Wednesday 26 June 1996
After a quick breakfast we pottered into town on our bikes. We decided against doing a long trip today, instead concentrating our efforts on Ærøskøbing. There wasn't really that much to see but each street was a superlative of small town preservation. I wondered whether a place like this represented the heart of the Danish nation; maritime, industrious, modest but welcoming. It was certainly an atmosphere we felt comfortable in.

We decided to spread out on the grass outside the old church and got around to writing the postcards that we had been meaning to send all the time we were away. I took pleasure in sending postcards from here as I'm sure the recipients would be impressed by our unusual choice of destination. The attractions here were distinctly low-key but the house of 'Flaske Peter' (Bottle Peter) possibly provided the world's only example of a museum dedicated to bottle ships. Here was Peter's life work laid out in front of us, a collection so unique that we were almost lost for words whilst looking at the exhibits.

After all that excitement a trip to the beach was needed, especially given the rapidly rising temperature. Before that though we popped into the local shop, bought some bread, cheese and a tub of what the Danes term 'Italian Salad' which seemed to resemble what the Spanish called 'Russian Salad'. Despite this geographical confusion we peddled back to the campsite and enjoyed an al fresco spread outside the tent. However as we were eating, the back tyre on Lorraine's bike suddenly burst. After that, there didn't seem to be much point in hanging on to the bikes any longer. The lady at reception offered us her son's expensive looking mountain bike as a replacement but we turned down her kind offer and instead walked the short distance to the beach.

The beach was lined by pretty huts in a range of primary colours and the Danish flag fluttered above the sand. There were plenty of people laid out on the beach but the sky was beginning to cloud over and all of a sudden it started to get quite chilly. A few souls braved the water but I declined the offer after walking in up to my knees. At the point where I could no longer feel my feet, I decided to hit dry land again. The weather outlook didn't look too promising so after a while we decided to return once again to the campsite. Luckily the campsite shop had plenty of beers in the fridge so we bought some for now and some for the big game later on tonight.

We spent some time lounging around sipping the bottles of Ceres Royal and Odense Pilsner which we bought at the shop but it wasn't too long to wait before we took our place in the campsite TV room for the game. Although we got there early there were plenty of other people hanging around, mainly Germans. Thankfully I didn't see any towels draped over the seats that occupied the prime positions in front of the box but soon more fans joined us having just finished a barbecue they were having outside.

By the time we were ready for kick off, the room must have had about 50 people inside it. I guessed that about half were Germans and half were Danes but we were the sole England representatives. It was great to hear all the Danes cheering for England and when Shearer nodded in from close range after only five minutes, the place went absolutely wild. I noticed that a couple of the local lads had t-shirts which sported both the Danish and English flags which was a reassuring throwback to the days of the Anglo-Danish kingdom and King Canute. Unfortunately like the venerable King, England could not hold back the tide and it wasn't long before Kuntz equalised for the opposition. That was depressing but the name of the scorer did at least raise some laughs among some of the more linguistically gifted Danes.

As the game wore on, the atmosphere got tenser and by the end I could barely watch. The Danes were upbeat though. They shouted out the names of players in turn. "Shearer (hurrah!), Gazza (hurrah!), Psycho (hurrah!), Klinsmann (BOOO!!!). Unfortunately that had no effect on the game and when Gazza failed to connect on to a cross in front of an open goal, I wondered what else was going to happen. There was a bit of luck for England when Germany had a goal disallowed which meant no golden goal, but instead a penalty shoot-out loomed. Memories of the World Cup semi-final in 1990 came flooding back, the Germans never miss penalties, do they? Normally getting your first five penalties in row would ensure victory but not in this case. Southgate missed the sixth for England and that was it, the Germans in the room went berserk and everyone else booed. A blond women with egg shaped glasses in front of me was screaming hysterically and hugged her victorious compatriots whilst I walked out in a huff mouthing the words "Fuckin' Krauts" under my breath. I didn't really hate them though, I just hated the fact that they always won. On that low note, I went back to the tent, leaving the rest to their celebrations.

