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In Which I Go Island-Hopping
December 2, 2006 by Mike
Nykøbing
Route: Christiansfeld - Middelfart - Helnæs - Faaborg - Aastrup - Spodsbjerg - Tårs - Nykøbing
How did I finish yesterday's entry?
"I'm in Christiansfeld on the say-so of
Birgitta and Nicholas. They haven't been
wrong so far. A full report tomorrow."
Honestly, I think I jinx myself. No, I'm not about to report that Birgitta and Nicholas were wrong. (Trust me -- we can trust them. If you see what I mean.)
But the 'full report' is sadly lacking. I woke to steady rain, which seemed to get heavier and steadier the longer I stared out of my window. That wasn't doing any good. I need to get a little plastic Elvis doll to magic the rain away, you know, the ones that help you find parking spaces in town. Is there anything a little plastic Elvis doll can't do?
But He wasn't there to help me this morning. Tramping the streets in this weather would be too depressing. I climbed into my rainclothes (£6 for jacket and trousers from Aldi. Yes, they were cheap. Yes, it shows) and onto the bike. There's something comforting about being on the bike. The rain is still wet, but it feels more honest, somehow. Christiansfeld -- one of the great extant Moravian towns -- will just have to wait.
I did stop at the cemetery on the outskirts of the town. The gravestones are simple, unadorned and all the same. Thinking: we are all the same when we go to meet our Lord. I take issue with that -- surely He will appreciate and acknowledge my efforts to spread the word? The fact that I have 'From Elvis In Memphis' playing permanently somewhere in my head should count for something? The 193 Elvis tracks on my iPod? The yellow-and-green Elvis shirt I wore when I met golden-earred record producer Rick Hall should get me pretty close to the top table.. within sniffing distance of those peanut butter'n'banana sandwiches, surely? Oh, and I have a friend with a horse called Elvis. Do you? Exactly! Better start prayin'.
All of which is a desperate attempt to get you to forget that I know no more about Christiansfeld now than I did yesterday.
--
In a successful effort to outrun the rain, I've done some island hopping today. Fun as it is, I'm afraid they've all blurred together, so there'll be no incisive descriptions of the slight differences from island to island, no taste of the unique qualities of one, the vernacular architecture of the next, the wildwood flowers of a third.
But I can generalise about this waterbound stretch of southern Denmark: it's beautiful. In particular, yes, the vernacular architecture. There are more half-timbered, thatched houses here than I've seen anywhere outside the preserved-in-aspic villages of Suffolk. Here, they are lived in, used, maintained for comfort rather than status. I like that.
And even more, the farms are fab. Laid out round a courtyard, with the main gateway right on the road (or street, because some of these farmhouses are now contained within villages), they are huge and stately without being overbearing. I pictured myself living in each oner I passed. Did I get a picture of one? Did I 'eck as like.
Here's what I remember of each of today's islands:
Jylland (Jutland)
And I start, not with an island, but with peninsular Denmark - the big bit plonked on top of Germany. This corner of Jylland is where my day started. It's also where England started, sort of. It was home both to the Angles and the Saxons. Maybe house prices got too steep. Perhaps they got bored of the rain. Or they wanted to see some decent football on a Saturday afternoon. (If any of those were their reasons for moving to England, boy did they make a big mistake!) Whatever, move to England they did, bringing the name (Angle-land) and much of the language. This is the lot that got Conquered by William. 1066 and all that.
Fyn
I am amused for the second time on this trip by passing the town of Middelfart.
Yes, I am -- briefly -- on the road I took when heading from Norwich to Murmansk at the very start of this trip. 12,000 or so miles and more than four months ago. I ponder the lengths I've gone to as I stop for a bite to eat at a roadside cafe. The mother and daughter team running the place are friendly, but argue amongst themselves when I ask for the best coastal route to take.
Daughter: "You should take the road to Assens. That's lovely."
Mother: "You've never been to Assens! How would you know?"
Daughter: "........... errrrm."
There are four roads out of Middelfart. One of them is to Assens, less than 30 miles away.
I take the road to Assens. It's lovely. I hope the daughter enjoyed her day out to this distant and exotic outpost, and that she finds a reasonable excuse for her mum. And if there's an errant boyfriend somewhere in the story, I hope he has time to come up with a plausible excuse. But I also hope the mum decides to voyage that far herself, to find out what all the fuss is about.
Beyond Assens, just as I was least expecting it, I rode through a tiny village called Aastrup. You may remember from yesterday that my maternal family name is Astrup. So this was quite exciting. For me. But not you. I won't go on.
Helnæs
I was looking forward to riding out to this miniature island that clings to the Fyn coast. The picture in the tourist brochure was accurate: it is joined to the main island by a spectacular causeway. With the last of the rain now mixed with saltwater spray as waves crashed against roadside, I slowed to take it all in. This is what 'riding the coast' should be about. Helnæs has more than its fair share of cutesy farms and villages. Lovely.
Tåsinge
I've failed already. I can remember nothing about Tåsinge. I see from the map that it's small, with a bridge from Fyn at one end and a bridge to Langeland at the other. I don't think either of them registered. Blink and you'll miss it. Sorry, people of Tåsinge.
Langeland
This is easier: I remember Langeland because I completely ignored the coastline and just rode straight across at the narrowest point. It *is* a long land, long and thin. Somehow, though, they've contrived to buikld the road right down the middle, as far from the sea at any given point as it is possible to be. So I took the unilateral decision to boycott it. I pressed on from Rudkøbing to Spodsbjerg to catch the ferry to the next island. 45 minutes wait; 45 minutes on the boat. And re-laaaaaaax.
Lolland
I'd be hard-pushed to call my route through Lolland "coastal", but at least I followed a route parallel to the coast. Not that anybody could tell: by this stage the dim winter sun had disappeared over the low horizon. It was pitch black.
Rule One of overland motorcycling:
Don't ride at night.
Reason for Rule One:
You can't see elephants/ kangeroos/ lions/ gun-toting Colombian bandits blocking the road ahead.
Well, I took the chance that none of the above would be on the roads of Lolland this evening. There wasn't much else on the roads. I love driving a car at night. Always have. Window down, all the world cut out and removed bar the bright, narrow cone of light from yr headlights. It's as close as you can get on four wheels to the sensation of riding a motorbike. So multiply it 100-fold to get that two-wheeled feeling.
Falster
I'm only about 100 metres into Falster this evening, so my impressions are somewhat limited. Nykøbing is the big town in these parts. There must be over 5,000 people here. Most of them are in the hotel bar this evening, wearing smart formal dress (or headache-enducing bad-taste 70s fancy dress, if you're from the UK) and dancing cheek-to-cheek to the World's Worst Pub Singer. I wish I had the guts to ask if I could film him. You. Would. Not. Believe. My. Ears.
Comments
By Kathy | December 10, 2006 10:12 PM
Well done on the contextural use of a Carter Family song. Now I challenge you to attempt "John Hardy Was a Desperate Little Man".
By phil | December 11, 2006 2:46 PM
"yellow-and-green Elvis shirt" Do you mean to say Elvis played for Norwich ?
Maybe that's how he managed to survive for so long after his "death" being spotted by so few people.
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By Laura | December 10, 2006 6:13 PM
It's true Elvis can solve everything! I've been in the mansion, I know. : )