The Year of Living Danishly (27 page)

The makers describe the ugly lamp as being like a ‘light bath' that I can take at any time of the day. They promise that it will make me feel fresh and energised. By using it in place of my normal alarm clock, I will start every morning with more pep than usual. It will also improve my day-today well-being. It will make my ‘
wake-up experience
' more enjoyable. It will even boost my brainpower, give me slimmer thighs and make me pancakes for breakfast (OK so I made the last two up, but basically, if the manufacturers are to be believed, it's the bee's knees). Lego Man is sceptical.

‘It cost
how
much?'

I refrain from pointing out how much
he's
spent on Danish designer lighting over the past eleven months and instead focus on our new ugly lamp's plus points.

‘It's been developed by “
leading light therapy experts
”,' I read out from the manual.

‘It looks hideous.'

‘It's “
inspired by nature's sunrise
”…'

‘And it doesn't even play music?'

‘It “
emits natural sounds to accompany your wake-up experience
”.'

‘What, like dolphins and whale song?'

‘I don't know,' I frown at the small print. ‘I haven't got to that bit yet…'

Still grumbling, he helps me set it up and we go to bed confident (at least, one of us is) that we'll have a good night's sleep followed by a gentle sunrise coaxing us into morning and building to a soul-lifting brightness that will fortify us for the day ahead.

Five hours later and I'm blinded by an enormous orb of iris-exploding luminosity, six inches from my head.

‘Arghhh!'

It's not even time for the alarm to go off yet.
WHY IS THE LIGHT SO BLOODY BRIGHT?

Lego Man snores on, oblivious.

I'VE NEVER SEEN A SUNRISE LIKE THIS! IT'S PREPOSTEROUS!

Squinting, I reach out a hand to find a button to turn the damn thing off but the streamlined ergonomic design means that it's impossible to distinguish one faint bump from another. Pressing anything I can find, I accidentally turn on the ‘nature sounds'.

‘What's going on…? Can I hear birds?' Lego Man, now conscious, is croaking and shielding his eyes from the glare. A panic rises in his voice: ‘Are there birds in our bedroom? There are
birds
…
everywhere
!'

I feel for more buttons to try to kill the crazy birds but fail to get purchase and accidentally knock the orb off its base. It tips over. Out of reach now, I attempt to hoist myself up onto my elbow to retrieve the lamp but as my fingertips make contact, it's propelled forward. I watch, wide-awake now, as the thing rolls, slowly, off the bedside table. There is a ‘
crack
!' as it hits the hard, wooden Scandi-issue floor. The light goes out, and the birdsong fades to a sad tweet before dying.

There is a thud next to me as Lego Man slumps back down in bed.

‘Well, that went well. I feel more relaxed and refreshed already,' he says.

I say nothing.

‘That must be the most expensive wake-up call we've ever had.'

I take several deep breaths before coming up with: ‘Would you like me to make pancakes for breakfast?'

Tired, tetchy and thoroughly cheesed off, I spend the morning researching other recommended antidotes for the Danish winter. Many experts swear by vitamin D, known as the ‘sunshine vitamin', and research reported in the
New England Journal of Medicine
(everyone's favourite bedtime read) linked a deficiency to depression. It's also supposed to help prevent skin problems, cancer, strokes, heart disease and autoimmune diseases like multiple sclerosis. Darshana Durup of the Department of Pharmacology and Pharmacotherapy at the University of Copenhagen has been looking into whether or not the Danes have been getting their Ds, and as she tells me when I get in touch, the prognosis isn't good. ‘A report from 2010 estimated that up to 40 per cent of the Danish population are Vitamin D deficient in winter,' says Darshana. ‘The Ministry of Food, Agriculture and Fisheries recommend that you get 10µg/day but the average Dane is getting approximately 3µg/day. The best source is the sun, but in Denmark there isn't enough of that from October to March.' Yes, the winters in Denmark are so grim that they're officially bad for your health.
This is getting ridiculous
.

I find out that Danes suffering from
vinterdepression
are advised to up their intake of Vitamin D-rich foods as a substitute for sunshine but many also start popping it in pill form come autumn. As I'm pregnant, it's recommended I do the same, so I go on a mission to score myself some D. As it's not currently snowing (a novelty of late) I decide to go by bike, in case I'm lucky enough to catch the ‘hour a day' of sun that the Ministry of Climate and Energy have been teasing me with.

