A Riot Of Color On The Welsh Shore

Traeth Mawr means "Big Sands" in Welsh; it's the name given to the wide estuary between Portmadog and a blank hillside of trees and rock.  Or, a mostly blank hillside.
Portmeirion is a fabricated, storybook "village" that is unlike anything else we've seen.  It is literally a patch of Italian baroque set down in Wales, like a spill of paint on a concrete slab.  Nobody knew how to explain it to us, and I'm not sure I can explain it here.  Imagine two postcards set side by side; the first is of wintry Britain, the second is of summery Portofino.  Portmeirion is like two distant vacations, remembered in a dream, thrown together and piled atop itself on the rocks.  Some people actually live here.  The rest of us pay an entrance fee and walk around, bemused and surprised.

The emblem of Portmeirion is a naked woman, calf-deep in waves, a hint of mermaid tail rising behind her.  When we walked those rocky shores, it was hard to imagine swimming or sunbathing.  The beaches of North Wales are empty expanses of sand and rock; the sounds of gulls and waves only made the loneliness more vast.  November there is a time of frosted fields and rattling, leaf-bare forests.  The fish and chip shops are closed for the season, the ice-cream stands boarded up.  This isn't a season when the rough coast - barnacled rock, concrete wharf, frozen sand - could seem hospitable to bare flesh.
But the pale citizens of this grassy land do emerge in the summers to venture into cold waves and lie in tepid sunshine.  North Wales, like the whole of North Europe, is home to hardy people who tire of winter. People are always drawn to the sea, aren't they?

A man named Sir Clough Williams-Ellis built this place in the half century between 1925 and 1975, using Italian seaside villages as a model, and bits of other buildings as his material.  Many of the architectural pieces already existed, and were moved and reassembled at Portmeirion.  Ornate clock towers jostle against wrought-iron porticos. Hard angles take surprising turns, statues peer from unexpected windows. The whole thing has a postmodern, collage-like air of disorder and order.  It feels a little like a town made from children's toys, where disparate parts are thrown together in a pile and expected to play out a fantasy.
Though some of the buildings are semi-inhabited (there are "private" signs everywhere, so that we tramping tourists don't stumble into an actual Welsh living room), the majority of the structures really serve their own purpose.  William-Ellis was building a piece of art, not planned-housing in the mold of Le Corbusier.  Room is needed for a cafeteria, of course, and for souvenir shops and ice cream, a hotel and restaurant.  Tens of thousands of people visit Portmeirion every year.  It might as well be a called a museum.

The small touches are some of the most poignant.  Little copper fixtures, wooden statues of sea-captains, painted rocks, a sermonizing Jesus on a balcony.  The town isn't actually town-sized, but the few acres of buildings are so intricate that they feel like a much bigger place.
While William-Ellis used Italy as a rough template, the buildings and architectural features are from every corner of the globe. A colonnade from Bristol, England, is set against statues from Myanmar and Greek gods.  It's meant to be surprising and confusing, and some of it isn't even real - one whole facade is done completely in trompe-l'œil.  If there is one commonality, it's the influence of the sea on all these surfaces.  Everything is salt-touched and vaguely nautical.

I remember wondering, in the November darkness of two years ago, how the cold Lithuanian coast could ever attract hollidaymakers and sun seekers.  Cold light, beach-walkers in parkas, the threat of overnight snow.  We turn towards the sea for half the year, and away from it the rest of the time.
Something that remains is the smell of the ocean, especially in the still waters of the Big Sands.  That odor of kelp, salt and something indescribable emanating from the deep - it's the same all year.
Portmeirion was originally called "Aber Iâ," which Williams-Ellis took to mean "frozen mouth."  He changed the name to make it seem more pleasant, but he couldn't erase the actual image of a cold estuary.  As colorful and tropical as the village is, it will always look out over a big slick of Welsh, northern sand.  It's beautiful, but it could never be confused with Le Marche.

Near the estuary, on a rocky hillock, the Portmeirion "lighthouse" stands duty over nothingness.  The tiny, metal figure in the scrub is something like a playhouse feature - we ducked inside and peered out through the empty porthole. It's only about ten or twelve feet tall, and doesn't have a light (as far as we could tell).  The design suggests moorish rocketship more than naval signal.  The view from inside is empty except for glistening sand, reeds, wheeling birds.  Maybe it's the sea that projects to this lighthouse, not the other way around.

