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The Route: London - Copenhagen - Stockholm -
Narvik - Oslo - Voss - Ærøskøbing - Copenhagen - London Saturday 8 June 1996 My experience of this region was however limited. I'd spent some time as a student in Minnesota which was the US centre of Scandinavian culture but I suppose that didn't really count despite the fact that nearly everyone there was called either Larson, Eriksson or Anderson and in winter the potential to freeze one's bollocks off was pretty much the same. I'd also once met some drunken Swedes in a campsite bar in Paris, one of whom told me that he was Kim Wilde's biggest fan. Shades of 'Misery' I thought as he explained his obsession. This guy was totally deranged but I did at least get him to pay for all my drinks and cigarettes that evening in exchange for my (false) address! Also during the late-seventies, a strange Finnish girl called Anna mysteriously came to stay in our house in Birmingham for about a month and after numerous shopping trips to the Bull Ring and a day trip to Warwick Castle she disappeared, never to be seen again (at least by us). Apart from that I hadn't had too many dealings with our Nordic neighbours so armed with our plane tickets and Scanrail passes it was with a great sense of anticipation that we hiked down to the tube station to catch the 5:30 am train to Heathrow. It was a peaceful, clear morning and there wasn't much activity along the road apart from a van making some deliveries to Tesco Metro. I noticed the crates filled with loaves of 'value' bread and tins of 'value' beans which would sell at 22p and 7p each respectively. I wondered whether we should have stocked up on such items as I gathered that prices could be pretty steep in Scandinavia but we'd already packed plenty of dried food to keep us going during the three weeks we'd scheduled for this trip. We boarded a train and looked at the Saturday morning commuters wearily making their way to work. The journey to Heathrow passed without incident although an interesting looking bloke boarded at Acton Town. He was covered in numerous piercings, not so unusual these days, but he also sported an amazing cropped hairstyle which featured four multi-coloured spikes jutting out of his forehead which created an effect not unlike the crown adorning the Statue of Liberty. Of course being in London no one took much notice of him but I thought he looked cool anyway. Our train passed through the dreary suburbs of south-west London before dipping back underground to round the loop of the Heathrow terminal stations. I love airports when I'm on my way out of the country and the sense of excitement associated with flying off somewhere enveloped me as we dropped off our backpacks at the British Airways check-in desk. Once through customs, we ambled around the departure lounge and browsed through the extensive array of duty-free products on sale before taking the plunge with our credit cards by buying a couple of litres of Finlandia vodka and a few hundred grammes of Samson Halfzware Shag to keep us going through what could be an expensive trip. We had a little bit of time to spare before departure so we thought we'd have a couple of beers in the departure lounge pub even though it was still 7.30 am. We'd been up for a few hours so I didn't consider our early morning drinking to be too outrageous and it's always good to get into the holiday spirit at the airport. Soon afterwards we boarded the plane and settled into our seats for the two hour flight to Copenhagen. It was a clear day and there was a good view of the land below out of the window. It wasn't long before we left England behind and were cruising over the northern coast of Holland. We flew over the Frisian Islands and I clearly recognised the shape of Terschelling, the island we stopped at last year during our Low Countries trip. The sun was shining brightly on the golden sand below and I wished that I was sitting on the island's long stretch of beach like we did last year. This however was a new trip and we had new things to look forward to. The first sign that we were over Denmark was when we flew over the huge suspension bridge that was being built to link the two main Danish islands, Funen and Zealand. From the air the bridge really was an impressive spectacle and it marked the point in the flight where the plane started its descent towards the Danish capital. It was quite an effortless journey to a country that had always seemed to me quite remote from Britain but I did realise that our countries had always been quite close culturally (King Canute, the Danelaw etc) so I wasn't anticipating any problems once we arrived there. In fact once at the airport, things couldn't have been easier. All the signs were in Danish and English and everyone spoke good English. The airport was bright and modern and it exuded the sense of understated efficiency which I expected from the country that gave the world Bang & Olufsen hi-fi and Lurpack butter. We collected our backpacks and boarded a shuttle bus that took us to the city centre. It wasn't a long journey and there wasn't much traffic on the road. In fact most people were cycling along the wide cycle paths that lined the route into town. The bus dropped us off at the Central Station (known locally as København Hovedbanegården) which was a wonderful airy building with a high-vaulted ceiling that allowed strands of pure northern light to filter down towards the ground. The station seemed far removed from the hustle and bustle of comparable London termini and it actually was quite a nice place to hang out for a while. In order to get ourselves together before seeking out our campsite we had a quick Carlsberg in one of the pleasant looking bars that