The Tarmaccers

It's a well known fact that Scandinavians in general speak excellent English. Most are fluent by the time they leave school. Having been brought up on a diet of ABBA songs and Volvo adverts (all in English of course), your average Swede will have little choice but to learn to speak English (albeit with a jolly, sing-song accent that we all love). However, both ABBA and the Volvo advertisers only use a very plummy sort of English accent. Once your poor Swede is faced with any sort of regional accent, they are stuffed. Next time you meet a Swede, just try singing a Wurzels song to them. I have done, they just look bemused. Be it a West Country accent, cockney, Scouse or Irish, it's bound to confuse. 

So, when two rough looking geezers, a bit dishevelled from a week or two on the road, pitch up in a white van at your camp site and tell you that there are 9 other similar groups turning up soon, I'm guessing if you couldn't tell a Dorset accent from an Irish traveller accent, you might be a little apprehensive. Team George, searching for a place to stay rather than a place to tarmac. 

I still think the 'No English Groups' rule that Aspen Camping enforced was a little over the top though. Perhaps Dave tried to sell them some lucky heather or pointed out that their gutters needed cleaning. Either way, we found ourselves at the far superior Liseberg Camping. 

Awaiting our arrival there were Team Swede. Anna, Jonas and Martin. Veterans of last years Windy 500 in their Peugeot with the exhaust fixed with baked bean cans. 

They are hoping to be on the next Windy 500, college and jobs permitting. 

It was a long old drive down from Hamar, past Oslo and across the border for yet another new country for me. I was even allowed to drive as I had whinged a bit the evening before. We blew the last of Eileen's Norwegian jubblies on sweets and other rubbish and got lost near the border as the dear sat nav advised us to drive up a road for a mile then do a U turn. Stupid bloody contraption. It further amused itself by taking us through a Swedish housing estate, trying to persuade us to jump over a barrier across the road. 

Jo was happy. We found a wine shop. The prices not much different to UK prices. She stocked up and had a silly grin on her face. Not much of a beer drinker is Jo. Or tequila or Jaegermeister either for that matter. 

It was an alcohol free evening for me as I had to drive out to the airport to collect the last 2 team members. Young Lucas, number 2 son and his other grandmother Kath (or Dwarf Mumsie as she prefers to be known, probably). Their flight was late so we ended up creeping quietly through the camp site at around midnight. Well, I say creeping. More like driving a rattly old camper van with an unhealthy engine though the campsite.

So, that was Gothenburg, that was Eileen's birthday, that was the Mowlams' 36th wedding anniversary and that was Sweden. Off to Denmark again tomorrow. The Oresund Bridge, Tivoli Gardens and the Mermaid Statue. More importantly and rather depressingly, the ABBA soundtrack gives way to bloody Aqua again. Surely Denmark you can do better than bloody Aqua ? So long Sweden and 'thank you for the music'.