Disclaimer: This is a novel. I didn’t mean for it to be a novel, but then I had sort of forgotten how much happens in a day when you’re travelling. Anyway, please bear with me. I’ve put in lots of pictures to break it up and I’m sure they’ll get swiftly shorter the longer I travel. Now, let’s get to it!
The first thing you should know about Denmark is that nothing is pronounced they way you’d think. People throw fits about the joys of English orthography but really, it doesn’t hold a candle to the linguistic gymnastics of the average Danish word. Consonants mostly just make the vowels sound different and as a result seemingly whole syllables can disappear at the drop of a hat… so don’t ask me to tell you the names of any of the places I’ve been in anything other than the most woefully Anglicized forms… I’m sorry.
Now putting the pronunciation issues out of the way, Denmark is wonderful. I arrived in Copenhagen on Sunday all ready to conquer whatever challenges I might face and, you know what? There weren’t any. At least not any real ones (bank balance notwithstanding). I handed over my passport, it got stamped, no questions. I walked to the baggage claim, there were my bags. The most difficulty I had was finding where to buy a travel card and all that required was asking a few info windows (where everyone spoke flawless English) to tell me where to go next. Oh and the fact that I kept being asked for help/info in Danish and then, when I said “sorry I don’t speak Danish” in English. I guess I looked like I knew what I was doing even with my massive bulging backpack.
So I got on a metro and then a train and then I was there, in Østerbro at the door of my gracious, world-travelling host Chris. I’d planned to go dancing, but when Chris told me how far it was to any of the venues, I opted to stay in, hang out and share travel stories.
The next morning I woke up lazily, ate a simple breakfast and headed out to meet my long-lost linguistic friend Matthew, now stationed in Sweden, within commuting distance of Copenhagen. We began with brunch (walnut and raspberry covered pancakes for me) in Nørreport before Matthew’s Danish wife, Stina, guided us out into the city. Our first stop was the King’s Garden and Rosenberg Castle. Having seen a diversity of castles in my tenure in Ireland, we opted to skip the expensive journey inside and just tour the surroundings. It’s a shockingly small castle (as castles go) but it’s still far larger than any private home I’ll ever live in. From there we wandered past the National Art Museum but the weather was far too fine to spend all day indoors so we carried on, walking past the bright orange homes that once housed Copenhagen’s sailors, past the Central Station, and the barracks-like American embassy. We ended up atCopenhagen’s lakes (all perfectly quadrilateral) and crossed the bridge towards the shopping district, pedestrian streets, and the ‘piss gutter’. Little laneways get such lovely names.
Once we were wandering through car-free streets past spacious if oddly shaped “squares” we soon found ourselves at the roundtower. The tickets were cheap enough and the innards (and the view) had to be seen. It seems that the tower once housed an observatory for a king too lazy to climb stairs. As such, the entire tower is filled with a great cobbled spiral ramp. Climbing up we saw the Trinity church next door, caught a glimpse of the old privy (and our own mortality just next door) before reaching the exhibition at the halfway point. Who would have known that Copenhagen has a long history of tattooing expertise and even had a king who not only was heavily tattooed but also posed shirtless for the purposes of showing them off! Only the Danish. At the top of the tower we had a view of the entire city (Copenhagen is VERY flat) which included range of towers, church spires, castles, and essentially no high rises.
Once back on ground-level we headed to Nyhavn, via the peaceful National Library Gardens, the old Stock Exchange with it’s spiral dragon tower, and the various parliamentary and bank buildings, for ice-cream and a boat tour. Once again just not thinking about my poor bank account, I dug into Hazel-nutty and sea-salt caramel in a fresh waffle cone. We sat on the edge of the canal, eating our ice-cream in a sputtering of rain, and then just as soon as it had come, the rain was gone and we were climbing into one of the tubby little canal boats to see the city from the waterside.
The canal tour took us past the modernist architecture of the National Playhouse, the National Library, and the National Opera House which had hosted a cliff jumping competition from the roof only days before. We saw the industrial warehouses, now rebirthed as festival venues, the embarrassment of the Danish Navy (look up the Oops-Missile, it’s quite the story), and of course the Little Mermaid herself. At one point after hearing about the Oops-Missile, the daytime-dark Little Mermaid livestream from the Shanghai Expo and the bridge—unfinished because one side has been build 30cm taller than the other, Stina may have described the tour as review of Danish mistakes or something to that effect. But it wasn’t all humourous missteps. The tour also took us past the beautiful houseboats in Christianshavn, the Danish Royal Palaces, and a variety on interesting houses from all architectural ages and schools, including the narrow, little white house of HC Andersen, wedged neatly between it’s neighbours.
