From Fareham to Malmö - 03/02/2006
The journey to Gatwick airport is fairly uneventful; the English countryside flows past me, the occasional sheep makes an appearance, ditto cows and swans. All the while I continue to plough my way through the complete Sherlock Holmes. Craig's travels, on the other hand, have taken an odd turn. The train from Hamburg to Copenhagen has, quite bizarrely, taken the ferry for part of its journey. I find this out by text message just before my mobile phone goes snafu.
This happens just after the train pulls out of Barnham; my trusty Nokia decides that it's no longer going to send text messages. For me, nimble of thumb when it comes to texting (it could be argued that it's my preferred method of communication), this is a complete trauma. I'd expected my phone to 'act up' once I'd reached Scandinavia (because it's done so each time I've been there before) but going on the fritz before leaving Blighty is a pain; maybe it knows where it's going? There's nothing I can do about it though, not now.
We reach Pulborough (which is pretty much in the middle of nowhere) and two young bloods get on the train. They sit across from me a few rows up and burble away to each other in what may or may not be English. I'm not down with the street, hence I'd need subtitles to work out what these two are on about. That said, inbetween Holmes solving some caper, I pick up (thanks to having watched The Catherine Tate Show) that they've been to an all-nighter of some description. It's only when the conductor ventures into the carriage that it becomes interesting.
Their demeanour changes as soon as he asks for their tickets (so it's obvious they haven't got any); they avoid every attempt at answering his questions and instead talk amongst themselves. The conductor plays it supercool and tells them that they'll have to get off the train at the next station, Horsham. This only eggs them on to ask about the women of Horsham. I'm sat behind trying not to laugh at their attempts to be The Man. Sure enough, we get to Horsham and off they go.
There then follows a Chaplinesque sequence in which the two bloods hide around the corner of the station building, waiting for the conductor to walk away, thus hoping to hop back on the train (onto the same carriage even!). Unfortunately their cunning plan is foiled when the platform manager (or whatever they're called these days) catches them. The train pulls away, the two bloods are stranded in Horsham, and the conductor walks through the carriage with a knowing wink and purposeful stride.
I get to Gatwick with plenty of time to spare. I have so much time on my hands that I can't even check my bag in yet; the desk is closed and won't open until 2 hours before departure. With time on my hands I stock up on Swedish and Danish currency, then waste time in WHSmiths before my bag can start its journey to the plane.
Once through into Departures I have to wait all over again. I bide my time by testing the free vodka samples (sure enough, a bottle of Reyka, a nice smooth Icelandic vodka, gets the thumbs up and joins my carry-on luggage). I have time to munch a sandwich, sit around, walk about, look at the departures board to see that my plane hasn't got a gate yet, walk around some more, repeat the looking at the board procedure, visit Boots, look at the board, peruse the iPod accessories in Dixons, contemplate having a beer and decide not to before my plane finally gets its gate number.
The flight is smooth and without incident, I'm plugged into the iPod for the duration (I'm flying to Denmark, hence I'm listening to Mew). Looking out the window as we make our final approach, I see the Øresund Bridge and the fields of Denmark. There's been snow; Denmark looks like a big cake with a bag of icing sugar lightly sprinkled over it. Excellent.
Off the plane and down to passport control. When I first went to Sweden the first sight that greeted me at the airport was an array of IKEA chairs, a display of functional Swedish design; the first thing I see at Kastrup is a large display of scantily-clad mannequins, a display of not-so-functional Danish lingerie design. It brings a wry grin to my face, though not so much as the site of Craig leaning against a pillar outside of arrivals; his rucksack is almost as big as him. As we wait for the train to arrive he fills me in on his journey so far; he's had quite an adventure and has met several people on his journey. He's been keeping a journal which should make for interesting reading.
The journey from Kastrup to Malmö is all of 35 minutes, across the 16km Øresund Bridge (it's dark though so can't see much) and into Sweden. Our hotel is a short walk from the railway station; once checked in, and once Craig has been able to get into his room (his keycard didn't work first time) we sort ourselves out and hit the town. I'd visited Malmö the previous year on a day trip from Copenhagen (it seemed rude not to pop over when it's so near); I was only there for a few hours but managed to find a few bars and a nice restaurant with an amazing array of Anita Ekberg memorabilia.