dotted the station. The ambience was very relaxed and we could have stayed there all afternoon but we had just the one drink before boarding a local train (the S-Tog) for Brøndbyøster where a campsite was situated. The S-Tog train was fast and efficient and each red carriage had a big cycle logo emblazoned on the side of the doors so that passengers could carry their bikes on board. As expected it looked like the Danes had managed to sort out their public transport priorities which made me green with envy when I thought about the system we'd left behind at home. Brøndbyøster was a fairly non-descript suburb although its one claim to fame was the nearby football club Brøndby where Manchester United goalkeeper Peter Schmeichel first made his name. The area around the station was surrounded by a series of high-rise blocks but they were well spaced out and didn't seem too neglected or threatening. In fact someone had even taken the trouble to paint pretty multi-coloured geometric shapes on the side of each building which I suppose made a change from the rundown appearance of similar blocks in London. We weren't quite sure where the campsite was but a friendly local was quite happy to guide us in the right direction and five minutes later we were there. The campsite, Camping Absalon, was named after a Danish bishop but I didn't see any clergymen waiting to get in. It fact there wasn't anyone at the entrance at all because reception had closed for a 'siesta' so we just hung around until it opened. It was beginning to get quite hot which was a surprise seeing that it was still early June but the weather was no less welcome for that. We eventually booked in and as part of the deal we had to sign up as members of the Camping Club of Denmark which entitled us to our very own membership card. We then found a quiet pitch in the corner of a large field and set up our tent. There weren't many other campers around apart from a heavily tattooed couple with a little kid who was scurrying around the field. The other guests were staying in caravans or motorhomes and most of them appeared to be from either Holland or Germany with just a few Danes and Swedes thrown in for good measure. The campsite had a nice shop so we stocked up on our staples; camping gaz, beer, eggs, paprika flavoured crisps and baked beans. Whilst we sat outside in the sun, I turned on my radio and found a local station which was playing a selection of tunes to celebrate the start of the Euro 96 football tournament, which had a slight local relevance as the holders of the European title were Denmark who won it in 92. The station played New Order's 'World in Motion' which stood out amongst the rest of the Euro-footie songs being played on behalf of the other competing nations. Funnily enough though they neglected to play 'Three Lions' which was beginning to grip the charts back in England but when the first game, England versus Switzerland, started we switched over to the BBC World Service (short-wave radios are very handy things) in order to listen to the match. As usual it sounded like England put in a lousy performance and were lucky just to scrape a draw. I'd watched England play a few times in the seventies and eighties and it sounded like a typical Wembley performance but the atmosphere sounded good and I wondered whether being stuck here in Scandinavia for three weeks meant that we would be missing a big event back home. Only time would tell and as always it still felt great to be back in travelling mode with the prospect of a long trip ahead of us. Whilst we listened to the match, which ended up 1 - 1, Lorraine cooked up a meal of veggie sausage and beans. The beans had a union jack printed on the side of the tin which instilled a sense of patriotic pride although the price of the tin was steep, 9.95 krone or almost one pound. I could have bought over 14 tins of 'value' beans at Tesco Metro earlier that day for the same price! Oh well, we just had to make sure that we kept an eye on our cash during this trip otherwise we would be paying off our credit cards for months to come. Despite the expense of living here it was obvious that the Danes enjoyed a high standard of living. Catching the train back into the city centre, I noticed the neat rows of houses that lined the streets and the expensive cars that were parked outside them. We were soon back at Central Station ready to get our first proper taste of Copenhagen. We wandered out of the station past Tivoli gardens and down the main pedestrian drag, Strøget. The street was scattered with bars, takeaways and upmarket shops. There were plenty of places selling expensive Nordic jumpers but some cheaper merchandise was available from street vendors. One lady was selling a selection of cheap sunglasses but none of them were particularly offensive. One guy started looking at the range and from his accent I guessed he was from Holland. The saleswoman asked him something in Danish but he asked her to speak in English. She duly obliged as he examined a pair of steel-rimmed shades. "Those would be good for golf" she suggested in a kindly manner. "I shtill fuck!" the Dutchman immediately retorted. "You know what? I'll shtart playing golf when I shtop fucking but not until then. Golf ish for people who don't fuck!" The saleswoman not surprisingly didn't know what to say after that. I was just glad that she didn't suggest he wear them for fly-fishing otherwise there could have been serious trouble! After that we decided to grab a drink so we ended up sitting outside the Victoria pub. It was still early evening but the half litres of Tuborg we ordered slipped down the throat with ease. It was hot and humid but after a while the sky began to ominously cloud over and it wasn't long before a