This morning we entered Danish waters, our course set on the very northernmost, very narrow spit of the land, dividing the waters of the Kattegat and the Skagerrak. On the spit a charming town, which in the 16th century was bigger than Copenhagen, floats on the sand dunes, dunes that moved with the winter storms to effectively choke the town and sink it into oblivion. Even the road taking you there once was buried. The decreased population of hardy fishermen eking out a living from the silver of the sea, the herring, through their isolated and tough existence became the preservers of a unique settlement, which today makes the town appear as an open-air museum. The winding streets lead you between small yellow houses, each of them sitting in a carefully tended, richly flowering garden, some of them being reclaimed by the rich vegetation.
These characteristics, combined with a serene light reflecting off the surrounding waters, in the 19th century invited a group of painters who gained fame for their way of capturing light on canvas. Our morning was balmy and windless but overcast, but by visiting the delightful museum, we could appreciate that vibrant light. And in the afternoon we saw it ourselves when the sun broke through light veils of dispersing clouds, in a flash turning the sky into a canvas flooded with the magic hues of mother of pearl.
These characteristics, combined with a serene light reflecting off the surrounding waters, in the 19th century invited a group of painters who gained fame for their way of capturing light on canvas. Our morning was balmy and windless but overcast, but by visiting the delightful museum, we could appreciate that vibrant light. And in the afternoon we saw it ourselves when the sun broke through light veils of dispersing clouds, in a flash turning the sky into a canvas flooded with the magic hues of mother of pearl.
