Denmark
The sky is so very very blue. I can see colours all around me, a soft landscspe with trees and golden corn. I see blue, purple, red and yellow flowers and realise how denuded my experience of nature has been in some respects these last two months. I can see layers of landscape, gentle undulations, glimpses of agriculture, windmills, bull rushes and realise how imposing the landscape of the Faroes has felt.
Many times i thought to try to hitch a lift from the boat to Skagen, but the scale of the ferry was too big, too formal, no one good place to get noticed so its easy instead to opt for trains, learning how to use them will be a good beginning for me. I remember Chris Hart, an ex colleague once telling me that the journey must always be part of the holiday, taken at leisure and spoiling yourself so I decide not to walk from the terminal to the station if i dont find a bus but treat myself to a taxi. I am interested that i am thinking of this as holiday, my jouney has not felt that, thus far.
I am pleased to learn i am travelling out of season, school term began last week so I hope to find beaches empty and bike paths free.
Hertshals is an empty, growing, reclaimed land harbour, some distance from town. There is no tourist information at the terminal, and given the lack of internet on the Norrøna coming over, I have no real travel plan. No busses await, other than one to Berlin, i am tempted to climb aboard and abandon this trip but persist and take a taxi to the station, grabbing another traveller to share the cost. When the driver drops me, i cannot believe this is actually a station, i cannot see a platform but signs i cannot read, direct me to walk through what appears to be a building site and i arrive.
Negotiating my ticket with the ticket machine is another matter, Skagen does not come up as an option. A young girl offers help, Faroese, having been on the same ferry, she continually thumps the machine for me and my ticket is bought. Being dwarfed by trees feels much gentler than being imposed upon by big mountains. T
he sun is shining, the train clean and efficient and i begin to feel sure itll be ok. Grannies gap year sounds like a plan. Some research to do, things to say, places to go, experiences to have. Try different forms of transport, advantages and disadvantages, follow the harvests, find work, i like that, the challenge of finding work, paid work, just because i can. Make a list of things students do on gap years.
I may have to buy myself sandals and cut the bottom from one pair of jeans. I dont think i will be ready to move on from here after just four days, may want to stay longer yet my clothes were chosen for Faroese rain and twelve degrees. The more i think about grannies gap year, or granny goes gap, the more i like the idea. I can plan ahead sometimes and at others be loose and free, i can choose cheap package trips, to places out of season, find a volunteer placement and choose to use social networking sites like Broads Abroad. In fact i could even compare couchsurfing, bewelcome, my twin place, broads abroad for their viability.
I know from a travel writing course that it is possible sometimes to get free accomodation or meals if intending to write for publication. One thought leads to another. Perhaps its time to get that Australian journey finished but what would i call it? It came about when Carla and Nicola went to university and i thought of it as my gap year. Grown ups gap year doesnt have the ring, mum takes off, kids out all out, mums turn to play, mum goes mooching, mums mooches, tinas troubles.
First change Hjjoring, the suns warmth is welcome and gentle with a cooling breeze that gently brushes my face. The thought occurs that i am now in the EU and could look for work if i chose to do so. A train stands at the only other platform, i want to jump on board but make my way into the building where clear boards confirm that the train is mine and departs in three minutes. Life is very simple when stations and places are so small that there are few options.
My first train travelled from Hertshals to Hjjoring and back, thats it. This train will go to a larger town, Frederikshavn but on arrival, i find an equally clear board and connection with just eight minutes wait. I enjoy the trains and the journey, if not the price.
I remember my friend Kirsten who once brought friends and i to Denmark and I feel her presence in the purple heather, the blue harebells, majestic sand dunes and the softness of the air. I watch the road that runs parallel to the railway line mile after mile and remember Sarah driving us all this way, only for us to have a short time at Grenen point where the Skaggerack and Kattegat meet before turning and driving us all the way back again. I am full of memories and feel an unexpected fondness for this Denmark.
Later, riding a traditional Danish, back pedal, upright bike, with just three gears and a glorious immobilising locking system, feels almost regal. I cover miles of sandy forests enjoying the aroma of pine, gentle sunshine and an incredible feeling of safety. Mountain bikers join the trail, zipping on from cross trails and disappear again, an adder lies in the road, the map the tourist office said 'you will just know' turns out just as i expected, unhelpful. I turn to retrace my steps or take alternative routes several times, nearly fall off riding through unexpected soft sand and over a surprise rooty section rather too challenging for this steed. None of these affect my feeling of safety for more than a few seconds and then with more of an, i could have told you so feeling, rather than my usual anxiety.
I stumble upon the white church, gradually being buried by sand dunes over the years and am pleased to remember Kirsten again, having quite forgotten that she brought us here on that same day. Most of the church has been demolished and the remaining tower, grain by grain is being covered by sand.
Skagen streets overflow with art exhibitions, pubs, eating places and shops. If shopping were my thing i would be in my element but i pass them by without a glance, find an art gallery with a preview and an unexpected but welcome small glass of delicious, almost bubbly, rosé wine. Streets are intercepted by rusting rails, sounds from the busy harbour, squeals of goods train wheels and musicians playing outside pubs give the place a feeling of happening but also very much a place of decadence and wealth.
It has been a long day. My room is a delightful, fresh, balconied room with a view over one of many disused lighthouses, each one becoming increasingly redundant as the sand spit grows longer, year after year and the dunes continually move. I think the lighthouse might hold an art exhibition for i remember seeing paintings of endless long skies and pale beaches depicted on canvas all those years ago.