After the boat tour we drifted around for a while longer, but back in the shopping district, we made a near fatal error: we found an antique bookstore…and we went inside! We probably killed most of an hour there, ogling Danish, English, Latin and French works from the 19th century. Our best find was a political pamphlet from 1799, in gothic lettering and which opened with mottos in English, French, Latin, and possibly even a few other languages. And the best bit? Tucked in the front was a newspaper clipping about the volume which ended up being the only way we could actually figure out what it was about. Between the font, and the age of the Danish it was written in, even Stina was having trouble sorting it out—not to mention the two relatively useless Canadians peering eagerly over her shoulder.
Finally peeling ourselves away from the mountains of monographs, we found the metro and headed out to the suburbs for dinner with Stina’s parents. The food was delicious, the company was good, and the house was perfectly quaint and charming. I think the Danish word from how I felt might have been Hygge. We sat chatting until after 9pm when I got back onto the train and made my way back to Østerbro to crash.
Day two in Copenhagen started with Chris and I wandering our way out of Østerbro down through the ethnic streets of Nørrebro, past the National Stadium with offices on the outside to help pay the rent outside of sporting season, the state hospital, and the suspiciously cruiseship shaped medical school.
As an interesting side note, it’s graduation time in Denmark so where ever we went in the city centre, there were students proudly wearing sailor hats. Apparently it’s part of a fairly extensive high school graduation tradition here. The band tells what kind of high school you went to, and you’re goal as a soon to be graduate is to do as many silly things as possible wearing said hat. These things can involve everything from jumping naked into the canals, to throwing your notes into a midsummer bonfire, and for each antic you get points, which are apparently important? Sadly, however, I missed the other delightful part of the tradition where the students rent a party bus and stand on the top drinking as they drive around the town to each student’s parents’ house. The Danish take drinking and partying very seriously, which is to say, there is such a thing as “Danish Drunk” and if the videos I’ve been shown are anything to go by, it’s a good bit further from coherent than even Irish drunk.
After passing through the Parliament/banking part of the city we entered Christianshavn. It’s a strange place. It’s all very posh with a beautiful church completed with a tower wreathed by spiralling outdoor stairs, but then turn a corner, and pass through an alcove and you are in Christiania Freetown which I can best describe as The Gulf Islands but Danish and even more alternative.
The ‘streets’ are dirt paths and the houses are a mix of reclaimed industrial buildings and informal, hand-built structures of every description. They are a bit touchy about photos so I don’t have many pictures, but we spent a lovely morning there wandering about through the urban art, the sprawling, semi-wild gardens, and the very alternative people. We stopped for coffee at a local cafe and ended up people watching for ages. We saw cheerful little dogs roaming happily and freely about, water colour painting at a picnic table, all manner of bicycles and people riding them, and of course a healthy quantity of herbal inclined smoking. In contrast to the chill, earthy atmosphere of most of Christiania, the Green Light District has a a distinctly aggressive, almost militant feel. Because selling drugs is technically illegal (and there are police raids now and then—we passed by a few officers on our way into Christiania), the dealers all wear face masks and many also wear sunglasses. So between the villainous looking dealers in their trackies, the military grade camouflage netting strung over every little stall or shop window, and the heavy jungle-music soundtrack of the area, it certainly doesn’t offer the warmest or friendliest welcome. It didn’t help that we were soon drenched by a passing storm, and so we headed back into the EU, me towards the Town Hall and Tivoli, and Chris back to work.
Tivoli is, well, Tivoli so I elected not to pay the entry price and just wandered around the perimeter, but not of course before becoming rather badly distracted by the town hall. From the outside, it’s a fortress, from the inside it’s nicer than any town hall I’ve ever seen with tile work, and balconies, and a lovely glass roof to let all the sunshine in on the politicians—none of whom were anywhere to be seen.
