Islands, sandy beaches and lush forests: how to holiday like a Swede (and without forced nudity!)

At first I had my suspicions. After all, I had read enough about the recent election victory of the far-right Sweden Democrats to have doubts about the country’s famously liberal credentials. What’s more, I’ve never liked Abba and I was concerned about the idea of ​​swimming naked in the freezing Baltic Sea every day.

But after three days, my immersion in the Swedish way of holidaying quickly proves to be a lot more civilized and freer from forced nudity than I had expected.

The Galo region (pronounced goal-ar) is part of the Stockholm archipelago, a maze of tiny islands and islets scattered like cookie crumbs less than an hour’s drive from the capital.

Surrounded by wide sandy bays, rugged hillsides and looming birch and pine forests, many of the graceful red-roofed cottages along the way are summer homes – an affordable reality for many Stockholm residents, rather than the elite luxury it is for Brits longing for a second home in Cumbria or the Cotswolds.

For company, I have no fewer than 18 members of my partner Emma’s Swedish family, ranging in age from two-year-old Noel to 79-year-old Patrick. We’re all staying in the largest cottage that the Galo Havsbad camp and cottage site has to offer – and at first glance, everything seems remarkably like the English way of a self-catering break.

Fair Isles: Rob Crossan travels to the Stockholm archipelago (above) and explores the Swedish way of vacationing. He writes: ‘[It’s] freer from forced nudity than I expected’

But slowly, and with a typically Swedish lack of show, I begin to realise how fundamentally different the Swedes are.

Firstly, they don’t strip off and skinny dip at every opportunity. Swimming is a daily pleasure in these parts and I’m surprised that the brackish water of the Baltic Sea – which I can reach with a 90-second walk from our cottage – is surprisingly temperate.

Yet everyone I see is devoted to their swimwear, which is noticeably understated and devoid of the multi-coloured, monstrous contraptions that are considered beachwear for many men on the Spanish coast and beyond.

Many of the red-roofed houses found on the archipelago (above) are summer homes for locals, Rob reveals

One morning I stepped into a kayak and glided my oars through the olive-green water, looking out over a panoramic view of the sky, interspersed with swirling clouds, smooth, rounded cliffs and tiny islands full of noisy redshanks.

As the warm days turn into an amber twilight around 9:30 p.m., the Swedish tradition of singing drinking songs while drinking schnapps begins in our group.

It is not easy to translate the songs into English, but I understand that the melodies are ‘Swedish classics’. They are about stories about people with moose ears and about a story where the women claim that a large icicle sticks out of their waist.

Rob (not pictured) is staying at the Galo Havsbad cabin campsite and grounds, where he kayaks in ‘olive green waters’

This drinking is a precursor to being presented with the bounty that even the most basic Swedish supermarkets have to offer. A whole salmon that has been bathed in salt water overnight and then barbecued, herring, potato salad, shrimp and yes, lots of meatballs are shared around our large table while Elizabeth, my partner’s half-sister, explains the values ​​that Swedes attach to their rural holidays.

She says: ‘We have a concept called “allemenstratten”, which means freedom to roam. That’s incredibly important in Sweden. It means that as long as you behave well, you have the right to pitch your tent, go for a walk or swim, pretty much anywhere you want in the Swedish countryside.’

But even on an organized campsite like this one, this rule applies. One evening we eat in the restaurant on the premises and we do not find a grumpy waiter complaining that they have to seat almost 20 people and then have to put the bill on the table before we have finished dessert.

Instead, we just put four tables together and go inside to pay two by two. No one here seems to have the slightest idea that we’re going to leave without paying.

Above one of the independent cottages in Galo Havsbad

The on-site arcade is a red barn filled with air hockey and ping-pong tables. In the UK, you’d probably have to pay to get in, and it has a maze of health and safety signs and soft flooring. It’s open to children to enjoy unsupervised.

In the same way, when we rent go-karts for some children, there are no safety lessons, no helmets and no adult supervision. Swedish children are expected to behave well.

When the schnapps and singing continue outside our cottage after sunset and I see a man approaching from a neighboring hut, I expect the worst. But there is no arguing about the noise of the conviviality – he just wants to say hello and asks if he can join us.

Rob and his group, members of his partner Emma’s Swedish family, enjoy lunch outside their cottage. He says: ‘The Swedish tradition of shouting drinking songs while pouring schnapps comes to mind’

I see Dutch and German number plates on the campsite, but none from the UK. We are missing something, because what strikes me most is the ability of the Swedes to somehow create a love of communal socialising without it turning into the forced gaiety and brutal planning of a Chinese Communist Party workers’ outing.

In short, if you want to do something on your own, no offense. So on my last morning in Galo I take a solo walk along the edge of the bay, slowly creeping past pebble beaches and rocky peninsulas.

About five kilometers from the campsite I meet a young couple who have decided to pitch their tent on a narrow strip of sand.

As we sit together, legs crossed and hand in hand, I feel tempted to interrupt their romantic dream by speaking some halting Swedish words.

But I suffer. They demonstrate their sense of ‘allemenstratten’ – alone and yet together in a country that has elevated the staycation to an art form of how to do what you want without annoying anyone.