Thursday 27 June 1996
We got up at 9 am and got ready to depart the island. We had been woken again during the night by the hedgehog but apart from that I had had a good sleep and was mainly over the disappointment of the football. We had enjoyed our few days on Ærø so we felt sad to be leaving the island. We walked once more to the harbour where we boarded the M/S Ærøsund.

As on the way there, we found a seat in the café and ordered a couple of rounds of crinkle cut chips with remoulade. After that we headed up on deck and watched the Funen skyline gradually draw closer. We were still a few miles off shore when an open-sea windsurfer sped past the ferry. The surfer was really going at some speed, probably 30 miles an hour or more which was an amazing sight. If the ferry had been going at that speed we would have reached land a lot quicker but the leisurely pace seemed to better suit the onboard environment.

Eventually we reached Svendborg where we joined a train heading for Odense. There we connected onto a local service for Nyborg where we boarded a Danish Railways ferry to Korsar, the port across the Great Belt. The ferry which carried several trains on it was pleasant and efficient but lacked the local charm of the Ærø route but we were no longer off the beaten track here. The ferry ran parallel to the enormous bridge which was being built to span the belt, the same one which we saw from the air almost three weeks ago. It was an awesome sight but seeing that made me think of all the things we'd seen and done on this trip. When we last saw the bridge we didn't have a clue what to expect but the trip had surpassed all our expectations. As always on these journeys, a sense of closing the circle was beginning to prevail and this was heightened by arriving back on the island of Zealand.

At least we had a couple more days in "Wonderful" Copenhagen to look forward to and the high-tech train we travelled in provided us with a pleasant way to pass the last few miles of our epic Nordic rail journey. An unpleasant reminder of home came in the form of a Danish newspaper which a passenger next to me was reading. Reproduced was a headline from yesterday's Mirror, "Let's Blitz Fritz". Well that didn't happen but it did it remind me of my shameful nationalistic outburst last night at the end of the game. Apparently there had been a punch-up in Trafalgar Square after the match which was much more true to form. I wondered why us English always allowed ourselves to get whipped up into a hysteria by the tabloid press over such things. I didn't know the answer but it just seemed that that was the way it always was. The day we gave up egg and chips on the Costa del Sol may signify a turning point in our attitudes but I couldn't see that happening in the near future.

The train passed through the historic town of Roskilde where there were lots of backpackers congregated at the station for the annual Glastonbury-style music festival there. We however got off at Hoje Taastrup station a little further down the line and connected onto a local train to Brøndbyøster which saved us having to go into Copenhagen Central and then out again.

We retraced our steps of three weeks earlier back to the campsite and booked in for the final two nights of our trip. We pitched our tent on the same field but this time in the opposite corner from last time. I looked across to the space where we stayed three weeks ago and imagined ourselves there listening to the opening game of Euro 96. Like then we decided to head into town for something to eat and a few drinks. There was plenty of activity in town, mostly related to the fact that Copenhagen was this year's European City of Culture. This provided an excuse for open air gymnastics displays and a Blues Brothers tribute band but we decided to skip these attractions in favour of a few Tuborgs in a basement bar near the university.

Having soaked up an evening's worth of laidback Copenhagen atmosphere we decided to pay a visit to the Shawarma House where we once again ordered kebabs and falafels along with side orders of chips. In the intervening time since we last ate here we hadn't indulged too heavily on eating out and our lack of spicy food during this period was made up by smothering our kebabs in that strange tandoori style chilli paste. That certainly fulfilled a need for some good take-away food and we went back to the campsite feeling quite content. Once back in the tent, we polished off the rest of the Finlandia which had lasted well and served its purpose admirably in some of the more temperate parts of Scandinavia.

Friday 28 June 1996
It was the last full day of our trip but there was still plenty to see. There was certainly enough left of Copenhagen to justify rounding off our journey here but today we simply decided to relax and enjoy some popular tourist sights.

