Notes from a Tramline

The Lidingöbanan is a tram line that goes from Ropsten to Gåshaga Brygge on the island of Lidingö.  Like much of Stockholm's light rail networks, it's spent much of its life being threatened with closure.  Indeed, it used to have a second branch, one that went into the town of Lidingö itself, but that was closed decades ago.  The existing line only clung on because it passed the huge AGA factory and was useful for the workers; now, in the 21st century, the line is being celebrated as the valuable transport link it is.

The eventual hope is that it will be extended south on the Ropsten side, along the docks, encouraging regeneration there and facilitating homes and businesses to be built, before joining up with the Spårväg City tramline.  That would enable journeys between destinations on the east of the city without needing to go into the centre of Stockholm, and would give T-Centralen yet another destination.  Funding is, of course, the problem, with SL prioritising the T-bana extensions and the Roslagsbanan improvements first.

Sat at home in front of my computer, I'd thought "and obviously once I get to Ropsten I'll simply collect all twelve stops on the Lidingöbanan as well."  I'd not realised how tired I'd be after collecting 100 stations, or how melancholic at knowing my trip was coming to an end.  Instead I took the escalator down from the T-bana station and sat on a tram and simply rode it.  As I did, I made a load of notes - impressions, really - of what was happening as I travelled and what I saw.  That's what follows in this blog post.  Think of it as sketching rather than proper writing.

Tram is new and quick.  Vague sound of a noisy child somewhere at the back.  A couple chat, continuously, casually.  Across the way, a handsome man in a blue linen shirt and jeans.

Electric whirr and we're away.  Over the new bridge, speeding up to the central hump.  Ticket inspector appears in a baseball cap and scans my app. On the island now, drop into a gully for Torsvik, a high wall of red rock soaring up.  You have to ring the bell to stop the tram, like a bus.  Cruise ships in port across the water.  Handsome Man has closed his eyes to doze.

More rocky walls at Baggeby plus the hint of a red home poking over the trees.  More trees and a neatly mown embankment then concrete and cars at Bodal.  Handsome Man has woking up and is resting his Adidases on the seat support in front.  Larsberg, and a university building, then an ICA supermarket and the first visible apartment buildings.  Feels so rural here the apartments seem out of place.  You hear island, you think out of the way.

The round roofs of the depot as we approach AGA.  Is this the same AGA as the posh cookers?  I've never really found out.  People get on - a man with a moustache and thick glasses, two teenage girls in matching white blouses.  1920s factory building - is it still in use?  The noisy baby is now a crying baby.

Skärsätra has an old fashioned waiting room, with tiled roof and wooden walls, set back from the narrow tram platform.  The baby and her mother got off here.  Tram is quiet and smooth.  We skip Kottla - nobody rang the bell - and a spurt of speed through the woods, rocky embankments whizzing past.  A level crossing holds back a single car.  Högsberga is a proper village with many passengers waiting.  Dark wooden maisonette homes, a sports field with goal.  

Brevik has five storey apartment blocks and another tram waiting on the opposite platform.  We pause together, then move in opposing directions.  Handsome Man has sat silently the whole trip, not checking his phone once, and alights at Käppala alongside a bullet-headed bald man.  Another old shelter but this one is covered with wooden shutters.  Allotments at the side of the track - upside down umbrellas to collect the rain - light industry starting to appear at Gåshaga.  Port industries.  

Final stretch.  Scaffolding and more red houses.  Newer apartments built for the tram.  

Terminus.

I got off the tram and had a wander round Gåsjaga brygga.  There's not much to it; an ostentatious building that once held a cafe but is now closed, some apartment blocks built for the view.  The main attraction here is the ferry dock.

I thought about getting a ferry.  Not sure where to, just jumping aboard.  Part of me wanted to do that for the rest of the day, for the rest of the year.  Island hopping, passing round the archipelago, visiting the different ports.

If I'd started I'd have never got back to England.  I'd be bushy bearded, wearing raggedy clothes, the ghost of a ferry traveller haunting all the docks.  Whispered about by the crews.

Instead I went back to the tram.  I had to, really.  And I love a tram.