We start off in Malmö Stortorget, still loving the novelty of thick snow as we trudge toward the sports bar on the corner; there's Premier League football on so we take seats at the bar and enjoy a nice expensive Swedish beer. Behind us sits a guy in a Birmingham City shirt; given that it's bloody cold (to us anyway) it surprises us when he goes outside for a smoke without donning a jacket. It only occurs to me when we leave that, as smoking is banned in enclosed public places in Sweden, all the bars have powerful heaters outside. I could stand outside in bermuda shorts and not feel the cold.
We move on to Lilla Torg, a lovely picturesque square containing some nice trendy bars and restaurants. It also contains a temporary ice rink; this is a change from the last time I was here when in its place stood a mad drunk man who shouted at anyone who went near him. We stop into the Moosehead Bar (which has MUTV on its plasma screen) and have a few more beers before deciding what to do next. Things go a bit more surreal when a lone Swede wanders over to say hello.
Unfortunately for me I'd left my Captain Subtext decoder at home, hence I don't pick up on what he's really getting at. I assume he's being polite (which the Swedes are) and not trying to chat us both up (yes, you read that right). It's only when Craig mentions it to me that he'd mentioned both Brighton and cruising in the same sentence that he may have been after more than wishing us a nice holiday. I put it down to mis-communication and move swiftly on.
In Gustav Adolf's Torg there is the Gustav Adolf Restaurant & Café, where previously I'd been stunned by the array of Anita Ekberg posters and the pneumatic waitress. Having bigged the place up to Craig it's somewhat of a disappointment that the marvellous selection of posters aren't there anymore. Neither is the waitress. However, the food is as good as ever (it's hot and filling) so not a total loss.
We move on to The Pickwick Pub on Malmborgsgatan. It has impossibly steep steps to get up into the place, so not somewhere to get silly drunk in (not that I'd advise doing that in Sweden, not unless you had plenty of money). Inside it has a familiar 'pub you imagine your local to be like' feel to it; no English pubs are like this any more, which is a shame. My local is more of a restaurant than a pub, it strikes me as more than bizarre that I have to go abroad to find a decent English boozer (albeit one with a large model Messerschmidt Me109 hanging from the ceiling).
We leave there and stumble into an Irish cellar pub around the corner. It's rammed to the gills and replete with a band singing Pogues' covers in midlantic accents. The atmosphere is good, the beer is OK but there's no room at the bar to stand. We lean on a wall and enjoy half of Rum, Sodomy & The Lash before making good our exit.
We head back to the Moosehead Bar for one last beer before calling it a night. After all, it's been a long day and we've got to get up early to catch a train to Stockholm in the morning.
Oh crap.
This happens just after the train pulls out of Barnham; my trusty Nokia decides that it's no longer going to send text messages. For me, nimble of thumb when it comes to texting (it could be argued that it's my preferred method of communication), this is a complete trauma. I'd expected my phone to 'act up' once I'd reached Scandinavia (because it's done so each time I've been there before) but going on the fritz before leaving Blighty is a pain; maybe it knows where it's going? There's nothing I can do about it though, not now.
We reach Pulborough (which is pretty much in the middle of nowhere) and two young bloods get on the train. They sit across from me a few rows up and burble away to each other in what may or may not be English. I'm not down with the street, hence I'd need subtitles to work out what these two are on about. That said, inbetween Holmes solving some caper, I pick up (thanks to having watched The Catherine Tate Show) that they've been to an all-nighter of some description. It's only when the conductor ventures into the carriage that it becomes interesting.
Their demeanour changes as soon as he asks for their tickets (so it's obvious they haven't got any); they avoid every attempt at answering his questions and instead talk amongst themselves. The conductor plays it supercool and tells them that they'll have to get off the train at the next station, Horsham. This only eggs them on to ask about the women of Horsham. I'm sat behind trying not to laugh at their attempts to be The Man. Sure enough, we get to Horsham and off they go.
There then follows a Chaplinesque sequence in which the two bloods hide around the corner of the station building, waiting for the conductor to walk away, thus hoping to hop back on the train (onto the same carriage even!). Unfortunately their cunning plan is foiled when the platform manager (or whatever they're called these days) catches them. The train pulls away, the two bloods are stranded in Horsham, and the conductor walks through the carriage with a knowing wink and purposeful stride.
I get to Gatwick with plenty of time to spare. I have so much time on my hands that I can't even check my bag in yet; the desk is closed and won't open until 2 hours before departure. With time on my hands I stock up on Swedish and Danish currency, then waste time in WHSmiths before my bag can start its journey to the plane.
