I was woken by the host tapping on the door, very politely, but still enough to jolt me out of my cosy morning cocoon. Matt jumped straight into his jeans (a heroic act at 10:35 am) and went to greet her. She asked all the usual questions: yes, the house is perfect; no, we don’t need bed linen; and no, we don’t need to book cleaning before leaving, we can handle that. Meanwhile, I remained horizontal, not quite ready to join society. He thought she was a little old lady with gray hair… but nope - we saw her later mowing the lawn, sat astride a ride-along with bouncy brown curls, as she gave us a cheery wave.
We needed essentials, so we popped out to Netto. Our first challenge: unlocking the trolley. It required DKK coins, and of course we only had notes. So we had to buy something first. Matt chose whiskey—because if you’re forced into a purchase, you might as well make it celebratory. Once armed with coins, we unlocked the trolley and filled it to the brim. The person serving us said he’d never heard a real English accent outside of school lessons. He spoke beautifully, probably better than we did.
In the afternoon we took our first proper trip into Ribe (pronounced Reebe). We parked in the centre opposite a church and felt very proud of ourselves—two hours of parking, we think. The church was only open briefly, and someone inside was playing the organ, repeating the same section over. The building was cold, imposing, and housed many stone carvings. Matt tested out his old film camera, with more dials and buttons which doesnt have a manual.
We then had coffee and apple pie in a cafe nearby, and watched as an old lady sat outside drinking a lovely big glass of white in the rain (I know these crazy Danish folk) and we spotted a small shop to visit on the way back—potential sticker territory for our journal. Priorities.
We wandered further into the square. Ribe is the oldest town in Denmark and absolutely gorgeous. The drizzle started as a polite mist, then became persistent, then decided to go full drama. My shoes became puddles specifically designed to collect rainwater, and my Seasalt raincoat began to absorb the rain, and became a channel directing the droplets to my overfilled shoes. My dress needed wringing out. I was essentially a walking puddle. Matt wasnt much better, his jeans clung to his legs and his coat didnt protect his tshirt underneath.
Back at the house, I managed to get a basket of washing done and hung up to drip‑dry over the next day or so. The place now looks like a very organised indoor campsite.