If I haven't really explained this place, forgive me.  Portmeirion isn't so much a defined space as it is a funny concept.  It isn't the right season, or the right texture, or the right temperature, color or height - not just for Wales, but for anywhere. In a children's book, the zaniness might make better sense.  In a architectural textbook, the ideas might be better ordered.  On a rock beside the water, it's just a pile of buildings.  Which is to say, it's fun.  It made us laugh, which is something a town usually doesn't.  It made us want to open every door we could find.

Castle Hunting: Warwick

Much of England and Wales was underwater.  We'd driven through flooded streets and crossed rivers that had broken their banks and lay sprawled across the fields.  The whole of Great Britain, it seemed, was fighting off the rising waters, pumping out their cellars and trying to keep their feet dry.  Warwick, when we arrived there, was on the edge of disaster.  The river Avon was higher than it's been in years. There were sandbags across doorways and swirling eddies in people's yards.  The rain came again in the night; everyone was following the television news, watching the disasters unfolding further afield.  Warwick is a town of tudor half-timber, Georgian soberness and brick Victoriana.  It has a timeless feel to it, as though a millennium of English history's been made to happen all at once.  In a crooked-walled pub not far from the castle walls, the last of the storm beat against the windows and a drunk grandmother told us about her African Grey Parrot.  The dark corners around us were filled with furtive characters straight from Dickens or Chaucer or even the Domesday book.

We woke up to sun and a little blue sky.  When we went back to Warwick castle that morning, where we'd walked in the blustery afternoon a day before, we found its walls golden hued and the floodwaters receding.  It was an impressive sight, one of the most famous in the midlands.
Warwick's used to high tides and chaos - from the first motte-and-bailey in 1068, to the huge expansion of the middle ages, the imprisonment of King Henry IV and the English civil wars it has played a central part in England's fortified history.

It's the most expensive castle we've visited (£45 for two day passes!), and the one with the loudest music - speakers play a continuous, medieval-styled torrent of drums and synthesizers interrupted occasionally by piped-in cheering.  Because Warwick is owned by the Madame Tussauds group, there are dozens of wax-figure lords, ladies, knaves, blacksmiths, scullery maids, babies, soldiers and prisoners.  It's an ugly display of olde warts and unhealthy stoops.

To survive for nearly a thousand years, a castle has to incorporate a few tricks and have a bit of luck.  Warwick's most spectacular feature is its main tower, the Guy's Tower that soars above the rest of the structure and commands a wide view of the surrounding countryside.  This highest part was built in 1260, then rebuilt in 1315 as midland England went through it's last period of grand castle building.  The curtain walls, a second main tower and the keep were part of the same expansion.

As Britain consolidated and turned its attention outward, fortresses like this one became strategic afterthoughts.  The last significant action that Warwick saw was in 1642, when the civil war was raging through the area.  Parliamentarian forces holding the castle obtained two cannon, and the "besieging" Royalist forces installed two cannon of their own into a nearby church steeple.  A few ineffectual barrages were fired, the siege was lifted after about a month, and the Royalists beat a small retreat.

The Madame Tussauds figures - which are frighteningly lifelike - focus on an earlier episode in Warwick's history.  The castle's most interesting owner was Richard Neville, the 16th Earl of Warwick, who led a successful insurrection against King Edward IV.  In the convoluted years of the War of the Roses, Warwick was partly responsible for the overthrow of two kings, and earned the name "Kingmaker" as a result.  General troublemaking and warmongering brought assaults on his stronghold,   though none were ever successful.

The middle part of the 14th century was among the most bloody times in England's history, and the Tussauds figure-makers like to dwell on the sharp points and short lifespans.  Aside from their stillness and waxy pallor, they look just like real people.

The current structure is one of the oldest and best examples of true medieval fortress architecture still standing today.  In the fourteenth century, during the early devastation of the Hundred Years War, the castle was thickened and modified to withstand the siege-warfare weapons of the day - catapults, trebuchets and ballistas.  The towers are remarkably thick and built as cylinders to help deflect the blows.
This kind of fighting - done with glorified slingshots and battering rams - is obviously more romantically medieval than the cannons that later knocked everything down. Though catapults really weren't all that effective, and were probably used much less than people think, at Warwick they're played up mightily. Around the grounds are several models of these siege engines, looking something like monstrous, wood-and-rope insects. In the fortress foreground, on what is normally called the island, are a few model trebuchets; we'd seen just the tops of them when the river was high, and the island had washed over with water.