Having conquered the main sights in the city centre, I then made my way west to Vesterbro where I was greeted by old pier buildings turned trendy diners, a wide selection of sex shops, and a shocking degree of cosmopolitanism. I had a rye sandwich (oh god it was good, rye, arugula, pastrami, pickles… heaven) in a cafe frequented seemingly only by young German speakers, and then soon after was stopped by an old Albanian man who want to chat about the impending rain. As I was enjoying the area, I carried on walking until I found myself, half accidentally at the old Carlsberg brewery which is currently undergoing a mix of renovation and restoration to turn it into a posh new city district. The beautiful red brick buildings, ornate cultures, and the famous Elephant Gate gave me lots to be flash happy about, but the unpredictable rain soon shooed me onto to other things.
Turning back towards the city centre, I stumbled across Søndermarken. As I understand it, it was an old palace garden but is now a public park. It’s lightly forested over rolling hills, with a speckling of interesting installations including “Siberia”, the “Chinese pavilion” and the “Norwegian House”. It is also studded with jasmine bushes which left me in an ecstasy of fragrance.
After the park, I walked past an officers training school, toddled down the main street of Fredericksburg, and eventually made my way back to Nørrebro and the Assistens Cemetery. Unlike Canadian cemeteries which are basically just a field of tombstones, Assistens is a blend of park, grotto, forest, garden, and graveyard. The burial areas are winding and beautiful, and the surroundings form a critical greenspace in the heart of the city. Wandering through tombstones from the 1700s I fell upon the burial sites of both HC Andersen and Kierkegaard (whose name is utterly unrecognizable when pronounced by an actual speaker of Danish) and eventually decamped to a bench beneath a gnarled old tree to read.
Sometime later I found the energy and inspiration to get up again and carry on in my adventuring. I walked back across Nørrebro and, about five minutes from where I was staying, found a cheap bakery perfectly timed to manage my sudden hunger pangs. So obviously I tried the most random things I could see: Studentenbrød and Amager Kik. Now Amager Kik was a lovely round cookie halfway between shortbread and sugar cookie but with a filling of cinnamon and stewed apples, and a topping of slivered almonds. It was delicious. Studentenbrot on the other hand is 100% horror but also sugar. Start with a thin base of tart shell, then add some perverse semi-chocolate cake/pudding/thing, and top with icing and rainbow sprinkles. It is an assault to the system that I have no doubt is just one bad day away from turning a person diabetic! And the best bit? That was my dinner.
As I slowly came down from my insane sugar high, I made my way back to the flat, gathered my dance gear and headed to the SommeDanse festival in a nearby park. It was a beautiful open air dance space filled with Salsa Cubana. Fortunately there were a few who took pity on me and danced in a line, but there were also a lot who had to put up with my general incompetence in Cuban. It was certainly an entertaining few hours.
The dancing began to wind down around 10 so I grabbed my stuff again and made my way back to the main open area in the park to see the Midsummer Bonfire. Have I mentioned that Danes are wonderful welcoming people, balancing their reserve with beauty and kindness? Well yes, but they are also vikings. Somewhere under all the layers of cosmopolitanism and urbanity, Danes are still a bit pagan, drinking all night around an open fire to celebrate the longest day of the year. There was techno blasting from portable speakers in one corner and a band of middle-aged men playing classic rock on the other. I drank a beer before the fire, resisted correcting an Indian university student attempting to use his cultural mystic to woo a local girl, and generally just enjoyed the flames. I was also entertained to find that this large bonfire in a public park in the middle of the city had no apparent organizers or minders. Whenever the fire needed tending, one of the revellers would get up and adjust a branch or scold the children throwing green branches on the fire. It was as if the entire group was just one big clan somewhere other than a major city with work (probably in banks and IT firms) in the morning.
And then in a flash it was time to leave Copenhagen. Wednesday morning I was on a train to Aalborg for five hours. At which point I found myself in Aarhus, with the train emptying and all sorts of important sounding Danish rolling through the PA system. We had spent a good bit of time on sidings near Odense waiting for more important cargo to pass us by, but in 5 hours we should have been in Aalborg without ever changing trains. I am told that this sort of diversion is pretty standard here. Either way, I begged an explanation from the fellow sitting next to me and was told to change to the smaller regional train on an adjacent platform and after another joyous hour of train riding, I was finally in Aalborg. I begin to suspect that Iarnrod Eireann and the DSB may be run but the same people.