Turneresque storm filled the sky. As the heavens opened we retired into the art-deco bar where a small crowd began to congregate. The pub played host to wide range of people, everyone from kids to grannies which made for a convivial atmosphere. In the background the incessant sounds of Dolly Parton drifted from the speakers. Outside the rain came down. Fork-lightning filled the sky and at one point a shower of hailstones hit the ground. Some nut decided to play the bongos to an audience of none out in the rain whilst most other people ran straight into the pub for shelter. Thankfully the Dolly Parton CD had finished by this point and we were left with the mouth-watering prospect of listening to a set of acoustic standards from Clive on guitar and Johnny on harmonica. The usual suspects were all present and correct, "Streets of London", "Losing my Religion" and "Here Comes the Sun". In fact the only thing which was missing was that terrible Spanish classical tune where the guitarist plays the melody on the top string and leaves the others open until he can't work out what to play anymore (easier to remember than describe!) but maybe they saved that for the encore. We hung on at the pub until 11:30 pm but although things were only just beginning to warm up we had to make sure we caught the last train back to the campsite. The rain had stopped by the time we left the pub but there were big puddles everywhere which didn't stop one woman walking right through them in bare feet. Once back at the campsite the area around the shower blocks was also flooded but that didn't stop some bloke walking right through them in bare feet as well. I wondered whether walking through puddles in bare feet was some sort of local tradition. Back at our pitch, the tent had sprung a bit of a leak but it wasn't anything too disastrous. There was nothing left to do after that but hit the sack and look back on an eventful but enjoyable day. Sunday 9 June 1996 As we discovered yesterday, the central station was a pleasant place
to hang out and one of the attractions was a couple of extensive model
railway lay-outs that were housed inside glass cases. These were
operated by inserting a 10 krone coin and I could have spent all day We crossed the main square and like yesterday we continued down
Strøget. The street had a On either side of Strøget were a myriad of streets containing quaint
townhouses, antiques The end of Strøget was marked by the elegant Kongens Nytorv (King's
Square) which boasted some fine old buildings, notably the Hotel
D'Angleterre and the baroque 17th century
We continued past the magnificent Frederikskirke, a domed church
whose design was based A short walk further along the waterfront took us to Copenhagen's
most famous and most underwhelming attraction, the statue of the Little
Mermaid. Various tourists had gathered We walked back into the city centre after passing briefly through the Kastellet, a 17th century complex of military barracks that featured some interesting old buildings as well as a windmill and neatly piled pyramids of cannonballs. However not many people were around so we sauntered back to the Strøget to see if the bars there offered any more action. For some reason we drifted into an Irish pub called the Dubliners which was showing football on big screens. I caught a bit of the Denmark - Portugal game and when Denmark scored a ripple of applause swept through the bar. As we sat at the bar and ordered a packet of genuine Walkers crisps (a rare delicacy in these parts) and a couple of pints of Guinness, a scruffy long-haired chap sat next to us and struck up a conversation with a bit of football chat. "Who's you supportin'?" he asked with what sounded like an Ulster accent. "This game, Denmark but England for the championship" I replied. "How about you?" "Croatia," he said "I'm backing them on the pub sweepstake." After this quick conversation icebreaker, our new acquaintance introduced himself as Danny from Belfast. We chatted for a while sharing a couple more rounds of Guinness whilst watching the less than enthralling match unfurl. Danny used the game to draw an analogy with the peace talks in Northern Ireland which were due to start tomorrow. "And you know who'll be the winners in that game?" he asked. "Ian Paisley and David Trimble, that's who!" he then answered for me. I wasn't quite sure whether that was a good or bad thing but judging by the fact that Danny went on to say that he'd been refused a job as a gardener at Mount Stormont for being a security risk, I suspected his allegiances had a Republican slant. Various chit-chat about Ulster life ensued and Danny seemed to warm to us, probably because we didn't particularly question anything he said although our surroundings did appear to preclude us from presenting a robust argument in favour of the Unionist cause. Anyway by this time, Danny had told us that he was planning to stay in London and asked whether we he could stay with us a while around the time of the Fleadh festival at Finsbury Park. "No problem, Danny" I replied as I jotted down a fictitious address and phone number. "See you in The Smoke!" I said as we drifted out of the pub back onto the Strøget. Feeling a bit peckish, we came across the Shawarma Grill House where I had a superb doner kebab along with a portion of freshly fried chips whilst Lorraine settled for the old veggie staple of falafel in pitta. The pots of chilli sauce that adorned the eating areas of the café did taste a bit strange though, almost like raw Sharwoods Tandoori paste. Feeling suitably replenished however we caught the train back to our suburban campsite and sat outside in the warm balmy air until the sun finally set behind the trees.
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