Warwick has been almost hermetically sealed off from the public.  In fact, it's almost impossible to catch a glimpse of the place without paying the admission price.  This despite the fact that it lies roughly  adjacent to a large town center and nearby a river and fields.  The one good, public view is from a nearby bridge, and it's fleeting.
The line of sight towards the castle wasn't cut off by Madame Tussauds, but by the later Earls of Warwick, who had converted the castle into a grand home.  The great hall and living chambers are still decorated in baronial decadence - there are countless oil paintings, queen Victoria's riding saddle, scores of suits of armor, gold-trimmed pistols, plush furniture, Queen Anne's four poster bed, silk brocading - and filled with more stately wax figures. In one bedroom, a diminutive likeness of the present Queen stands somewhat awkwardly beside a mound of pillows and blankets (apparently, her majesty visited Warwick a few years ago).

Warwick escaped the worst of the flooding. Downriver along the Avon, Shakespeare's hometown of Stratford wasn't so lucky - there, the streets were full of water and the river had run right into people's homes.  As the river slowly withdrew from around the castle walls, a tangle of branches and detritus was left behind.   The trebuchets below the castle, that had been nearly swept away, were swathed in debris when they emerged.  Pools of water were left behind in the sodden earth, and a brown wash of mud.  It looked something like a deserted battlefield after a rout.
Still, Warwick looked less sodden than triumphant.  It's walls were as impressive as ever.  A man was performing a falconry show for the tourists, flying hawks and owls over our heads while speaking over a loudspeaker.  He told jokes and fed the birds bits of chicken.  Life went on.  Warwick's been there for a thousand years.  It's seen wet feet and rain before.

Castle Hunting: Cahir Castle

Having brought the Army and my cannon near this place...  I thought fit to offer you Terms, honourable for soldiers: That you may march away, with your baggage, arms and colours; free from injury or violence. But if I be necessitated to bend my cannon upon you, you must expect the extremity usual in such cases. To avoid blood, this is offered to you by, Your servant,
Oliver Cromwell.
On the 24th of February, 1649, a fifty year old religious zealot - who was banging around Ireland with the full strength of the English cavalry - conquered Cahir castle with a letter.  It was one of the low points in the island's history, and one of the most embarrassing moments in the history of a proud fortress.

We first saw Cahir castle in the rain, as we were waiting for a bus to Cashel.  From across the street, in the dry confines of a local cafe, it didn't look like much more than a small keep and scattered towers.  It's not until you go around to the back that the full size of it is apparent.  This isn't huge for a castle, but it's very expansive for Ireland, where fortresses tend to be small and simple.
Built in several stages beginning in the 12th century, Cahir occupies a rocky position on a small island in the River Suir.  With water on two sides and a strong foundation, it was an obvious place for a fortress; hill-forts built of both wood and stone had occupied the spot for at least a millennia before the current keep was erected.

Oliver Cromwell was a curious man. Born into a middle-class family, he became one of the most powerful civil and military leaders in British history.  His bludgeoning style of warfare was at the center of the English civil war, and by the 1640's and '50's he was perhaps the key figure in the conflict.  His was the third signature on King Charles I's death warrant.  But perhaps the most well-known aspect of Cromwell's personality is his severe Protestant puritanism.  The man simply hated Catholics.  This meant that his invasion of Ireland bordered on genocide.  When he did "bend" his cannon, very little was left afterward.
With several overlapping curtain walls and a convoluted gate system, the central part of Cahir was designed to be very difficult to attack.  Despite rough masonry (some of the inner chambers look like they've been pieced together with field stones) and a highly desirable location, the castle was never taken by an invading army before the advent of gunpowder.