Once in Aalborg I hauled my bags on an exciting 20 minute wander through what appeared to be the most industrial part of the city to my host’s flat. The flat was ridiculously nice and my host was out of town so I had the place to myself for a whole 10 minutes while I filled my water bottle and stuffed a granola bar down my gullet before running out to meet with my local guide who had expected to meet me an hour earlier. I made a tiny bit of an ass of myself when I arrived at the apartment and saw no names on any of the buzzers. Being Canadian I presumed I would have no way to get in if I didn’t know what buzzer to press, so I texted “I’m here!” and five minutes later realized that the main door to the building was always left unlocked and my guide was waiting for me in confusion in his flat.
Once I’d done the basic meet and greet, my host, Johan, took me on a tour of the town, stopping by pedestrian shopping streets, quaint little coloured houses, the shortest street in Aalborg (with the longest name), a mixed bag of modernist architecture, and of course Aalborg’s famous party street. We then returned to Johan’s flat where we had a delicious dinner of Neo-Nordic persuasion, and chatted about life, the universe, and everything—also sourdough. We may have then ended up in an artisanal beer bar drinking all things “smoked” with plans to hit the party street later in the evening, but wanting to get up early the next morning and already feeling my utter unreadiness for Danish levels of drinking, I decided to call it a night after a few samples of strange brews and we finished the evening with a touch of salsa and a whole lot of me being way too keen about all things latin, before I walked back across town to crash.
Thursday I was up bright and early to pack my bags and head off across the fjord to Lindholm’s promised Viking history. An hour later I was fuelling up on coffee and creme snitter (the Danish are ridiculously fond of VERY sweet, gooey pastries) while I took a tiny rest from the burden of my backpack and my laptop bag. As I sat at that outdoor picnic table in the sun, you can bet your boots I was inventorying every item in my bag and strongly reconsidering its necessity. After about a ten minute break, however, I decided that I was just being a wuss, slung the backpack back over my shoulder and marched onwards. Twenty minutes after that, I was at the door of the Lindholm Høje Museum, listening to a constant barrage of gunfire from the military firing range next door.
Though unassuming from the outside and possessed of rather frightening neighbours, the museum was a spectacular little display. The older Lindholm Høje display was all in Danish but made excellent use of tablets to display scrolling English translations at intervals (only some were out of order), while the newer Prehistoric Lindholm exhibit was bilingual and very nicely thought out. Not only were the artefacts impressive (beads, full skeletal remains of humans and animals, bog hoards, weapons, etc.) but the narratives were engaging, the settings were immersive, and they had made spectacular use of motion activated recordings that played ethereally from the ceiling when you stood in certain places in the exhibit. Sadly these recordings were Danish so I cannot speak to how much they communicated, but they certainly added to the ambiance. Having learned all I could about Lindholm from the Flint Dagger Age to the 1700s, I headed outside to see the Høje itself. The hill was absolutely bedecked with stones outlining triangles, circles, ovals, and even boat shapes with larger stones marking stem and stern. Some were actual burial sites, others were funeral pyres. For hundreds of years the Jutish people honoured their dead there, and lived their lives on the shifting sands that blew all around it. It is quite an impressive site.
After getting my fill of Vikings, I recovered my backpack and headed for the train station, but not before stopping as a grocery store to stock up on fruit, veg, a hearty rye bread and the cheapest available meat and cheese. I fully expect to survive almost exclusively on frighteningly cheap sandwich meats for the rest of my time in Scandinavia.
Several hours on the train later (one of those hours seated beside an absolute god who I lacked the courage to speak to) I was in Skagen. I’d heard the light was beautiful up here, but no one could have prepared me for just how beautiful it really is. The wind is fearsome but the sky is a cloudless, vivid blue and every colour is absolutely the most brilliant manifestation of its tone. After two years in the limpid damp of Ireland, the dry, wind scoured saturation of this place is almost incomprehensible. What I’m saying is that I’m in love and I wish I was an artist.
