A three hour trip through the archipelago seemed like a long time but the weather was fine, the seas were calm and the day stretched out before us. Even by eight in the morning there was a long queue of day trippers on the quayside with blankets and picnics and newspapers in hand, waiting to get the ferry that would take us to where we were headed. The line of passengers inched forward and we took our seats, inside to keep out of the sun but by a window to take in the outstanding views. The boat pulled away from the quay and made its way through the suburbs of Stockholm passed the gleaming white cruise ships and the ferries for Helsinki and Tallinn.
The throttle opened and our boat picked up speed, folding the water into a white arrowhead in her wake. We stopped at a few islands along the way, all peppered with summer houses painted in red with their windows picked out in white, set in forests that clung to the domed rocks that raised up out of the inland waters of the Baltic Sea. The further we went, the scarcer the population became, the more remote the islands became and the more beautiful was the scenery.
A few cups of coffee and the boat had passed Vaxholm and was weaving its way through the skerry, the small rocky outcrops that are too small to be called islands and then we were there. We had arrived at our destination, the small island of Finnhamn at the very edge of the archipelago. We stepped out onto the shore and made our way gently along the paths through the forest, not just the pine trees that we had expected but sycamore, birch and oak. The ground was littered with wild flowers, blues and yellows and pinks. There were wild strawberries and raspberries and the birds were singing and chirping.
Every so often the ground was broken by rounded outcrops of rock smoothed and scraped by the ice that had shaped the islands. Scratch marks, unchanged for thousands of years were still visible showing the direction that the rocks and stones had been scoured against the surface of the land. Large ants scurried along their well-worn paths and a black snake, a viper or hoggorm eased its melanic body over the bare rock and hid beneath the undergrowth. Every view was beautiful, the water lapping against the shore, the dappled sun through the leaves of the trees, the small red wooden houses that fitted perfectly into their surroundings and it felt good to be alive.
We made our way to the small restaurant that overlooked the main jetty and sat down to have lunch, sitting out on the veranda as food always tastes better in the fresh air. The cold beers felt good and were an antidote to the hot sun that scorched the backs of our necks. Time meant nothing but just frittered away on the gentle breeze that made us feel relaxed. A cup of coffee, an ice cream and by then the boat had arrived to take us back, the Cinderella, a faster boat to take us back to the city and back to the flat.
This time we sat at the stern of the boat, outside and we looked back as the magical island of Finnhamn got smaller and smaller through the spume of its wake.
Thoughts from a Guerrilla Worker 