Behind the military past of Stockholm
To advance to Stockholm without a plan is a thankless undertaking. You can easily lose precious minutes of seeing wonderful streets filled with buildings that never bother you, or leave the route in the direction of green spaces, get carried away by exploring the islands, fall into the maelstrom of landscape splendor ...In general, an abyss.
So the plan had to be molded. What I don't know yet about Stockholm. Yeah? About his military background. And where do chickens not peck such information? Well, of course, in the Army Museum! One great idea led to another. The fact is that usually on Thursdays from 1700 to 2000 is an open day at the royal armory. The simplest onlooker from the street can freely slip past the guards during these three hours only with a friendly smile.
The plans were drawn up in a marvelous frame of mind, whose well-being had already been encroached upon by weather conditions since the very morning.
The wind, strong enough to blow the cap off the head of a freshly cut recruit, felt my most vulnerable places. The fog that rose from the bowels of the earth more from surprise than from gusts of wind persistently clouded the view and other nearby objects. The visibility range was noticeably reduced, and stones thrown by an amateur hand with moderate force fell to the ground out of view.
But when the wet snow began insultingly slapping his face and freezing on him like cold pasta, the general impression of the state of the atmosphere began to fall into the negative.
As you understand, the dogs were all at home. And the Swedes treat animals very well, so every 0.5th is a “good owner” here. And only I, driven by the idea and thirst for knowledge, pedaled my indispensable assistant.
Despite the grayish shades, the city continued to please the eye.
Power and grace, to become and well-groomed make it attractive in any weather. And also the bike adds fuel to the fire, turning you into just the king of the road.
My constant colleague and witness of my adventures, the Swedish assembly, is almost as reliable as a Volvo car (only with brakes on the steering wheel). Despite his age, he holds me very firmly in the saddle and develops excellent torque. Gaining decent speed on it and exceeding the standard speed limit, you can even feel a slight levitation effect. True, if you really want it. When I rush along the curbs in such a suspended state, the rest of the cyclists scatter along the road to the sides. They do not understand the desire to know everything in 4 hours.
Only if suddenly a hill suddenly grows in front of me, then life again goes into its measured rhythm.
Of course, there are several types of gears on the bike to facilitate such situations, but he is not a very fresh guy anymore, so I'm just not sure how he will react to the fact that I switch something to him there.
But back to the road. Having made a strategically correct turn of 90 degrees, I got straight to the Museum of the Army. I will say, as many say, “I am not an admirer of these types of museums, ” and how many will lie. Museums about the war beckon with a bite of a magnet and Olivier salad. Some inner animal force pulls you to understand the conflict of the nation and its aspirations in the right to conquer the world. And although I completely forgot what militancy is, since I fought for the last time in the 7th grade, and I am critical of the acquisitions of friends of ball weapons, but the museum impressed me.
I won't spoil the pill and leave the juicy details and the phased floor plan filled with misanthropic technology for another time.
After leaving the museum, I was tormented by only one thought - and how I had not got here before.
Surrendering to mental torment, I advanced towards the royal palace. Ahead of me with good performance were two veterans of cycling. Without a second's hesitation, I attached my tail to them. They held the road tightly and famously slipped on (even unnoticed by me which ones) traffic lights. The last athlete, however, had a very short rear wing, so he had to keep a distance from him, being afraid to splatter his honor and uniform.
Having caught up with the palace, I had to leave the top three and park in front of Gustav III himself.
They have already begun to let people into the Royal Armory indiscriminately, having removed the security cordons and the cash register.
Together with amateurs, some dubious personalities got into the museum, who filled out some leaflets, talked loudly and occasionally laughed unexpectedly. Taking a slightly modified route, I managed to pass them at a safe distance.
Someone said that this museum is small. Either this “someone” knows as much about the museum as the native knows about coffee makers, or for him the Eiffel Tower is just above the trees. The museum is not huge, but quite large and informative enough to lose an hour in it and remember that you have not yet visited the cellars. Of course, I had to shorten the program, but I would not advise you to do this.
The chiming clock reminded me that nothing lasts forever, a fairy tale about Cinderella, a cartoon about lost time, the meaning of the speed of light, the beauty of photos of Big Ben and something else from the theatrical, but I don’t remember now. Jumping into the saddle, I pedaled as hard as I could.
Flying past the Swedish sights, I only remember how confidently I overtook everyone traveling with me in the stream. The wind fluttered her cheeks, her hair sprung under her hat, and the composition of the Aria group - "King of the Roads" thundered in her soul. Only on the last section I was still overtaken by the happy owner of Pajero.
according to owntrip. net. ua
