Doverodde Diary: Day 8 - The Ants

Twice a week I cycle to the grocery in Ydby, a thirty-minute ride through the woods. My bike is a gold model with the word ‘MOSQUITO’ on its frame. The brand name acts as a reminder that my ant problem remains unsolved.

I am reading the collected essays of Orhan Pamuk, who writes: ‘words [...] are like ants. Nothing can penetrate into the cracks, holes, and invisible gaps of life as fast as words can.’ I can tell that Orhan Pamuk has some experience of ants. I hope he will go on to say something useful about them, but to my disappointment the remainder of the essay is mostly about words.

Anna emails me a link: How To Kill Indoor Ants Naturally. The site recommends leaving white vinegar, bay leaves, garlic cloves, peppermint teabags or cucumber slices in places the ants frequent. Sprinkling lines of cayenne pepper, cinnamon and lemon juice under doors and windows has also been known to help. Or I could try piles of crushed dried mint leaves and freshly ground cloves in my store cupboards.

Since my cupboard contains little more than teabags, porridge oats and salt I’m concerned that I will have to make a special trip to the grocery just for the ants. But something must be done – if I continue to exterminate them using my notebook, there will be no room for any words.

Doverodde Diary: Day 7 - Liberation

He plans to sail to St Petersburg.

– When will you leave? I ask.

– When I’m ready, he says, winding a rope in his hand.

Doverodde Diary: Day 6 - Moored From The Air

On the last Saturday in April, the boats that have rested in gardens and garages all winter are wheeled out to the jetty. The hulls have been repainted, red or black, up to the waterline. One by one, Adriane, Anni, Elfrida, Louié, Malajka, Falsang, Silver, Ballerina, Kleopatra, Laribé, Out Skerries, Inge-Marie and Emilca are chained to the hook of the hired crane, which hoists them high and winches them out over the water. The dark hulls swing through the air a little uncertainly, but guided by ropes, they touch down safely on the water.

Borrowed Bookshelves: 8

Books and dolls in the home of 

the artist Liz Hempel-Jørgensen

in Doverodde, Denmark

Doverodde Diary: Day 5 - Gold Boat and Mountain Man

Bronze Age, Stone Age: who knows? Our ancestors often reused burial mounds – they were a practical, plundering people. Now, we’re a little more respectful, or perhaps – profligate.

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When King Skjold died, his body was sent to sea in a boat filled with gold. But the boat was so heavily laden that it stranded on the Limfjord and to avoid embarrassment Skjold was buried, as had been the custom in ancient times, under a barrow of earth. You can see the sea from its summit.

*

No one dares to steal the gold from this tomb because an evil troll is guarding it. However, the troll (who is not above stealing) helps himself to wives and children from the farms nearby. The troll will release the gold when Denmark is in its hour of need. Meanwhile the locals must put up with the troll’s evil ways.

Doverodde Diary: Day 4 - Which Bird?

They say that birdsong is a sure sign of spring. Well, this week every bird is in song, so I’m not sure why that bird, or rather that song, arrested me. I’m afraid I can’t quite describe how it went, being no expert in the curious phonetics of birdsong. I stared into the branches for some time before I saw a small dull thing perched on what looked like a dead twig at the very tip of the tree. I was able to match the peculiar sound to the wobble of its throat, so I knew I’d got the right one. But what was it?

Liz peered where I was pointing and said she thought it might be the Fuglekonge.

The Fuglekonge, or crested wren, is Europe’s smallest bird, and rather rare, according to the bird book. I was impressed that we’d found a Fuglekonge without even trying, but the bird book also suggested that what we’d seen was actually a Stillids, or common goldfinch. Now Liz says it’s a goldfinch for sure, but I’m sticking to my small bird story.

Doverodde Diary: Day 3 - His Last Journey

The loyal assistant has tears in his voice. The princess is filmed from behind; we glimpse her hair knotted demurely beneath her hat. We do not see the funeral. The news cuts from the disappearing hearse to recent footage of shipping containers, each branded with a white star. We are informed that they will continue to circle the seas.