Western Sweden: The oyster's your world
It's hard to fall out of love with western Sweden. What's not to like about the picture-perfect fishing villages, the island hopping and more fresh seafood than you could wave an IKEA-sourced stick at? However, in the spirit of complete honesty, about 48 hours after arriving, reader, I did fall out of love. And I'll tell you something - it was a rough six seconds.
Two days before, setting off by car from central Gothenburg, I was blissfully unaware of the falling-out that lay ahead. I'd heard that during the summer months, the islands and coastal inlets north of the city were a firm favourite with holidaying Swedes, and a healthy amount of seductive sunshine eased the hour's drive north.
Marstrand is one of the most famous towns on the Bohuslän coast, and is renowned for the imposing Carlsten's Fortress, as well as for being a royal playground. It's kind of a low-key, Nordic version of Nice, overlooking the Kattegat, a bay of the North Sea. The fortress, dating back to the 17th century, was largely used as a jail, and there are tales of barbaric punishments, including the infamous Iron Crown, a horrific full-body manacle on display in the dungeon, as worn by the very naughtiest offenders.
Thoughts of penal torture are quickly dispelled with some harbour-side sophistication, though, which is all chic, bustling street cafes and designer boutiques. You can imagine there's a Swedish celebrity behind every pair of huge sunglasses.
Another hour or so north by car is Fjällbacka, similarly attractive and a favourite spot of an actual real-life Swedish star – Ingrid Bergman. She spent her summers here and a bust of her graces the town square. I was eager to explore the King's Cleft, which, far from being a crime deserving the Iron Crown, was accessible via the steps that lead up to Vetteberget mountain. The cleft is a dramatic rock formation with overhanging boulders, after which you can climb for 20 minutes for some magnificent views across the Fjällbacka archipelago.
In summer, you can take boat trips and seal safaris. I was a month early for these, so had to endure an enormous steak and early night in my African-themed room at the Stora Hotellet Hotel. The next morning I set off for Grebbestad, another coastal enclave about 90 minutes drive further north. I'd had wind of an unusual sporting contest involving seafood, and wanted to witness it first hand.
The harbour here is also quite a classy affair, with unnervingly healthy-looking families sat chatting on terraces, peering over plates piled high with fresh crayfish shells. Grebbestad is rightly famed for its shellfish, and the multitudes milling around Greby's seafood restaurant hinted at something exciting happening inside.
I ventured into one of the large back rooms, through rowdy, cheering crowds to find a long table hosting four large men and a frantic blur of knives and shells. The Nordic Oyster Opening Championship is a hotly contested tournament with chefs from all over Scandinavia competing for the title. They are judged on speed and presentation and, given some of the injuries I witnessed, number of digits left intact.
The contest is symptomatic of the serious local regard for exceedingly fine seafood, with fresh oysters, crayfish, mussels and shrimps all local delicacies. I had heard that one nearby island had semi-legendary oysters, and I headed to the ferry port at Hällevikstrand with a mind to track them down.
Here I caught the ferry to Käringön, a small island some 30 minutes out into the archipelago, which is peppered with tiny rock islands, home to seabirds and seals. As I arrived, my orientation began with some disorientation, courtesy of Swedish pronunciation, as I took a short walking tour of the village with my guide, Agnetha.
'How many people live on Ka-ring-on?' I asked.
'I've no idea,' she replied. I thought this was a bit rich considering she was the guide. Maybe it was her first day. Then she added, 'Where are you talking about?'
'Um... Kor-in-garn?' I answered, trying my luck again.
'You mean... Share-ring-an?'
OK. I get it. Käringön is 'share-ing-an', after all.
The answer is around 100, though in the full swing of summer, the population can swell to 3,000, even if most only stay for the day, browsing the local craft shops and sunbathing.
It's a true step back in time. Walking from the harbour up to the lookout tower, you pass rickety red fishing sheds, small outhouses and ramshackle gardens that have changed little since the 19th century. The larger buildings are mostly summer houses, many of which are available for rent when their owners aren't using them.
After checking into my cottage, finding a chilled bottle of wine left in the fridge for me, crayoned pictures by the owners' kids on the door, I sought out the island's famous oyster bar, Karingo.
It's a boutique seafood restaurant by the marina, previous visitors including Prince Albert of Monaco, who enjoyed their signature dining experience of oysters and bubbly; taken in the wood-heated Jacuzzi on the deck, of course. The oysters are freshly farmed just metres away, and three generations of the Hofsten family work here. There's a slightly tense few seconds if there's a chill in the air as you have dash from the changing rooms, across the deck and into the tub, but there are other diners sharing the experience and there's a solidarity between us.
All of a sudden it's a different world. You know you're onto a good thing when your main concern in life is not knocking your champagne glass into the hot tub. I imagine it's the kind of problem that, say, Kanye West encounters all the time. For me, it's a rare anxiety, but one that I quickly became accustomed to.
Half way through lunch, though, it became my second concern, my new primary concern being the dip I was reluctantly about to take in the still-icy cold waters of the Kattegat.
'It's a tradition!' shouted restaurant owner Camilla, and soon I was even being egged on by my fellow diners, some of whom I knew for a fact were never going to leave the womb-like warmth of the hot tub themselves. So much for solidarity.
