Wonderful, Wonderful Copenhagen

May 22, 2019 12:38pm Published by Jules Smith in Whimsy On A Wednesday 11 Comments

Satirical Snapshots Bringing You Whimsy On A Wednesday!

When I first arrived in wonderful, wonderful Copenhagen salty old queen of the sea, I bloody hated it. 

Maybe it was the fact that I arrived on the dreariest of days that tainted my mood. Wet, cold, blustery, and greyer than the worst of English days. Ugh. 

I had travelled light with just a rucksack to my name because I thought this would be a novel experience. Only two pairs of shoes and two outfits. I forgot to pack waterproofs, wellies, scarves, hats and furs.

I caught the metro from the airport to the centre of Copenhagen because I’d heard that Denmark was expensive. My hotel was a 25 minute walk from the centre, so I relented and got a cab from the central station because the rain fell relentlessly. That short ride cost just over £20.

Dearest mother, dearest father, here I am at bed bonanza

I arrived at the 4* hotel in the middle of nowhere and proceeded to the twin room. I dropped my sodden backpack on the floor and stared at my bed in disbelief. 

Surely this was a joke?

I had not a bed but a bench. Not even a skinny child could sleep on such a thing. I sat on it and found it was also a trampoline. After I’d stopped wobbling,  I lay down carefully on the bouncy shelf.  The pillow, which was even smaller than the bed, was square in size and so deep that you could lick your own chest when your head was placed upon it. I wondered if this, in fact, was the Danish idea of the brace position for when you fell out of the thinnest bed known to mankind.

“I can’t bloody do this,” I said to my travelling companion. “Just watch this…” 

I rolled over and fell straight to the floor. 

As I lay, cold, damp, bruised and desperately upset on the floor, I noticed a little card placed just under the bed. I picked it up, intrigued at such a peculiar find. 

“Well, can you believe this,” I said. “Here’s a nice little passive-aggressive note from the maids, who obviously know you’re going to fall out of your cot. It reads, ‘Yes! We even clean here!’

I tried to lift my spirits by drinking some.

Off I went to one of the in-house restaurants. It’s amazing how acidic a £15 small glass of wine can taste. Especially when you know you can buy a bottle of something far superior for under a tenner at Tesco. 

I nearly had a breakdown. 

Coma-hagen

In total despair, I went to have a chat with the front desk keepers.

“I can’t stay here,” I wailed. “Your beds are ridiculous. I might die in the night from a serious head injury.  I’m surprised I didn’t find body pieces of past guests on the floor. Ah!  This is why your maids clean under the bed, right? They’re not maids -they’re crime scene cleaners!”

“This is Danish way,” said the receptionist.

“This is supposed to be the happiest place on earth… I’m wet, cold, and miles from anything. I’ve spent a fortune on mediocre wine and can’t even afford to get pissed enough on that to render myself unconscious enough to stay still in my shelf bed. So, guess what? I’m really not a big fan of the Danish way.”

“Americans always have problem with bed.”

“The population of Lilliput would have a problem with your beds! And, I’m English! Where I live, single beds are at least 3ft wide!”

After a very awkward and tense conversation where burning down the hotel actually crossed my mind, I was offered a free upgrade the following day. In the meantime, I lay on my bench watching Danish TV and thinking like they sounded just like The Sims.  My depression was so great that I fell into a stress induced coma.

I can Cope – en hagen again!

I awoke to the sun streaming through the windows and wondered if it had all been a nasty dream. 

Downstairs I rushed to find people jumping on pretty little bikes with baskets out into the sunny day.  I found that the hop-on-hop-off bus stopped right outside my hotel and for a mere £22 you could ride it for two days  thus cutting out all expenses and being dropped at every possible tourist attraction you could want to see.  

All of a sudden, Copenhagen didn’t seem so bad.

This is Nyhavn, meaning new harbour, even though it’s very old. How pretty is this place?

I adored it here.

At the end of the canal there was a fabulous street-food market! Here I sampled the famous open sandwich known as Smørrebrød. Well, yeah, why would you put a lid on that?!

And here is where Hans Christian Anderson lived when he had his first fairytale published.

Remember The Little Mermaid?  I went to have a look at her. The tour guide said, “Here is the devastatingly unremarkable Little Mermaid.”  Just when I thought the Danes had no sense of humour.  Apparently, she has been painted red twice, had her arm cut off and her head severed.

Copenhagen is expensive.  Double the cost of everything in Britain.  However, the food is organic and tasty , Nyhavn is charming, their way of life is green and sustainable. I’d recommend a visit as my trip ended up  with me getting a REAL bed and was really wonderful, wonderful, and actually, as you can see below,  quite a beautiful finish.

