On flying solo to a fairytale wedding in Gothenburg and eating very well along the way.
When your friend invites you to her wedding in Sweden, you say yes. Even if it means travelling alone for the first time to a country you’ve never set foot in. Even if you have to figure out Swedish transit apps on the fly or you forget your adapter or you feel a little unmoored before the whole thing begins. You say yes, you book the flight, and you go.
The wedding was on a Saturday. I flew Norwegian – a very wobbly flight – into Gothenburg on the Friday afternoon, navigated the airport with slightly too much confidence, and eventually figured out the bus. Eventually. There was a moment; maps open, bags on, directions conflicting where I genuinely considered sitting on a bench and just staring into the middle distance. But I got there.
The bus itself was something. Not your standard double-decker. Think long-haul coach energy: pillow headrests, a seatbelt, a toilet at the back. I sat down, strapped in, and watched Sweden go by through the window. The landscape pleasantly surprised me; rocky, hilly, dense with pine in a way that felt deliberate rather than accidental. In the UK you get used to flat farmland interrupted by the odd woodland. This was different. This had drama to it.
I got off at my stop and walked to the hotel. Checked in, hung up my outfits for the next day (black for the ceremony, black for the reception – I had a vision), and then did what I always do when I don’t know what to do with myself: I went outside.
Friday Evening: Wandering, Wondering, and One Discovery
The town square in Borås was lively; market stalls, shops, restaurants, people. I noticed Labubu toys everywhere; those little wide-eyed creatures that had been taking over social media. Scary, honestly. I kept walking.
I’d noticed there was no alcohol anywhere in the regular shops; not in the supermarket, not tucked next to the soft drinks, nowhere. It wasn’t until I asked (I may have used an AI for this; I’m not proud, I’m also not ashamed) that I understood why: Sweden has Systembolaget. A state-run alcohol monopoly. One specific shop, government-regulated, the only place in the country where you can legally buy alcohol to take away. Out of sheer curiosity I went to find it. Walked in. It was strictly, exclusively alcohol. Floor to ceiling. Not a crisp in sight. No distractions, no compromise. Just: this is the thing, and this is where you come for it. Equal parts bizarre and brilliant.
The town had nail salons. I thought about it. I kept walking. My nails would survive.
I walked by the Viskan river; it caught the late afternoon light beautifully. Ifound a bench nearby and sat down for a bit. I’d been meaning to practise my Italian (157 days on Duolingo and counting; I will not be taking questions on my fluency). So I sat there by the water, did a lesson, watched the light, and felt, slowly, like myself again.
Friday Dinner: The Solo (not-so-solo) Steak
Back at the hotel I had a shower, pulled on a jumper because it was nippy, and went down to the restaurant. I sat by myself at a table, looked over the menu, and ordered the only thing that made sense: steak frites at the Social Bar & Bistro. I think it was a sirloin with peppercorn sauce and chips, and a glass of something delicious possibly a Côte du Rhône Rouge, possibly a Pinot Noir. Either way it was a nice dry wine that cut through the sauce and meat delightfully. The perfect selection for the mood.
I want to say something about eating alone, because it gets a bad reputation it doesn’t deserve. There is a particular kind of quiet that comes with sitting at a restaurant table by yourself with your thoughts, yourself and the softest background music. I looked out at the darkening evening. I felt, oddly, like I was taking myself somewhere nice.
At some point I spotted another wedding guest across the room – a close friend of the bride, and one of my Instagram reel buddies. I waved her over. She joined me and we talked about tattoos and piercings and the next day and all sorts of things. The meal got better for the company, and the company got better for the meal, which is usually how it goes.
Saturday Morning: The Buffet, the Bride, and the Coffee Machine
Breakfast was a full continental buffet. You load your plate and you repeat. I helped myself to meats, cheeses, boiled eggs, salad, pickles and stood in front of the coffee machine for slightly longer than I’d like to admit before I worked out you needed to press the screen rather than a button. Once I’d cracked it, I became an unofficial ambassador. Other guests came over looking baffled; I pointed at the screen. Small wins.
The bride appeared at breakfast in her pyjamas with a Bride-to-be sash across her and she looked radiant. I hadn’t seen her in a long time, and she just glowed. Pleasantries exchanged and breakkie done she headed into town with her girls for a few last bits before the day began. I had considered going. Then I looked at my plate. Food won. I’d already done my exploring the night before and I’d earned this.