That all changed in 1599, when Elizabeth I sent troops and artillery onto Irish soil.  After a three day bombardment, the castle was captured for the first time in its existence.  Back in Irish hands soon after, Cahir was expanded and "improved" during the first part of the 17th century.  The outer walls were lengthened (I have no idea why) and rounded fortifications were added at the gatehouse and at the rear of the keep - rounded angles held up better against cannon fire than the older, square designs.
A great deal changed between 1600 and 1650, though, and the architectural disadvantages of the fortress became more and more apparent.  When Cromwell invaded Ireland, he came with lighter and more maneuverable guns that could be brought into range quickly and more easily than the mammoth siege weapons of the past.  Also, the new guns were actually being aimed, which sounds simple but was actually a departure from tradition.  A great deal of thought had been put into cannon warfare by the British, especially by the Englishman Nathaniel Nye. A science had arisen around the triangulation and mathematics of gunfire.  Instead of just lining up guns and hoping to hit something, Cromwell was battering fortresses with a smidge of accuracy.

Cahir remains one of Ireland's best preserved castles because - in short - they gave up at the right time.  Cromwell's forces were much stronger and more modern than anything the Irish had encountered up to that point, and the castles he was conquering weren't designed to hold up against gunpowder weapons.  High towers, square angles, a tall keep; what had been effective against previous generations of assailants were now a liability.  Large guns could attack from a greater distance, out of range of the castle's own weapons.  The high crenelations that had once provided a height advantage now made for especially large targets. Tall towers could be knocked down fairly easily, presenting the defenders with an additional danger of falling stone. Thin, walk-along ramparts offered no room to maneuver cannon, and so the garrison inside had to rely on antiquated crossbows and scattershot, underpowered muskets. Despite being somewhat "modernized," the Irish stewards hadn't really addressed any of these issues. Cahir was, in the 17th century, a dinosaur.
The motley group of conscripts who were defending Cahir had never seen cannon, and were terrified of what might happen to them if Cromwell did attack.  They gave up quickly and the Governor of Cahir turned over the fort to the English without a fight.  It's lucky for us castle enthusiasts.  Other Irish forts didn't fare nearly as well.

In all, some one hundred fortresses were destroyed by Cromwell during his campaigns.  He blew them up for harboring Royalists or ordered them "dismantled" so that they couldn't be used by the opposition.  Some see Cromwell's reign as the true end-point for the medieval castle in Ireland and Britain - the older style fortresses were simply out of date.
Cahir is now - as it has been since it surrendered - a very peaceable place.  It's hard to call it peaceful, because of the traffic that booms through town and over the castle bridges, but the setting is pleasant and the walls are sunny.  Ducks and swans paddle in the river-bend, a small farmers market was happening when we visited.  Cahir town is a pretty, colorful collection of old houses and pubs.  One can't help but think that the town is better off for having given up - they still have a castle, at least.

Grey Stone Studding Green Grass: Irish Ruins

With mud on our boots and hawthorn-scratches on our arms, we've wandered Ireland's Autumn lands.  In the background? Cawing crows, manure laid on tilled earth, big places and important things that have been covered over by time and moss. Some of Ireland's greatest sights lie in cow pastures.  Walking the Green Isle's back lanes and marshy meadows, we've seen countless ruins and decaying piles.
People come to Cashel to see the Rock, the venerable citadel of the kings of Munster.  But we found the old seat under re-construction, half obscured by scaffolding and tarps.  We never went in. From the hilltop we caught sight of another stony relic in a field below that flared our imagination even more.  Hore Abbey (funny name) is like so many secondary sights on the island: neglected, beautiful, lonely and worth the walk.

On a bright day in County Tipperary, we set off on a ramble between Cashel, where we were sleeping, and the nearby town of Golden.  The public trail was closed because of potential flooding, but we followed it anyway, figuring we could always turn back if the water got too high.  The path hugged the swollen River Suir, crossing electric fences and stone stiles, taking us by Holsteins and tractors.  For some miles the walking was never worse than muddy, but after a while it became necessary to continue on an inland road - the river was a bit rambunctious, the ground really sodden.  At noon, we were able to eat our egg salad sandwiches, satisfied, beside the water in Golden.
Golden is like so many Irish small towns affected by the recession.  There were more closed storefronts than open - of the three pubs, only two seemed in good working order and a little butcher's was the most lively spot among the blank windows.  There was a steady stream of traffic on the road, but nobody was stopping.  A woman at the Spar grocery (which seemed to have replaced an older grocer's) told us we should continue on to Athassel Priory.

"It's only twenty minutes" she said.  "It's very popular with the tourists and the photographers." She may have meant that it was the most popular spot in Golden, but it's hard to think that too many people really come here, even if it is a beautiful place.
The abbey is reached by a low medieval bridge over brackish water.  Goat willows and reeds were sunk in the muck, and cow patties are littered here and there in the field, but once inside the ground was firm and dry and close-mown.  A few birds were still in the chinks and holes where they'd built their nests, high up on the soaring walls.

