Vestkystruten (known in English as the West Coast Route, North Sea route or Danish national route 1) starts in Rudbøl. Making our ways separately from Copenhagen and Aarhus, Jack and I met on the train to Tinglev from Fredericia. The 116 bus then took us to Tønder, a rather pretty little town with cafés selling flammkuchen. We had hoped to locate a bike shop, as Jack discovered he had left his cycle shorts on the drying rack back home. However, Danes situated even this side of the border have adopted the German observation of the Christian sabbath. Eschewing cakes of flamm and further dawdling, we ploughed into the headwind.

A pub’s name etched in fraktur was the only indication that we had entered the federal republic. On the other side, five Nordic crosses flew high, with the red and white Dannebrog flying highest of all. A lunch break sheltered from the wind was followed by a puncture less than 50 metres into our 560+ km trip. Unable to decide whether this omen was good or bad, we set off again after patching up, ready to make haste and up for the lost time.

According to the accounts of other cycle tourists, the first stint of the route is rather dull, with some preferring to start in Esbjerg on repeat visits. We wanted to cycle the whole route, both for completionism’s sake and to form our own judgements.

The likeness to northern Holland is uncanny, aside from the odd Viking mound: dykes, fields, the occasional windmill, lack of trees and the stink of agriculture. Cows, sometimes sheep, dot the landscape. Denmark’s agriculture, think Lurpak and Arla, forms a relatively large part of the national economy, which is surprisingly diverse (think Novo Nordisk, Mærsk and of course Lego) considering the workforce of just over 3 million is smaller than the population of Berlin. Yet it is Danish pork, not dairy, which brings home the bacon. Pig meat accounts for more than 5% of Danish exports. The farming of pigs has also seeped into the local culture. As a child, my farmor would encourage me to eat with extra verve by commanding, ‘Spis, min gris. I morgen skal du slagtes. (Eat up, my pig. Tomorrow you’re going to the slaughterhouse.)’ At this very moment anywhere between 25 to 30 million of these snouted squealers are living in Denmark, to be reared and have their flesh cut up, sold and eaten – five pigs for every Dane. We passed towns, villages, hamlets, farms, houses, fields and spotted people, cows, horses, goats, sheep, hares, rabbits, eagles, crows, gulls, butterflies, caterpillars and countless other critters, yet no swine was to be seen and counted.

The wind menaced and we were grateful for the brief respite produced by all-to-rare blots of hedgerows. Quixotically we celebrated the lack of a sea view; impressive mounds of earth to the west protected not only from floods but also the worst of the incessant blowing. (Though Denmark’s south-western Wadden neighbours may have been able to reclaim land from the sea, here the sea has definitely held the upper hand.) Embrace the wind, accept its majesty, submit to its potence and presence. Such mantras were swept around my bonce. I tried to grab hold of them to recite them over and over to stop myself tilting.

Churches and windmills pierced the sky. As the Neolithic and Viking burial grounds differentiate the land here from that of the Dutch, the churches erected by the Vikings’ Christian descendants exhibit a different reading of Luther compared to that of their Calvinistic cousins. Plain, unassuming, yet characterful enough. Until Ribe. The cathedral in Denmark’s oldest town stuns with its almighty grace harking back to pre-Reformation riches and excesses. Famished of body not spirit, we sought local delicacies: a Chinabox and salmon poke bowl.

The human–machine complex of lycraed-up body on bike is one of the most energy efficient inventions ever created. Hopping onto a bicycle, I subsume myself to the greater bicycle–bicyclist entity which transforms food into kilometres. The best part is, I get to enjoy both the food and the kilometres. And the food tastes so good.

A further 30 km laid afore us to reach the planned shelter in Esbjerg. Despite not wishing to forego the first ‘boring’ part of the trip, we saw no necessity in prolonging any potential ennui, despite the delayed start to the day. The long Scandinavian summer days allowed us the light to cycle into the evening, and as the sun gradually began to skim the horizon, a stillness settled. Deer could suddenly be spotted and birds of prey languidly hovered above an ever more dramatically lit theatre of life. We rolled into a forest, found a spare shelter, rolled out our sleeping mats and bags and settled for the night.

