Sweden's Lottery Lets You 'Adopt' a Tiny Island for a Summer

Lake Vänern: Sweden's Vast Wilderness and the Right to Roam

Lake Vänern is so immense it feels like an ocean. Yet it's a lake—the largest in Sweden, the largest in the EU, in fact, ten times the size of Lake Constance. As I gaze across its surface, the water and sky blur into a hazy blue void on the horizon.

Sweden is slightly larger than Germany but home to just under eleven million people. Here, nature isn't just scenery—it's woven into daily life and national identity. That's why the right to roam freely, known as allemansrätten or the "right of public access," is enshrined in law. It allows everyone to move freely through nature, even across private land—a concept almost unparalleled anywhere else in the world.

To raise awareness of this unique tradition, Visit Sweden launched a lottery in February—not to sell islands, but to offer temporary "adoptions." Winners wouldn't become owners, just honorary custodians for a year. Applicants had to submit a motivational video, be over 18, and not be a billionaire (excluded "in the spirit of democratic luxury," as the rules put it). Five uninhabited islands were awarded—four in the Baltic Sea and the fifth, Tjuvholmen, on the southern edge of Lake Vänern. Today, that's where I'm headed.

Locals were baffled by the campaign. "Everyone here knows about the right to roam," says Evelina Pettersson, who, like most Swedes, immediately addresses me by my first name and expects the same in return. She lives on Kållandsö, the populated neighbor of Tjuvholmen. As a child, the forest was her playground—she'd spend hours building dens, collecting bugs and berries. Now, she works at Naturum, a hybrid visitor center, restaurant, and hotel perched on Vänern's shore.

There are 32 such Naturum facilities across Sweden, usually tied to protected areas. Around Vänern alone, you'll find a UNESCO biosphere reserve, a geopark, and—right in the middle of the lake—the Djurö National Park, a patchwork of islands and skerries. Enough space for everyone? Well, summer gets busy, Evelina admits. The meadow in front of Naturum, now home only to a few waddling ducks in late March, fills with sunbathers. "But I just look toward the horizon, and after work, I go into the forest behind my house—where no one is, even in summer."

To explore Tjuvholmen up close, I meet Cecilia Störm, another Kållandsö native. Her father was a lighthouse keeper here, the fifth generation in the family. Cecilia once worked on the mainland but missed the wild openness, so she returned 15 years ago. Today, she and her husband run kayak tours. "When I drive over the bridge to Kållandsö, my heartbeat slows," she says. "That's the feeling we want to share."

When we meet, a fine drizzle is falling, and the wind has tangled Cecilia's hair into wild curls. She hauls two bulging IKEA bags from her car. "What else?" she laughs. Sheltered in a tiny toilet hut, she unpacks: thick socks, neoprene boots, waterproof phone cases, gloves—and, most crucially, the drysuit. Not a wetsuit, as I'd assumed, but a bright red, puffy contraption. "With this, you can fall overboard and stay dry," she explains. I test it later—it works! You float like a human air mattress.

Getting into the suit is a struggle. I have to force my head through a rubber neck so tight it feels like squeezing into a sausage casing. Before zipping up, Cecilia instructs me to "do the köttbullar"—crouch, hug my knees, and curl into a ball to expel the air. I emerge looking like a cross between a Teletubby and an extreme mountaineer, but well-prepared for the raw conditions awaiting us on the lake.

No sooner do we leave the bay than our kayaks begin to rock. The wind whips the water's surface into a rolling landscape of hills. On stormy days, the waves can reach several meters high, Cecilia tells us. The wind propels us forward, and in less than half an hour, we reach the shore of Tjuvholmen—a mere trifle by Swedish standards. Many people embark on multi-day or even week-long tours, like circumnavigating the entire lake.

When I hear this, I wonder if I've earned what Cecilia is now spreading out on the grass. It's time for fika, the Swedish take on a coffee break, deeply rooted in the country's social fabric. Cecilia has brought thermoses of coffee and tea, trail mix, and plump vaniljbullar—sweet cardamom buns stuffed with vanilla cream. I sink my teeth into the pillowy pastry, lick the cream from my fingers, then dab at the smudges dripping onto my red dry suit. Cecilia laughs. "Everything tastes better out in the fresh air."

Asked where Sweden's love of nature comes from, she shrugs. "It's just part of our lives." While access to nature may be taken for granted, the relationship with it is shaped by respect. "Don't disturb, don't destroy"—that's a core principle of allemansrätten, the right of public access. There are clear rules for making fires, fishing, and camping. You're allowed to pitch a tent for two nights—even on private land? Absolutely, says Cecilia. The only restriction is the hemfridszon, or "home peace zone," a respectful buffer around houses. How wide should that buffer be? It's a matter of judgment. Rule of thumb: out of sight. "You wouldn't want to camp right outside someone's patio."

Space isn't a luxury in Sweden, which makes it easier to open nature to everyone. Then again, the U.S. has vast landscapes too—but trespassing on private property is considered a violation. Germany strikes a middle ground: its right of access permits walking through meadows and forests, even on private land, for recreation. Pitching a tent, however, is off-limits.

After fika, we explore the island. It doesn't take long—Tjuvholmen is barely 100 meters long and 25 meters wide. From its southern tip, there's a stunning view of Läckö Castle, snow-white and perched on Kållandsö, originally built in the 13th century as a bishop's seat. On the map, Tjuvholmen looks like a frayed splotch of color. The island got its name in the late 19th century, when it was home to people who raided nearby farms for food. Today, no thieves—tjuvar—live here. Instead, there are pine trees, juniper bushes, and forest floor so soft it feels like a gym mat.

Every May, it's announced who will serve as Tjuvholmen's honorary "island guardian" for the year. The guardianship comes with a travel stipend to explore Sweden—that's the real prize, since the role carries no special privileges. Altering the island is forbidden. "You can camp here," Cecilia says. "But so can anyone else."

The message is clear: Sweden's nature belongs to no one. And because of that, it belongs to all of us.