(Denmark)...I felt like I had rather stolen my visit to Tisvildeleje in Denmark. On occasion, I have visited places because I had some time to spare but not so much time to go any farther. Inevitably, I have ended up thoroughly enjoying these trips, almost to the extent where I convince myself that this destination was my initial and only choice of place to visit. I had an afternoon and evening off before I had to get the very efficient train from the Danish capital of Copenhagen to the Swedish city of Malmö, now a 23-minute trip, since the 2001 opening of the Öresund Bridge that links the Danish island of Sjælland to the Swedish province of Skåne. So, the day before I took a slower train north of Copenhagen to Hillerod.
Here I had an hour to wait for a transfer so headed into town, around a grey road, past some bus stops and into the pedestrian-only area that ends with a view of a castle, the dramatic Fredericksborg, which seems to float on the other side of the town's small lake. Green turrets and red brick. It was built between 1560 and 1620 by Frederick II and his son Christian I. From Hillerod, I took a wonderful local train that went through areas of less and less habitation, picking up some schoolchildren and ending on a single track at the North Sea, in the town of Tisvildeleje. The wind came off the water and made things chilly. The town is delightful and drops down to the sea, with thatched cottages to either side.
At the sea is a long line of colourful beach changing huts, thin with pointed gables. I walked to the national park that starts almost immediately following the tussocks of windswept yellow grass and before the miles upon miles of low, white sand dunes. It was warmer in the woods, and with some notion that I could just make my planned walk before dark (it was November), I set off for Tisvilde Hegn (hegn means fence in Danish), which is one of the country's largest forests and known for its twisted trees, burial tumuli and Saint-John's-wort.
The wood also is known as Troldeskoven. The light was wonderful, and a few other hikers were negotiating the maze of paths. After an hour's fast walking I reached the ruin of Asserbo, a small castle — or slott — built by Bishop Absalon in the 12th century but then covered over by the sands and lost to memory and history. In the mid-18th century, some workers uncovered the site, although it took to 1972 before the Danish National Museum finished the clean-up. A minute bridge leads across a moat.
All was still, dusk was coming, and I saw a bullfinch, first a startlingly red male, then the female, for the first time for many years. I sat on a wall and silently thanked that the organisers of my trip flew me in from the United States a day earlier than the other writers, who almost all came from Italy. A menhir covered in runes stands to one side. I needed to walk quickly to get back to Tisvildeleje before things were all pitch black. The only shop open was a cake shop that sold macaroons, someone else I had not experienced for years. The quietest moment of the whole day was the solitary wait for the last transfer back to Copenhagen. Nothing moved until I saw the train creep towards its terminus. The transfer at Hillerod on the return was immediate.
Years before I entered Denmark by taking the short ferry trip across the Baltic Sea from Puttgarden to Rødbyhavn. The weather was bracing on that day, too, and after the journey was compete and I started driving, I saw how very flat Denmark is. I drove towards the first slight gradient I saw and stopped at the nearest sizeable town, Nævsted. Elaborate carvings were etched into the support beams of a house in the old section of town, but the rest of the town was bleak, comprising small pedestrian shopping squares of equally bland shops.
On the other hand, some of the best pizza I have eaten was in this town — indeed, pizza seemed to very good throughout Scandinavia. A fellow diner in Nævsted was very interested that I had been to Solvang, the Danish community in California (it looks like Denmark, the citizens there speak Danish and Danish newspapers are imported daily) and chuckled at the thought of his countrymen being so far away. Viking influences abound, most notably museums of Norse longboats. \
Back in Copenhagen, I walked to the famous statue of the Little Mermaid (which was stolen this year, I seem to remember). It is impossible to get lost; just follow the inevitable line of sightseers, who, after reaching it, queue up to be photographed in front of Hans Christian Anderson's creation. The mermaid's location is the perfect spot for her. The sadness in her eyes as she stares out to the wider sea and ponders her thoughts of returning to her home are made more forceful by the bland industrial landscape beyond.