One Hundred And Out

 

After the rainbow goodness of Stadion, Östermalmstorg's general beigeness came as quite a shock.  It wasn't that it was ugly, per se; indeed, there was something charmingly early 1960s about it.  The low ceiling and pale tilework were redolent of an era of municipal pride, of marble and civic goodness, respectful and subtle.

Apart from The Art.  That seemed accidental.  Siri Derkert did some sketches and they were transferred directly into the concrete walls, which is a fair idea, except when she said "sketches" you sort of expect something that didn't look like she doodled it while she was on the phone.

If you didn't know better, you might think that someone had snuck down here and slapped some graffiti over the walls.  Not cool graffiti; not Banksy-type artwork.  More hastily scrawled nonsense you get on park benches.

Actually the best bit of Östermalmstorg is this circulation space at the bottom of the escalators which manages to be both practical and epic.

There's also this column in the ticket hall that looks like it's made of drug capsules.  If that's your thing.

I emerged in the Östermalmstorg itself, a public square undergoing a lot of refurbishment work; there were a wooden barriers covered with CGI images and promises about the all new square.  I couldn't decide if Stockholm's undergoing a massive regeneration project everywhere or if I just happened to keep walking into areas that are being rebuilt.

Overlooking the corner of the square is the Saluhall, the Market Hall, a grand red building that practically begs you to walk inside.  

I'm not a foodie.  I'm happy with a pizza and a beer.  I eat because I have to or I'll die, not because I especially love the experience.  (How then are you so fat?, I hear you ask.  Please note the word "beer" in the earlier sentence).  I do like going to places that sell food though.  A restaurant, a market, or in, this case, a food hall.  It becomes dramatic, an experience.

The Saluhall should be photographed and sent to every council in the UK as an example of how a Market Hall can be successful in the 21st century.  Liverpool recently closed its St John's Market after spending millions refurbishing it because, well, it was still horrible and nobody wanted to visit it.  

This is food as theatre, as a location to visit.  I wandered around the stalls - calling them stalls seems reductive, but there you are - looking at the most incredible vegetables, fish and cheeses.  They were accompanied by dishes made from the produce, all for sale, though I glanced past the prices so that it didn't ruin my day with a how much for a quiche!?!? exclamation.  I was happy wandering along the aisles and simply ogling.

In the evenings, tables are laid and restaurants using the produce open.  There was a wine bar too, where some classy looking ladies sipped whites.  This wouldn't work everywhere but this is the ideal.  If they ever get round to rebuilding Birkenhead Market this is what we can dream of.  It'll probably end up still a few shabby tables flogging LFC tat and an overwhelming stench of herring but we can dream.

I disappeared into the streets north of the square, quiet on a Saturday morning.  The closed offices were home to exciting businesses like PR companies and graphic designers, while the restaurants were prepping for lunchtime visits from the glamorous shoppers from Birgir Jarlsgarten's designer stores.

I ended up on the Karlavägen, one of those long straight avenues that European cities do so well and which we don't bother with.  Our avenues tend to be bendy, loopy, accidental.  If they've got trees down the middle, it's not to encourage perambulation, it's because there used to be a tram line there and it was ripped up in the Fifties.  

I'd left the train at Östermalmstorg with a small family, a mother and two teenage daughters, and I was surprised to see them ahead of me on the Karlavägen.  The girls were extremely excitable, like they were heading for a meet and greet with Harry Styles, and I couldn't quite work out why.  

The answer came when we reached Karlaplan, a large roundabout with a park and a water feature at its centre.  On Saturdays a flea market sets up here, and it seems that the privileged location attracts stallholders who are a cut above.  The teenage girls immediately ran to the racks of clothing at one stand.  I guessed, though obviously I'm no expert, that it was a smashing spot to get second hand designer bargains.

I followed the throngs, looking at the stalls.  Some were clearly flogging warehouse tat, the result of a mad dash around a cash and carry to buy low and sell high.  There were a couple selling, shall we say, grey products - vape flavours, that sort of thing.  But the majority seemed to be people setting up a folding table and settling in for the day with the contents of their spare room.  Beaming old ladies sat next to some of the most horrible vases you've ever seen.

I did a quarter turn of the gyratory and then headed into the T-bana station.  Its platforms had a similar, early Sixties vibe to Östermalmstorg, but it had a clash of artworks.  Along the track walls was a photomontage from 1983, depicting Swedish history.

