D
Danmark
Guest
The air was fresh with a light breeze. Skylarks twittered high in the sky. The sun was struggling to break free of the strait-jacket that were the cotton wool clouds.
The view from up here on Storbakke, afforded an impressive view of the undulating Danish countryside. Rivers shimmered their way to the sea, fields had the appearance of a patchwork quilt. The capital city, Elsinore, was spread out looking quite vulnerable. In the distance, the unmistakable sand dunes, Danmark's last defence from the huge sea that today had the hue of lapis lazuli.
No one could see it, but on this day, a lone man was sat on the hill amongst the swaying grass, bicycle nearby. This solitary figure was engrossed in thought. Aged about 40 and with dark brown hair, he wore a dark green shirt rolled up to the elbows, black trousers and hob-nail boots. To all intents he had the appearance of a hard-at-heel artisan who'd seen better times - poor, but who's day would eventually come. A far-away look dominated his face. Few could have failed to see, if they'd been there, that there was a certain steely determination in those blue-grey eyes. A sense of purpose.
Danmark was a fairly harmonious society, at least that was what the metropolitan elite like to tell everyone. But any keen observer would have noticed there was something else, a gathering sense of unease with the state of things. In the past, people seemed to be much more sure of themselves and their place in the world. They might be poor, but they were generally happy.
But times had changed. Society was adrift. The elites were profligate and governed by an over-weening sense of smug hypocrisy and self-satisfaction. They were obsessed by shiny baubels and superficiality - pretty faces but with empty heads, who wouldn't know a days work if it was thrust in their face. The politicians were all fully paid-up travellers on the gravy train, all singing from the same hymn sheet and talking the same bull, but with no conviction. Left, right, centre - pfft! They were all the same.
People had more or less given up, they were disillusioned. But the Danes were also a stoical lot who clung to the hope that one day, no matter how far, that things might change. This provided them the sustenance to live out life.
"How dare those bastards screw my country!", spat the man in a broad Fynen accent. A flash of anger turned his face beetroot. He screwed up his eyes and clenched his right fist. The tension was relieved as he threw a rock deep into the long-grass.
But this momentary anger was quickly replaced by a strong determination. The anger would be funnelled to drive him, than be allowed to be unfocused.
"Something will be done! It must!", he vowed as he rose up.
Enough of the talking, now was the time for action. He roughly scooped up his bicycle, mounted, and rode with great haste to the northern environs of Elsinore.
The view from up here on Storbakke, afforded an impressive view of the undulating Danish countryside. Rivers shimmered their way to the sea, fields had the appearance of a patchwork quilt. The capital city, Elsinore, was spread out looking quite vulnerable. In the distance, the unmistakable sand dunes, Danmark's last defence from the huge sea that today had the hue of lapis lazuli.
No one could see it, but on this day, a lone man was sat on the hill amongst the swaying grass, bicycle nearby. This solitary figure was engrossed in thought. Aged about 40 and with dark brown hair, he wore a dark green shirt rolled up to the elbows, black trousers and hob-nail boots. To all intents he had the appearance of a hard-at-heel artisan who'd seen better times - poor, but who's day would eventually come. A far-away look dominated his face. Few could have failed to see, if they'd been there, that there was a certain steely determination in those blue-grey eyes. A sense of purpose.
Danmark was a fairly harmonious society, at least that was what the metropolitan elite like to tell everyone. But any keen observer would have noticed there was something else, a gathering sense of unease with the state of things. In the past, people seemed to be much more sure of themselves and their place in the world. They might be poor, but they were generally happy.
But times had changed. Society was adrift. The elites were profligate and governed by an over-weening sense of smug hypocrisy and self-satisfaction. They were obsessed by shiny baubels and superficiality - pretty faces but with empty heads, who wouldn't know a days work if it was thrust in their face. The politicians were all fully paid-up travellers on the gravy train, all singing from the same hymn sheet and talking the same bull, but with no conviction. Left, right, centre - pfft! They were all the same.
People had more or less given up, they were disillusioned. But the Danes were also a stoical lot who clung to the hope that one day, no matter how far, that things might change. This provided them the sustenance to live out life.
"How dare those bastards screw my country!", spat the man in a broad Fynen accent. A flash of anger turned his face beetroot. He screwed up his eyes and clenched his right fist. The tension was relieved as he threw a rock deep into the long-grass.
But this momentary anger was quickly replaced by a strong determination. The anger would be funnelled to drive him, than be allowed to be unfocused.
"Something will be done! It must!", he vowed as he rose up.
Enough of the talking, now was the time for action. He roughly scooped up his bicycle, mounted, and rode with great haste to the northern environs of Elsinore.