Across the parallel universe to Sweden

"I must go down to the seas again/To the lonely sea and the sky.." It's clear John Masefield had never been on a car ferry...

Over the years, well decades actually, we have spent an unimaginable amount of time on car ferries. In fact we have stared from them mindlessly at the horizons of the Atlantic, Pacific, the Med, North Sea, the Channel and Bay of Biscay... what we can safely say is every single one was equally horizontal. This is what we want, predictable, unexciting sea crossings.

Only a few standout, some with good reason - how could any inveterate traveller not be excited to be sailing up Cook Sound on the way from Wellington to Picton? Other voyages have been less salubrious, like the gritty over-night ferry from Brindisi to Patras. It's fair to say that the four hour trip we have just completed from Fredrikshavn to Gothenburg has been one of the memorable ones, not only because it 'chalked-up' another sea - The Baltic, but also we will remember it forever because it was one big party.

Perhaps as British travellers we should have anticipated this. Not everyone on a Dover to Calais crossing is heading for sunnier climes, a proportion of the passengers will get no further than the nearest hypermarket and return on the next boat with a car boot packed with wine and beer.

The Baltic ferries seem to have a Skandi version of that venerable British institution - the 'booze-cruise'. The big difference is the cheap alcohol is for sale on the boat - dodging both Denmark and Sweden's high levels of duty on wine, beer and spirits. Consequently the 'cruise' is organised differently, even to the extent of adapting the layout of the ship. For a start the 'duty free shop' takes up two levels, if you persisted long enough you might find a bottle of perfume somewhere, but the retail offer is mainly alcoholic, including pallets of six packs. Chunky trolleys are provided for customers to trundle bulk purchases from boat to shore. Helpfully the passenger gangway has been deliberately widened to about 6m, running directly from the lower level of the shop to connect, presumably, with a corridor at the terminal - thus ensuring no one actually gets crushed in disembarkation booze trolley rush. 

This was not the only adaptation. The booze cruisers don't bother to disembark at the far side, so they need to be entertained during entire 10 hour round trip. The on-board programme revolves around three activities, gambling, drinking and dancing. Two entire sections of the main deck were dedicated to gambling.. Emulating a Vegas casino, lighting was subdued so the lights of the fruit machines flickered and flashed. The place had a spaced-out, other worldly ambiance.

Another diversion that foot passengers had found to pass the time was to drink steadily. It seemed to us that the majority of customers on the booze cruise were Swedes, mainly couples aged 50 plus. As we had joined them for the return leg they'd already been drinking for five hours. They were quietly pissed rather than raucously drunk. In truth, a level of inebriation was required to deal with the forthcoming on- board entertainment. 

A 'dance band' was promised for 3.15pm in the bar. We were already settled-in here as the main information desk had informed Gill that the bar was the best place to get an espresso. This proved to be somewhat misleading as it had the same bean to cup automated brown liquid making abomination as elsewhere on the ship. But if everywhere is equally tawdry why move? (early onset slump)

About half an hour before the promised live band a willowy young woman perched herself onto a bar stool amid the instruments on the small stage. Taking an iPad out of her handbag, she connected it to the amp, switched it on and the intro. to 'Strangers in the Night' wafted through the bar. The warm-up act consisted of her plus a karaoke machine. This should have been terrible, and in truth the robotic accompaniment and schmaltzy repertoire was hard to bear. However, credit should be given where it's due, the singer had a good voice and we suspected some professional training, swapping styles from Country to Soul, ballad to Europop with ease. Everyone applauded between songs, not entirely out of politeness.

During 'These boots were made for walking's' interminable 'outro', as the singer fiddled with her iPad to queue up the next song, a slightly portly chap with a bald head emerged from a door beside the stage and whispered something into her ear. She nodded, sprinted through 'This Girl's In Love With You' as cursorily as the karaoke machine would allow, acknowledged a final smattering of applause then disappeared through the same side door that Mr. Portly popped-out from.

Meanwhile Mr. Slightly Portly took up position behind a keyboard, flicked a few switches on what was probably a mini-mixer, the speakers hummed a little louder, and he was joined in stage by three others, a bassist, drummer, and a front man who sang, played guitar and occasionally blew a few notes into a tenor sax. Difficult to gauge their average age, not quite as old as the Rolling Stones probably, but of that era. 

The first half of the set was quite perky, a few rock and roll classics, hits from the sixties and Swedish Europop that we'd never heard of. Most of it was as bad as you might expect, the only time it assumed any kind of musicality was when Mr. Slightly Portly switched from keyboard to accordion and the tunes became jauntier, acquiring a kind of upbeat syncopation that at times sounded accidentally Cajun. All the while the gathered septuagenarians had taken to the floor and were waltzing about merrily. As the set progressed the music slowed, the band threw in the odd sentimental oldie, the couples leaned into each other. It may have been a touching display of lifelong affection, or possibly simply the need for mutual support given their marathon drinking session was now entering its eighth hour.

I glanced out of the window, thankfully the Baltic had remained flat calm for the whole crossing, but grey and drizzly. We passed a couple of granite islets, then a mini archipelago with some copper red huts dotted about, one had a stumpy lighthouse on it. Outside the bar an electronic chart plotted our progress, another twenty minutes and we would arrive in Gothenburg.

Gothenburg approaches - Gill by this time had become a ghost of her former self....

The ferry docked close to the city centre. It looked like a thriving port, a mix of industry and swish apartments lined the quayside. The Moho was parked on the lowest deck among the trucks. Always a bit hair-raising disembarking with them towering above you. Slow too, especially as Sweden still seems to check the legitimacy of every vehicle entering even though they are Schengen signatories. The customs officer was pleasant, but thorough in her questions about how long we intended to stay, where we were going. Is this the future for all Brits at every European border we wondered.

Out of the docks straight into Gothenburg's urban motorway system, they are being rebuilt so the sat nav was not much help. We found the E45 heading towards Karlstadt, our destination, Trollhãtten was just a few junctions up the road.

It had been an odd day, crossing borders is always a challenge, the weird ferry journey gave it a touch of the surreal. Sweden! A new country for me but not for Gill who visited Uppsala and Stockholm briefly about twenty years ago while working for a European Commission funded project.