It's ok, but I much prefer the tiled seating alcoves.  They date back to the station's opening and are far more aesthetically pleasing.

Is this because I'm a sad old git who'd much prefer it if Britain still retained its Festival of Britain-era look instead of all this shiny modern nonsense?  Who can say?

I was surprised by how busy Gärdet was.  It was the second to last station on the line; I expected it to be a small suburban halt with more people heading into town than on this train going north.  Yet the train opened its doors and a huge mob poured out alongside.

Curious, I tagged along behind the crowds, wondering where they were headed.  They were lively and giggly, laughing, chatting.  We walked along a passageway dotted with display cases for local stores and emerged at the foot of some apartments.  At the end of the pedestrianised section, the crowd immediately turned right, as one.

I'd love to finish this barely-an-anecdote with them going to a concert, or a tv station, or a cult meeting.  It turned out they were headed for the park.  These were healthy, jolly, lovely people off to spend their Saturday on the grass with a picnic.  I was pleased for them but also a bit disappointed.  

I returned to the residential area, looping back to the station.  

If I was doing this correctly, I should've walked to Ropsten.  That's the usual procedure.  My brain fritzed at that point and sent me back underground for a train.  I'm not sure why, but I think it may have been my subconscious at work.

Gärdet was my 99th station on the Tunnelbana.  Ropsten would be the 100th and last.  I think my brain secretly decided that I had to arrive there by train.  It wanted it done properly. 

Ropsten is on the far side of a mountain, and so the trains burst out of the tunnel and terminate at an open air platform.  This wasn't the original plan; the idea was that the Red Line would continue across the strait on a bridge and terminate in an underground station at Lidingö Centrum.  The residents were all for it until SL explained that, to help pay for it, they'd have to agree to a few thousand more homes being built nearby.  At which point the residents of Lindingö decided that an influx of newcomers would destroy the precious atmosphere of their island and declined the T-bana extension.  You have to admire that level of snobbery.

The Art at Ropsten is by Roland Kempe and is largely this double headed snake.  I'm not sure it has any relevance to the station or the locale other than "why not?" and for that it should be applauded.

There are two exits to Ropsten.  One leads you out into a bus gyratory, and is currently being comprehensively rebuilt.  The other is a long tunnel with a travelator, taking you through the mountain and into the residential district beyond.  Of course I took the latter one: you had me at "travelator".  I might've been less inclined to take it if I'd known I'd get stuck behind a pair of old gits who decided to stand on the belt, not moving, blocking any movement behind with their bags.  Stand on the right, hold on tight, come on!

One last opportunity for me to laugh at the Swedish language; their word for "lift" is "hiss", meaning that "lift to Gatuplan" translates as "Hiss till Gatuplan".  Well, I laughed.  

I finally got past Howard and Hilda and left the travelator, passing through the ticket hall and stepping out into a plaza at the foot of the mountain.  

One hundred.  Done.

It's always a weird feeling when I complete one of these collecting quests.  There should be a sense of achievement; a warm flow of victory at crossing the final name off the list.  And there was a little bit of that.  I wondered how many other people had done the same as me.  Probably lots of people had visited all the stations, but how many had explored the city around them?  More to the point, how many people had flown thousands of miles to do it and hadn't even visited the ABBA Museum in the process?

I was pleased but my overriding feeling was sadness.  That was it, then.  Stockholm was finished.  I wished I could carry on.  I wished, in fact, that I'd spent a month doing this.  One hundred in a week was far more of a marathon than I realised.  I wished I could've spread it out and elongated each trip.  Four or five in a day, rather than twenty.  Had a proper poke around.  I wish it had taken me as long to visit as it had to write it.

There's still a few more Stockholm blogs to come; a tram, a museum, a trip on the light rail.  But this is the last of the Tunnelbana.  It's a weird, wonderful, awe-inspiring network.  It's unlike any other Metro I've ever been on.  It should be what everyone else in the world is aiming for.  