Journey’s End

May 8, 2019 10:51am Published by Jules Smith in Whimsy On A Wednesday 18 Comments

Satirical Snapshots Bringing You Whimsy On A Wednesday!

They say you should pay attention to your journey because there are messages everywhere. Mine seem to be shockingly accurate. When I can be arsed to pay attention. 

On a recent junket to York, I came across The Shambles. Ah! A place I know well. Walked down that menacing lane many a time, and, as usual, it wasn’t a straight forward “from start to finish” experience. Littered with obstacles – in this case, dawdlers and tourists standing right in the middle of the narrow street to examine the wonky buildings of yore. Look pal, can you just sod off to the side to do your adoring because weaving in and out of you all is making me seasick. I have to get through this alive and without either one of us causing grievous bodily harm. 

From The Mighty To The Meek

I am fascinated with doors and York boasts a collection of the finest.  

There seems to be a lot of pushing going on of late. Tons of effort and hard work. The temptation is to heave-ho when confronted with such a magnificent entrance displaying a command.  What delights could be behind? Or not. Will the effort be worth it? 

Standing at the edge, admiring the great portal (because I have street manners) I felt tempted to go behind and explore. However, that meant ducking and diving through a gaggle of Japanese tourists moulded to the floor with craned necks, a couple of kids having an ice cream fight, a 4×4 pushchair worthy of making it to ‘Top Car’ status, and a dog so small and hyperactive it was like a live yo-yo; an unavoidable, moving tripwire that would have you face down in seconds doing gobble on a cobble. 

As everyone looked up, I looked down, and that’s when I spotted it…

The worlds smallest door.

Well. I was enchanted!  I looked around for the ‘Eat Me – Drink Me’ potion but reckon the psychopathic pug had beaten me to it.  Trust me to find the one and only door that I’m desperate to enter but can’t. Rats! Probably…

I shut my eyes and willed myself to shrink. Come on, brain!  You can do this! Despite what everyone says, I know there’s more to you than you let on. 

Careful Which Wormhole You Wish For

47 seconds later I was at the seaside. 

A gloriously hot and sunny Bank Holiday Monday, and where’s the worst place you can be? 

The East Coast. 

Full of donkeys.

And deckchairs that NOBODY sat on. 

I think they were situated too far from the chippy. Nobody wants that kind of effort at the Great British seaside.  

I had an urge to paddle which may seem surprising as the North Sea isn’t renowned for its thermals unless it’s been pissed in nearby. However, the tide was 4,687 miles out and I knew I would have lost my childlike fervour long before my toes were lapped with freezing spume and plastic wrappers. So, I opted for a cock on a stick and a meander back up the beach to the car park. 

That’s when I heard the whispering. Low-level chuntering weaving through the brisk winds. Don’t get me wrong, that’s not an unusual sound at the Great British seaside. People cursing at their windbreakers as they struggle to stay vertical, impatient mothers swiping at irritable kids who have overdosed on too much sugar and resort to violent screaming because they can’t make their sandcastle stand up – too dry because the sodding water has receded back to France. Teenagers who have had one too many rides at pleasure beach and can feel the dodgy burger making a bid for freedom, and the straining of a wiry mutt as it takes a dump on “Baz Woz ‘Ere” written in the sand.  You can’t help but feel elated. 

But this sound was different. And that’s when I saw them.

Cache Your Chips In

The many small statues of bearded wisdom in pointy hats. Randomly collected together on the dunes. 

Gnomes. Why? 

Known to be protectors of treasure. What possible bounty could they be guarding, I wondered, for about ten seconds.  One of them looked like a wizard and so I asked it if I could please go home. I’m sure I heard him say…

On Yer Bike

And that’s when I found myself back in the beautiful countryside. The bright yellow fields are stunning at this time of year. 

“Wow. Rape is so beautiful”, might sound a very dodgy thing to hear coming from a British mouth should you ever visit, but please note we are referring to the rapeseed plant that grows abundantly in our farmer’s fields.  We’re not weird or inappropriate. If you go to the seaside you’ll see for yourself. 

And I got to thinking about the joys of riding a bicycle. I decided I should buy one so I could pedal around for the forthcoming summer season.  

I’ve always wanted an old fashioned bike with a basket on. The kind you see in a subtitled movie, set in in a French village.  Where the heroine rides through the village with a straw hat and flowing, floral skirt, filling the basket on her bicycle with pain de jour and local wine. 

So, that’s what I bought. 

In yellow. 

