Onwards to Öland (Laundry quandary)

After yesterday's 'well that wraps it up for Kalmar's' quick march, today we moved on to the island of Öland connected to the mainland by a long, low bridge on the northern outskirts of the town.

In our road atlas Öland looks like a sliver of land, but actually it is quite extensive. A long, half submerged ridge of limestone (not common in Sweden), the island is narrow, perhaps 10km wide at most, but north to south it stretches for 137kms. Our plan was to spend three or four days on Öland; there are distinct differences, the north of the island is pastoral and wooded, a popular holiday destination for Swedes, the south has more historical monuments from pre-history and the Viking age, it is also sparsely populated, a bare, windswept limestone plateau. We decided It would be good to see both aspects of the island, which we did, but not quite in the way we had planned.

We woke to blue sky and sunshine in Kalmar, by 10.30am it was 25°, a truly glorious day. By the time we reached the island the temperature had dipped by a couple of degrees, but given off-shore breezes that was to be expected. Our destination was a few kilometres from the northern tip of Öland, Boda - a fishing village with motorhome parking on the quayside. We aimed to get there for lunch. 

The main road by-passes, Borgholm, the island's main settlement. We glimpsed its big ruined castle from the road. The Swedish Royal Family's summer retreat is somewhere hereabouts too.

As we neared the north east of the island a smudge appeared on the horizon, it looked like smoke. In fact it was thin sea mist, suddenly we were immersed in it and the temperature dropped by 10°. We reached our destination, it felt chilly and looked dismal. 

This did not deter doughty Swedish males from sitting by their vans bare-chested. I swapped my lightweight hoody for the Fat Face heavy duty one before scurrying about taking atmospheric photos of rocks in fog and surreptitious snapshots of half naked mist bathers.

This is silly we decided, 'it's ten degrees warmer a few kilometres down the road, let's find another place to stay.' We consulted Campercontacts, Sandvik looked like a good candidate, a similar marina stellpläts, but hopefully not fog bound.

It was a twenty minute drive south. Sandvik was a pleasant little port, with a similar fish smokehouse as Boda, room for about a dozen vans at the parking area next to the sea wall. 

We had a late lunch. Gill went off to investigate the smokehouse hoping to find some delicious 'lax'. I wandered off towards the end of the quay to take a photo or two. It proved to be a trickier proposition than I imagined, I was in attacked immediately by an angry seagull. It dived bombed me, shrieking past six inches above my head making a rapid clicking sound with its beak. I was not a amused, but the British couple sunning themselves on the stern of their ketch moored nearby found the whole thing hilarious. It was a handsome boat, driving here is a big trip, the thought of sailing here was awe inspiring.

I caught up with Gill at the fish counter buying salmon and a creamy herb dressing. to accompany it. Back at the van we had another re-think. Sandvik was nice enough, but beyond the harbour there was little to occupy us, no obvious walks nearby and the narrow lanes not particularly comfortable to cycle on. Also, stellpläts are fine, but if you want to sit outside in the sunshine you are basically trying to relax in a car park. I hankered after somewhere a little greener, a place we could settle into and cook outside. Back on-line, way to the south of us, almost at the opposite tip of the island we found a campsite by the sea. It had good reviews. Even though it was a further 90 minutes driving on a day better suited to sunbathing, we decided to head off.

South of the bridge the character of the island did feel different. Quieter, more remote, a landscape of poppy filled fields,  bare limestone rock and gnarled trees. It was very beautiful.

The campsite was a kilometre or two north of Degerhamn, a small port dominated by an enormous cement works and bulk carrier dock. The campsite was right by the sea in pine woods and hidden from the nearby industry. 

On arrival we noticed a persistent cabbagy odour, redolent of the aftermath of a mid 20th century school dinnertime. We could not decide if it was pollution from the nearby plant or the smell of brassicas growing in fields hereabouts. Sometimes the whole of Lincolnshire smells like boiled cabbage, it could be the same here, we speculated.

Coincidentally the place is called 'Camping Sandvik' exactly the same as the port to the north where we decided not to stay. Whatever the vagaries of today we appeared to be predestined to spend it in one Sandvik or another.

Other than the cabbage patch smell, the site was ok, a bit rustic but in a beautiful spot, it felt tranquil and in the depths of nature. In some ways it reminded us of Bibulus and Bolatas, the off-grid site in the depths of Portugal site we stayed on last October with Sarah and Rob. As well as the eco friendly ambiance and natural environment, both sites had Dutch owners, and the both bore a striking resemblance to Richard Branson. I assume they were not actually related.

Since we were in a campsite we decided to use the laundry, it had domestic rather than commercial sized washers, a minor detail I include, not because I have a peculiar fascination with laundry related technology, but because it meant we had to split our load, and that in the end became unexpectedly difficult.

Load one went in, an hour later in the early evening we hung it out and went for a walk. One advantage of a 4.15am sunrise is that you can hang your washing out overnight and by the time you emerge at 8.30 next morning it is perfectly dry.

For once we had a warm evening and mains electricity - time to play with our new toy - a plug-in induction hob - it worked really well, it's small, lightweight and very efficient.

It was another Nordic slow burn sunset, as the sun dropped below the low hills of the mainland the tree trunks of the pines glowed red. The boulders scattered on the foreshore are covered in white lichen, they shone out in the twilight. There is an astonishing light here in the Baltic, not the brilliant light of the south, but a shining mirror-like quality; an opaque translucency - that should be a contradiction, but it's the only way I can think to describe it - a shine like pewter not silver.

We talked about what to do tomorrow. Once we the second load wafting in the breeze we planned to explore the south of the island by bike. There weren't that many dedicated cycle tracks but the country roads were quiet. The Kalmar tourist information centre had provided us with two free large scale maps of the island with all the historical sites and archaeological sites marked.

Next day everything went to plan to begin with - first load was dry by the time we woke-up. We would had the second load into the machine soon after 9.00am. An hour later I started to unload the bikes, Gill headed off to fetch the laundry. She returned empty handed explaining the washing machine door had jammed shut. Moments later Ms. Richard Branson called by to explain the main water pump on the site had failed, a plumber had been summoned and she would call back later to tell us when we could retrieve the laundry. Richard himself then appeared, apparently like most places in rural Sweden the place used well water, so until a temporary pump could be installed there was no drinking water. Luckily the loos used a different non-filtered supply.

Not going anywhere...

So why the quandary over a load of wet laundry. Because a few weeks ago somewhere in the middle of Denmark we had poked a big hole in our sheet leaving us only one, which at this precise moment was soaking wet in a dysfunctional washing machine.

We had lunch, a bit later a white van turned up - the plumber! After 45 minutes of blokeish faffing about Mr. Branson (looking relieved) arrived to announce the water restored. Somehow we managed to press the wrong button on the washer and the thing went through the entire wash cycle again, but finally sometime after 3pm we had our only sheet wafting on the line. By this time our enthusiasm for the bike ride had gone, let's just leave tomorrow and visit the places we want to see on the way back to Kalmar. Sometimes plans are simply destined not to work out.