Athassel was once the largest abbey in Ireland, built during the 13th century by Augustinian monks.  In the early centuries of its life, the walled brotherhood was at the center of a thriving village, and there may have been several hundred monks living in the complex.  The village was burned down twice, though, and now all that remains is a convoluted, sprawling stone shell.  This cluster was once the gate house.  Now, only a little cattle-gate is still in place, to keep the nearby animals out of the abbey's center.
In the massive nave are a collection of headstones - some were placed back to the 14th and 15th century, some are as recently dated as the 1980's.  Faceless statues stand along the walls and waterspout gargoyles jut from the crumbling crenelations.  We could see our own footsteps in the grass, and the marks of one car in the soft earth, but otherwise there was no sign of recent humanity.  If you want to feel great solitude, standing in the shadow of antiquity can deepen the sensation.

On that walk along the Suir, we talked about how intricate the Irish countryside is.  Centuries of stonework crisscross the fields and glens - walls for sheep and stoned up ditches, old springs and little crosses in the woods, forgotten monuments and weedy tombstones - and it's difficult to walk more than a few hundred yards in any direction without coming across something from a previous generation.  The cows don't pay any mind to the feudal-age rock walls around them, or to the old barns where they're milked - we, on the other hand, find it intoxicating.  It's the essence of old-stone Europe.  It's the quiet thrill of blackberry bushes and unfaded green, a land that feels eternal.
And, just as we were getting ourselves worked up, we spotted this tumbledown tower house across the water.  We could never figure out what it was called, or anything about it.  Just another pile of stone, surrounded by fences and bracken, sitting quietly in the autumn sunshine.

In the forests near Lismore, some miles to the south, a very different kind of ruin lies hidden in crawling vines and overgrown oaks.  The Ballysaggartmore estate is more modern than the others, built not for defense but for vanity. For mossy, branch-covered intrigue, this is the place to go.
In the countryside around, the hidden "towers" are legendary - everyone wanted to know if we'd been or were planning on going.  "They paved the river with cobblestones, they put up huge towers and planted dozens of oaks," we were told by one woman.  "And then, before they could get started on the real castle, the money ran out."

The Ballysaggartmore towers are two large architectural follies, built in the 1830's by a man named Arthur Keily-Ussher in an attempt to please his young wife.  Keily-Ussher was a terrible landlord, by all accounts, who leveled the houses of tenants who couldn't pay his high rents - this during the great famine, no less, when the people who lived on his estate were starving.  The "castle" towers were to be the gates to a palatial new home, but money became scarce and the actual house was never built.  Some accounts say that his wife left him when she didn't get her castle.  Others say she was too embarrassed to go out anymore.
Today, there's a very atmospheric walk up along a stream, past the first gates - which serve as a bridge - and up to the second, gothic revival structure.  Weeds grow from cracks in the stone, the old iron gates are rusted and swing loosely on their hinges, the forest around is creeping ever closer to the walls.

We walked around Hore Abbey at dusk, as the dew was settling onto the grass and the air was beginning to feel like frost.  A few other people were roaming around, casting long shadows across the fields and murmuring in hushed tones.  We all kept our distance from one another, appreciating the quiet and the beautiful, broken spaces.  Inside, the medieval chambers were surprisingly well-preserved, even without their roofs.  The earth floors looked as though they'd just been swept.  Outside in the scraggly weeds, a few gravestones tilted beneath crabapples.  Their inscriptions were too worn to read.

As the darkness gathered around us, the black outline of the abbey - the nave, bits of an old cloister, some other surviving walls - began to take on more and more character.  It was difficult to tell in which century we were standing.  Hore has been abandoned for nearly five hundred years. The sheep and spongy grass around it haven't changed.  The romantic feeling at sunset is just the same.   

