Trip 42 — Fasta Åland Walk

Day 9: Saltvik to Kastelholm via Bomarsund
Friday, 28 June 2024

Today: 41534 steps/30.82 km/19.15 mi/6h 1m
Total: 317182 steps/247.83 km/153.99 mi/46h 3m

If it hadn't been for the Abecedarian Walks, I could have strode from the Saltvik B&B to the Kastelholms Gästhem in about an hour. But if it hadn't been for the Abecedarian Walks, would I have seen this part of Åland at all?

To take in Fasta Åland's eastern land bulges, I needed to follow some long, winding roads and one forest path around various lakes to the ruined Russian fortress at Bomarsund and then come back west via Route 2. Points of interest would make the day longer than a simple walk.

There was no orchestra of cows and roosters when I departed today; the only critter on the eastern road from the roundabout was another Minnie, a self-driving lawn mower. Most houses here have them, it seems. And they're very quiet.

A trail led to Borgboda, a Viking Age hill fort. This part of Saltvik municipality had an abundance of ancient settlements. I almost skipped it because of today's length — it would add two and a half kilometers not reflected in the official count — but I decided it was worth the effort. Kitschy wooden figures guarded the path up and around the site; the stone ruins of an entrance gate, a wall, and dwellings were clear.

The flies were ferocious here. They had been on the way down from Orrdalsklint, too, but I couldn't complain to nature about that: The mountainside was their territory and I was an intruder.

But here they should have been used to humans. "There have been people here for a thousand years!" I yelled at the flies. "I'm nothing new. Leave me alone!"

I returned to the road and continued east, with no traffic and a light breeze. There were also the first clouds I'd seen in about a week. It was hard to believe Åland's weather could get more perfect, but here it was.

The clouds were gone by the time I reached Sund municipality. I was on a winding road for over an hour, passing the usual red barns, bales of hay, and neat fields, plus the occasional windmill or maypole. Horses glanced at me with vague curiosity; cows swished their tails and didn't regard me at all. Bikers and I exchanged greetings.

At one bend I heard the sound of a motorcycle ahead. It was an irregular sound, like someone doing circles and fooling with the engine; it never made any obvious progress toward or away from me. In the city, I would have put the source at mischievous youth.

But it wasn't a motorcycle. It was a tractor, driven by someone who either wasn't accustomed to it or was very accustomed to it and playing around. He would back it up, then approach a bale of hay, then back up again and finally stab the middle of the bale with the lift as though it were a spear. Then he'd swing the tractor around to move the hay to where he'd been stacking it, where he'd go through a similar procedure of approaching the pile and backing away from it before rushing to it head-on. He drove the tractor as though he were in a demolition derby, but he was getting something done.

Lakes appeared on the left and right, and I threaded them. Yesterday was notable for having no water features close by; today they were as regular as windmills.

My map showed a route through the woods to Bomarsund, and I picked it up after the winding road ended and I turned onto the Finby road. The trail was marked with white blazes, and it was overgrown, uneven, and full of bugs. It led to a road that I assumed would take me to the Bomarsund visitor's center.

I didn't want to go there yet, though. The Bomarsund sites were strung out along a loop trail and I should have been near one of the tower ruins. It was only a couple hundred meters away through the woods...dare I try to find my own way again?

Well, of course. This one was easy. I scampered over some rocks and around some branches and soon found the tower ahead. As I approached, I saw the white blazes again. Who knew they would have led me exactly where I wanted to go? It turns out that this trail, the Kyrkleden, started at the Brännklintstornet — the tower I was aiming for — and by a curvy route led all the way to Kastelholms, where I'd be staying. But I was going to take the direct route later.

The Bomarsund fortress was built by the Russians starting in 1830 as an attempt to strengthen their hold on the Baltic Sea area after taking control of Sweden (including what's now Finland) in 1809. The main fortress, the ruins of which I'd see later, took 12 years to build. But despite all the proposals, Bomarsund wasn't the priority its dreamers envisioned, and distractions such as the war with Napoleon diverted attention.

