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Kicking back on the top deck, legs on the outer rail, Carlsberg in hand, pastry in mouth, we spotted Denmark. Our ferry was powering straight ahead to a thin green line in the distance. From above bright sunshine, to both sides the Baltic stretching out, pierced in hundreds of places by wind turbines reaching up to the sky.
THE ISLE OF LOLLAND
Before we knew it we were in Scandinavia. We saddled up and
rolled off the Ferry onto the Danish island of Lolland. Lying to the East of
the main Danish peninsular which juts out from mainland Europe and to the South
of Sjaelland (or Zealand in English), the island which houses Copenhagen and
just under half the population of Denmark, Lolland is in the arse end of
nowhere by Danish standards. It reminded me of Norfolk.
A flat, sparsely populated place, covered in (most likely)
subsidised farmland. It was the middle of the day and we planned to bomb across
it before dark, staying somewhere at the Southern end of Zealand. Initially it
all went rather well.
From the second we exited the small port (having taken the
obligatory tacky pics by the Danish flag) the cycle lanes started and did not
end. Carefully planned, smooth paths by the side of the road. Many European
countries incorporate cycle lanes into road plans near to cities or towns, but
the Danish include them even where there are hardly any cars or cycles to
bother each other. Skipping between these paths and the road we passed corn
fields and the occasional hamlet. These were strange places, seemingly empty of
life – we did not see one person in the first couple we pedalled through – yet up
kept to a pristine standard. The architecture had markedly changed from
Germany. Here we found small, sturdy gabled houses and odd little red brick
churches crescented with jig-jag brick work.
After an hour or so we made it to the small market town of
Maribo and went off in search of some carbohydrate. Along with loads of snacks
at a local supermarket, we discovered a pleasant market square and idyllic
cobbled streets leading down to large church in a similar style to the smaller
ones just described, resoundingly protestant in its simplicity. Just out front
was a reed fringed lake a couple of km wide. A great spot.
Having decided to head on out, I jumped back on the saddle
and pushed down hard to get some purchase on the gravelly path which surrounded
the lake. CRACK. I tried again. MANGLE. I tumbled off the bike. Things had taken
a turn for the worse…
A LESSON IN BICYCLE MECHANICS
At first sight I could not work out what had gone wrong,
other than a lot. Uwe, who is far more clued up on bikes than Dave or me,
quickly assessed the situation and announced my [long German word…] had broken. Funnily enough that did not mean
anything to me. He pointed at this small piece of plastic that joins (or is
supposed to join) the rear derailleur (the rear thing with all the cogs) to the
bike. Only now searching on google have I discovered the English name for this
part - the "rear mech hanger".
I asked how big a problem it was and received the not so
reassuring response of “very”. Without a new one I could not go anywhere.
Copenhagen suddenly seemed a long way away. I remembered the fall outside of
Lübeck and put two and two together. The part had most likely partially cracked
on collision and then weakened further over the next 100 km or so before
finally snapping. The weight of my beer belly probably did not help.
Time was running short and we needed some luck to fix the
situation. Our location seemed very fortuitous as my bike had broken in the
first proper town we had passed through in half a day. I decided not to dwell
on what would have happened if it had broken 20 km earlier – I suppose a lot of
waiting around in fields and possibly a spot of camping!
The next big slice of luck came in the form of a late
middle-age Danish man. Passing by on his
own bike, he saw the problem, stopped and asked in impeccable English if there
was anything he could do. Before we knew it he and Uwe were off back into town
in search of a bike shop. That left Dave and me kicking back on a little jetty
staring out across the lake in the sunshine. Not a bad deal.
Thirty minutes later the heroes returned with a van and a
bike mechanic. Nice late middle-aged Danish man said his goodbyes accompanied
by our sincere gratitude. The bike mechanic shook his head. There was nothing
he could do on the scene and it so happened that he doubted they had the part
at the shop. This annoying little part was apparently just about the only thing
on a bike that is not freely exchangeable with other makes of bikes and they
did not stock Specialized (my bike). Bugger. The best he could do was to scan
other bikes hoping that another part would fit, but he did not hold out too
much hope. As I jumped in the van Uwe explained his Plan B with a smile. Ditch
the rear derailleur and single gear it the remaining 160 km to Copenhagen. Not
funny.
