48 hours in Prague meant 48 hours in a glamorous old-bank-turned-hotel. And good thing too it was glamorous, as I did not see anything else of Prague than what I glimpsed from the cab window on my way in and out of the city, both times after sunset.
I did not really visit Prague, even if I geographically spent two days there. The airport was confusing and the lounge was possibly the worst one I ever visited. Does this count as a travel bucket list item or not?
(Prague, Czech Republic; November 2018)
The lighthouse at Vejle fjord was much easier to reach than the one in Virginia Woolf’s novel. I recall it took the family ten years and a death in the family to finally set sail and arrive. Whereas we simply walked across the grounds of the old sanatorium and followed the path down the beach. 
The Vejlefjord sanatorium was built for wealthy Danes to “take the airs and waters”, especially if they suffered from tuberculosis (or “consumption”, as it was called back then). Today there still is a rehabilitation center, but it has given way to spa now installed in the new building. Two visits later I am still too consumed by the experience to manage one single photo from the inside. But imagine this: a simple, Japanese-inspired layout with natural stone and wood, lots of natural light, a forest sauna accessible by a walk outside (even throughout the winter), a hot outdoor pool, turkish baths and aromatherapy saunas and sound baths and light baths and meditation and yoga and spa treatments and free herbal tea and a healthy buffet and to top it all off: a thalasso spa with a salt sauna. One can easily spend 6 lazy hours without having the time to try everything offered.
(Vejlefjord Spa, Denmark; November 2018)
The more time I spend here in Denmark, the more I am struck by how it is not really much like the rest of the Nordics. Instead of fells or mountains, Denmark is (nearly) flat. Copenhagen, with its bicycles, canals, cobblestone streets, beer, waffles, and rain reminds me of the Netherlands. So do the roads and many smaller towns, as well as how houses are built. The forest is nothing like Nordic, impenetrable, shrubby spruce or dry, lichen-covered pine. Instead there are airy beech forests like in central Europe, with dead leaves rattling under one’s shoes; and pine and spruce plantations where trees live in rows or are, at the very least, standing far apart with a clean, green moss floor in-between.
What is Nordic about Denmark is the language. And perhaps the setup of the social-democrat welfare society. Income tax is among the highest in the world, but schools, healthcare, libraries, child care, elderly care, you name it – are nearly or completely free of charge.
(Silkeborg, Denmark; November 2018)
We tend to think forest walks are peaceful and soul-nurturing. And yet possibly we walk in a war zone between two tree populations, or past trees that are screaming out (chemically) because they are being eaten by insects, or just among incessant chatter by chemical signals in the air or between the roots.
Good morning London! And no, I am not flying in by hanging on to a missile.
No, this is not Canada. It is West Denmark, as high up as one can get. That means a mere 137 meters above sea level. And no, this photo is not from January. It is from late October, when we suddenly had a week of frost and snowfall. Except for on that particular day I am convinced that only the Mols Bjerge microclimate had proper snowfall and it was because we were there, in anything but winter hiking gear.
(Mols Bjerge, Denmark; October 2018)
The good thing about late-fall mornings and fading sunlight is that when the sun does shine, it is sidelong and golden. Even on the Belgian countryside.
It was October. And it was +25C in Antwerp. For those using the Fahrenheit scale, +25C means the treshold to proper summer heat. I walked across town, from the railway station to the hotel, at 10 pm at night. It was me and couples, walking arm in arm or hand in hand, taking a late-night shopping stroll or returning home from a weekday dinner in town. Antwerp is a cozy town for romance.
After wandering through a military area, stumbling into deer hunting ground, and being attacked by baby ticks, a picnic lunch by the beach seemed like a good idea.
The pond in the Brande backs makes me think of Henry David Thoreau’s Walden. Perhaps it was more shaded by forest, but the size and tranquil feel is right.
This blue marble 