Denmark

If the Scandinavian winters are horrendous, the summers are glorious, so on a fine summer’s day, Mrs F and I, by now totally bored and frustrated with boats and planes and trains, commandeered the crew’s Saab convertible to go to our next location, Mors in Denmark, a delightful journey, since Denmark was in mid-harvest: fat fields of swaying corn dotted with pretty, courtyarded farmhouses nestling beneath the slowly spinning blades of wind-driven electric generators. The Danish countryside is spectacularly flat, the highest landmark hereabouts, 150 metres, is called Sky Mountain. We broke our journey there for a picnic of freshly baked bread (universally good in Scandinavia), cold roast pork with plenty of fat and crisp crackling, pickled beetroot, dills and pickled cucumbers washed down with a couple of iced Pils that a man in a van thrust at me while we were stopped at traffic lights at seven o’clock that morning — a bizarre but typical reaction from the Scandinavian fans of my modest little programmes.