away, text the verger and, after just a couple of bus rides and a ferry, step down in Gothenburg. I’m still feeling a little dazed, as if I’ve been somewhere very far away indeed.
The trip was provided by the Gothenburg Tourist Board and travel to Gothenburg by Interrail (a four-day in within one month adult pass is £189). The Skårgårdshotellet has doubles from £93. Jennie Walker takes evening kayak tours from £63pp Andreas Lundqvist offers bouldering adventures from £115. Boat trips with Lasse from £20