Having checked in at my very old school, no frills youth hostel I took off on foot to explore this Northernmost point of Denmark. The houses are all goldenrod yellow and the harbour is full of every size and shape of boat. It’s a bit industrial and the fishing industry is definitely industrial here, but somehow it’s all terribly charming in a somewhat rough and tumble way. And if you don’t like the town, it’s not long before you leave streets behind for endless beaches and rolling sand dunes, sand dunes bedecked in wild roses and composed of the finest sand you’ve ever felt which will inevitably work its way into everything that you own, but you’ll forgive it, and you’ll love it and you’ll easily spend hours dawdling along with the wind blowing a howler from the south and the sea crashing rhythmically beside you. If that wasn’t enough, as you head north along the shore, you soon stumble across a cluster of dilapidated concrete bunkers which I presume played some role in the German occupation of Denmark but which are now broken halls to house the finest local art of a more urban and delinquent persuasion. After the bunkers there is a lighthouse and then you’re there, on Grenen, the fine little branch of Denmark that reaches out tentatively to mark the join between the North Sea and the Kattegat sea. As they crash into each other, one brown, one green in a rush of froth and breakers, you can stand at the very tip of the land, the top of Denmark, and feel to seas rush over your feet. And just like that I was barefoot. I wandered along that desolate spit of land for a while but soon was driven back into the dunes by a wind that seemed determined to pitch me off the top of Denmark and into the sea.
On my lazy barefoot wander back towards town, I stumbled across masses of little purple jellies crashing about in the surf. To clarify, when I say “stumbled across” I mean “saw something purple and shiny in the sand and poked it with my finger”. Thankfully that particular specimen was tentacles down.
Somehow I found myself with an ice-cream cone strolling the quiet pedestrian streets before eventually getting back to the hostel to sip tea and enjoy the deliciously bright northern sun which shows no signs of dimming until well after 10 or even 11 o’clock.
Friday dawned bright, clear, and early (long sunlight hours are as much a curse as a blessing) and after a stupidly large hostel breakfast, I headed out to see Højen (a.k.a. Old Skagen). Wandering through the quaint little village, I found that nothing was open until 12, nothing that is, except the beach. If you know me at all, you’ll know what happened next.
I spent hours plodding up and down the beach, exploring houses eaten up by the dunes, watching the boats (two cruiseships and more cargo vessels that I could count) and the birds pass by. And then suddenly I found I was atop the sand dunes, tripping my way along windblown ridges and clinging to tufts of grass as I, now and then, got a bit too bold with my wander and nearly ended up dune-sliding. Realizing that, unchecked I’d probably end up exploring my way half-way to Hirtshals, I turned back towards Skagen. I came off the beach in what my map labelled “Nordby” but which should have been called “Big Industry”. Three giant wind turbines dwarfed a whole village of low flat industrial buildings with neatly clipped lawns that, for my purposes, made an excellent sidewalk (the road had none).
Shortly after escaping Nordby I was back in Skagen proper getting lost in the winding web of laneways that fill the centre of the town. They are no more than dirt or gravel paths wending between back gardens but they are just delightful! I could have spent all day snooping in on people’s gardens but I was starting to get a bit tired and lunch was calling my name. I had a packed sandwich, but my tiredness demanded coffee so I ended up in the charming little Jakobs Cafe drinking a latte and munching on treats. We will not speak of how much that little tray of treats cost me.
Leaving the cafe I found that there was life in Skagen after all, but it was still very VERY quiet. I wandered past the Skagen Church which at a glance looked very white and pretty inside but which also had an entry fee and so received little attention from me. In contrast, the Swedish sailor’s church was free to enter and delightfully reminiscent of the churches we found in Iceland nearly 10 years ago. The ceiling was painted deep indigo and decorated with a smattering of gold painted wooden stars. The rest was simple, lightly adorned, and bright. I do like the airiness of Scandinavian churches, they feel perhaps further from Roman coffers, but much closer to heaven.
After my adventures in organized worship, I headed back to my hostel via the sea where I found a rather different variety of religion. The sun worshippers were out in force despite the frigid wind and I, emboldened by their casual bikini wearing, decided to find my own rock to sun upon. And that’s how I nearly fell asleep and nearly got a sunburn on a pile of rocks by the edge of the ocean somewhere near Skagen. Fortunately I am a tiny bit less susceptible to sun than I once was and escaped a lobster fate.
The rest of the day was spent sneaking around a former royal holiday home cum artist’s retreat (I presume Privat Område means private property but if anyone stopped my passing, I would not have admitted this assumption) to get back to the hostel for a late afternoon nap to refuel for sunset chasing at the very northernmost point of Denmark, just west of Grenen.