I don't. Instead, wind-blasted, with fingers blue from cold, despite woollen mittens worn
over
gloves, I make it to my local shop only to find that they are all out of Vitamin D. There is a handy gap in the shelf between C and E and the assistant tells me that they won't be getting any more in before Christmas. After a bit more pedalling and puffing, I reach a chemist. But it has such a confusing 80s-deli-counter-style ticket number and queuing system that I spend twenty minutes waiting in line before a busty lady barges in front of me and I'm at the back again. I leave in protest and decide to chance the supermarket.

‘
Nej
,'(‘no') the woman I ask in supermarket number one tells me when I ask if they might possibly stock vitamin tablets. A man in the second supermarket I try looks at me as though I am clinically insane and shuffles off. This happens a lot. I think it's the pigeon Danish spoken with a funny accent that does it. But a woman in the third shop speaks English and, more importantly, kindly
deigns
to. It turns out that she is also training to be a nutritionist on the side. God bless Denmark's obsession with qualifications for even the most seemingly basic shop assistant's post and the nation's love of lifelong learning. She tells me that clever Danes bought up all stocks of Vitamin D back in September (they like to plan ahead) and the shops are unlikely to be getting any more in, but that she can suggest some D-heavy foods I might like to try. You don't get that in a Tesco Metro.

‘Sardines, mackerel and eggs are all good,' she tells me. ‘Good, but smelly!' she jokes. Splendid. We're in for a windy week in the Russell household. I fill my bicycle basket with the offending items and set off home, resolving to order Vitamin D tablets online from the UK. Yes, eleven months in Denmark has turned me into an international drug smuggler.

Pedalling my now-enormous bulk back with the smell of fresh mackerel filling my nostrils, it starts to rain. I push on, but after five more minutes the temperature drops still further, making me catch my breath at the cold. My fingers are frozen into a rigor mortis-like grip around the handle-bars and the wind whips through the crotch of my trousers. And not in a good way. Then something abrasive starts to hit my face and I wonder whether it's frostbite until I hear a
ting ting ting!
– as though some ghostly force is ringing the bell on my bike. I look down. I can't feel my own fingers but I'm pretty sure it's not me doing that.
Ting ting ting!
It becomes more insistent and I realise that the percussion sounds are being made by the hailstones now hitting my bicycle bell.
Ting ting ting!
Hail plus pregnancy hormones are too much to bear in one afternoon and I start to cry. Fat, hot tears mix with the rain and hail that now appear to be falling simultaneously in a full-on chicken-licken-type scenario as I pedal as hard as I can and the baby boots me for all (80 per cent likely) he's worth.

I make it home – flinging the bike in the shed in disgust as though it has been personally responsible for making my trip so unpleasant, and pawing my way inside to safety. And biscuits. It takes a lot of Earl Grey and ginger nuts until I feel fully human again.

I vow to continue my crusade to understand how the Danes stay happy in winter from the comfort of my own home and post an SOS on Facebook: ‘
Danes: how do you get through winter and stay so bloody happy? I've tried daylight lamps, I'm trying vitamin D, I've even tried exercise and going outside (endorphins and all that) but it was HORRIBLE. Yours, disgruntled Brit-on-sea.
'

The responses are instant:

‘
Well that's where you've been going wrong! The secret to getting through winter in Denmark is to stay inside!
' writes one.

‘
Suck it up, you can't change the way the sun sets
,' posts another (don't I have nice friends?).

‘
Two words: “hygge” and “candles”
,' adds Helena C. She goes on to explain her ‘theory' (and I use this in the loosest sense of the word) that by lighting enough candles, seasonal affective disorder can be avoided and a harmonious,
hygge
holiday season can ensue. This seems unlikely. But can 5.5 million people really be wrong? I remember that Danes use more candles per capita than any other nation in the world, and burn through 6kg of waxen wicks a year according to the European Candle Association. Their nearest counterparts, the Swedes, come in at a measly 4kg of candles per person with the Brits lagging behind at 0.6 of a kg (big old waxy lightweights…).

