A castle from the Age of Greatness

Like a Swedish saga or a rhyme – at first, the list of owners from the late 14th century to date tallies common names followed by a noble. In the 16th century common names are gone and high nobility like Ulfstand, Cruus, Hästhufvud, Schild, von Post, Brahe, Bankow, Rosenstierna, Wrangel, and Koskull is predominant. The manor passes from one family to another by descent, kinship, marriage, or purchase. It all seems to end abruptly in 1826. But behind the anonymous Vattholma Stakeholders, later Ltd, a number of noble families still hold the fort for another three quarters of a century. Today, the owner is a commoner, albeit less common.

The career of Rune Pettersson reminds of the early noblemen. He inherited a small farm in the area. Through hard work, anticipation, and one or two smart deals, he managed to acquire a fairly vast acreage, nowadays including the estate of Årby, a lovely little mid-17th century castle northeast of Uppsala. Rune used to play here as child. A couple of his school mates grew up at Årby. He vividly recalls smoking his first cigarette in secret on the premises, unfiltered Pacific.

The castle is situated on a height not far from the church with a separate bell steeple from the 18th century. Below, a flock of sheep is seeking shelter in the shadow underneath a tree. The landscape is nothing short of pastoral. The old mansion was replaced by the castle around 1650. The builder was Jurgen Schild, a nobleman and field marshal from Livonia. While the castle was raised, he resided in the north wing from the 1500s, in fact still standing with the original door, lock, and key.

Bricks were manufactured on site. Clay came from elsewhere. Crofters and peasants were recruited as daytalers supervised by an experienced mason who knew how to read drawings, plans and plots. The mason is unknown. A sculptor was hired for the ornamentation, and possibly for the drawings of the whole castle. His name might have been Jakob Blume, a second-generation immigrant from Bremen and member of a prominent dynasty of stone carvers, according to a local historian, Ingvar Eriksson, who wrote a memorable monograph of the castle, The story of Årby.

Exterior ornamentation is mainly the sandstone portico of the entrance, although the row of forged loops on the façade is as decorative. For practical reasons, old Swedish houses often had iron bars supporting beams and joist. The loops are sprints sealing the bars in the masonry. The smooth castle walls the colour of eggshell have paned windows and corners designed like chains, granite stones stacked, every second with the short side, and every second with the long side visible. The plinth is granite. In a way, that small austere castle on the hill is an emblem of the short Swedish Age of Greatness and early Carolean reign, like a copper engraving from the period by the peerless Erik Dahlbergh, draughtsman, architect, and count, born a commoner.

Throughout the centuries, the manor served as a family seat, a granary, a dwelling for poor crofters and labourers, a commercial site, and so on. There were ups and downs, palmy days and bad times. The forest was ravaged, and the mansion severely neglected. With the family Båth-Johansson, the estate was once again in good hands. After her husband’s passing in the early 1940s, Mrs Stina Båth alone was in charge. Forest was planted and land ploughed. The knight’s hall was renovated, the old paned windows were replaced, dormer windows were removed, and the roof was restored to its original state.

Rune has a rich cultural heritage to look after. He does it with honour, yet a lot remains to be done. This unassuming and kindly lord of the castle still lives on his farm and has no other plans. He takes us for guided tour through his chateau. From the entrance hall, stairs lead up, and down below an imposing double barrel vault. Upstairs is a rental flat and downstairs a cellar with dark dungeons; we dare not go there.

The grand hearth of the knight’s hall has a sandstone mantle, presumably carved by above-mentioned Jakob Blume. Nowadays, it is somewhat demolished. In the past, crofters and labourers allegedly chipped lumps from the shelving and used them as whetstones for sharpening axes and coulters. What can one say? Desperate times call for desperate measures. The way Rune tells the story, one might seriously consider keeping the mantle just as it is.

A parlor is the first in a suite of rooms, and a kitchen, recently prepared for weddings, christenings, parties, gatherings, literary events, chamber concerts, yoga courses, and so forth. From the parlor, a door leads out into a formal garden with a straight stone setting. On the walls of the room, a wondrous ornamental painting is winding along the ceiling and down the window niches, early 18th century, not yet Rococo, maybe inspired by the arabesques of the Near East, someone close to the then owner was in Ottoman Bender with Swedish king Charles XII fighting the Turks in 1713, so who knows. The pigment might be Falu red, says our designer Per Fernholm. Since the 16th century, the red paint was produced out of slag from the world-famous copper mine in Falun. It was immensely popular because of its protective qualities. Also, it was affordable; common people painted their wooden cottages imitating the red brick buildings of the rich, much like English red once became a substitute for mahogany.

The chapel is a smaller space for ceremonial use with curved walls and a lovely arched ceiling. On one wall is a tiny black and white print of what appears to be The Last Supper by Lionardo da Vinci in the Dominican monastery Santa Maria delle Grazie in Milan, but it may as well be an unknown master. In the 1960s, Stina Båth had a floor done with handmade bricks from Finsta bruk, sensitively emphasising the character of the room. On his knees, a bricklayer carefully laid the stones in a basketweave pattern, almost like a prayer.

The whole shebang was torn out, lowered ceilings, cast, plastic, concrete, chicken wire, mortar, all sorts of unimaginable junk. Rune and his aides knocked the plastering off the walls down to the 17th century, plastered them up again, and painted. White vaults and deep niches reemerged. Ancient oak ceilings were uncovered. Rune had old hinges reforged to candle holders. The window benches of oak left over from the 1970s were crafted with solely a motor saw, each one a work of art.

The old privy was turned into a pantry, whereas Rune wholeheartedly entrusted Kvänum with the kitchen itself. Our designer Per chose a veteran of our Real Classic guard; Broby is a hand painted recessed door with a solid wood frame and a traditional hollow core profiled inner edge, indeed worthy of a castle kitchen with the atmosphere of the 17th century. Cabinet colour Rain combined with the flooring of large grey and red limestone clinkers from Kinnekulle looks stunning; the sense is rustic and solid, echoing the Carolean Baroque. In contrast, the neat footing of the cabinets seems to tiptoe, or leave the floor as Per puts it, making a light and airy impression along with the ribbed lower shelf of our oak worktable. Tabletop is oak from the manor. Knob is Frö accompanied by our new slender handle Frö, both made of brass, like the timeless Roma taps. The lord of the castle is more than pleased. After all, he says, it is Formula One, sort of.