Once through into Departures I have to wait all over again. I bide my time by testing the free vodka samples (sure enough, a bottle of Reyka, a nice smooth Icelandic vodka, gets the thumbs up and joins my carry-on luggage). I have time to munch a sandwich, sit around, walk about, look at the departures board to see that my plane hasn't got a gate yet, walk around some more, repeat the looking at the board procedure, visit Boots, look at the board, peruse the iPod accessories in Dixons, contemplate having a beer and decide not to before my plane finally gets its gate number.
The flight is smooth and without incident, I'm plugged into the iPod for the duration (I'm flying to Denmark, hence I'm listening to Mew). Looking out the window as we make our final approach, I see the Øresund Bridge and the fields of Denmark. There's been snow; Denmark looks like a big cake with a bag of icing sugar lightly sprinkled over it. Excellent.
Off the plane and down to passport control. When I first went to Sweden the first sight that greeted me at the airport was an array of IKEA chairs, a display of functional Swedish design; the first thing I see at Kastrup is a large display of scantily-clad mannequins, a display of not-so-functional Danish lingerie design. It brings a wry grin to my face, though not so much as the site of Craig leaning against a pillar outside of arrivals; his rucksack is almost as big as him. As we wait for the train to arrive he fills me in on his journey so far; he's had quite an adventure and has met several people on his journey. He's been keeping a journal which should make for interesting reading.
The journey from Kastrup to Malmö is all of 35 minutes, across the 16km Øresund Bridge (it's dark though so can't see much) and into Sweden. Our hotel is a short walk from the railway station; once checked in, and once Craig has been able to get into his room (his keycard didn't work first time) we sort ourselves out and hit the town. I'd visited Malmö the previous year on a day trip from Copenhagen (it seemed rude not to pop over when it's so near); I was only there for a few hours but managed to find a few bars and a nice restaurant with an amazing array of Anita Ekberg memorabilia.
We start off in Malmö Stortorget, still loving the novelty of thick snow as we trudge toward the sports bar on the corner; there's Premier League football on so we take seats at the bar and enjoy a nice expensive Swedish beer. Behind us sits a guy in a Birmingham City shirt; given that it's bloody cold (to us anyway) it surprises us when he goes outside for a smoke without donning a jacket. It only occurs to me when we leave that, as smoking is banned in enclosed public places in Sweden, all the bars have powerful heaters outside. I could stand outside in bermuda shorts and not feel the cold.
We move on to Lilla Torg, a lovely picturesque square containing some nice trendy bars and restaurants. It also contains a temporary ice rink; this is a change from the last time I was here when in its place stood a mad drunk man who shouted at anyone who went near him. We stop into the Moosehead Bar (which has MUTV on its plasma screen) and have a few more beers before deciding what to do next. Things go a bit more surreal when a lone Swede wanders over to say hello.
Unfortunately for me I'd left my Captain Subtext decoder at home, hence I don't pick up on what he's really getting at. I assume he's being polite (which the Swedes are) and not trying to chat us both up (yes, you read that right). It's only when Craig mentions it to me that he'd mentioned both Brighton and cruising in the same sentence that he may have been after more than wishing us a nice holiday. I put it down to mis-communication and move swiftly on.
In Gustav Adolf's Torg there is the Gustav Adolf Restaurant & Café, where previously I'd been stunned by the array of Anita Ekberg posters and the pneumatic waitress. Having bigged the place up to Craig it's somewhat of a disappointment that the marvellous selection of posters aren't there anymore. Neither is the waitress. However, the food is as good as ever (it's hot and filling) so not a total loss.
We move on to The Pickwick Pub on Malmborgsgatan. It has impossibly steep steps to get up into the place, so not somewhere to get silly drunk in (not that I'd advise doing that in Sweden, not unless you had plenty of money). Inside it has a familiar 'pub you imagine your local to be like' feel to it; no English pubs are like this any more, which is a shame. My local is more of a restaurant than a pub, it strikes me as more than bizarre that I have to go abroad to find a decent English boozer (albeit one with a large model Messerschmidt Me109 hanging from the ceiling).
We leave there and stumble into an Irish cellar pub around the corner. It's rammed to the gills and replete with a band singing Pogues' covers in midlantic accents. The atmosphere is good, the beer is OK but there's no room at the bar to stand. We lean on a wall and enjoy half of Rum, Sodomy & The Lash before making good our exit.
We head back to the Moosehead Bar for one last beer before calling it a night. After all, it's been a long day and we've got to get up early to catch a train to Stockholm in the morning.
Oh crap.
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