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.