Only a fifth of the envisioned Bomarsund was built, including only three of the 12 planned towers, one of which was this Brännklintstornet. It was attacked by French soldiers and blown up after 24 hours as an action of surrender. The ruins have been filled in, a couple of short curved brick-and-granite façades with a few windows.

The path to the next site — Djävulsberget or Devil's Hill, the highest point in the area, where a tower was planned but never realized — and on to Notvikstornet was surprisingly steep and challenging. It didn't help that I was tired and my shoes were falling apart. But the restored Notvikstornet was in excellent shape, with cannons and two stories of arches. There were excellent views of the harbor (which they never got around to fortifying, contributing to Bomarsund's demise), the beautiful cliffs beyond, and the next island, Prästö, where a tower did exist for a while.

From Notvikstornet a road led down to the remains of the main Bomarsund fortress. A few short arcs faced the water and the Prästö bridge. This is all that was left of the biggest building ever put up on Åland, a place for 2500 people and 115 cannons.

I needed a break and a meal before seeing the visitor's center. The campground opposite serves an unexpected mix of Åland and Thai food. I had a venison patty with excellent chanterelles and lingonberries and shared the patio with a group of about ten female cyclists who looked to be in their 70s. How great, I thought. I wondered what their route was.

The visitor's center illuminated the change in lifestyle brought by the Russians. Ålanders had gone about their fishing or farming for centuries, and suddenly their life was taken over by a few thousand Russians who built something of a town (called New Skarpans) and introduced high society. Officers arranged formal dances and brought in sparkling wine. Instead of making small talk at the milking station, people were dressing up and gossiping by the ornate samovar. And people of the lower class were selling their wood to the Russians, preferring extra cash to the comfort of winter warmth.

In the Baltic, the Russians were caught off guard by the French and British, who united against Russia in the Crimean War to stave off Russia's expansion toward the Middle East. The Russians weren't up to nautical times and were no match for British steamships. Seeing they were outnumbered, they burned all the wooden buildings at Bomarsund.

I walked west and passed the remains of New Skarpans, a storehouse, and a hospital, and then it was a long hour and a half to Kastelholm, broken up halfway for a chocolate pastry. Today wasn't the longest walking day, but I was tired after the recent ups and downs.

Natalia welcomed me to the Kastelholms Gästhem. "Do you have a reservation tonight?"

"Yes."

"I saw you coming up that way" — behind her neighbor's house — "and wondered whether you were my guest. Are you alone?"

"Yes."

"I wasn't sure, so I made up the room for two."

"Well, perhaps I'll meet someone at dinner."

"Oh, no..."

"No, I wouldn't do that." My face still looked like I'd been beaten up — though maybe that gave me some street cred, or trail cred. I was a day late in shaving and a month late in seeing a barber. I couldn't get my shorts to stay up, even with a belt — I can't have lost much weight; likely they've just been stretched out, with all the eating I do. I was sweating off more than 30 kilometers of walking. Whom was I going to attract, other then the flies? Maybe the dachshund I'd seen on the street.

Natalia pointed to two people leaving the property. "They're probably going to Smakbyn. You should go by eight if you want to eat."

I'd eyed it on the map as a dinner possibility — the only one, really. (How can I not eat at a place called Smakbyn?) When Natalia left, I checked their site. Their opening hours changed with the seasons. In June, it said, the last seating was at seven. That was in eight minutes.

I rushed over there and arrived at 7:01.

"May I dine with you this evening?"

"Of course, why not?"

"I saw that your last seating was at seven."

He checked his watch. "We still have time."

I sat outside with everyone else and had the fried perch — an Åland specialty that the owners had made at Paradiset. As I finished, it started to rain: the first I'd seen on Fasta Åland. The few of us left went inside, where I had a dessert of chocolate mousse with poached pears and a glass of homemade apple liqueur. There's nothing they can do wrong with apples in Åland.

By the time I left, the rain had stopped.

My room at the Kastelholms Gästhem came with an unusual amenity: a pack of cards. On the walls are pictures of an alarm clock, a bicycle, and the fall of Prästö. The room actually holds four people; I could have brought back quite the party — though in my tired and disheveled state, I think I'd prefer the dachshund.

Go on to day 10