When perusing her guidebook, Pat laughed out loud. “Eric, listen to what Rick says. ‘The sleepy isle of Aero is the cuddle after the climax.’ Isn’t that poetic?”
The Canadian couple were part of a Rick Steves tour of Scandinavia, the other 22 tourists were American. Bus tours were not really their favourite way to visit Europe, but at 77 and 79, they’d given up renting cars overseas to drive themselves. Taking a ferry from Svendborg, Denmark to Aero Island on this sunny June day was a lovely break from riding in a tour bus. In fact, being anywhere beyond their Toronto house was a treat after the COVID 19 lockdowns. They now wore almost-permanent smiles.
The group would stay on Aero for two nights. The island is only 22 miles long and 6 miles wide – home to 6,000 people – so the trip from the harbour to their cheery hotel was quick. It sat on the town square in Aeroskobing, described in the guidebook as “Denmark’s best-preserved 17th century town.”
Every residential block consisted of one-storey row houses – each painted a brilliant colour like royal blue, yellow, dark red, and bright green. Front doorsteps were tidy; flowers spilled out of window boxes. No cars were parked on the narrow cobblestone streets, only bicycles. Several front windows had small mirrors mounted on the sash so residents could secretly peer at passersby from their living rooms.
After retirement from industrial design, Eric had become a keen watercolourist and sold paintings. He was enthralled by the unique streetscapes and couldn’t wait to take photos for future reference.
“No wonder Germans and Danes who holiday here call it the fairy-tale town,” he remarked, quoting Ulva, their Swedish guide.
Their one full day on the island dawned sunny and warm and most of the group rented bicycles to tour the flat countryside on wheels. Pat was recovering from a torn hamstring muscle and felt nervous about making it worse by pedaling. It didn’t take much convincing to get Eric to hike instead of ride.
“Sure, on foot I can stop to do a painting. It will be fun to be independent and move at our own pace after all that togetherness,” he said.
Armed with sunhats, bottles of water, artist’s paraphernalia, writer’s supplies, and sunscreen, off they set with a paper map and cellphone to guide them. They’d been told a local bus drove around on a loop and they could hop on free-of-charge anytime.
After snapping photos of picturesque little houses, the two strode along a one-lane rural road running parallel to the shoreline. The few humans they saw were on bikes or walking; the only buildings in view were distant farmhouses and barns about a kilometer from the water’s edge. Sea birds swooped overhead or chattered on the rocks. Sunshine reflected off the sea and made the gentle breeze gradually feel hotter. Waves broke and retreated along the beach.
Eric was always looking for interesting subjects to paint en pleine air, so they chose a rocky point on which to sit for about an hour. He faced inland to sketch a tidy farmhouse and its long field while Pat began writing a new story. Such bliss and peace, accompanied by swigs of cool water and increasingly rosy cheeks as the sun rose overhead. Good thing they had protective sun hats.
Pat wore a white tee shirt and navy shorts, and her short blonde hair was damp with perspiration. Eric’s dark grey tee shirt with a Maori symbol on the front made him uncomfortably hot, so he sprinkled a little water down his back before putting on his backpack.
Setting off again on foot, Pat checked their location on her phone and suggested they walk perpendicular to the shoreline. Lunch was a welcome option, and their water supply was diminishing so they decided a village with a restaurant would be a good idea. Brilliant red poppies and blue cornflowers grew wild beside the road as they headed towards the nearest farmhouse way off in the distance. Pat picked up the pace, hoping Eric would too.
He was in pretty good shape for a man nearing 80, although she noticed his gait had recently slowed. Theirs was a second marriage – only eight-years-old – so her knowledge of his former health issues was limited.
She knew that he sometimes suffered asthma attacks, the worst she’d witnessed had been triggered by a Calgary host’s hidden housecat. Over dinner Eric began having serious trouble breathing so they’d hustled back to her son’s nearby house to get his puffer. That worked in a flash.
Before beginning today’s hike, Pat had forgotten to remind him to bring his puffer. No point in asking him about it now. His breathing was just a bit laboured, no wheezing.
When she realized there was no sign of any bus to pick them up or any people to ask for directions a sense of unease began to rise in her tummy. The heat was getting oppressive, and their water bottles were nearly empty. Staring at the asphalt as Pat doggedly put one foot in front of the other, it appeared to sometimes be pulsating!
Am I getting dehydrated and dizzy? she thought. Are we going to keel over and pass out on this pretty, desolate island? Who will find us? No point in saying this aloud to alarm Eric.
In her lengthy previous marriage which had disintegrated, Pat had often been the planful, responsible spouse. Her therapist helped her recognize that sometimes she needed to back off and let her partner figure out what to do next. She’d been trying to practice this stance with Eric but, given the seriousness of their present situation, she continued being proactive.
At the top of a slope, they came to a lovely stone farmhouse with a courtyard, opposite a barn on the other side of the road. While Eric investigated a pig pen, Pat knocked on the front door. Most Danes speak at least some English, but nobody came to the door. The pigs weren’t much help, so she stood in the shade and Googled a taxi.
There was only one taxi company on Aero and its outgoing message was in Danish, followed by English. There didn’t seem to be any point leaving a message on this June Saturday and she couldn’t describe their location! The map on her phone didn’t provide any nearby names she could quote.
Suddenly a small car appeared, and they excitedly flagged it down. The elderly male driver got out and listened to their plea for help, smiled (displaying many gold teeth), muttered in Danish, and left.
“Now what do we do?” she said to Eric, feeling a rising panic and holding back tears.
Within about twelve minutes a second small car appeared, towing a trailer. Two twentysomethings listened to their distress (“We’re lost and running out of water!”) and offered to drive the couple to Aeroskobing. Pat nearly wept with relief as she threw her backpack into the backseat before climbing in.
“We’re visiting from Canada...” began the conversation and both beautiful young women responded in perfect English. When Pat asked about the trailer, the driver explained, “We’ve just bought a farmhouse we are taking old furniture and trash to the dump.”
This island seems too pristine to have a dump, thought Eric. He’d taken hundreds of trips to the dump when he owned a cottage on Georgian Bay.
The driver said she would deliver them to the harbour, where they could buy some lunch before a relatively short walk to their hotel. The driving journey took only about eight minutes.
They profusely expressed gratitude as they disembarked, in front of the only grocery store on the island. Freshly-picked strawberries sitting on a display outside couldn’t be ignored, and inside each chose items to round out picnic lunches – especially chilled water. All was consumed at a perfectly placed picnic table near the water, in the shade.
After such a harrowing experience, they took comfort in revisiting it.
Having lived together for only nine years, misadventures as kids or with previous spouses was still a conversation goldmine. These Canadians had separate stories of outdoor wintertime activities turning into endurance trials (think cross-country skiing, snowshoeing, hiking through an unfamiliar forest during a blizzard), when they’d been cold, tired, hungry, and disoriented.
“But today was much worse,” said Pat. “I’ve never experienced such rising panic! The combination of extreme heat, worsening thirst, my fit-but-aging body, empty farmhouses, no shops or public amenities, a fit-but-aging husband, and no public transport. My God.”
Their saviours had laughed when Pat described her attempt to call a taxi. “Being the only taxi on the island, he only works when he feels like it! Like every third day.”
My kind island - remote and picturesque with a fend for yourself culture. Loved Denmark - civility, design capabilities, and righteous people.
Glad Eric was attended to and did not require any intervention but the kindness of the local folk..another good read...M...