The Baltic is the Mediterranean! A huge bowl of the bluest of cloudless bright blue skies sharply etched with vivid green trees and pretty houses washed white, pale yellow, red and ochre, each topped with a neat red-tiled roof, clustering around ports in the small towns and villages of Danish South Zealand.
There is something magical about living on a
boat on the water at sunset during the long twilight hours of the Baltic
Summer, being part of the unfolding drama of the closing of each day. The
swifts swooping for their supper, the splash of fish jumping for theirs, the
water like ripped silk, as we watch the slow draining of the light and the sky turns from deepest blue to soft shades of silvery lavender, rose and
the very palest of spun gold, laughter and voices drifting across the harbour; ancient, impenetrable tongues.
For days we hopped from one idyllic island to
another drifting on a light breeze, exploring inlets and bays, mooring up or
anchoring for long lazy lunches and a siesta, as one long, hot summer's day
followed another, swimming with the fish in the clear, clean water then
threading our way back precariously through the shallow inky-blue waters,
reading the runes of the sea to bring us back to the relative safety of deeper waters,
before moving on to the next harbour, each one prettier than the last then slowly heading north
towards Copenhagen.
Sailing into Christianshavn Kanal right in the centre of Copenhagen, and mooring up
there for two days in the shadow of the brightly painted converted warehouses
that line the canal, was a complete contrast and an opportunity to spend some
time exploring this busy, vibrant Cosmopolitan city, dipping into museums,
galleries, shops and restaurants, sampling home-made schnapps and eating
freshly caught fish, before returning each evening to our own small
boat, sitting in the cockpit with a glass of Aquavit watching the
world go by, then rocked gently to sleep by the movement of the boat.
We tore ourselves away from Copenhagen and reluctantly left Denmark, crossing the Sound to Sweden and the somehow cooler delights of Malmo, spending a day exploring the Old Town, lunching in the market square and stopping off for delicious Italian ice cream before setting off the next day on the final leg of our journey, sailing under the Oresund Bridge in a very fresh wind which threatened to blow us off into the massive concrete pillars, a train rumbling overhead, then fighting the wind on a rolling swell for a while as we sailed off the coast of Southern Sweden, then spending the night in a small fishing harbour smelling strongly of rotting fish, too tired to care.
A change in the wind the next day swept
us straight into the seaside town of Ystad in Southern Sweden and, finally,
time to spend with a small Swedish granddaughter, building sandcastles on the
long white Baltic beach and paddling in the dark blue waters that had carried
us safely here.
