Bravefest at Dala Floda

I left Mariestad in a state of complete disarray and disorganisation. Sometimes I wonder how I ever manage to get anything done with all my dithering and fussing about. Gunilla very kindly offered me a lift to Karlskoga, about 100km to the north, as I'd decided that riding to Dala Floda in three days was a near impossible feat. Commonsense eventually prevailed over my purist's ideal of riding the whole way, and I gratefully accepted. In hindsight I probably could have made it, but a little headstart gave me a lot more peace of mind - thanks Gunilla!

The festival venue is a family farm near the small village of Dala Floda. It's a beautiful, peaceful property beside the gently flowing waters of the Vasterdalalven, and the perfect place for hosting such an event. Instead of festival tents there are huge farm buildings that have been converted into a pub, stage, dancefloor, dining area and kitchen, complete with an industrial-size wood fired oven. I was the very first guest to arrive, and with nothing better to do I helped with last minute prepartions - clearing the yard and cleaning the pub. As the place started to come alive with people, a buzz of excitement started trickling through my veins.

The next four days were a whirlwind of fun and frivolity. I did workshops in Capoeira - a Brazilian form of martial arts, juggling, pair acrobatics and kayaking. Most of these were conducted in Swedish, so I spent a lot of time not really knowing what was going on! Pair acrobatics (also known as adagio) is a circus skill involving balance and trust between two people while moving between various postures. My partner, Lotta, and I were a bit hopeless to begin with. We struggled to do the easy balances, and watched enviously while others seemed to perform the manouvres with ease. With perseverence we finally succeeded in standing on each others shoulders, and the thrill of accomplishing this together was something really special.

It's the kind of festival where almost everyone has a connection with at least one of the organisers, so it's still very small and friendly. We ate lovely home-cooked meals every day, made with organic vegetables grown on the farm, and the most fabulous freshly baked bread. Lunchtime and evening performances showcased the skills of so many talented people - musicians, jugglers, clowns and acobats - and parties continued all through the night. Even in central Sweden it never gets truly dark at this time of year, so I wandered back to my tent at 1am with the colours of sunset still streaking the sky. All in all, it's a pretty cool place.

The festival motto was 'No-one remembers a coward' and it lived up to it's claim by challenging me in many ways. I was particularly looking forward to doing some paddling over the weekend and after realising that the beginners class was much too basic I thought I'd join the freestyle workshop for a bit more fun. The hole where everyone was playing looked pretty big and scary, and the rapids continued for quite a long way downstream. I didn't have the confidence to know that I'd definitely be able to roll, so I sat in the eddy going slowly round in circles as my fear and frustration mounted. I was so disappointed in myself, and finished the day feeling really depressed.


The next day my kiwi friend Clare suggested we go paddling together and I knew that I needed to give it another go. We ran the same rapids at Fanforsen and this time it was fantastic! Clare has a huge amount of energy and enthusiasm, and she gave me the encouragement I'd been lacking the day before. I comfortably paddled the harder upper section, then rolled all the way down the rocky lower section, hammering myself quite a bit. I was so proud not to pull my deck though, as I was determined to stay in my boat. By the time we got to the easy rapids at the bottom my heart was racing and I felt quite breathless. Battleworn and weary, I felt on top of the world! And to finish off a great day, I was able to watch the pros perform inspiring kayak acrobatics in the Master of Water competition.

And then it was all over. As the festival-goers made their way home on Sunday, I suddenly had no idea what to do with myself. I'd ridden 2000km and reached the halfway point of my journey, but in many ways it felt like I'd already acheived what I set out to do. I had no immediate goals and not even a vague route plan. My body felt sore and tired, but more debilitating was the complete lack of enthusiasm I felt about continuing my trip. More than anything, I just felt lonely. I rode 10km south of Dala Floda at an excrutiatingly slow pace, then gave up and made camp in a bog on the side of the road. No doubt things would seem better in the morning.

Midsummer!

Summer in Scandinavia is all about long days soaking up the sun and drinking lots of beer. Not so different from Australia really, except for the notable absence of cricket. However my arrival in Denmark was met with disappointingly cold, wet and windy weather. I’m not very self-disciplined when it comes to battling the elements, so at the first signs of adversity I succumbed to my body’s yearning for a little laziness instead. Consequently I had a lot of rest days spent eating, reading, eating, sleeping and eating, with not much riding in between.

On Midsummer’s Eve I found myself huddled up in a down jacket over yet another pasta dinner feeling mildly ridiculous. It was hardly the warm summer evening I’d imagined. In an effort not to look so conspicuous I donned some more summery clothing and shivered my way down to the lakeside where an enormous bonfire had been prepared. Midsummer’s eve in Denmark is celebrated with a ritual burning of witches in preparation for a good harvest. While not thoroughly at ease with the witch-burning aspect of the tradition, it certainly seemed like a good way to warm up on a cold night! The poor old witch didn’t stand a chance, and as the flames finally engulfed her fireworks flamed and fizzed from her broomstick. I was expecting drinking, dancing and much revelry, but the mostly older crowd at the campground were a fairly subdued lot. After a rendition of the traditional song, everyone just stood around chatting, and I soon felt pretty silly standing there by myself, so I retreated to the comfort of my tent.

As the weather gradually improved, my health slowly deteriorated. After only three weeks on the road my body seemed to be failing me. Extremely saddlesore, and with a recurrence of lower back pain that rendered me barely able to walk, I had serious doubts about whether I’d be able to continue much further. I had my first fall off the bike too. A silly accident on a gravel road that left me with a spectacular bruise, but resulted in more loss of pride than loss of skin. I felt a deep tiredness within that lingered despite all my rest days. My mood hit a real low, and each passing kilometre felt like a real struggle.