Reading Moby-Dick during a slow morning, I was accosted in English by a man sporting a British accent. ‘We don’t do that here on the Continent,’ he lectured me, a veritable Dane. I was unsure what it was we don’t do on the Continent, but soon enough we ascertained that neither I, nor my Copenhagen-residing bicycling buddy Jack, had done what we don’t do on the Continent; it was the German instead.

Four of us had camped just outside of Esbjerg: Jack and I, Bob the accoster and a German woman who was travelling without a stove. Bob, to be fair to him, was friendly after his opening gambit and offered tea and advice. As I was an evident bike-touring neophyte compared to Jack, Bob preached to me the manifold benefits of a certain brand of bike seat, forsaking the lycra and allowing one’s body to ‘interface’ with the bike. Vaseline, not padded shorts, was the answer to sore buttocks. Bob was chuffed to find Jack was padless and had the same brand of seat. Jack and I then made our way into Esbjerg to buy some cycling equipment: padded shorts, not Vaseline, of course.

Esbjerg is Denmark’s fifth largest settlement, laying claim to the biggest town as the four larger settlements are designated as cities (Copenhagen, Aarhus, Odense and Aalborg). In its heyday, its port used to see traffic from all over Europe, including Hull, a connection I often took during childhood. Decades old memories of reaching land after a wretched night shaken by the North Sea returned. It was on these journeys I discovered what bile was, and that it is black. The stink of fish on landfall may have been nauseating, but the firm stability of land was such a welcome relief, we would barely notice.

With a new pair of cycle shorts, a noseful of fish and an earful about not cycling in the almost deserted morning high street, we made our way past Esbjerg’s famed Men at Sea and out of town. Blasted mansions with impressive interiors lined the road on the east, whilst wind attacked us from the north and west. Gradually the domiciles reduced in splendour and size until they were no more, the traffic ceased and we ploughed inland, into a desolate landscape, freeing ourselves from the terrors of the wind.

A pig? Two! A whole group of at least five(!) were grazing in a little yard opposite a field of football golf.

After a lunch of bread and fillings with ice cream and a disappointing coffee machine coffee consumed in a small agricultural town, we were suddenly surrounded by glorious dunes. Soon enough we rolled into Vejer, the first proper seaside town of the trip, replete with summer houses and German numberplates. The cycle track was splendid. Speed on a bike is exhilarating, I finally realised away from the unceasing headwind, as I swerved and shifted up and down the gears winding through forests, dunes, the best of what the Danish west coast has to offer. The beauty is enough to attract a non-negligible amount of rental bike traffic.

And then the wind again. So much wind. So much wind was blowing we seriously contemplated the feasibility of our venture. We recouped next to a trampoline Zeppelin in a playground hut supping on rehydrated dehydrated daal and decided to take the more direct 30 km route to Husby rather than the pre-ordained 41 km one.

On the tarmacked main road there was little respite from the wind. Posts on the ground marked out each 100m. Each 100m somehow achievable yet added together as kilometres, somehow not. Deliriousness set in: we passed Lalandia, a miniature Disneyland with monstrous tumours growing from its architectures. Everything hurt. Mind and body spent, the kilometres still ticked down and a forest appeared, we ducked in, lovely unoccupied shelters welcomed us for the night. Hopefully tomorrow will be easier, was the one thought I could muster up.

A fox played tug of war with Jack with one of his bags in the middle of the night. Jack won, thankfully.