You Are What You Sit On

The Swedes may have given the world IKEA, but the Danes gave us all a place to sit.  Sure, chairs existed before the Danish design movement, but the idea of what a chair was or looked like was vastly different.  To be fair, it really started with the Germans.  Danish furniture makers were highly influenced by the Bauhaus school in Germany which, from 1919 - 1933, taught a revolutionary style of furniture design that mixed craftsmanship with fine arts, encouraging creativity, but also keeping human proportions, modern materials and technique top of mind.  The even greater 'gift' (I really hesitate to use that word) from Germany, when it comes to Danish furniture design, was World War II.  Denmark was relatively unscathed, the rest of Europe was looking for cheaper, simpler products and plywood construction became the start of a Danish empire on four legs.

It's amazing how little you think of designs that have become so mainstream they are simply the default.  For example, we have missed Q-Tips deeply since beginning this trip, never really realizing that "cotton swabs" are just not the same.  If I saw the above chair in a home, I might think "nice chairs."  Maybe.  If I saw it in a store, I would recognize that it's a perfect version of chair that I may want for my own home.  In a museum,  specifically Trapholt in Kolding, I realized that this chair is a work of art that didn't just always exist.  The fathers of Modern Danish chair design were (or worked closely with) cabinetmakers.  Lighter woods, function and simplicity, the idea that the piece would fit into the personal world of its owner all factored in.  Thoughtful craftsmanship was key.

Arne Jacobsen, Kaare Klint, Hans Wegner, Verner Panton led the wave of design, teaching and studying at the Royal Danish Academy of Art.  They were commissioned by hotels to make one-of-a-kind furniture.  Wegner's Round Chair became known simply as The Chair after it was used by Nixon and Kennedy in one of their historic, televised debates.   Jacobsen's The Egg and The Swan are icons of modern design and his stackable Ant Chair was so popular that it became Denmark's first industrially manufactured chair.  Above, Ant chairs fill Trapholt's museum cafe.

Finn Juhl was a little more radical than his Danish design contemporaries.  The Pelican Chair, strung up in a colorful array at Trapholt's exhibit commemorating what would have been Juhl's 100th birthday, was called "aesthetics in the worst possible sense of the word" when it debuted.  A great artist panned during his lifetime? Shocking.  What I found more shocking, though, was that this and other curvaceous and plush, colorful and space-age designs were created in the early 1940s.  Looks that I associate with the swinging 60s or the groovy 70s predated both by my entire lifespan.  Juhl may not be the most influential of the chair designers, but he is credited with bringing modern Danish design to America, where it gained instant popularity and still flies off the shelves.

The above Ball Chair was actually designed by a Finn (Eero Saarinen), but when you read the architect's account of his process, you see why Trapholt would include it in a retrospective about Danish design.  With all of its whimsy, uniqueness and its futuristic feel, the chair's dimensions were still based on the most functional of factors.  "Being the taller one of us, I sat... and my wife drew the course of my head on the wall,"  Saarinen explained.  From there, it was simple enough to make a ball "just remembering that the chair would have to fit through a doorway."  It's the art of making something completely logical look and feel imaginative.

The thing about chairs is that, more than any other piece of furniture design, it just won't catch on unless it's truly functional.  You can own a table and define its use by what it can handle.  Lamps, shelves, they serve functions, but there's really no wrong way to do them.  Chairs have to hold weight, they have to be comfortable, they have to fit the owner's taste and also their frame.  Imagine a world where chairs didn't stack or swivel, weren't light enough to move with one hand or inexpensive enough to buy in large matching sets.  Then, thank Denmark.  (with a shout-out to Germany, Finland and the US).

The Great Dane

Less grim than the Brothers Grimm, more lucid than Dr. Suess, an actual person (unlike Mother Goose), Hans Christian Andersen was a master of fairytales.  His works have been translated into 160 language dialects and have been rehashed, updated, paraphrased, quoted and borrowed for nearly two centuries.  Some of his stories are so woven into popular culture that they've become figures of speech, illustrations of some of life's most pervasive themes.  The naked, duped, leader in the Emperor's New Clothes is the archetype of vanity.  The Ugly Duckling's triumph over bullying is the original It Gets Better.

"It doesn't matter about being born in a duckyard, as long as you are hatched from a swan's egg!" The Ugly Duckling, 1843.   Andersen's duckyard was Odense, where he was born to a poor cobbler There are places and things names after Anderson throughout Denmark, but the greatest congestion of tributes is here in his hometown.  On a Saturday afternoon, we joined the rush at Den Grimme Ælling ('The Ugly Duckling') which was serving a brunch buffet of epic proportions.  The 'all you can drink' period was just ending, but the servings of pork crackling, smoked salmon and fried eggs were being replenished with fervor.