However, I don’t have a long flowing skirt yet and have had to buy a helmet because the bloke who sold me the bike put the fear of death into me about brain damage. It doesn’t look quite as elegant when I’m sitting on it looking like an overgrown child having a crisis. 

I decided I would take it to pretty places, like by the river or national parks. However, it won’t fit in my car.  Not without extreme hassle, blood, sweat, tears and an incredible amount of cursing. 

Solution? I went to buy a bike rack. 

They don’t do them for my car unless you have a tow bar. To have that fitted and buy a bike rack from my car dealer is a mere  £1200. Even at a local car place called Halfords, it’s £800. 

Range Rover has done this on purpose. Now I can’t take my bike anywhere pretty unless I change my bloody car.  Which I’m now going to do as a matter of principle. 

My advice? NEVER, pay attention to your journey and never follow the yellow brick road!

Home On The Range

April 17, 2019 1:00am Published by Jules Smith in Whimsy On A Wednesday 17 Comments

Belvoir Castle on the hill

Satirical Snapshots Bringing You Whimsy On A Wednesday!

Behold the country

Where wild beasts in pastures roam

And freedom still breathes

In support of National Haiku Day and today’s blog post, which incidentally, is right on time. 

The English countryside is beautiful. I love getting out and about in the thick of it all. Especially in spring. Such a wonderful, delicate season where hope hangs within reach. Renewal, naivety, fragility, and softness. This season reminds me of a woman getting dressed for a wonderful day. Here she is, fresh and new. Slowly revealing her grace. Lingerie lacing patterns across her body; her scent only just evident. Unsullied by extravagance. 

In a nutshell, a bit like a bird before she gets her blooming summer frock on to go proper out-out!

Further Afield

The other day I decided to go out and about into the Vale of Belvoir which is just down the road from me. Apparently, it has been voted the best place to live in the UK and has usurped the Cotswolds. Even though my mother lives there and the Duchess of Belvoir, who is said to be a bit of a lush nightmare, this somehow didn’t cast a murky shadow on the result. Belvoir is the new dog’s bollocks. 

I sometimes see evidence of what I like about Texas in the English countryside but obviously on a much smaller scale: lots of land, curious little buildings, rusting farm machinery, horses, and sometimes, even the distant sound of a shotgun being fired. 

The only real difference is that Texas has raging heat, poisonous critters, and buffalo ranches.

Err, but, hold on a minute…

Bearded Beasts in Belvoir

Bisons in the vale of BelvoirOh yes. There is bison in the Vale of Belvoir. 

 Buffalo? Bison? what’s the difference? As far as I can tell, those with bearded wisdom live here.

The BouverieWelcome to ‘The Bouverie’. This is French for cowshed. Bouverie sounds better than cowshed just like Belvoir sounds better than beautiful view. There’s a lot of pomposity in areas voted up by The Sunday Times. 

I didn’t know if Ruth was the chief bison or the owner, so I put my Vale of Behaviour in place and entered the classy cowshed.

Deal of the day for under a tenner! And with a proper fire going. You can’t knock that for an A -list area.  They could have doubled that since being in Blighty’s best tabloid. Total respect.

Still maintaining rustic charm, the porcelain was outside in a decorated shipping container. With a piano.  As my mother sat on the throne tinkling, I tinkled “God Save The Queen” on the old ivories. There aren’t many places you can do that.  But you can in the Vale of Belvoir.

Before It Gets Too Cheesy

What do you need on your bison burger? Cheese. A few miles down the road and there we were at the Long Clawson Dairy, the home of specialty Stilton. Inside they had endless cheeses in waxed coats at half the price of Sainsbury’s.  I think I bought one for every day of the week.

And to go with the famous pork pie from Melton Mowbray, in the very heart of the Vale of Belvoir.

And, if you want to live in the Vale of Belvoir, where bison run free and there’s cheese aplenty, you can reside in this rather lovely Georgian house. Don’t mind if I do.

Then, after a day full of wonder, it was time to tootle back to the village.

Where on the roadside, outside another rather spectacular house, stood a little trolley full of homegrown plants. Each with a colorfully printed out description sheet.

“How do you pay for these?’ I asked my mother, what with it being her village and all. “Do I go and knock them up?”

“Goodness, no! There’s an honesty box!

That’d last about 3.2 minutes in a town. On a good day.

“Oh, that’s nice. Do you always do that here?’

“Yes. Except I owe the last place I took plants from about £7.50… for the tulips, that I had a year and a half ago.”

*Gasp*

There’s trash in the Vale. I’m calling the Sunday Times.

 

 

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