At first, I had my suspicions. After all, I had read enough about the recent electoral gains of the far-Right Sweden Democrats to have my doubts about the nation’s famously liberal credentials. Not only that, but I have never liked Abba and I had concerns about the idea of daily naked swims in the freezing Baltic.
Yet, three days in, and my immersion into the Swedish way of taking a holiday is fast proving infinitely more civilised, and freer of enforced nudity, than I anticipated.
The region of Galo (pronounced goal-ar) is part of the Stockholm archipelago, a maze of islets and islands scattered like biscuit crumbs, less than an hour from the capital.
Flanked by wide sandy bays, craggy escarpments, looming birch and pine forests, many of the bijou red-roofed cottages en route are summer retreats – an affordable reality for many Stockholm residents rather than the elite indulgence it is for Brits who yearn for a second home in Cumbria or the Cotswolds.
For company, I have a whopping 18 members of my partner Emma’s Swedish family, ranging in age from two-year-old Noel to 79-year-old Patrick. We’re all staying in the largest cottage that the Galo Havsbad camp and cottage site can offer – and, at first, all seems to be remarkably similar to the English way of taking a self-catering break.
Fair isles: Rob Crossan travels to the Stockholm archipelago (above) and immerses himself in the Swedish way of taking a holiday. He writes: ‘[It’s] freer of enforced nudity, than I anticipated’
But, slowly, and with a typically Swedish lack of ostentation, I’m beginning to realise how profoundly different the Swedish are.
First, they do not strip off to skinny dip at every opportunity. Swimming is a daily pleasure in these parts and I’m astonished to find that the brackish Baltic waters – which I can ease into via a 90-second walk from our cottage – are surprisingly temperate.
Yet everyone I see is firmly wedded to their swimming apparel, which is noticeably demure and lacking in the technicolour monstrosities that pass for male beach wear for many on the coasts of Spain and beyond.
Many of the red-roofed cottages found on the archipelago (above), are summer retreats belonging to locals, reveals Rob
Installing myself in a kayak one morning, I let my oars trail in the olive green waters while looking out over a panoramic vista of skies punctuated with tumbling racks of cloud, smooth, round cliffs and minuscule islets populated by boisterous redshanks.
As the warm days fade at around 9.30pm into amber coloured dusk, the Swedish tradition of bellowing drinking songs while downing schnapps emerges in our group.
Translating the songs into English isn’t easy but I’m informed that the tunes are ‘Swedish classics’ that involve tales of humans having elk ears and one where the women claim to have a large icicle protruding from their waist.
Rob (not pictured) stays at the Galo Havsbad camp and cottage site, where he kayaks in ‘olive green waters’
This imbibing is the prelude to being served the bounty that even the most basic of Swedish supermarkets stocks. An entire salmon bathed overnight in salt water then barbecued, herring, potato salad, shrimps and, yes, many meatballs are shared around our vast table while Elizabeth, my partner’s half-sister, explains the values Swedes place on their holidays into the countryside.
She says: ‘We have a concept called “allemenstratten”, which means the freedom to roam. It’s incredibly important in Sweden. It means that, as long as you behave yourself, you have the right to pitch your tent or walk or swim pretty much anywhere you like in the Swedish countryside.’
But even on an organised campsite like this one, this maxim applies. Eating out in the on-site restaurant one evening, we find no grumpy waiting staff complaining about having to seat nearly 20 people and then brandishing the bill onto the table before we’ve even finished dessert.
Instead, we simply put four tables together and head inside to pay two by two afterwards. Nobody here seems to have the slightest suspicions that we will run off without paying.
Above, one of the self-catering cottages at Galo Havsbad
The on-site ‘spelhallen’ (arcade) is a red barn filled with air hockey and ping pong tables. In the UK, I suspect this would cost money to enter, and contain a maze of health and safety signs and soft floors. Here, children are trusted to enjoy it without supervision.
Similarly, when we hire go-karts for some of the children, there are no safety lessons, no helmets and no adult supervision. Swedish children are relied on to behave well.
When the schnapps and singing continues after dusk outside our cottage and I see a man from a neighbouring cabin stride over, I expect the worst. But there is no argument about the noise of the conviviality – he simply wants to say hello and asks to join us.
Rob and his group, members of his partner Emma’s Swedish family, enjoy lunch outside their cottage. He says: ‘The Swedish tradition of bellowing drinking songs while downing schnapps emerges’
I spot Dutch and German car registration plates around the campsite but not a single one from the UK. We’re missing out because what is impressing me the most is the ability Swedes have to, somehow, imbue a love of communal socialising without it morphing into the enforced jollity and brutal scheduling of a Chinese Communist Party workers outing.
In short, should you wish to do something on your own, nobody is offended. So on my last morning in Galo, I stride out for a solo hike along the bay’s edge and inch my way along pebble-strewn beaches and rocky peninsulas.
Around three miles away from the campsite, I stumble across a young couple who have decided to pitch their tent directly on to a narrow fringe of sand.
Sitting together, legs crossed and holding hands, I’m tempted to break their romantic reverie by trying some faltering Swedish.
But I desist. They are demonstrating their sense of ‘allemenstratten’ – alone yet together in a country that has turned the staycation into an art form of how to do whatever you want, without annoying anybody in the process.