I resolve to give candle therapy a go. We eat rye bread by tea lights for breakfast, then I spend the day working on Christmassy features to the soothing light and scent of a Jo Malone candle I've been saving for a rainy day (or month. Or season). For supper, we light tapered wicks on candlesticks and sit at a proper table. I'm not sure if it's making me feel any better but candlelight's certainly more flattering. I catch sight of our reflections in the mirror above the bookcase and see that we're both bathed in a warm orange glow. The bags under my eyes are almost imperceptible in the semi-darkness and no one can see that my roots need doing. Lego Man's cheekbones are accentuated and he comes over all Viking warrior.
We look hot!
I think. Feeling smug we eat (mackerel, obviously), talk, laugh and even relax a little.

‘This is nice!'

‘Isn't it?'

‘Candles, eh?'

‘Who'd have thought? Maybe these crazy Danes have been on to something, all along!'

We laugh and the dog, not liking to be left out, begins to bark loudly in appreciation. Startled, I knock over a particularly spindly glass candelabra (who buys glass candelabras? I'll tell you who: Lego Man. He has some sort of Liberace alter ego that only comes out in home furnishing shops). This, in turn, spills wax over the pine wood floor of our rented house and sets fire to a napkin. The industrial-sized Ikea fire hydrant comes into its own and within the space of two minutes we've gone from a romantic candlelit dinner for two to an Ibiza foam party.

This isn't working. I need an expert: a professional to tell me the truth about these Narnia-esque winters and how to handle them. My knight in weatherproof armour comes in the form of John Cappelen of the Danish Meteorological Society who I call up the next morning.

It's 8.45am and the peninsular is still draped in darkness. I watch a slow drizzle wriggle its way down our double-glazed windows as I explain my dilemma: ‘I've tried light therapy, I've tried vitamin D, I've tried going outside and even getting
hygge
: my house is currently 70 per cent wax, 20 per cent wick and 10 per cent
snegles
but nothing is working. My neighbours have all been abducted by the White Witch, there's no one around, it's freezing cold and pitch black outside. What's a girl to do?' I tell him that I knew it was tough when I arrived in January but that the prospect of four more months of this stretching ahead of me may be more than any human being should be expected to bear.

Getting into my stride, I tell him I've read the stats: I know the winter will get even colder, that it rains almost every day in Denmark and the average wind speed is 7.6 metres per second, which explains why 30 per cent of electricity in Denmark is produced by wind power, why the country is one of the world's largest exporters of wind turbines and why I've been sporting the late 1990s windswept look for nearly a year now. ‘So really, John, give it to me straight: what's there to love?'

He pauses before imparting his words of wisdom; the key to understanding the nation's psyche; the Holy Grail for depressed expats countrywide: ‘To be truly Danish—' says John in lowered tones.

‘—Yes?' I'm tense with anticipation.

‘—you must learn to
embrace
the winter weather.'

‘That's
it
?'

‘Yes.'

‘
Really?
Is that even possible?'

‘Of course. Weather is the number one thing we talk about in Denmark – Danes love talking about what's happening out there, and there's always something new. Norway and Sweden have much more stable weather so there's less to talk about,' he says pityingly of our Nordic neighbours, though seeming to omit the Finns. ‘In
Denmark
, we are just below two big weather systems,' he goes on, ‘so we get the wet, humid Western frontal system from the UK and the Eastern winds from Siberia bringing cold weather in winter and sunny days in summer. It's just so variable! You can never plan around the weather in Denmark.

‘You have to just go with it. We Danes like to plan most things but the weather is totally out of our control. That's what makes it so exciting! But it's not dangerous weather like you get in some other places. Danes don't have to be afraid of their weather here – it's just entertainment. Just think about the storm we had a few weeks back; it was all people could talk about. It took up three-quarters of the TV news. Not wars, not politics overseas or celebrities – the weather!' He's on a roll now: ‘What do you think about when you get up in the morning? You think about what the weather will be like! It influences what clothes you're going to put on that day as well as what you might need to pack and take with you for later on, because the weather changes so much throughout the course of the day in Denmark. There's always something new.'