Stating The Obvious

 

When you're designing art for a metro station, there's something to be said for being extremely obvious.  Sure, you might want to put in a mural that represents the deep agonies of the human soul, or a statue of a bent wing to symbolise the fragility of existence, but people are only going to be on the platform for ten minutes at most.  It sometimes pays to be blunt at to the point.  If your station is named after a venerable scientific institution, then you fill that station with venerable scientific motifs.

Tekniska högskolan is next to the Kungliga Tekniska högskolan, the Royal Institute of Technology and one of the top Scandinavian universities, and as such its platforms are swarming with fractals, formulae, and other things I'm not entirely clear on because I only got a B in GCSE Science.  (Incidentally, if you're wondering why the station isn't called Kungliga Tekniska högskolan as well, it's because the "Royal" part is conferred upon the university, while the station only serves it so can't claim the same.  It's a pedantic but quite sweet little note).  

Lennat Mörk, the artist, was also a scenic designer for theatre and opera, which explains how over the top Tekniska högskolan is.  Apparently in the part of the station devoted to the four elements he wanted there to be actual flames and shoots of water until it was politely explained to him that it would be a nightmare to maintain.  Instead he hung a giant apple from the roof, to represent the one that hit Newton on the head and gave him the idea for mavity.

If that fell on your head mind you'd be crushed to death.  I think that's how I want to go.  He died doing what he loved; standing on an underground platform beneath a piece of elaborate art.

There are friezes of works by Copernicus and da Vinci, and polyhedra for the elements, and it's all delightfully bonkers.  If you're going to go crazy with your design, go proper crazy, that's what I say.

I emerged on the Valhallavägen, a long avenue of trees that skims the top of the Östermalm district of the city centre.  It was still early on a weekend so the road was largely deserted of traffic and people.  Behind me was Stockholms Östra station, the terminus of the Roslagsbanan, still clinging on until they finally get to build that tunnel to T-Centralen and it becomes a lot of lovely valuable real estate.

If you've followed this blog for any length of time, you'll know I do love a stadium, and I especially love an Olympic stadium.  Stockholm hosted the fifth Summer Olympics in 1912, as well as the Equestrian events for the 1956 Melbourne Olympics (there were strict quarantine laws in Australia at the time so the horses couldn't be shipped over).  The stadium is the oldest Olympic venue still in use.

It's a curious building.  Designed by Torben Grut, it came at a weird point in architecture, where the elaborate Victorian Gothic styles were falling out of fashion, but they hadn't yet embraced the glamorous minimalism of Art Deco.  As a consequence, the stadium sort of looks like a Medieval castle, but at the same time, doesn't; it has buttresses and towers and arrow slits, but it's also elegantly understated.

They were in the middle of setting it up for an event so I couldn't go in and have a poke around.  It looks like it'd be a fantastic place for an event.  Stockholm 1912 was Sweden's only bite of the Olympic cherry, and it's hard to see it ever hosting a Summer Games again; I think we've reached the point where Only Cities Of Five Million People Or More May Apply now (unless Qatar decides to put in a bid, at which point the IOC will bend over backwards to accommodate them).  Sweden did apply for the 2026 Winter Games, with most of the outdoor events scheduled to be held out in Åre, and Stockholm hosting the indoors; they lost to Milan-Cortina d'Ampezzo, meaning that bizarrely, Sweden is still yet to host a Winter Olympics.  

A large inner city sports arena needs a large inner city metro station, and Stadion doesn't disappoint.  The subway from the street to the platforms is a lot of pictures of wholesome Swedish people winning medals and trophies.  Over the years the Stadion has been home to football teams, bandy teams, and ice hockey matches, while concerts have regularly played there.

At the foot of the escalators there's a poster for those 1912 games.  As I said, keep it simple, stupid.  Olympic Stadium?  Olympic poster.

There's also a giant S, to point you to the Stadion, in the colours of Djurgården, who played there until they moved to the Tele2...

...and on the opposite wall, an M made out of a musical note, to point you to the Musikhögskolan - the Royal College of Music.

It's the central, crossover chamber that really captures your attention.

There's no real reason for there to be a rainbow there.  It doesn't mean anything.  All it's for is to be pretty.  But aren't you glad they did?

I can't imagine anyone wandering off their train, unaware of the station's architect, and not smiling when they see that.  It's pure joy.  I love the T-bana for making me happy in a thousand ways.