Lobster potty in Sweden

We had put to sea that morning from the small town of Grebbestad, my pal and I and a couple from Stockholm who, like many Swedes, love to holiday on this coastline. (As do Norwegians; outsiders will notice a certain rivalry between the neighbours.) With a nip of autumn in the air, the Stockholmers were staying in a nearby hotel, but during the summer, they told us, the thing to do is hire a kayak, fill it with a tent and provisions, and take advantage of Swedish law, which allows you to camp pretty much anywhere you like for at least 24 hours. So plentiful are the tiny, rocky islands that you’re bound to find one all to yourself on a night that barely gets dark.

But this time of year has something else to recommend it: lobster season. We took a ‘safari’ from Everts Sjöbod, a family firm that operates out of a tiny boathouse. While Per Karlsson took the helm of Tuffa, a beautifully preserved 1952 wooden sailing boat, his brother Lars explained the complexities of fishing for lobster, crabs and crayfish. Then we hauled up the pots ourselves, providing both an upper-body workout and a moment of suspense as we waited to see what was in each trap. Tough work, I remarked to Lars; not if he gets us to do it, he laughed. But however much I perfected my hauling technique, I don’t think I’ll ever be as good at shucking oysters as the Karlssons. When we reached land again, they drifted a net off their jetty and gave us all a mid-morning snack. It was hands down the freshest, saltiest and most delicious oyster I’ve ever eaten.

Not that we were left wanting for exceptional food. We were staying a few miles down the road in Fjällbacka, whose houses and shops hug the shoreline; over them loom a vast rock with breathtaking views and a granite church. This is a town built on the cyclically abundant herring; the last glut was at the end of the 19th century, but its material benefits are still obvious. And this place changed your pizza or puttanesca; for here, in a wee shed, somebody decided to salt small herrings and call them ‘anchovies’.

Fjällbacka, where Ingrid Bergman once had a home, now has another famous export — crime-writing phenomenon Camilla Läckberg, a household name in Sweden. We enjoyed a Läckberg tour, a gentle stroll around town with the knowledgeable Åsa, before heading off to Stora Hotellet Bryggan for the evening. It’s a hotel in two parts: a grander affair with bedrooms themed on old sea voyages, and the more compact, traditionally Nordic guesthouse where we were staying. To eat were scallops, halibut, lobster with dill mayonnaise and wonderful local cheeses. As everywhere in Scandinavia, alcohol prices are sky-high, but it’s also high in quality. One evening, we had a glass of sherry in the hotel’s newly opened tapas bar, which, despite the feeling of cultural dislocation, is terribly charming. We happened to be staying on a Saturday night, when the very friendly locals party in the hotel bar. I ended up having my palm read; my pal was given a membership card for an overseas Chelsea FC supporters’ club.

However wild the night, nothing blows away the cobwebs better than a trip to the barely inhabited Väderöarna islands (the Weather Islands), though in inclement weather the bumpy 30-minute powerboat ride is a challenge. But the day we spent there — clambering over rocks and eating lunch in the superbly hospitable guesthouse — was idyllic. Its highlight? A restorative session in the new sauna, one wall a picture window looking out to sea. The hardiest plunged in to cool down; I made do with the open-air saltwater hot tub.