Birthdays are probably as good a day as any to start a road trip, though for a while this morning it looked as if the M40 had other ideas entirely.
We left home with what I thought was a sensible buffer for Heathrow, only to hit delays that were just irritating enough to trigger some serious clock-watching. We made it, of course. The flight to Copenhagen was uneventful in the best possible way. Copenhagen Airport then did its bit with some rather impressive passport control queues. Not the most glamorous introduction to Scandinavia.
Eventually we made it out into Denmark and on to the Copenhagen Go Hotel, where we’re staying tonight before picking up the hire car tomorrow. It’s basic but perfectly comfortable, and they immediately improved my opinion of the place by handing me a free drink at the bar when they realised it was my birthday.
There was a small birthday bonus earlier too: I discovered The Times had included me in its birthdays column. I’m not entirely sure why that pleased me as much as it did, but it did.
In the evening we went out to Dragør, which turned out to be an excellent decision. It’s a beautiful old town on the edge of the Øresund, and from the waterfront you can see the Øresund Bridge stretching off towards Sweden. It’s a remarkably well-preserved former fishing village, all yellow houses, cobbled streets and a small harbour that still feels properly working despite the calm. The air had that slightly salty, wind-brushed feel you only really get in places that have always faced the sea. The sunset over the harbour was glorious, spilling gold and soft pink across the water and catching the bridge in a long, fading line of light. We’ll be driving across that bridge tomorrow, so standing there looking at it tonight felt like a rather fitting prologue.
We ate at Café Espersen, which is in the old ticket office and waiting room for the ferry that used to run from Dragør to Sweden. That felt particularly appropriate. Before the bridge, this is where people would have started the same crossing we’re about to make, just with less luggage and no Google Maps.
Dinner began with anchovies, served warm in the tin. Mark had veal schnitzel, I had moules frites. All very good, exactly right for the evening. Afterwards we tracked down ice creams: rum and raisin for Mark, pistachio cream for me.
So that was birthday number 63: some M40 uncertainty, far too much passport control, a mention in The Times, a free drink, mussels in an old ferry waiting room, and ice cream looking out towards the route to Sweden.
Pretty lovely, really.
Tomorrow we pick up the car and head across the bridge.
