Christiansø and Bornholm, Denmark
We awoke to a brisk wind from the south and another bright day – perfect sailing weather. The old Lindblad luck has been with us from the start, for we have been on a Baltic high ever since we left St.Petersburg. Those first on deck this morning saw a beautiful full-rigged ketch scudding across the sea, and other sails appeared throughout the day: the western Baltic has been the birthplace of schooners, windjammers and clipper ships for over 300 years.
Bornholm is the easternmost land belonging to Denmark, and had been a frontline “listening” site for NATO during the cold war. Just off its northeastern shore are the two tiny granite islets of Frederiksø and Christiansø, our first landfall of the day. Our trusty Zodiacs punched in through a short sea to the sheltered anchorage between the two islets. A perfect spot to explore. The whole island is one huge rockery, with flowering plants wedged in the crevices of the pink granite outcrops, or, like the dainty Ivy-leaved Toadflax, clambering up the mortared cracks of the impressive stone walls. We followed the stone ramparts past little sandy garden plots with rhubarb, potatoes and onions. Out on the northwestern tip, the island of Graesholm was clamouring with razorbills, guillemots and gulls galore, while in the lee of the wavewashed skerries, eider ducks taught eager ducklings to dive for food. A brood of mallard ducklings paddled round a stone well, with a white wagtail escort. In the gardens of the old fishing cottages, roses, apple and cherry trees grew. We paused to admire a beautiful Swedish schooner tied alongside, and its beautiful Swedish crew of lissome blondes, busy beating out mattresses over the rails. There were one or two of us who would have run away to sea there and then; the rest sighed and made do with a digital image.
We crossed the wooden swing bridge and explored up on the heights of Christiansø, by the huge circular fort built in 1684, the flag of Denmark fluttering in the breeze (see picture), past flowering hawthorn, elm and Swedish whitebeam trees, until we were serenaded by a chorus of green frogs in a tiny pond with white water lilies.
Back on board for lunch and then away southwest to anchor off the main island, Bornholm. Once we’d negotiated curling breakers off the mouth of Gudhjem harbour, we stepped ashore onto an island unlike any we’ve seen before: windmills, a rolling landscape with swaying fields of barley and wheat, dense woods of oak and ash, sheep-grazed granite gorges and scattered farms. We paused at one of the four round defensive churches of Bornholm, where craftsmen were replacing the thousands of wooden shingles that cover the conical roof. This church is a thousand years old, with an ancient oak carving of St.Olaf above the door, and a gnarled old weeping ash tree at its side. The buses led us out to the northern corner of the island, where on a windy knoll 400 feet above the sea, a ruined castle of granite and brick stares out defiantly at the old enemy, Sweden. The southern shore of Sweden is only 25 miles away across the sea, much closer than the rest of Denmark. The site is like something out of Arthurian legend, with huge twisted trees in its grounds, and a natural stone moat that separates it from the dense woodland lapping up to its feet. Then back along the coast to a smokehouse restaurant for a glass of schnapps and a smoked mackerel, before we re-boarded our Zodiacs for a triumphant return to the ship across a scalloped golden sea.
We awoke to a brisk wind from the south and another bright day – perfect sailing weather. The old Lindblad luck has been with us from the start, for we have been on a Baltic high ever since we left St.Petersburg. Those first on deck this morning saw a beautiful full-rigged ketch scudding across the sea, and other sails appeared throughout the day: the western Baltic has been the birthplace of schooners, windjammers and clipper ships for over 300 years.
Bornholm is the easternmost land belonging to Denmark, and had been a frontline “listening” site for NATO during the cold war. Just off its northeastern shore are the two tiny granite islets of Frederiksø and Christiansø, our first landfall of the day. Our trusty Zodiacs punched in through a short sea to the sheltered anchorage between the two islets. A perfect spot to explore. The whole island is one huge rockery, with flowering plants wedged in the crevices of the pink granite outcrops, or, like the dainty Ivy-leaved Toadflax, clambering up the mortared cracks of the impressive stone walls. We followed the stone ramparts past little sandy garden plots with rhubarb, potatoes and onions. Out on the northwestern tip, the island of Graesholm was clamouring with razorbills, guillemots and gulls galore, while in the lee of the wavewashed skerries, eider ducks taught eager ducklings to dive for food. A brood of mallard ducklings paddled round a stone well, with a white wagtail escort. In the gardens of the old fishing cottages, roses, apple and cherry trees grew. We paused to admire a beautiful Swedish schooner tied alongside, and its beautiful Swedish crew of lissome blondes, busy beating out mattresses over the rails. There were one or two of us who would have run away to sea there and then; the rest sighed and made do with a digital image.
We crossed the wooden swing bridge and explored up on the heights of Christiansø, by the huge circular fort built in 1684, the flag of Denmark fluttering in the breeze (see picture), past flowering hawthorn, elm and Swedish whitebeam trees, until we were serenaded by a chorus of green frogs in a tiny pond with white water lilies.
Back on board for lunch and then away southwest to anchor off the main island, Bornholm. Once we’d negotiated curling breakers off the mouth of Gudhjem harbour, we stepped ashore onto an island unlike any we’ve seen before: windmills, a rolling landscape with swaying fields of barley and wheat, dense woods of oak and ash, sheep-grazed granite gorges and scattered farms. We paused at one of the four round defensive churches of Bornholm, where craftsmen were replacing the thousands of wooden shingles that cover the conical roof. This church is a thousand years old, with an ancient oak carving of St.Olaf above the door, and a gnarled old weeping ash tree at its side. The buses led us out to the northern corner of the island, where on a windy knoll 400 feet above the sea, a ruined castle of granite and brick stares out defiantly at the old enemy, Sweden. The southern shore of Sweden is only 25 miles away across the sea, much closer than the rest of Denmark. The site is like something out of Arthurian legend, with huge twisted trees in its grounds, and a natural stone moat that separates it from the dense woodland lapping up to its feet. Then back along the coast to a smokehouse restaurant for a glass of schnapps and a smoked mackerel, before we re-boarded our Zodiacs for a triumphant return to the ship across a scalloped golden sea.