We soon arrived at the bike shop and, as I followed the
mechanic’s slow trail around one hundred odd bikes for an strange shaped piece
of plastic/metal about the length of my pinkie finger, the boys got in the
beers. The occasional rising of hope as the mechanic took extra time to examine
a particular bike faded to the depths as he moved on. Half an hour more and no
luck. There was not even an option to ship to another town. No one stocked the
part on the whole damn island. I was staring down single gear time.
As the simply lovely bike shop owner gave us a drink and
bananas, a bespectacled mechanic had an idea. They could take a similar’ish
metal part and use a file to slowly grind it into shape. He was not convinced
it would work, but was prepared to try. To cut a long story short, this genius
of a bicycle man succeeded. As we sipped beers and watched, he expertly
reshaped the part into the required form. Barely EUR 40 worth of Danish Kroner
(bargain) and a huge amount of thanks later, we were waved off back on the
road.
TO THE FJORDS
Everything was sweet. Maribo was behind us, fields ahead. Up
a couple of hills and from the top of the latter we hurtled down to a view of
green giving way to Baltic blue. Past tidy farm buildings and over a bridge to
more fields on the narrow island of Falster. Then ahead to a part of the
journey I had been looking forward to ever since I roughly planned our route
from up high on google maps. There was a big piece of sea to cross.
Falster is joined to the much larger island of Zealand by
only two bridges. The nice shiny new one to the East is closed to bicycles, so
our only option was to pedal across the full 3.2 km of the rickety old Storstrøm
Bridge. Simply brilliant. Rising high, high above the calm sea the bridge
dominates the view from miles around. We bobbled along the wooden planks of the
disconcertingly dishevelled side bridge (if this was not in oh-so-safe
Scandinavia I would be convinced it was a death trap…), peering down to the
depths far below and out to the land, sea and wind turbines in the distance.
Sea birds soared all around and the late afternoon sunshine turned the rippling
waves into a blanket of glitter.
With a sigh we disembarked on the far shore and headed round
the headland to the small harbour village of Vordingborg to figure out what
next. As it worked out, short term perfection. We discovered a small natural
marina perched on the north shore of a little fjord surrounded by patches of
forest. Shore side of the dozens of small sailing boats were a couple of
bar-eateries and a tiny fishermen’s hut inhabited by an ancient fisherman complete
with crazed look.
We sat down, ordered the local beer and some fish and
admired the setting from a sea side bench. It was decision time as, being early
evening, only the long days of this northerly latitude was saving us from the
dark. A quick second beer gave us fortitude and we decided to cut across
country for another 20 km to the town of Praesto. There was sod all on the map in
between and we had no idea what we would find when we got there, but it sounded
like fun.
The ensuing final part of the penultimate day of our ride
was up there with the most enjoyable route parts to date. Unexpectedly finding
some Danish hills, we cycled through an undulating countryside of great beauty.
It somewhat reminded me of Dorset. Flushed with the buzz of the end of the day
we sped along the winding, dipping, climbing traffic free roads as the setting
sun blinkered in and out through the roadside foliage.
By the time we rolled into Praesto it was getting on for 10
pm and all but dark. We found a well-kept, yet seemingly deserted, market town.
We pedalled onto the high street hoping to find a place to stay, but there was
no one to ask. At last we approached a kebab shop frequented by 3 people.
Without much hope we asked for help and, as it turned out, it was our lucky
day. One of the guys knew the owner of a small B&B opposite. He rang the
owner, who had a room and returned within 10 minutes with the keys.
He took us up to a simply awesome apartment (complete with
oodles of proper coffee) and offered it to us at a very reasonable rate. We
nearly bit his hand off, even more so when he informed us of just how lucky we
had been. Being July the town was completely booked out and he would not have
had a room had it not been for a rare cancellation earlier that day. Maybe next
year I will think about booking ahead… but where would the fun in that be!