I would not actually end watching the sun sink below the horizon there as prudence dictated that my path back (along narrow, unlit, country roads) mightn’t be the safest in the half-light of dusk. My innate curiosity however undermined all sensibility when I saw a trail marker just off the side of the road, and you can’t just ignore interesting trail markers. And that’s how I ended up clambering through bogs following an unmarked but well trod trail which had a few slimy bits and a few sandy bits and one lovely little incline that was just too perfect not to run down. Which is how I probably shook the keys to my luggage lock right out of my pocket. Either that or they slithered out while I was lounging reading in the sand dunes. Regardless how I came to be keyless, I finished an excellent adventure through the wilderness by walking back through Nordby which, unsurprisingly seems to have a country biker bar full of motorcycles, tents, laughter, and loud country music from about 15 years ago.
Once back at the hostel and realizing that I was locked out of my backpack and therefore unable to access chargers, laptop, or clothing, I panicked, attempted amateur lock-picking, and having aroused suspicion in all of my roommates but having made no progress on the lock, I used the last dregs of my phone’s battery life to research locksmiths and hardware stores in Skagen.
Come morning I had remembered the presence of a certain pair of tiny sewing scissors in an outside pocket of my bag and after a bit more suspicious prodding and jiggling, the lock was open and I was off for another insanely large hostel breakfast. If they charge you nearly a tenner for it, you have to make sure you get at least a tenner out of it!
It was a grey day in Skagen so I headed to the Skagens Museum to take in a bit of art. The collection was small and the ticket price was high, but fortunately they have some remarkable pieces that made even the exorbitant ticket price seem worthwhile. If you haven’t heard of the Skagen Painters, now would be a fantastic time to look them up, and while I’m sure that their works are far less impressive seen through a computer screen, please just humour me and agree that they do fantastic things with colour and light. I’m going to go right ahead and be stereotypical here and say that I LOVE Krøyer. The way he builds light and shadow into his work is just unearthly! I may have spent more time that is entirely reasonable with my face up as close to the canvas as physically possible, examining his brush strokes and the way he builds up depth with his highlights to make every scene glitter enticingly with sunlight. Seriously, he’s so worth a look, preferably in person if you get the chance so that you can ogle the brush work, but even online is a start.
Unfortunately, however, no matter the beauty of the collection, it was very small and so I was soon back outdoors wandering aimlessly about between public trampolines in the town square, automatic mowers on some posh lawn, and the endless allure of boats and the sea. I ate a bun of some cinnamony Danish persuasion, found a combination lock (from a very pretty Danish man, but we won’t go into that) to replace my now keyless padlock, and generally faffed about town waiting for the train. As the station building is for lease and therefore closed to the public, I could hardly spend all afternoon sitting on the concrete by the tracks.
Around 2pm I got my train and played hopscotch across Jutland until I arrived in the, admittedly quite sad, little fishing village of Hirtshals. Where Skagen has gracefully slipped into a mix of vacationers and large commercial fishing operations, Hirtshals is a worn down old thing quite well and truly past her prime. The ferry terminal is fairly removed from the main port, and the port itself is a smattering of 2-3 major commercial fishing vessels and some tens of small, broken down private fishing boats, some of which you almost wouldn’t believe were still sea-worthy. I think in the sun it might be sordid, but in the warm, cloaking, misty overcast of the day, it was very nearly poetic.
My last day in Denmark dawned cold and grey but with promises of excitement in the form of a local market in a town just a few minutes ride away by train. After a stroll along the cliffs to start my day, which got rather derailed by an excellent collection of well maintained bunkers with explanatory texts (sadly only in German and Danish), I headed to the train station to find a ride to Tornby.
Now, being all sorts of clever, I hadn’t thought to mark the location of the market on any map. I mean, Tornby is tiny! How hard could it be to find? An hour of wandering later I finally found a bit of free wifi on a school playground and set about finding just exactly where I was meant to be. The answer? About five minutes up the road.
The market turned out to be more flea market than local craft market but it was held in the grounds of an old merchant’s house and there were some very pretty woollen sweaters and scarves. I wandered around for a bit peeking into the cafe and the kitchsy heritage general store, but all the historic plaques and exhibits were in Danish and I’ve no room to carry around souvenirs, so I soon found myself seated at a picnic bench enjoying my packed lunch. Then it was back to the train and back to the hostel to work away at turning this muddle of journal entries and photographs into a blog for you all. Tonight I’ll be on the ferry to Norway, answering the beckons from Bergen.
P.S. Those photo collages are a damn pain to put together so maybe don’t expect too many more of them.