First off was the famous Carlsberg Brewery. We got off the S-Tog at Engehave and from there it was a short walk to the brewery where a distinctly malty aroma hung in the air. The brewery had plenty of architectural interest, particularly the two sets of gates at the entrance to the complex, the twin arched Dipylon Gate and the monumental Elephant Gate. Four five-metre tall granite elephants supported the Elephant Gate, each facing outwards and sporting a swastika carved into their sides, the pre-Nazi logo of Carlsberg which was dropped when Hitler came to power.

We joined an English speaking tour and whilst there were plenty of people wanting to join in, not everyone was allowed to. I think the guide knew who all the local drunks were and told them to go away, thus cruelly dashing their hopes of getting in for a free drink. Luckily we didn't look so desperate (although we probably were) and we joined the rest of the tourists on a jaunt around the factory. Behind the old, elegant façade lay a high tech plant which brewed both Carlsberg and the beer of former arch rivals Tuborg. We passed through the observation room of the bottle-filling zone. This area was huge but there were only three people operating or supervising this part of the production process. Our guide, Elisabeth was very professional but she kept apologising for her poor English. She said she normally did the Italian tours but her English sounded just fine to me, better than a lot of English people in fact. The tour wound its way back outside to a stable where old working horses were kept. These sturdy beasts used to cart the beer around (like the ones at Youngs brewery in London) but now they were used for promotional duties. One of the horses, Rasmus, liked to give people a bite so we were told to steer clear although it didn't stop one of our fellow tourists, an American with a bootlace tie, from pronouncing "I love the smell of horse manure!", as he went up close to take a long deep breath.

It was the smell of beer I was more interested in and we finally made it to the tasting hall where a generous selection of Carlsberg products was laid out on the table in front of us. We sampled each beer in turn with a trio of American law students from Orlando who had just started a seven week European trip. Although there weren't enough beers here to get drunk, it was enough to get us started for the day and we did get the opportunity to sample from a wide cross-section of Carlsberg's range, many of which you couldn't buy back in the UK such as Master Brew and the super strong Porter "Imperial Stout". There wasn't any Special Brew here though, that was a concoction brewed in the UK for the UK and despite being labelled 'By Appointment to the Royal Danish Court', I wasn't sure that the consumers of that particular beverage belonged to the same class.

Feeling refreshed after the tour, we caught a train which took us the two stops back to Central Station. We decided to check out the smørrebrød stall where I purchased an exquisitely constructed egg, herring, remoulade and dill open sandwich. Better than a limp egg-mayo sandwich bought in Euston any day, I thought. After that quick lunch we walked through the Slotshomen, the island site where most of the government buildings were housed. We then carried on through Christianshavn which looked a little like a more off-the-beaten-track version of Nyhavn and there were a few bohemian looking spots around here including a couple of interesting cafés and a Spanish tapas bar. We then walked past the Vor Freslers Kirke which featured a strange spiral staircase wrapped around its spire. The main attraction around here however was Christiania. By the time we reached this commune, we'd left the mainstream sights of Copenhagen well behind.

I'd never come across anywhere like this before but it reminded me at first sight of a mixture between Camden Town market and the travellers field at Glastonbury. Dope was openly available everywhere, just 20kr for a ready rolled joint which struck me as being good value. All sorts of other things were also for sale here; arts and crafts, t-shirts, falafels and cakes, some of which may have been of the 'space' variety. Despite the drugs there wasn't really a mellow vibe here, large dogs seemed to be everywhere and I felt that I was invading someone else's territory. There was a sense that the commune still had a political edge to it and it certainly didn't come across as some hedonistic paradise, rather it felt more like an alternative to the reactionary political system and capitalist economics of the outside world, which couldn't have been a bad thing. The replica of the Statue of Liberty made out of barbed wire was a symbol of the standpoint here as were the anti-Cultural City 96 posters.

