Summertime, and the livin' is easy, fish are jumpin' and so we went on a road trip. We meaning mum, pop and me, one's meant to be rich, the other good lookin' and then there's the hush little baby don't you cry. It was time to hush and go exploring - after 48 hours of looking at oyal Copenhagen figurines, Georg Jensen June-daisy earrings, eating herring with the other turistas on turista row, and saying "Mmm, this beer is really good" too many times, we packed a small bag and set off for Norsminde Kro, a Danish inn promising hygge and gastronomic pleasures hidden somewhere on the mainland.
There isn't too much lure beyond the buzz of Copenhagen. Several exits from the city have proven to be tranquil and serene but largely uneventful; rolling along flat, green fields and forests leading to small fishing villages where the Danes sit and eat fish cakes with remoulade sauce, quaffing large quantities of cold beer.
The monotony of a place comes as a great joy to the frazzled mind, the rolling nothingness outside the train window lulls me into a pre-nothingness state of oneness with the whirring cosmos; the Zen masters would be proud. The only tuning in will have to be at meal times when we sit down together and in the tradition of all good bourgeois families, attempt at delightful conversation that skirts around any big or real issues that might ruin the taste of carrot ice with grated liquorice.
Our chosen destination was about three train hours away from Copenhagen, a dot on the map called Norsminde where we were to stay at an inn that promised slow food and even slower days. The bus 102 from Århus, Denmark's second largest city, winds through country lanes and over small hills, yes, hills at last, for mainland Denmark, Jutland, has a more varied topography than the island of Zealand on which Copenhagen is situated.
At last the woman bus driver cries out "Norsminde". We alight and stand in front of the inn, the only building in this part of the bay and stare out to sea and then back at the inn. We are hesitant, is this it? Well of course it is, but summer being what it is, the faculty of the mind is wrapped in cotton, sharpening only at the thought of shrimps and ice cream.
Norsminde is nestled on a creek in a large bay, sheltered and lush, tranquil yet still busy with fishing trawlers and sailing yachts down at the marina. In Norsminde you can walk and walk and walk, through fields and along sandy beaches, watching the seagulls swoop down for fat fish, watching the storm clouds roll in and out again, taking delight in the sight of a cobweb glistening with raindrops, waking up for a morning swim in the fresh water. Norsminde is home to the swallow and the field mouse and the duck and the crab, the morning song of the birds before the whole world is awake lets you know that it is summertime. The phone is off, the computer is off, even the parents are off duty...
Out at sea an island called Samsø beckons; this is where the pears and potatoes grow. As I walk to the furthermost point in the bay I go past a witch atop a pyre, ready for the evening bonfire. It is the longest day of the year, Midsummer, and all along the coast bonfires will burn in the special evening light. Men and women and children are getting into their boats to sail along the burning coast, to drink cool beer, bracing the weather, come what may, with the rain clouds rolling in, bursting with intense short showers, then parting to reveal a lovely, lazy, lingering sun that seems reluctant to set, leaving red and orange and pink slashes in the thin sky, long after the swallows have slept and the witches have burnt. In these quasi-northern lights there is no real darkness.
There isn't too much lure beyond the buzz of Copenhagen. Several exits from the city have proven to be tranquil and serene but largely uneventful; rolling along flat, green fields and forests leading to small fishing villages where the Danes sit and eat fish cakes with remoulade sauce, quaffing large quantities of cold beer.
The monotony of a place comes as a great joy to the frazzled mind, the rolling nothingness outside the train window lulls me into a pre-nothingness state of oneness with the whirring cosmos; the Zen masters would be proud. The only tuning in will have to be at meal times when we sit down together and in the tradition of all good bourgeois families, attempt at delightful conversation that skirts around any big or real issues that might ruin the taste of carrot ice with grated liquorice.
Our chosen destination was about three train hours away from Copenhagen, a dot on the map called Norsminde where we were to stay at an inn that promised slow food and even slower days. The bus 102 from Århus, Denmark's second largest city, winds through country lanes and over small hills, yes, hills at last, for mainland Denmark, Jutland, has a more varied topography than the island of Zealand on which Copenhagen is situated.
At last the woman bus driver cries out "Norsminde". We alight and stand in front of the inn, the only building in this part of the bay and stare out to sea and then back at the inn. We are hesitant, is this it? Well of course it is, but summer being what it is, the faculty of the mind is wrapped in cotton, sharpening only at the thought of shrimps and ice cream.
Norsminde is nestled on a creek in a large bay, sheltered and lush, tranquil yet still busy with fishing trawlers and sailing yachts down at the marina. In Norsminde you can walk and walk and walk, through fields and along sandy beaches, watching the seagulls swoop down for fat fish, watching the storm clouds roll in and out again, taking delight in the sight of a cobweb glistening with raindrops, waking up for a morning swim in the fresh water. Norsminde is home to the swallow and the field mouse and the duck and the crab, the morning song of the birds before the whole world is awake lets you know that it is summertime. The phone is off, the computer is off, even the parents are off duty...
Out at sea an island called Samsø beckons; this is where the pears and potatoes grow. As I walk to the furthermost point in the bay I go past a witch atop a pyre, ready for the evening bonfire. It is the longest day of the year, Midsummer, and all along the coast bonfires will burn in the special evening light. Men and women and children are getting into their boats to sail along the burning coast, to drink cool beer, bracing the weather, come what may, with the rain clouds rolling in, bursting with intense short showers, then parting to reveal a lovely, lazy, lingering sun that seems reluctant to set, leaving red and orange and pink slashes in the thin sky, long after the swallows have slept and the witches have burnt. In these quasi-northern lights there is no real darkness.