I needed another shower and more coffee after that, but eventually we got on the road for our next destination.
Sweden was exactly as I had pictured it: pine woods, lakes and farmland, with clapboard houses painted butter-yellow or dark red. Off the motorways there was hardly any traffic, and the Swedes are careful, law-abiding drivers, sticking to the (low) speed limits and moving aside for overtaking motorcyclists. I loved the roads, with their safe, gentle curves and climbs and the famous signs warning of possible elk.
Around lunchtime we stopped at a roadside café and ordered pizzas after much puzzling over the lists of toppings. I had the 'Africana', with bacon, banana, pineapple, peanuts and curry powder, plus a can of a soft drink called 'Trocadero'. It was my birthday, after all.
In the late afternoon we passed through the town of Nybro and took a gravel track down to our holiday camp. There were old petrol pumps by the side of the road and a model DC-3 the size of a family car in the lake. It was my kind of place.
We were greeted by an older man who had been sitting outside the reception and introduced himself as Haider.
"This is the last I was expecting," he said, slowly and carefully. "I was not expecting cyclists. But you are most welcome."
Howard counted out the cash we owed for two nights' stay plus the loan of bedlinen and towels, and Haider waved away the last 20Kr note: "Buy yourself some ice creams."
Like the previous night's accommodation, this was self-catering. In Ystad we'd had our own tiny kitchen and bathroom, but here they were communal. We headed for the lounge to enjoy the bread and cheese we'd picked up from a supermarket. Mid-supper, the sole other guest, a Swede, walked in and chatted for a bit before disappearing into the kitchen.
A few minutes later, he popped his head out again.
"Have you heard of David Icke?" he asked.
We finished our meal quickly.
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