Saturday: The Ceremony
The church was Lanvetter Kyrka old, solid, and flanked on both sides by a graveyard. I love a graveyard. I know that’s a strange thing to say in the context of a wedding, but hear me out: on a sunny day, with a blue sky and exactly the right amount of clouds, the old stones take on this quiet, reflective hue that is genuinely peaceful rather than morbid. There’s a stillness to them. And Lanvetter Kyrka on that Saturday was beautiful; a perfect baby blue sky you can’t always trust when you’re used to English weather, gold light, and the graveyard framing the whole thing like something from a painting. Too much? Never.
The dress code was black. The bride had asked all guests on both sides to come in black. So we did. The whole congregation dressed in black for a wedding, which sounds sombre until you’re in it and it feels like the most elegant thing in the world.
The pastor conducted the service in part English and part Swedish, moving between languages with such ease. Wholesome doesn’t quite cover it. And that church was honestly the showstopper; of course, alongside the couple.
The room itself was cinematic. The bride’s side – her people, her family, her friends were on the left of the room and the groom’s on the right. It just happened that one side of the church was Black, the other was white. Which, as a visual, was striking in the best way. Not divided. Just two worlds, each fully present, showing up for the same thing.
She wore a beautiful dress; I believe designed by Galia Lahav I think. with possibly some iterations. The groom wore his happiness, pride, and joy on his face. The bride’s godmother was carrying their six-month-old plump and perfect infant, and I felt something I wasn’t expecting to feel. You know the feeling. I don’t need more feelings about babies. And yet.
Saturday Evening: The Barn, the Lake, and the Feast
The reception venue was Chalmersbastun, a barn by a lake. And I do not say “barn by a lake” dismissively, because wheeew child. It was extraordinary.
The barn had been decorated with a lot of thought and care; small candles dipped in water in long glasses, a seating board where each table was named after places the couple had visited together. Walking in, there was a round shelf of champagne glasses waiting for guests to help themselves. Outside, the hill sloped down to the lake, and people were already drifting down to take pictures by the water. When the couple arrived we whooped, cheered, clapped and raised glasses.
When the sun began to set while we were sitting upstairs inside the barn, looking out across the water, the sky turned red. Ah, Dio mio. Deep, saturated red, cast over the lake and reflected straight back up at us: sky and water becoming one double mirror of the same burning light. I have wanted to get married in a barn for years without ever quite knowing why. Sitting in that light, watching that lake, I understood.
Someone played a harp as an introduction to the evening. I’m telling you: a harp.
The Food
Now. Let’s talk about the food. Because this is, after all, a food blog, and the food deserved its own standing ovation.
The menu was Cameroonian. Entirely, proudly, unapologetically Cameroonian. In a barn in rural Sweden. For a mixed wedding. And it was:
Starters: Greek salad
Mains: Beans, fried rice, Ndole, yam, grilled chicken, grilled fish, sautéed goat meat, Cassava (Miondo), African beignet (Puff-puff), fried plantains, Potatoes au Gratin, pork fillet, pork meatballs, Beef Skewers (Soya), Fish Rolls
Desserts: Assorted cakes, wedding cake, coffee, tea
There was something deeply moving about watching a Swedish-European family sit down to Ndole and Miondo and eat with genuine enthusiasm. I know people who’ll happily devour a chicken tikka masala or dim sum but turn their noses up at African cuisine like it needs a warning label. Hey, I ain’t hating; I’m just saying. This groom, his family, his guests lapped it all up, and I was proud to see our cuisine take its rightful seat at the table. The food was cooked with care, warmth, and effort; the flavours neither overpowering nor understated. The food was embraced the same way the marriage was being embraced: fully, without reservation.
The presentation was meticulous. The bride had placed a handwritten note at every seat; each one personal, tailored, something specific and true about the guest she’d invited. Six months she’d been working on those notes. There were also menu cards, little glass stirrers engraved with their names, matchboxes printed with the couple’s names, and tissues printed with little trivia facts about them. Every detail had been thought through. Every detail landed.