After a very quick scrub up we wandered through the dark to
the harbour. If possible, even more idyllic then the one we had just passed
through at Vordingborg, here we were fjord-side beneath the stars. Prior to
this I hadn’t even realised Denmark had Fjords! We sank into some
extortionately expensive beers (I knew this country had to have its downside)
at a harbour side pub thinly populated with good looking middle-aged blond
people, an ’80’s rock cover band (how predictable) and some disturbing cartoons
in the gents…
BEACHSIDE RIDING TO THE CAPITAL
We woke up relatively early on the final day of our annual
cycle (that is early for me and Dave, but a touch on the late side for Uwe). Around
90 km and a night out in Copenhagen awaited. After a ridiculously good
breakfast and some interesting chats with the owner about his time working in
the kitchen of the Dorchester, we were on our coffee fuelled way.
Our morning ride out was fantastic, along the Fjord and then
hugging a rugged coastal path. I had loads of energy and sprinted ahead,
stopping to admire the Baltic views. Heading straight for the town and port of Køge,
our path transformed into a proper road and we put our heads down into full peleton,
powering all the way to the outskirts. By the time we had arrived that initial
energy had well and truly passed and I couldn’t wait to get my face into a
pastry (or as it happened three!). We followed up this face stuffing with a
cold beer in the market square. As we took in the surroundings it was
noticeable how the people had become better looking as we had made northerly
ground.
From Køge to the capital is only 40 km on a fast road which
runs a stone’s throw from the beach. As time was on our side we veered inland
in search of a final stretch of countryside. Our discovery of a pretty village
or two and a windmill was countered by the onset of rain and an Uwe puncture.
We were soon back on the cycle path which attached to the main road making fast
headway to the capital.
At a pit-stop in between WWI era battlements and the sea, I
was outvoted on the idea of a dip into the Baltic. Living in Rostock, Uwe saw
no excitement In a Baltic dip and Dave was just being a wimp about the cold.
Saying that Dave probably had a point as it was pretty miserable and I guess
that was why I didn’t just go it alone, consoling myself that my first hand
encounter with the Baltic would be only postponed to the Swedish leg of the
route.
We continued North on the road, but in all truth it was
rather a dull commuter artery. This prompted one final detour across and onto
the sandbanks which run along the coast parallel to Copenhagen’s southern edge.
This proved to be a nice bit of riding past sail boats, over narrow dykes and
under high dunes. Unfortunately our journey was drawing to an end. Via an
underpass, the coast was soon replaced by ugly outer city roads.
Having a population of circa 2 million (if you count the metropolitan
area), I should have expected Copenhagen to be quite large, but the size surprised
me. It took quite some time to reach the historic centre, passing from the
industrial ugly outer part, through steadily increasing density and, frankly,
attractiveness. By the time we were peddling down the high alleys of the
streets approaching the Rådhuspladsen, the focal square of the city, we were in
a positively bouncing mood.
Cycling through a city at the end of a cycle trip is an
elevated feeling. You are in your own little bubble. For you it is the goal of
a few days on the road. A sense of fulfilment at what is behind and excitement
at the celebrations to come. I find I take in every detail, savouring every
last turn and sight. A real juxtaposition against those every day inhabitants you
pass for whom, at that same moment, the streets hold no wonder.
A final patch past the imposing Rådhus (city hall), we
weaved in between the throngs of the Rådhuspladsen while Uwe did a strange
Lycra bike jig to the Andean Indian pan pipe man. A few lost turns in the old
back streets later, we arrived at the little square which housed our hostel and,
well wouldn’t you know, a bar.
COPENHAGEN
Laying our bikes against a tree we grabbed an outside table
at the bar, parked our bums and ordered celebratory beers. 365 km pedalled in 3
days. Smiles on our faces and feeling good. Before we knew it were discussing
the next trip (France… Sweden… Spain…?), briefly interrupted by a sincerely
peculiar over weight man seemingly sniffing our bikes for a good couple of
minutes.
As the sun went down, we gave the Lycra a good slap, sunk
our beers and embarked on a night of unexpected destinations…