I spotted another fox or two in the morning, jotted down notes, failed to get into the adventures of Ishmael and instead attempted to study plans for the day. First off was breakfast, which we improvised with surprising panache from dehydrated pasta and a handful of eggs. Maybe the secret ingredient was hunger. Back on the bikes we enjoyed a lovely excursion through a forest before a long long straight road took us to Thyborøn. This would all be Copenhagen, I thought to myself. On the map we had feared the potential exposure, but it was the lack of change in scenery we should have feared for more; only the interruption of motor vehicles passing by broke up the monotony of the flatlands. A sprint from the most promising coffee shop in Thyborøn to the ferry was tighter than we had anticipated, but soon we were crossing the Limfjord, travelling for the first and only time not by the power of our own legs. Jack was once again sipping on disappointing coffee.

When planning the cycle route, I had asked around for potential companions. Given the capriciousness of the heavens and wanting to avoid rainy days and even windier weather, opting for a biking buddy who also resides in Denmark and is flexible to shifting holidays ended up being the best bet. Jack also happens to be the most experienced bike tourer I know, having traversed multiple routes through the Alps and cycled two months solo. I had worried about the route being too easy and boring for him when I planned out our stops. I need not have worried: yesterday was the longest day he had ever spent in the saddle, he told me. I had committed a rookie error, factoring in the kilometres, the headwind, the terrain, the paniers all individually, and not considered the intersection of all the challenges all at once.

Another long long straight road greeted us once we landed on the North Jutlandic Island. For kilometres the point of interest was a singular bird of prey gliding in fixed position riding the crests of wind from the west. This would still all be Copenhagen. Modernity has chewed up landscapes like these to house sprawling metropoles of people, steel and concrete, setting the stage for critics to bicker about culture, music and art, and how they represent class and other social divisions over turmeric lattes, whilst fat pigeons peck at fading posters plastered on advertising boards. Yet here, there was only Jack, me and a bird. Not 1 million people and their accessories. Which just begs the question again, where are the pigs? There are 25 to 30 million of them. We’ve accounted for six.

We arrived in Agger, the last settlement offering the opportunity to gather groceries before our next resting spot. The local grocer was an incredibly friendly teenager whose family had lived in Agger for generations. His American equivalent would be straight from the films about the frontiers, Jack mused. Remoteness can exist even in the confines of as small a country as Denmark.

Vorupør was our aim for the day, a seaside town situated at the furthest point from Copenhagen in Denmark. Even further than Bornholm, an island flung so far away it is as good as Swedish. As we would be staying over at a good friend’s place, Julia’s, we browsed each of the many honesty boxes accompanied by numerous jars of jams and honeys lining cupboards bedecked with little Danish flags. During the Nazi occupation, flying the Dannebrog was restricted as the only sanctioned flag was the red, white and black of the swastika. However, miniature and decorative white Nordic crosses on red backgrounds were still permitted and Danes took to adorning their cakes, balconies and all manner of furnitures with these little acts of non-illegal resistance. Hence the Danes’ affinity to their flag, according to one of my uncles: its representation of anti-Nazism. Nothing to do with its banging design and it being sent down from the heavens during the Battle of Lindanise in 1219 leading King Vlademar II to victory and the banner to become the oldest continuously serving national flag. Nor the fact that flags only look good in the wind and Denmark is one of the few countries where flags look good all year round because it is so bloody windy.

Anyway, we got some local honey and then luxuriated in domestic comforts.

When shopping we had not reckoned with needing to pick up cooking oil, believing this to be a staple of any kitchen. Yet after searching every nook and cranny of Julia’s kitchen for a smidgen of oil from rapeseed, olive or sunflower, our surest bet would be to skim off the top of an assortment of ever more pricey jars of nut butter. Not wanting to overreach our friend’s hospitality (who despite being out of town had still kindly allowed us to stay), I volunteered to cycle the extra couple of kilometres to enable us to have a fry-up.

Danish supermarkets do not match up to their German counterparts. Yet here in Vorupør, a seaside town comprised mainly of German tourists, the Meny is packed with all manner of bougie vegan delicacies and delights, perhaps even enough to rival stores in the vegan Mecca of Berlin. I gawped and trundled the aisles, still unable to find any oils. An awkward step, or simply a step too many, I don’t know, led to a shearing pain to shoot up my right leg from my Achilles’. Pain focused my mind and soon with far too fancy oil for a fry-up I tentatively cycled the two hills back. Even after a proper meal and a warm shower and the promise of a night to spend in a proper bed, I seriously doubted my ability to continue. I suggested Jack could continue by himself. He waved off the idea and suggested a good night’s sleep first.

