Like the better-known archipelago on the eastern Baltic coast of Sweden, dotted with the red-painted summerhouses of wealthy Stockholmers, the western coast (known as Bohuslan) is a maze of channels, islands and picturesque harbours. But open to the Atlantic, Bohuslan is the tougher, hardier side of Sweden. It's also home to Aunt Jatt, who came back from Australia to her beloved Hamburgsund after her working days were done.
Hamburgsund is a small fishing port with boathouses and docks lining a narrow channel between the mainland and the island of Hamburgo. Crossing on the little yellow ferry, you are transported to what feels like a small, perfect world of its own; small farms, dense woods full of flowers, picturesque cottages. One of them is Jatt's, not far from the small harbour on the other side where she used to run the sailing club.
In the summer, the old boathouses and cottages are full of families. Blue and yellow flags fly from poles, the ferry is packed with Volvos, blond-haired children sit in tiny dinghies and teenagers show off on the diving platform. At midsummer, girls wear blossom in their hair and schnapps helps people stay up to watch the sun which never sets. But we're here in November; the days are short and the weather is grey.
We've walked and kayaked; eaten mountains of crayfish and pickled herrings; talked endlessly with Jatt about her long and fascinating life. After a couple of minor strokes she can't get around like she used to; so we decide to head up the coast by car to the next fishing port, Fjallbacka. Compared to Hamburgsund, it's almost a town - there's a few decent restaurants, the square by the quay is named after Ingrid Bergman who lived nearby and it has its very own best-selling Swedish crime writer called Camille Lackberg - some of her books are now a TV series, the 'Fjallbacka Murders'.
After a look in a few of the boutiques and antique shops and a coffee, we strolled arm in arm with Jatt down to the harbour. Not many people around, but there was some activity on a purposeful-looking passenger boat - fast but seagoing hull, a low-built wheelhouse with forward-raked screens and bristling with radars and antennas. A woman in bright waterproofs asked -in Swedish, then quickly in English - if we were getting on board. We hadn't planned to - but further investigation revealed that it was a regular ferry out to Weather Island. With a name like that, we couldn't say no. 
So we were soon on board, Jatt with her walking frame safely stowed and sitting facing the rear deck on a bench outside the cabin. Powerful diesels propelled us from the sheltered waters of the harbour and sent us thumping into the swell, past granite islands smoothed by ice sheets long ago, a few topped with stumpy light towers, home to wheeling seabirds. The weather, already grey, grew worse; a powerful headwind carried rain and clouds of spray over the gunwale and it was soon time to get Jatt inside where the wipers struggled to keep a clear view forward and the skipper kept a close eye on our course on the electronic chart.
After a while the tessellated browns and greens of the islands and the light blue of shallow channels gave way to the white of deep water on the chart. Behind us the coastline disappeared in the rain, and ahead our destination appeared suddenly from the murk; low, treeless rock with few landmarks other than a concrete watchtower. At first there was no sign of other habitation and it certainly didn't look much like a good place to take an elderly aunt on a day out. But as we got closer, some red-painted buildings and a dock appeared, huddling between higher rock outcrops. Weather Island lived up to its name as we leaned into the wind and rain up a short path to the buildings.
Leaning against a hut on the right was a fine collection of fishing equipment - rods and lobster pots - promising at the very least, a fresh-caught supper. On the left was a round wooden structure with a smoking chimney, which at first looked like where that supper might be cooked but was in fact a hot tub containing three young Swedes in swimsuits drinking beer and greeting us cheerily. Inside, the din of the wind and waves suddenly stopped, replaced by warmth and quiet. We were shown into a comfortable sitting room and offered coffee and schnapps to take the chill off.
The Vaderoarnas (that's Weather Island in Swedish) guesthouse is an old pilot house, from where ships were guided into harbour through the rock-strewn channels and islands. The tower is a coastguard lookout, preserved exactly as it was when it fell out of use - even down to the notebooks and binoculars. It's been converted and extended with several rooms, all looking out to sea and painted in soft Scandinavian colours - some family rooms have curtained cubbyholes as the extra bed every child dreams of. Downstairs the restaurant is rightly proud of its mussel soup; and as we'd suspected, the fish, lobster, and oysters come directly from the sea lapping at the dock a few metres away.
Looking around the guesthouse I found the inevitable sauna and a small library where, on a table as if waiting for me, was a book about a famous old local boat the name of which (and the name on the front of the book) was that of our daughter Ilse. I went back to the sitting room where Olivia had been sitting with her aunt when Jatt said - "Oh, I remember this place now. We came here lots, must have been fifty or sixty years ago." And her memories came flooding back - weddings and fishing trips before she went on her travels around the world.
With its evocative name and remote location, Weather Island already seems like it might be a place in a dream, somewhere imagined. And for a moment, with the wind whipping at the windows, I thought that might be exactly what it is.
Where to stay
Väderöarnas Guesthouse, Fjällbacka Fyren, Falkev 3, 457 40 Fjälllbacka.
Phone: +46 525 32001.
Email: info@vaderoarna.com
Web site: www.vaderoarna.com.
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