End of the summer in Finland: Vaasa, Pietarsaari and the kesämökki

It was about midnight when, after saying farewell to the other bikers I met on the ferry, I landed in Vaasa, whose streets were–at that late hours–mostly deserted. Still it took me quite a while to find the accommodation I had booked, because it had no sign whatsoever, was in a badly lit neighbourhood with no names on the streets, and my GPS insisted in taking me to the wrong location; so, by the time I arrived my host was a bit impatient; and since he–a bit of a fusspot–was in a hurry for going to bed, spared explanations and basically demanded the payment–cash only, please–which I fulfilled promptly. On a desk he left the guest form for me to fill up later, then gave me some last–rather restrictive–instructions and left. Continue reading

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Umea’s desolate ferry terminal

The strong contrast, scenic-wise, between both sides of the Swedish border has rendered me useless for taking photographs: after two weeks in Norway, where the landscapes jump themselves into the camera and you don’t even need to think for getting excellent pics, what can you now expect to shoot at in Sweden? This country compared to its neighbour is like water beside coffee: colourless, odourless and tasteless.
And my experience at Park Hotel, where I’ve spent the night, has not helped to improve such feeling: the Middle East immigrant guy at the reception was cold, not to say hostile; and cold was also my room, which didn’t have any heating. Then, breakfast was dreadful: milk had gone sour in the carton, there was no real tea among the verious unappealing herbals, and no other food offered than baked ham, cream cheese, sliced bread and some cereals. The hotel itself was uncared for, and unattended. Now come and tell me about the high living standards in Scandinavia… Continue reading

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Elciego and around, cradle of Rioja wine

It’s the heart of the summer, and from the height south-bordering the Álava plain there lies at my feet, majestic and fertile, hot and glaring, the Ebro valley; namely the Basque side of Rioja, which is somehow a territorial inconsistence, since all southern Álava is, like Treviño, actually more Castilian than Basque; but we’re deep into an autonomic nonsense here in Spain, after Franco died.

Valle del Ebro al pie de la llanada Alavesa

The Ebro valey below the Álava plain

The road from Vitoria to the height descends now towards the valley in a series of fun bends which are a good challenge for a bike rider. Pity it gets so hot as I go down into the Iberic cauldron, the valley bed where the vinyards are, that I need to take my jacket off. Continue reading

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Islamic Lapland

Surely good willed yet somewhat thoughtlessly, Arctic Alaska’s employee recommends me to take an alternative route to Umea, very pretty, via Vihelmina, since there are construction works along the Bla Vagen. According to my maps, though, that’s a dirt road; but the guy claims it’s mostly paved except for some short stretches. Thus, relying on his knowledge and good criteria, I head that way. Certainly for the first few kilometres it’s paved, but shortly afterwards the asphalt ends and, though I keep going for a little while, I can’t see where the pavement begins again as far as my sight can reach from atop the hills.  Now, I don’t know what he meant by short stretch, but it’s starting to rain and I don’t want to end up covered in mud, so I turn back and retake the Bla Vagen, hoping for the best.
Upon inquiring at the first petrol station, they tell me the works begin much farther, past the fork to Sorsele, which means I can head that town then take highway 363 to Umea, thus dodging the trouble. Good information, unlike the guy’s at Arctic Alaska. Too often, I’m afraid, we give advice oblivious to the fact that what works for us doesn’t necessarily work for others, and that often–or even most of the time–people don’t like what we like. Continue reading

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Bla Vagen, Sami territory

Sweden has the misfortune of sharing one thousand miles of border with one of the most stunning countries on the globe: Norway, and so it always loses when compared. In that battle, the Swedish are so beforehand defeated that they don’t even try to compete: neither its endless forests nor its numerous lakes, reindeer flocks or other natural beauties suffice to impress the tourist who crosses that border from the west.
Like me, for instance.
A rainy and dull morning in late August I cross the imaginary line (barely a road sign, fifty kilometres southeast of Mo i Rana) dividing Norway from Sweden, and whence the road is called Bla Vagen (Blue Way) because of the many rivers and lakes alongside it, all the way down to Umea, on the Botnia Gulf. Continue reading

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The maelstrom (and a church called Neverness)

The maelstrom! Could a more dreadful situation have sounded in our ears! We were then upon the dangerous coast of Norway [where], at the tide, the pent-up waters between the islands of Ferroe and Loffoden rush with irresistible violence, forming a whirlpool from which no vessel ever escapes. There, not only vessels, but whales are sacrificed, as well as white bears from the polar regions.

Thus, in his 1870 classic Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, did Jules Verne describe the terrors of the vast maelstrom whirlpool charted by chroniclers since at least the 16th century; but it wasn’t until after Edgard Allan Poe published his bloodcurling tale A descent into the Maelstrom that this word became popular. Continue reading

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Miseries of a traveller

I’m still in this fable-like valley I entered yesterday through a hidden tunnel in the corner of a fiord: the campsite, the Laksagaosen ecological reserve, the Nordfjordelva river of clean turquoise blue waters coming down from the glaciers…
06storskogelvaCristal
At the end of the narrow road along the valley there is a place called Lakshol, where a difficult trecking route starts that, presumedly, goes all the way up to the high lakes where the turquoise magic occurs, and giddy waterfalls too. The campsite’s caretaker has strongly reccommended it to me, and I’m going to invest a few hours in the task. My appointment with the maelstrom will need to wait one more day. Continue reading

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Through the looking-glass

Along this journey to nowhere an idea has slowly been emerging from the depths of my subsonscious –where it lived as an embryo– to the surface of my awareness, rounding up there during the past few days and thus achieving the category of a goal; a goal which, like a compass, steers now Rosaura’s handlebar: to witness the maelstrom, that fabulous and awe-inspiring vortex formed in some water streams at sea.
My next target is, then, Saltstraumen (20 km from Bodo), home to Norwegian coast’s most powerful whirlpool–and perhaps also the largest konwn in the whole planet. However it be, see it or not, Bodo will be my last stop in this country, where my stay is getting too long. If on one hand the spectacular and unexpected landscapes here (among the very best highlights in my travelling life) are captivating, on the other hand I’m being kicked out by these prices (among the highest in the world, as of today). So, after Salstraumen I’ll take the first road that cuts straight to Sweden.

Mi ruta de hoy, desde Myrlansfjorden hasta Tennfloget

Today’s route, from Myrlansfjorden to Tennfloget

For going down south from this lovely house by Myrlandsfjorden where I’ve stayed the last two days, there are two alternative ferry routes: via Svolvaer-Skutvik or via Lodingen-Bognes; and though the first one looks shorter, my friendly hosts recommend to me the second, since it’s faster and cheaper, plus departs more frequently. So, I bid them farewell in the morning and off to Lodingen I ride, where I arrive one hour later, luckily in the very moment when the vehicles are boarding the ship. Continue reading

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