Of Ships and Churches

by Marie-Louise Jensen

Churches can be a fascinating reflection of their local community and history. I have grown up visiting churches in the North of Jutland (Denmark) and taking for granted that in each church, there will be at least one model ship suspended from the ceiling.

Lønstrup

In a community where almost every family made their living from the sea, mainly from fishing, the sea and its dangers were part of life. In Skagen, fishing was done from the beach until the harbour was built in 1904. On the west coast, fishing from the beach continued for much longer and there are still small communities like Lønstrup, where fishing boats are still winched on and off the beach today.

Lønstrup Boathouse

The North Sea is big and dangerous and without modern navigation tools, engines or weather forecasting, many persished at sea. This was the same for fishing communities the world over, of course. But here it has been integrated into the churches. The ships are there as a reminder that every family has lost members to the sea, that many may have loved ones at sea even as some sit in church. Perhaps they are also a form of thanksgiving - a reminder that the sea provides food and - for some - prosperity.
This is Skagen's Kirke:

 As one might expect of such a grand church (by local standards) it has a sophisticated interior. And some smart ships. Here is one of them:

Råbjerg kirke

But the ships are in all the coastal churches (and right up in the north, almost everywhere is on the coast). This church is in the middle of a dune, grass and farmland landscape, not far from the west coast. It has an interesting history of its own; it stands alone because the village around it had to be abandoned during a bad spell of shifting sand. But the church endures, solitary and charming. It underwent major restoration in 1931 and is now on a busy summer route to the beach so, for a few weeks a year, it has plenty of visitors:

The interior is low ceilinged and beamed and painted the traditional white. And of course, there are beautiful model ships suspended down the middle of the church:

It is impossible not to know you are in a coastal community when you sit in the churches here and look around. (For copyright : all photos are my own, taken summer 2017)

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A Brief Lighthouse History

by Marie-Louise Jensen

Within a short stretch of coast on the very northern tip of Jutland, there are three lighthouses. Two are decommissioned, the third is still active. They are a remarkable glimpse into the development of the lighthouse in Denmark. 

This first picture is of the Skagen's vippefyr (or 'lever light') which is a copy of the lighthouse that guided ships around the tip of Jutland from 1627 to 1747. It was the first of its kind and replaced an earlier system - a parrot light. This new design allowed the burning coals to be hoisted into the air, clearly visible to passing ships, contained in a metal basket, thus reducing the risk of setting the wooden structure alight. 

This was one of three of a kind that marked the shipping channel from the North Sea down into the Baltic - an important but treacherous route for Danish vessels, especially in the days of sail. This one defintely has a quaint, olde worlde look to it.
A short distance further north, but in sight of each other, is another lighthouse; Det hvide fyr (the white lighthouse). This looks altogether more modern, even with its lantern removed:

(Photo attribution: by Arnoldius (Own work) [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons)

The white lighthouse served Skagen from 1747 to 1858. The first Danish lighthouse to be built of stone, it was originally red brick until it was whitewashed at the beginning of the 19th century. It must have originally had another name! Initially coal fired, rapeseed oil was later burned.

The third lighthouse on this small peninsula is the Skagen Lighthouse, also known as the Grey Lighthouse (Skagen fyr; det grå fyr).

This lighthouse came into use in 1858 and is still in use. It is impossible to tell from the photographs, of course, but at 46 metres tall, it is more than twice the height of its predecessor. The original parafin lamp was replaced by a 1,000 watt and then a 1,500 watt sodium lamp. It's not difficult to imagine the progress towards safety at sea that these developments must have made over the years. Having seen an old chart of shipwrecks clustered at the tip of Jutland, I know how necessary that was.
What is fascinating at Skagen, is having these three very different lighthouses from different eras all in view at once; testament to the importance of warning ships of the dangers of the peninsula through the centuries and to people's continual striving to improve the system for doing so.

Incidentally, the Skagen lighthouse is now also home to a migratory bird reserve with hides and an interactive museum inside. An excellent double use for the building.