For a cowardly Brit, six seconds in near-freezing open sea is a long time, and one that can easily change your perception of a place for the worse. I've never wished for the Mediterranean so hard. As fast as my numb legs would carry me, I was back in the tub, reaching for the bubbles. Warm water. Learning to love again. Let the healing begin. (PO)
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Two days before, setting off by car from central Gothenburg, I was blissfully unaware of the falling-out that lay ahead. I'd heard that during the summer months, the islands and coastal inlets north of the city were a firm favourite with holidaying Swedes, and a healthy amount of seductive sunshine eased the hour's drive north.
Marstrand is one of the most famous towns on the Bohuslän coast, and is renowned for the imposing Carlsten's Fortress, as well as for being a royal playground. It's kind of a low-key, Nordic version of Nice, overlooking the Kattegat, a bay of the North Sea. The fortress, dating back to the 17th century, was largely used as a jail, and there are tales of barbaric punishments, including the infamous Iron Crown, a horrific full-body manacle on display in the dungeon, as worn by the very naughtiest offenders.
Thoughts of penal torture are quickly dispelled with some harbour-side sophistication, though, which is all chic, bustling street cafes and designer boutiques. You can imagine there's a Swedish celebrity behind every pair of huge sunglasses.
Another hour or so north by car is Fjällbacka, similarly attractive and a favourite spot of an actual real-life Swedish star – Ingrid Bergman. She spent her summers here and a bust of her graces the town square. I was eager to explore the King's Cleft, which, far from being a crime deserving the Iron Crown, was accessible via the steps that lead up to Vetteberget mountain. The cleft is a dramatic rock formation with overhanging boulders, after which you can climb for 20 minutes for some magnificent views across the Fjällbacka archipelago.
In summer, you can take boat trips and seal safaris. I was a month early for these, so had to endure an enormous steak and early night in my African-themed room at the Stora Hotellet Hotel. The next morning I set off for Grebbestad, another coastal enclave about 90 minutes drive further north. I'd had wind of an unusual sporting contest involving seafood, and wanted to witness it first hand.
The harbour here is also quite a classy affair, with unnervingly healthy-looking families sat chatting on terraces, peering over plates piled high with fresh crayfish shells. Grebbestad is rightly famed for its shellfish, and the multitudes milling around Greby's seafood restaurant hinted at something exciting happening inside.
I ventured into one of the large back rooms, through rowdy, cheering crowds to find a long table hosting four large men and a frantic blur of knives and shells. The Nordic Oyster Opening Championship is a hotly contested tournament with chefs from all over Scandinavia competing for the title. They are judged on speed and presentation and, given some of the injuries I witnessed, number of digits left intact.
The contest is symptomatic of the serious local regard for exceedingly fine seafood, with fresh oysters, crayfish, mussels and shrimps all local delicacies. I had heard that one nearby island had semi-legendary oysters, and I headed to the ferry port at Hällevikstrand with a mind to track them down.
Here I caught the ferry to Käringön, a small island some 30 minutes out into the archipelago, which is peppered with tiny rock islands, home to seabirds and seals. As I arrived, my orientation began with some disorientation, courtesy of Swedish pronunciation, as I took a short walking tour of the village with my guide, Agnetha.
'How many people live on Ka-ring-on?' I asked.
'I've no idea,' she replied. I thought this was a bit rich considering she was the guide. Maybe it was her first day. Then she added, 'Where are you talking about?'
'Um... Kor-in-garn?' I answered, trying my luck again.
'You mean... Share-ring-an?'
OK. I get it. Käringön is 'share-ing-an', after all.
The answer is around 100, though in the full swing of summer, the population can swell to 3,000, even if most only stay for the day, browsing the local craft shops and sunbathing.
It's a true step back in time. Walking from the harbour up to the lookout tower, you pass rickety red fishing sheds, small outhouses and ramshackle gardens that have changed little since the 19th century. The larger buildings are mostly summer houses, many of which are available for rent when their owners aren't using them.
After checking into my cottage, finding a chilled bottle of wine left in the fridge for me, crayoned pictures by the owners' kids on the door, I sought out the island's famous oyster bar, Karingo.
It's a boutique seafood restaurant by the marina, previous visitors including Prince Albert of Monaco, who enjoyed their signature dining experience of oysters and bubbly; taken in the wood-heated Jacuzzi on the deck, of course. The oysters are freshly farmed just metres away, and three generations of the Hofsten family work here. There's a slightly tense few seconds if there's a chill in the air as you have dash from the changing rooms, across the deck and into the tub, but there are other diners sharing the experience and there's a solidarity between us.
All of a sudden it's a different world. You know you're onto a good thing when your main concern in life is not knocking your champagne glass into the hot tub. I imagine it's the kind of problem that, say, Kanye West encounters all the time. For me, it's a rare anxiety, but one that I quickly became accustomed to.
Half way through lunch, though, it became my second concern, my new primary concern being the dip I was reluctantly about to take in the still-icy cold waters of the Kattegat.
'It's a tradition!' shouted restaurant owner Camilla, and soon I was even being egged on by my fellow diners, some of whom I knew for a fact were never going to leave the womb-like warmth of the hot tub themselves. So much for solidarity.
For a cowardly Brit, six seconds in near-freezing open sea is a long time, and one that can easily change your perception of a place for the worse. I've never wished for the Mediterranean so hard. As fast as my numb legs would carry me, I was back in the tub, reaching for the bubbles. Warm water. Learning to love again. Let the healing begin. (PO)
MORE TRAVEL FEATURES