Hornbæk

The artists lodged in the fishermen’s cottages scattered among the narrow streets by the church, where they remain to this very day − an example of living history. When wealthy summer visitors from Copenhagen found their way to the town P.S. Krøyer and other artists relocated to Skagen, where the light was almost as good.

Today’s visitors often see Hornbæk as a snobbish playground for Copenhagen’s nouveaux riches. A few of the locals fall into this category but most don’t have enough money to be called rich (nor, it should be said, to be called poor).

With the exception of a massive summer house development stretching all the way to Gilleleje, Hornbæk has developed at a sedate pace. Summer visitors increasingly tend to convert their cottages into permanent homes, which is illegal but no one cares. Danes do sometimes voice their disapproval about the state’s many official “don’ts” and restrictions, but for the most part they simply ignore them. It’s easier that way.

I live in the centre of Hornbæk, a few minutes’ walk from woods, water and beaches. My daily walk takes me first through Hornbæk Plantation, created to replace a patch of woodland once unwisely cut down. The absence of trees allowed winds whipping off the sea to blow away the soil, a process now halted by the plantation. One kilometre wide, it stretches up the coast for four kilometres towards Helsingör.

When I tire of the shelter of the trees I move down to the beach. Inside the wood, the wind sometimes loses its breath among the trees, but that never happens by the sea. Here, the wind moves as it pleases.

My love of the beach is rooted in the changing seasons. No two days are the same, and a visit to the harbour is never dull. The first weeks of 2002 bring unusually heavy snowfalls. The white storms are truly bracing, and when the wind is at its strongest even the sea anglers disappear. Otherwise they’re a permanent fixture on the beach below the plantation, standing there like stone statues. I often pause at the edge of the wood and watch them as they silently wait for a bite. In contrast, the sewage works just before the harbour is often a hive of activity. The pipes being laid are so long they seem to reach the land on the other side of the strait.

Once past the harbour, the strait opens out. One of my favourite spots is Syvende Tangvej beach, where I’ve acquired a habit of stopping for a few moments at the seventh belt of seaweed. The beach is a confluence of two worlds – the strait’s modest waterland to the south and the great open sea to the north. The feeling of ocean and space is overwhelming. Perhaps one should simply call it happiness, induced by a sense of homeliness. This landscape is mine, and when I venture out in the world this is where I long to be. For it’s here that I belong.