Then I awoke one morning to a brilliant blue summer’s day, warm and sunny, without a breath of wind. Suddenly my legs were flying and I’d found my smile again. I hadn’t realised how dependent my moods had become on the weather. Not surprising, I guess, after living almost entirely outdoors for several weeks. A beautiful day was a huge boost to my morale, and ever since I’ve continued to be graced with perfect weather.

In Denmark I mostly followed the national cycle route that traverses the length of the Jutland peninsula, through gently rolling hills in the centre of the country. It took me along some wonderful trails that I wouldn’t have dared to follow otherwise, for fear of getting lost. My mountain bike finally came into its own on the rougher forest tracks as I wound my way along paths that reminded me of the little green road to fairyland. I also took a detour to Himmelbjerget, whimsically named ‘sky mountain’, which at 147m is one of the highest hills in Denmark. It’s now a major tourist attraction and the hotel, restaurant, kiosks and carpark at the top thoroughly destroyed the ambience, so I had my little picnic lunch at a beautiful lookout 200m back down the road, where not a single person could be seen.

It’s wonderful when travel brings you to the right place at exactly the right moment in time. I arrived in Skagen, at the very northern tip of Denmark, in time for their annual folk music festival. What luck! The small town was absolutely buzzing with people, and music from every café and street corner. I spent three days enjoying a complete change of pace and soaking up the fabulous music and atmosphere. Like any festival, it brought a full range of experiences, from women sunbaking in bras and undies on the school playground–cum–festival campground, to wandering the streets at midnight eating icecream and listening to bad covers of pub classics. Dancing to lively cajun tunes and discovering brilliant new artists from all around the world, to soppy singalongs with plenty of audience participation. A couple making love in the adjacent toilet cubicle at one of the concerts and a crazy pair of old ladies in the most outrageous matching costumes, at one point replete with a life-size dressed up doll. From singing sausage cooking men, to ageing Irish living legends. It was a real blast!

At the very final concert I met a lovely fellow from the south of Denmark who became my chaperone for the evening, explaining bits and pieces of Danish culture, sharing laughs, and generously buying me drinks. Having taken a while to get into the swing of festival fun, it seemed a shame to leave so soon. But I was promised a place to stay and free breakfasts if I should happen to be back in Denmark in August for the Tonder festival, which is the largest folk music festival in Europe. It’s almost too good an offer to refuse, but who knows where I will be by then…

A beautiful ferry trip of three and a half hours took me from Frederikshavn in northern Denmark to Göteborg in southern Sweden. The sparkling sea highlighted a beautiful archipelago of small islands on the western Swedish coast, dotted with lighthouses and tiny cottages. Me and the jojjomobile were relegated to the lowest deck with all the trucks and caravans, so we emerged from a heavy cloud of fumes on to a confusing maze of roads. Göteborg is Sweden’s second largest city and probably a fun place to explore, but it felt overwhelming at the time, so I was keen to get back into the countryside.

As I continue my northward journey, the land is gradually becoming hillier and more wild, with woods starting to dominate the landscape instead of farmland. There are an amazing number of churches, always very beautifully maintained, and dating as far back as the 11th centuary. The whitewashed walls and clean architectural lines are very aesthetically pleasing, especially against a deep blue sky. Many flowers are blooming at this time of year, including my new favourite, the railwayman’s rose - so named because it flourishes along the railway tracks. Wild strawberries also grow prolifically by the roadsides, and are very sweet and delicious. A great treat after several hours on the bike.

Many people, both at home and during my travels, have commented on how brave they think I am. It’s a nice compliment, but I don’t really feel brave. A woman travelling alone like this is quite unusual though, and I’m yet to meet any other solo female cyclists. In four weeks of travelling I’ve not had a single unpleasant encounter or ever felt unsafe. Maybe that’s partly just good luck. But I also think it stems partly from choosing to expect the best of people rather than the worst. So often we worry about the potential dangers, that we forget how many pleasant surprises there can be, and how multi-dimensional people are. I met a Norwegian man at Skagen festival and one of the first things I learnt about him was that he works on an oil rig. In my mind I immediately jumped to the conclusion that this person was more interested in money than ethics. But as we chatted I discovered that his professional pursuits extend from software development to travelling the country giving educational seminars and even piano tuning in his spare time. Suddenly this man had become a person with wide and varied interests, and I realised that the box I’d put him in when we first met didn’t fit at all. It was a good reminder to try and be open-minded and non-judgemental, allowing yourself to see the beauty in other people.

After one month on the road I arrived at the home of family friends, Per and Gunilla and have spent three and a half days enjoying their generous hospitality and beautiful home cooked meals. It’s been wonderful to see some familiar faces and revisit fond memories of my childhood stay twelve years ago. Last night we went to an opera in the courtyard of a perfect fairytale castle. It told the story of a search for true love, and was almost Shakespearean in its woven plot of passion, deceipt and mixed identities, with a generous serve of humour thrown in. The performance was all in Swedish, but the music and theatre was so engaging that it didn’t matter. As we left the castle grounds a full moon had just risen over the lake, casting a brilliant slash of deep orange across the dark waters. It was a gorgeous setting to see my very first live opera, and a really special evening. It ended with a midnight feast of bread, cheese and red wine, with the three of us chatting until the wee hours of the morning.


I’ve been made so welcome here in Mariestad that I’m not sure how I’ll find the motivation to leave tomorrow morning. My plan is to continue further north into the hillier, central region of Sweden before heading west to Norway, with the immediate goal being a small festival next weekend at Dala Floda. It’s the perfect combination of circus and kayaking, and has been described as being ‘for all those who have a burning desire to live life to the full’. I’ve been really looking forward to it but somehow managed to misinterpret the dates, so I’ve got one less day than I expected. Hopefully three days of hard riding will get me there just in time!