Another warm shower followed by extra massaging and stretching as well as self-diagnosing tendonitis with the aid of various websites of varying degrees of reliability (no time for Melville’s adventures today), we decided on continuing until we couldn’t.

Klitmøller, which in an attempt to attract further tourism has begun to market itself as Cold Hawaii, was the next stop. It happened to be the only place on the whole route Jack had ever been to before, so we entered the town, watched the surf and took photos for Jack’s friends who would be returning here in a month’s time to catch the waves. Despite the nickname, there are no leis here.

Groceries in Hantsholm, where seagulls picked at ice thrown out onto the streets after storing critters of the sea, were followed by magnificent views of wind turbines, pointed straight at us. Finally, tailwinds.

Jack mentioned a Radio 4 programme called More or Less. In it, Tim Harford digs through stats featured in news articles sent in by listeners. Apparently turbines do kill that many birds. Jack is one of the few people with whom I could have conversed with in Danish or Mandarin, yet regardless of our sundhedskorter and stints in East Asia, we spoke in English due to a shared milieu very much still tethered to Blighty via Radio 4 programmes accessed via means of dubious legality. Nationality exists and can be lost and gained. The act of cycling through a country is getting to know the landmarks, the landscapes, the land itself. And the longer we remain away from former homes, the more our memories and connections fade, no matter the strength of past passions. And even if our memories remained crystals and connections firm, the country we once knew continues to change and develop and then morphs into something we never knew and can now barely recognise. What is Traitors anyway?

The tailwind was glorious. We sped up and down undulations in the dunes and basked in the Scandinavian summer sun. Pairs of mares with foals then stop us in our tracks; the tenderness of motherly care too enchanting to not acknowledge. ‘We thought they were cows,’ a couple from Kansas joked. They did look like cows from afar with their black and white splodges. The positivity and friendliness of Americans is infectious, even when tempered by the mandatory preliminary Trump apology precluding each first meeting. Bulbjerg was a must-see, supposedly.

And it was. We made it up the sheer slope and lunched with a view of the coast stretched out to the north and south. With me still limping we entered a Nazi bunker whose concrete walls espoused information on how paranoia of an Allied invasion led to the construction of these defensive positions set into the cliffs. Swallows nested above the electric lights which illuminated the signs, flying in and out of the artillery openings and above our heads.

Having ascertained I needed all of the help I could receive in order to complete the journey, I attempted to book a hotel room in Blokhus. 2000 kroner. Maybe not. We set off anyway, hoping a plan would emerge.

Forget using Vaseline and interfacing with the bike. The bicycle–bicyclist compound in itself is boring. The real joy lies in interfacing with the contours of the land, swerving this way and that, speeding up and slowing down with the dunes, experiencing the courses carved into the land, communioning with the gravel and ground, feeling the sun and breeze on bare faces. Even accompanied with the niggles of out-of-joint ankles and knees, it was a pleasure to ride through the sun-soaked scenery.

Soon enough we were in Blokhus, yet another pretty seaside town. Fish and chips and beer marked a good end to a good day. The replenishing effects of nourishment led me however to ponder upon the possibility of making it to Løkken, the next seaside town along, this evening, thereby shaving additional kilometres off of the last day of travel tomorrow. Plus, hotel rooms in Løkken were going for only 1000 kroner.

Jack agreed, though he was wary of the forecasted rain. I suspected only showers, so I underplayed its severity. Restarting after resting, it quickly became apparent our concentration was flagging hard. Wrong turns and missed signs became even more problematic as the rain we had hoped to outrun caught up with us. The map showed a long stretch of straight road coming up which would ease our navigation. Alas there was no road, only beach for as far as the eye could see. We cursed the increasingly wet sand and struggled for traction, whilst weighing up alternative lengthy detours, until we neared the sea, struck good sand and started gliding along the coastline with big fat grins plastered onto our faces with rain.