Victorian Christmas - in Denmark; Marie-Louise Jensen

I enjoyed reading Mary Hooper's wonderful post on Tuesday so much that I decided to post another Christmas scene, set at a similar time but in a different country. This is from my first book Between Two Seas, and is Marianne's first experience of Christmas in Denmark:

Hannah pulls the door open and hugs me before I
have a chance to knock.
“Marianne! Come and see our decorations!” she
cries at once.
“You’ve made it so pretty!” I exclaim. The tiny
house is bright and clean. There is an apple studded with cloves on the table. I smell the warm exotic scent at once. Red paper hearts are pinned to the walls. The table is set simply but prettily, with china and serviettes. Soft candlelight completes the atmosphere. Hannah beams with delight.
“The cloves came from the wreck,” she tells me. “Mother bought them at the auction.”
Hannah’s mother shakes my hand. “Welcome Marianne! Come and warm yourself by
the stove.”
“I have a small gift for you first,” I say a little nervously, laying two tiny parcels on the table. It has been a puzzle to know what to give them, as I still have absolutely no money. In the end I chose my two best handkerchiefs and embroidered them with the prettiest threads from
my sewing box. The parcels are wrapped in the tissue paper that lined my trunk. I watch anxiously while Hannah and her mother unwrap them. To my relief they both seem pleased. On Hannah’s I’ve embroidered an intricate “H” in one corner and tiny pink flowers in the others. For her mother, a blue “C” (her name is Charlotte) and blue flowers.
“Marianne, they’re beautiful,” breathes Hannah.
“That was too generous,” her mother tells me, giving me a kiss on the cheek. “It must have taken you hours.”
“Oh no,” I assure her. “I learned to sew as soon as I could hold a needle.”
They lay the handkerchiefs on their bed, and Hannah’s mother puts on her apron and begins to fry fish.
“We only have dried fish for our Christmas
meal, I’m afraid,” Hannah tells me apologetically. “And we need to eat much earlier than usual, as mother has to go back to the hotel to help prepare the Christmas meal there. They have lots of guests.”
“That’s no problem at all, I promise.” I am glad the supper will be early. Having not eaten yet today, I’m starting to feel faint.
“But just wait until you see what we have for dessert,” Hannah adds. She hugs herself in excitement, her eyes gleaming.
“Dessert?” I ask, surprised. I can’t remember the last time I had any kind of dessert.
“You look like you could do with some,” Hannah’s mother tells me, coming back into the room. “Are you going very short of food at Jacobsen’s?”
I hesitate, unwilling to lie outright, but not keen to admit the truth either. “We’re managing,” I tell her.
“Well, there’ll be no fresh fish while the sea stays frozen,” says Hannah’s mother seriously.
Hannah must have been teasing me when she said there was only dried fish for supper. There are also potatoes and carrots with melted butter. It’s the best meal I’ve had in months. I eat hungrily. Then Hannah proudly helps her mother lay two serving dishes of dessert on the table.
“It’s ris à l’amande,” she explains.
I don’t realise for a moment that Hannah’s using a French name. Then I understand. Rice with almonds. It looks as though there’s a generous amount of cream stirred into it as well. The second dish has fruit in a sauce.
“Does this have a French name too?” I ask.
“No, that’s kirsebærsovs,” she laughs. Cherry sauce. “They’ve made a huge portion for Christmas at the hotel. They gave mother some to bring home,” Hannah explains, handing round bowls and spoons. “It’s what they’re eating later tonight, so we are as grand as they are!”
I taste a spoonful of my portion. The rice is rich and creamy, and the pieces of almond crunch deliciously. The cherries burst on the tongue adding sweetness. Hannah and her mother are watching me expectantly, waiting for my reaction.
“It tastes so good,” I assure them. “I love it.”
I eat very, very slowly, tasting every spoonful, making it last as long as possible. I store up the memory of the taste. When we’ve eaten every last bit, we clear away, and Hannah’s mother
brews some rosehip tea from the rosehips they picked in the autumn. Then she wraps herself in her shawl to go to work while Hannah and I settle down by the fire to drink our tea and talk.