The Regalia
After the dinner and the speeches and the toasts, the couple disappeared. When they came back, they were in West African regalia; the bride and groom both in matching Bamenda traditional wear called Toghu. The crowd erupted. I mean erupted; cheering, whistling, clapping. Epic doesn’t cover it.
The Dancing
The first dances were choreographed by love. The bride and her uncle – her father figure – took the floor first. Then the bride and groom, moving together to Stand By Me, which did exactly what Stand By Me always does to a room. And then, seamlessly, like he’d been planning the segue all evening, the DJ slid into With You by Davido and Omah Lay.
I’ll say this: I love both songs, but With You especially; the moment it starts, something happens in my blood. A sort of Beat by Dre situation, a full-body response before the conscious mind has had any say in the matter. The urge to get up is real. My shyness, however, is also real, and considerably more experienced at winning these arguments. So I stayed where I was and let my blood do its thing quietly which is, honestly, probably for the best.
Her friends came in. The circle formed.
The DJ was Central African and dressed like he’d had the suit made for this exact night; slim cut, no creases, no wrinkles, sitting perfectly on his frame. He knew exactly what he was doing. He’d drop a track, let it build, then step away from his station, walk into the circle, and execute something on the dancefloor that made the whole room go nuts; whooping, whistling, laughter, the kind of applause that comes from genuine surprise. Then he’d walk straight back to his desk, cool as anything, and carry on.
At some point my sister materialised next to him. I don’t know exactly when or how. One moment she wasn’t there, the next she had a microphone in her hand and they were trading energy back and forth like they’d rehearsed it. She owned that mic like she was born to do it. And I’m not just saying that because she’s my sister. The woman is a hoot and has me in absolute tears sometimes. The DJ would come in for his floor moment, the crowd would lose it, he’d go back, she’d pick it up. It worked.
Meanwhile another friend, my dinner buddy from the night before, had taken it upon herself to personally recruit every parent, grandparent, and reluctant wallflower from both families. Hands over her eyes, scanning the room like a radar, locking on – there’s a mum, there’s a dad, there’s a grandmother – and going in with warm, irresistible insistence that left no dignified way to refuse. Everyone ended up in the circle. The dancing became this rotating, shape-shifting thing where people swapped styles mid-song, call and response, a gentle battle that nobody was losing.
I was behind the camera for most of it. I have beautiful footage I’m genuinely proud of, but there was a moment somewhere in the night where I knew I really should be dancing. So I put the camera down for a while and joined in. I wished I had more footage. I also have no regrets.
I stepped outside for air late into the night and walked down towards the pier by the lake. The moon was on the water. I tried to catch it on camera but an iPhone will only do so much, some light just refuses to be captured. So I did a slow pan instead, sweeping round from the water back up towards the barn. And there, through the floor-to-ceiling windows upstairs, I could see the bride, groom and others – just a glimpse of them, luminous through the glass, gathered around the cake. I couldn’t quite tell what they were doing. But I got it on camera, and I added it to the collection.
Then I went back inside to more dancing. Of course there was more dancing.
Sunday: Leaving
I had to catch a flight at 7am. Two hours of sleep, a quick shower, and I was in a taxi to the airport with another early-departure guest who’d had the foresight to book it in advance.
The airport had opinions about liquids. I had some strong feelings in return. We made the flight. I sat down, put my earphones in, and was asleep before we’d reached cruising altitude.
Gatwick. The Tube. A train to London, then Hampshire. Back to ordinary life, which somehow felt smaller and larger at the same time.
I heard afterwards that the couple ended up cleaning up the barn largely by themselves – guests had started drifting towards the designated cars and things moved faster than anyone planned. When I found out, I felt it. I’m the kind of person who rolls their sleeves up, who wants to stay and carry boxes and strip tables. I didn’t know that’s how it would go. If I had, I would have stayed.
That’s the one thing I’d change.
Everything else – the steak on a Friday night, the revelation of Systembolaget, the coffee machine I cracked before anyone else (if I do say so myself), the notes at every place setting, the harp, the Ndole, the Toghu, the dancing, the lake at midnight – all of it was exactly as it should have been.
This girl had a fairytale wedding. She earned every bit of it.
Have you ever eaten Cameroonian food somewhere completely unexpected? Or been to a destination wedding that blew you away? Tell me in the comments.
Xoxo, CC
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