Christiania was set up back in the seventies when a bunch of hippies took over the abandoned army barracks on this site and the 'free city' has remained here ever since then. The people who originally lived here never paid taxes and drugs such as heroin and cocaine were openly sold along the main drag known as Pusherstreet. There had been some changes along the way and hard drugs were no longer sold but it was still quite an experience coming to a place like this. Danish society decided to tolerate Christiania, something I couldn't imagine happening back in Britain. So called Middle England (i.e. the press and the politicians) just couldn't handle such a radical approach, too much taboo for them to deal with I would have thought.

Feeling suitably enlightened by our Christiania experience we walked back along the canals of Christianshavn, the boats and faded Dutch gables providing a relaxing backdrop to our waterside ramble. We eventually ended up in Nyhavn where we had a drink in Den Fisken like we did almost three weeks earlier. I decided to indulge in a couple of half-litres of draught Elephant which certainly perked me up a bit and put me in just the right mood for one more trip to the Shawarma House for one more portion of 'kebab og pomme-frites'.

It wasn't time to go back to the campsite yet though and there was one more attraction in Copenhagen left for us to see, Tivoli. We passed through the gates and joined all the other people milling around or eating and drinking in the waterside bars that lined the paths of this attractive park. Various attractions were scattered around the park such as a pirate's galleon and a floodlit Taj Mahal type palace as well as a good selection of amusement rides. As darkness fell, colourful lights illuminated the dancing fountains and we were quite content just watching them; we'd already done so much on this trip that relaxing here seemed like the perfect finale.

Armed with a large ice cream each, we left Tivoli and caught the train back to the campsite. We were silent on the train and felt sad that this was our last night but back at the campsite we crashed out safe in the knowledge that our Scandinavian adventure had surpassed all our expectations.

Saturday 29 June 1996
We got up at 7 am, took a shower, packed up our tent and then checked out of the campsite. We walked for the last time to Brøndbyøster Station. The station was deserted, it was raining and the stark, functional architecture of the place accentuated our sombre mood.

The train took us once more past the docks and the Carlsberg Brewery before pulling into Central Station. The platform boards indicated trains going to a variety of destinations such as Hamburg and Stockholm but there were no more international trains for us, just the bus to the airport. Sat opposite us on the bus was a pilot from SAS (Scandinavian Airways). He looked remarkably like the drunk captain in the criminally ignored Scottish sitcom 'The High Life'. At least that raised a chuckle between as the bus trundled through the neat suburbs of Copenhagen on the way to the airport. Once there we had some time to spare so we wandered around the shops and bought a couple of souvenirs such as a bottle of remoulade for our chips and some vodka to replace the Finlandia.

We finally boarded the British Airways flight which was advertised as going to Málaga via Gatwick. The cabin staff were quite lively which once again invited 'High Life' comparisons. One of them looked just like the Alan Cumming character in that programme whilst his colleague, another camped up steward, read out the safety announcements over the intercom. Part way through his announcement he suddenly started to adopt a ridiculous Welsh accent and heavily rolled his 'r' as he described how we were to adopt the 'brrrrace position' in the unlikely event of a crash landing. After he finished I asked the steward what all that was about but he just replied "he's always taking the piss out of my accent." At least the stewardess onboard remained calm and professional despite the antics of her male colleagues but in the end the flight passed off without much further incident.

Unfortunately the weather wasn't too good so there wasn't much to see out of the window; no retracing our steps, no views of the bridge, no flypast the island of Ærø. At least when we arrived back on English soil it didn't take us long to reclaim our baggage. On the next conveyer belt, tanned and burnt passengers wearing shorts were collecting their stuff from the Faro flight. I wondered what their experience of watching England lose to Germany from a Portuguese beach bar was like, not like ours I imagined. Oh well, at least we had the final to look forward to tomorrow, Germany against the Czech Republic, but the party here was clearly over. Whatever had happened in England whilst we were away had gone forever but I didn't feel like we'd missed out. Instead I had three weeks worth of great memories to take with me on the train back home.

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