Part 3 - Entering Denmark
At 176 km, as the injured crow dawdles along bike paths, my first day in Denmark was the longest of the entire trip. The travelling of this unholy distance in a gruelling 10¾ hours (bike time, 14¼ hours watch time) resulted from the combination of insufficient mapping and the psychological effects of travelling alone. With nobody to discuss plans or ideas with, I find that notions like reaching an officially designated campsite can stick in my head with the result that I will keep going for hours after I would have preferred to stop. While a companion ready to tell me that "This is bullshit, we're not doing another 20km after 23:00, let's just pitch the tent behind these bushes and get some sleep" would solve the problem, I think it would be enough to have someone there who did no such thing. It would be enough for me to see them beside me for me to think "I'm not going to ask this friend to keep cycling beyond all comfort or joy, let's just pitch the tent behind these bushes." Or better yet, at 3 in the afternoon: "Let's call it a day and see what that isolated pub has to offer."
“However, my map of Denmark is 1:500,000 and is totally inadequate.”
Upon finishing my breakfast in the German campsite that morning, I had no idea that such a mammoth day was in store. I just knew that today I would go into the North, across the border into a country I had never set foot in. Shortly after applying bum to saddle I heard somebody behind me calling "Ding ding." The source turned out to be a friendly blond local on an old blue racing bike. He told me about his living community near Flensburg and that today was his day off so he was out on his bike to chat to the cyclists. He was a lovely chap, and just now I'm wondering if he purposely doesn't buy a bell since calling out and pretending to be one can be a more friendly way to start a conversation than the panic inducing sound of a real dinger.
The alley cats of Flensburg are known to be quite cosmopolitan.
Spurred on by the warmth of this morning encounter, I soon reached Flensburg, the city lying at the border of Germany and Demark, and descended the German side of the valley towards the harbour. Cities and large towns played a curious role in this trip. There always many signs towards them from a large surrounding area, meaning that they became significant milestones eagerly anticipated for many miles before they come into view. Upon crossing the city limits, I usually managed to feel a few minutes of satisfaction before this feeling was displaced by an urge to get out into the countryside again. Even in the most beautiful cities. This is because urban areas generally offer endless opportunities for getting lost and for worrying about your bike being stolen. While travelling on foot, it is often not a trouble to leave a rucksack in a corner or behind a reception somewhere while you visit a museum. A fully loaded bike is more difficult. It can be chained up but the bags are not convenient to carry about on foot as they are numerous and designed to be strapped to the side of a bike. While visiting supermarkets, I never had a problem just leaving the loaded bike outside but I never felt quite comfortable enough to abandon them for a long time in a city. Partly for this reason and partly because of the feverish compulsion to keep pushing north I had developed since Hamburg, I didn't stay long in Flensburg.
The change in style of the cycle path signs was enough for me to feel welcome in Denmark.
I had a peanut butter sandwich lunch at a picnic bench along a forest trail just after crossing the border before heading down to the Baltic Sea coast in search of real roads and a cycle route. This was where the mapping began to fail. I found myself unable to find the cycle route and was only using major roads which were marked on my map. With the glare of the sea to my right, I looked at my map and saw the tempting bright red line of the North Sea Cycle Route winding its way up the opposite coast and I was not able to resist. So instead of resigning myself to cycling for a week on main roads and never really knowing the way, I took the next left, turning my back on the shimmering Baltic Sea and heading uphill and inland.
“At the back of my mind was the romantic idea of chasing the sun all the way across Denmark, so I just did it.”
I had been passing produce for sale in little stalls like this since day 1, but this was the first one with a camera. For security or for curiosity?
I spent the afternoon pushing due west, my spirits raised by the warm touch of the sun and the fluffy white clouds above the rolling hills. As I felt the breeze on my face, the green-gold barley all around rippled and breathed in a mesmerising dance. The hours passed pleasantly in this way, with only small interruptions for a snack here or a photograph there.
If I ever decide to become a painter I will go back and find these fields and make it my life's work to capture the subtleties of their motion.
The sun getting low at twenty past nine.
With no campsites marked on the map inland, I continued with a calm acceptance well into the evening. As I saw the sun beginning to set, I felt both an appreciation for the beauty of the situation, but also a determination to get my tired legs to speed up a little to make it to the coast before dark. I did make it and was thrilled to find a nice spot to watch the sun set into the North Sea. I was proud of having cycled from the Baltic Sea to the North Sea since lunchtime but I was still without a place to sleep at 22:00. This is exactly the point at which I should have pitched the tent behind a tree and lay my head down, but I didn't. I picked my bike back up and headed North, gratefully following the clearly signposted North Sea Cycle Route as darkness quickly fell.
Just in time to get out of the saddle and watch the sun go down.
An hour and a half later, I arrived in pitch darkness at the deserted reception of a campsite-come-holiday resort, managed to navigate my way to the tent area and pitched as quietly as I could.
“Also, I think I might have nappy rash. ”