Odense is a charming, livable town with a strong attachment to its famous son.  There are statues of some of his best known characters scattered around town, a large statue of him in the park.  There is the big, wonderful Hans Christian Andersen Museum and a smaller collection within his childhood home.  My favorite tribute was Odense's Walk/Don't Walk signs.  The little green man wore a top hat and held a cane, no doubt an impression of Hans' silhouette.

The Hans Christian Andersen Museums itself was fun to explore.  My knowledge of the author came from childhood viewings of Hans Christian Andersen starring Danny Kaye.  The movie-musical was as much a work of fiction as Thumbelina or The Princess and the Pea, but the fact that all of these stories sprung from the mind of a single man still resonated with me.  As it turns out, the real HC was much more interesting than the Kaye version.  He was a paranoid neurotic who traveled with a big rope because he was convinced he'd need to escape a hotel fire.  When pen wasn't being put to paper, his high-speed creative mind found an outlet in paper cutting.  Think snowflakes gone beautifully mad.  His nose was big, his feet were bigger, he abstained from sex and had infatuations with both genders.  In a questionnaire, he answered "Fresh Air" for his "Favorite Perfume."  This 'fresh air room' in the museum celebrated his love of outdoor introspection.

Other answers in the questionnaire included "to be happy" for "Dream in Life" and "contentment" for "Your Idea of Happiness."  The museum had a pair of old dentures, as lifelong toothaches kept him constantly ill at ease and these 3D portraits that you could view through stereoscopes.  Beyond these, there were hundreds of portraits of the author around the space and quotes from friends saying that no photo or painting ever really looked like him because he'd always try to put on a 'dignified pose.'  In that same questionnaire, he answered "Hans Christian Andersen" for "Who would you most like to be if not yourself?"  It's a good guess that he never really saw himself as the swan. 

For all his eccentricities and depressive moods, he appeared to be well loved by everyone he met.  Dignitaries and royals fawned upon him.  Before he ever published a word, chance encounters with nobles resulted in scholarship to school and connections in Copenhagen.  There was the Charles Dickens debacle, when Hans accepted an invitation to dinner and then stayed for five months.  He had no idea why Charles never returned his calls afterwards.  But mostly, he was adored worldwide.  It actually took Denmark a little longer to recognize their own genius, but once they did, he became a local hero.  Above, a 3D statue of Hans Christian Andersen at Legoland.

From the very start and until the very end, the greatest love for Hans came from children who ate up each new collection of fairy tales as they were published.  It was fitting that our trip to Odense coincided with the last day of the week-long Harry Potter Festival.  Children ran around in costumes playing a game I don't know how to spell because I've never read the books (blasphemy!)   Andersen enjoyed a notoriety akin to Rowling's.  When a nasty rumor started about Andersen being destitute and ill, children in America began a collection and a big wad of US cash arrived in an envelope.  On his deathbed, once he was actually ill but still not destitute, Hans requested that his funeral march be composed to "keep time with little steps" because "most of the people that will walk after me will be children."

Of course, there's a kid in all of us, right?  (Hence our visit to aforementioned Legoland, which will be covered in more depth soon).  The tourists taking photos at the little mermaid statue in Copenhagen may not even know the origins of the character or the author of the tale.  Disney gave her red hair, a purple shell bra and a happy ending, but Hans Christian Andersen gave her to the world as a version of himself.  In that same questionnaire posted in the Hans Christian Andersen Museum,  he was asked to state his occupation.  "Dreaming life away."

Porvoo

Katarina at Staghallen Brewery in Åland told us that Porvoo was her favorite place in Finland. Natalia at our homestay in Sevettijärvi told us she got married in Porvoo.  It's easy to see why this place stirs up such emotion in people.  Porvoo is the second oldest city in Finland and it's this perfect combination of elements.  There's the Porvoo river, the parkland around, old wooden storehouses and a copper-topped historic cathedral.  It's all centered upon the Old Town square, relatively 'new' in terms of this nearly thousand year old town.  Built all a'scramble in that winding, clumped medieval style, the Old Town was nearly re-gridded for ease and logic in the late 1800s.  The people of Porvoo protested and straight lines and streets were set up elsewhere.  Even then, the Finns new that this place feels special, you they fought to preserve it.

