Translated with Deepl
First thing in the morning, as in the evening: go swimming. As always, it does you the world of good, like a new start.
After that, it takes me a long time to get ready, pack up and tidy up the hut behind me. If you want to cook and wash up properly, it takes time. As I’m just about to leave, I greet the fit-looking, elderly Norwegian woman who comes by with her dog. She lives in one of the neighbouring huts. We get talking, and she invites me to get a can of Coke from her. I tell her about my plans and my route (“I think you are very tough,” she replies). I ask her when I will come across a supermarket in that direction. She says not at all. I had expected to go shopping today. She herself hardly has any supplies left, which she would otherwise have shared with me. I prepare myself for two days of oatmeal, which should be enough. She then gives me some sausages and chocolate, which is all she has left. I’m not looking forward to two days of oats, but I know that I’ll manage for now.
Fortunately, the Norwegian was not all-knowing after all. When I have internet again, I see that I will be passing a supermarket after all. That’s reassuring. Despite the concrete jungle, the supermarket serves as a small oasis for me. I can obviously shop there, but I can also charge my devices and plan my festival logistics (I have decided to take the plunge and drive to Gothenburg on Saturday). I have overdone it a bit with my shopping and am well equipped for the next few days. So I sit in front of the supermarket for a long time, eat lunch there and celebrate my month on the road with a non-alcoholic beer. The shoppers and staff all greet me warmly. A motorcyclist speaks to me and we have a nice chat. I am invited to a coffee when I reach the top of the next hill (only 500 metres to go).
The uphill stretch gives me enough time to ponder. Should I go and have a coffee with a strange man who lives alone? As a young woman, I have heard enough warnings about the dangers of men. But I don’t want to face the world with fear, and I don’t want to demonise all men because of a few arseholes. So I trust my intuition that this man is not one of the arseholes (and I copy a tramp’s trick and, with his permission, take a photo of his licence plate). Jon is actually a nice guy, I get coffee, recommendations and chain oil. Architecturally, his hut is very beautiful, it is the hut my mum would dream of: bright and cosy.
The highlight of the day is the landscape directly behind it. Lakes, fields, single trails, mostly rideable, in between the path is a stream, in between a swamp (my waterproof socks hold!). The evening light colours everything golden.
I try my hand at a slapstick performance again this evening. This is driven by thousands of mosquitoes that swarm around me at my sleeping place. My mosquito net is not fine enough for the tiny creatures, and I run around in circles like a crazy bird to keep them off. I pitch my tent in a very chaotic way. In the meantime, I quickly make myself some mashed potatoes, repeatedly running away from the swarm that is forming around my head – it feels like an eternity. Later, my tent is up, my stuff is in the tent and I can make myself comfortable in it. A few, only about 100, mosquitoes have made it into the tent with me. I crush them one by one. Most of them stay outside and gather above my mosquito net. My food is cold by now, but I am slowly starting to relax. I won’t be washing up today, and I won’t be having any tea so that I don’t have to go to the toilet so often. I spit my toothbrush water into the still dirty pot. From a civilised perspective, it may be disgusting, but I am avoiding being attacked by the mosquitoes at all costs.
Despite the stress of the evening, I smile when I look back on the day. I am in my safe haven, my tent.
