Shore Leave

One of the objectives in going into Arhus was to buy a train ticket for David, who was planning on flying out of Hamburg the next day, Sunday. At 19:30 Saturday, the ticket office in the main station was closed – not to open until 07:30 Sunday morning. The only train on the departures board that went non-stop to Hamburg in time to catch David’s plane left at 7:04 am. There was probably a route involving changes that left after the ticket office opened, but International Enquiries, who could have told us about it, were not answering calls till Monday. It looked like a catch 22 situation. The bus station, by contrast, were selling tickets, but told us that they had no buses for Hamburg on a Sunday. We were just off to have a drink, when Jane spotted a timetable that seemed to suggest there WAS a bus to Hamburg leaving at 09:50 the next day.

“Oh, that’s to Hamburg Airport”, said the enquiries guy, “not Hamburg.”

At that, we did go off to get that drink!

We wandered into the old town when we found a back street restaurant offering some delightful fare, and settled into their courtyard to enjoy “virgin lobster” and the dry house white. Internally satisfied, we strolled back into the new town and along the canal. The bars and café are shoulder to shoulder here and the young and vibrant come to see and be seen. A couple of nubile lurers, in the employ of Heineken and dressed in white miniskirts, tight tops and boots, sought to lure Robin and David into a selected café but the men turned away from temptation. Only later did Wendy and Jane express regret that they had missed the opportunity of having them lured away. Our plan had been to have a coffee and cognac and watch the world walk by, but though we occupied seats in a number of bars, no-one sought to take our order, and we had to content ourselves with admiring the bronzed thighs and tight trousers on display. (Photos possibly – if you are over 18 and have proof of age)

Back at the Marina, the all night party was in full swing with Garage Music, whatever that is, sending out a heavy repetitive beat. Poor David scarcely slept a wink but did manage to fall into the taxi ordered to take him to the bus station for 9:00 am. He had to make one change on this bus; or else he would finish up in Prague. We have not heard from him since. Reports of recent sightings would be gratefully received.

Meanwhile we set of for Grenaa, and had a pleasant Sunday sail, drifting in to the modern Marina at Gin and Tonic time – as required. The next day we had to say goodbye to Wendy and Hello to Dick and Maggie. Between the two events Jane and Robin had the chance to look over Aalborg. Scarcely had they parked the car, hired out by the accommodating Ulla, with whom Robin seems to have struck up a mysterious rapport (it’s just that being Avis, she tries harder) than they bumped into a group following a man dressed as a medieval priest. He stopped outside a house in the old quarter, and suddenly a man in a smock carrying a sack was amongst them staring into the windows and describing in shocked tones what he saw. Something about the birth of black babies ‘barnnen’ to witches.

We had stumbled across a piece of street theatre re-enacting the real events that shocked this town between 1611 and 1621. Witchcraft was illegal, but the occasional working class witch was occasionally caught and burnt, but the shocking allegation made by this witness was that the aristocracy was involved – maybe even royalty. At first the witness was not believed, was described as a work of the devil ‘teufel’ and having come from ‘helle’ to disturb their peace. The street theatre moved on around the old town to the monastery, where once the monks used to dine with the nuns from the adjacent convent. An affair between a couple was discovered that resulted in the nun being buried alive beneath a pillar of the convent. A dog howled in the gathering gloom and the street theatre moved on again. Eventually the priest was convinced, although it took ten years to bring the case to trial. The final dramatic scenes were re-enacted in the dungeons and courtyard of the Aalborg Slot. The accused, now in rags and bloodied and bruised from their ordeal in the cells were dragged out for execution, their jailer carrying the burning torch with which their pyre would be lit. One went quietly in prayer, the other screaming her innocence. And afterwards? The same witness who had brought these women down made allegations against the mayor’s wife – but this time he was not believed.

The island of Anholt lies in the middle of the Kategat, about thirty miles east of Grenaa. It was once part of the moraine left by the retreating glaciers. Today it sits on a shallow sea shelf that makes it difficult to get to. The British captured it in 1509 as part of their efforts to blockade Napoleonic Europe. There is a monument to the Danish fallen when they mounted a successful attack to recover their island in 1511.

Deforestation has created extra-ordinary lichen strewn sand-hills in the hinterland, often described as Europe’s only desert. We walked there in the heat of the day after lunching on Fiskefrit and Morbrod in the village café. The small harbour is stuffed with yachts, kedged out and bows to, creating an appearance not unlike Cannes or Nice in high summer, with great luxury cheek by jowl with cheaper vessels (photos). Some of Denmark’s top bands come here to chill out and have jam sessions in one of the two tiny waterfront cafes. The nights we were there, Back Beat and Plug ‘n Play were tuning up their offerings. A long sandy beach extending south of the harbour gave us the chance to have a swim in the warmish water - and to be entertained by naked germans performing callisthenics. Despite this, it really is a gem, hidden away from most of Europe’s prying eyes.

So now we have set sail at last for Limfjord, described in our pilot as ‘unsuitable for yachts of more than 1.5m draft (We draw 1.7m)

Will we get over the bar? Or into the bar?

The next postcard will reveal all!

Love

Maggie, Jane, Dick and Robin