Porvoo is only an hour by bus from Helsinki. Since the capital itself doesn't really have an "Old Town" per se, it's a little like the city's European Medieval Charm - cobbled streets, labyrinthine lanes -  has been outsourced to Porvoo.  A bit of tweeness has understandably sprung up around the main knobby square, at the foot of the old Porvoo Cathedral.  The church is one of Finland's oldest and largest, mainly built in the 15th century with some parts dating back to the original 13th century.  The centuries that followed brought fires, bombs, arsonist attacks.  It also brought the first Diet of Finland in 1809, which declared the country's autonomy from Russia. If buildings were quilts, there'd be a square commemorating each milestone in the life of the Porvoo Cathedral.  Wooden beams here, stone there, patches of repairs that span 700 years.

The stores and restaurants around the cathedral follow along those lines, a 'times gone by' aesthetic, offering the best little nuggets from the past.  There are antique shops, second hand clothing stores, vintage prints and toy boutiques, candy wrapped in retro packaging, tin crowns and wooden swords.  Anything that makes you think "pleasant, pretty Porvoo" and "the past."
There's also a country chic feel of wicker and floral decor. Leather jacket and denim are ditched for knits and tweeds.  Daytrippers eat it up, quenching their thirst for old world European charm before heading back to the big city to soak up stylish modernity.

Though, honestly, if they just spent the night they'd feel the full thrust of youthful energy right here.  With so many options in such a small place, it was actually easier to swing and not miss here in Porvoo than it had been in Helsinki.  We chose casual pub food at an old chemists-turned-bar with live acoustic music, but were very tempted by the fancier restaurant Timbaali which has a whole menu of locally farmed escargot.  There may or may not have been sirens in the night and some vomit around the ATM machine on Sunday morning to signal how hard some in Porvoo actually party.  Bottom line is that this isn't just a museum town, but a vibrant mini city that's worth more than just a few hours during the day.

When we went into the brand new Art Factory culture center to visit the tourist office and stumbled upon an Eko Fair of green businesses, a dance troupe of young women practicing in the hallway and a restaurant called Bistro Sinne a'bustle with brunchers.  Sinne calls itself a 'bistro,' but the presentation and taste were fine dining all the way.   Everything was locally sourced and treated like rare jewels.  No wrinkled mushrooms or over dressed greens here.  A blazer wearing family of twelve sang Happy Birthday in three part harmony at a long table in the center of the dining room.  It rendition was so classy that no one even applauded after (our own few claps went, mostly, unnoticed). 

The Art Factory is on the western shore of the Porvoo river, which fills with kayakers in the summer months.  This side of the river is the newer New Town, residences built at the very end of the 20th century.  There was concern about new housing so close to the historic center, as well as the new bridge it would necessitate.  The answer was simple and actually quite beautiful.  The new houses are red and rust orange, a modernized mirror image of the historic wooden red storehouses across the water.  There's some green and yellow evoking the trees and painted houses of the Old Town, which peak up above the line of red buildings on the other side.  A dappled reflection.  (Above, the eastern shore). 

Though there are sights to see, the thing to really do in Porvoo is stroll.  Our ramble brought us to the Old Railway Station.  On six Saturdays per year, a 'museum rail car' brings tourists from Porvoo to Helsinki.  There is an ironmongers workshop in one old station building and a souvenir shop in another, both closed when we visited in October.  What we were struck by was the collection of decaying trains.  In use from the end of the 19th century until the beginning of the 1990s, the trains now just sit around - their wood warping, paint chipping and metal rusting.  These relics are mementos, artifacts.  But they are also just leftovers, scraps.  They were really beautiful on an autumn afternoon, that time of year when even bright sunshine somehow seems somber.

The train graveyard, as it really felt, gave a feeling of age that no old cobbled square could.  You could really sense the passage of time, the years coating windows with film, yellowing curtains and separating wooden boards.  Gaps here, scrunching there, the wood resembled an aging set of teeth.  Porvoo is a place that city dwellers come to have country elegance and a slower, refined pace. Fresh air and room to breathe.  It's a place where people from the islands of Åland want to come ashore.  It's a place where young women from above the Arctic Circle want to get married.  It is storybook in a very Finnish way.  What I mean is, it doesn't need to scream 'happy ending,' but rather 'we've had some pretty good times, haven't we?'