Passing the long pier with its whitewashed stone beacon at the end, we venture out onto Lake Vänern. But the lake has other plans for us, as we soon realise. With a wind force of three directly from the front, the waves are already too much for us. Even in the wake of a freighter, we have no chance. The sailors standing at the stern on the railing, smoking, must think we're crazy. After just five kilometres (which seem like twenty at walking pace), we take refuge in the small harbour of Grönvik on the western shore. We spend the night at the nearby campsite and hope.
But the morning also wakes us up with far too much wind from the north-east. We try, but take on so much water in the short, steep sea that it soon spills over the wooden floorboards and we are soaking wet despite our ponchos. Morten can barely keep up with the scooping, and to make matters worse, the sun is mocking us in the innocent blue sky. Turn round!
The lake does what it wants - but we're lucky
Back in Vänersborg, our clothes dripping, we pick up two canisters of petrol at the boat filling station. When the blonde girl with the braided hair sees us at the till, and from our plan to cross Sweden by rubber dinghy she laughs: "The lake does what it wants!" We just nod and drip a little more.
The town is in a holiday mood. Vänersborg doesn't have much to offer (apart from a few pretty wooden houses on the market square), but the summer puts a smile on everyone's face. We treat ourselves to a real coffee in a cosy pavement café and stretch our legs under the table.
With four six-packs of mineral water and a can of insect spray (which you can only get in garden centres here)
we stroll back to the boat to wait. Maybe the wind will die down in the evening? And indeed: the flags flutter more and more listlessly until they just hang down lazily.
It's 7 pm - it's now or never! Gliding northwards along the west coast to get a good starting point for crossing the lake the next day. The Gälleudde lighthouse, so inaccessible in the morning, is now within a quarter of an hour's reach.
The evening comes with white light, and the lake has become a huge mirror. A distant freighter seems to float through the void. The journey through the silence around us is so hypnotic that we only realise that our outboard motor is dead when the boat slows down. Feverish troubleshooting. The tank is full, the vent is open, quick stop on. The propeller? No net, no line in it. Damn, but it was just running
like clockwork! What if night falls and we're sitting here on the lake? Suddenly Morten holds up the petrol hose. It had come loose, that's all.
We are so relieved that we overshoot the mark: we have missed the mouth of the Dalbergså river, where our campsite for the night is located slightly above. The GPS sends us back southwards and we soon see the beacon that marks the entrance. We glide through the narrow rocks and soon find the small, hidden harbour with its campsite.
Ready for the island: an archipelago just for us alone
Fortunately, our tent is in the shade of tall spruce trees, otherwise the morning would have left us to stew in our own juices. No wind! We pack up quickly - the tedious stowing away has long since become routine. Then a quick breakfast with a view of the lake and off we go!
Lake Vänern is barely moving. We follow the coast as far as the lighthouse on Hjörtens Udde, but then we turn off. With compass and map, we set course 070° into the blue. The wake runs dead straight for kilometre after kilometre, right across the lake. Then we reach the centre of the crossing, time for a pause for reflection. The shore can only be guessed at. We taste the water - it is indeed sweet and clear! Of course, the Vänern also gets something in return: a precious sip of whisky goes overboard from the hip flask ...
The first islands appear, often no more than rocks. At the Naven lighthouse, we finally enter the archipelago fairway north of the island of Kållandsö. Anglers and bathers watch our small, noisy dinghy. We look for an archipelago for the night away from the hustle and bustle: the first is too small, the second is beautiful and turns out to be a colony of seagulls. After their first mock attacks in a dive, we turn away again.
again.
But all good things come in threes! The next skerry is perfect, secluded and also far enough away from the birds on "Hitchcock Island". The boat is pulled onto the rock in a shallow bay and secured with the anchor in a crevice before we set off on a "tour of our realm", which takes five minutes, but there is still enough space for a small forest with gnarled, mossy trees in a hollow in the centre.
centre. Butterflies play with the sun's rays.
We set up the tent close to the shore. Instead of tensioning it with pegs, we stick it down with gaffer tape. It won't withstand a storm, but we're not expecting one. We hang our beer cans overboard in the net, fire up the cooker and settle down on the warm rocks. Kings for a day!
Mariestad: refuelling stop for drinking water
A light wind brings refreshment the next morning. We continue our slalom along the red and green poles of the archipelago fairway to the east until we moor again below Läckö Castle. The gleaming whitewashed former bishop's residence with its baroque spires is worth a walk, even though the sun is unbearably hot and makes the air in front of the archway shimmer.
With a gentle swell behind us, we also cross the southern tip of Dalbosjön, as the eastern half of the lake is known. This is followed by the long entrance into the bay of Mariestad, which is shielded by islands. Anything with a keel is on the water - because it's so hot? The town is correspondingly deserted, but we still have to make a stop to refuel for drinking water.
Heading north, we leave Mariestad behind us again and cross Östersundet with the high bridge to the island of Torsö.
island of Torsö. We are already passing Sjötorp on the eastern shore, where the Göta Canal begins. But the adventure is not over yet: We treat ourselves to another night in the archipelago. This time, however, we forgo the outer tent and sleep under the stars.