The hotel in Løkken was well worth the soaking. A wonderful shower, soft beds, a pleasant sofa. The supposed kitchenette was roomier and more well equipped than many kitchens we had claimed as our own in the years during and following university. There was even oil. Whilst catching up and reminiscing over the past few days, it had become apparent how we had unknowingly taught one another tricks over the years: I had learned to buy sundried tomatoes or artichokes in jars to use as sources of oil on camping trips from Jack and Lily; Jack and Lily in turn bought gas burners after seeing Sammy and I prepare meals in a fraction of time it took for them to get their oil burner started. Today I resolved to learn more from Jack and ate as many eggs as he did for breakfast.

After hosing off the worst of the sand from our bikes, I suggested a slight detour from the official route to visit yet more bunkers, which happened to house the only outdoor climbing place in Vendsyssel according to The Crag. The bunkers in Løkken lay tumbled in a row on the beach, the alien subterranean architectures having been excavated from the cliffs by the sea, gradually dragging them further into deeper waters. Climbing is out of the question, as the formerly sharp concrete edges worn away by the sand, sea, salt and wind reveal rusted iron bolts jutting out at precarious angles. Graffiti, by both locals and German tourists, are sprayed into the grey skin of these abandoned wartime lookouts built for a time which never materialised. Perhaps due to the fact that the west coast of Denmark was not the site of any war atrocities, the bunkers here evoke curiosity, even sereneness, over revulsion, despite their makers.

Out of the sand and back on route, we almost frolicked to Lønstrup, another beautiful seaside town with ice cream shops selling delightful apricot sorbets. Too inexperienced to recognise the tailwind, I credited Jack’s additional eggs for providing extra oomph. We passed Hirtshals without sampling its bunker museum, oceanarium or ferries to Norway, though we did visit the local Lidl. Five days in we had settled into a rhythm, with lunches of boller paired with miscellaneous smørrebrød spreads and copious quantities of biscuits punctuating our rides. As afternoon rolled in, the skies cleared of straggling clouds to reveal the bright and burning sun in all its glory. Jack finally shed his civilian clothes to reveal the yellow jersey and cycle shorts combo uniform. I, on the other hand, having little else to discard, overheated.

Our final destination was Skagen, the northernmost town of Denmark situated at the tip of Jutland, at the point where the seas of the North and Baltic meet. The unique shifting dune scenery first attracted artists to holiday here in the summers of the 1870s. Some stayed, resided alongside the local fishers and painted throughout the year, leaving behind a rich legacy which continues to attract tourists every summer. (For my part, I visit often, to see the seals basking on the beach.) For one week of the calendar year, week 29, the elite of Copenhagen’s northern suburbs gather here to occupy their summer houses and while away their time wandering around The Sand-Covered Church and art galleries, dining in fine restaurants in the evenings. Unwittingly, we had picked Hellerup week, as it is known locally, after the most affluent suburb in Denmark, to embark on our tour.

On the approach to Skagen, traffic on the cycle path gradually increased from zero to enough to no longer greet cyclists passing in the opposite direction. The rich of the rich were easily identifiable by their too crisp clothes and outsized vanities. Though at this point I was scarcely noticing anything: the strained sounds of grinding emanating from my bike matched my body’s own growing aches and pains. Somehow we cycled the last stint through town, past the last lighthouse and reached the carpark from which we disembarked and travelled the final 3 km on foot. En route the only seal we saw was dead. Now, though, we had no need for omens. Destination reached, mission accomplished, photographic evidence taken, two seas seen, Jack and I planned the rest of our day (pizza, beer, train back to Aalborg) whilst hobbling back down the beach. We unlocked our bikes, hopped back on and set off again, straight back into the headwind.

We found out afterwards that there was olive oil in the fridge and coconut oil in a hummus pack on the side at Julia’s.