We couldn't afford a flight south to the sun, but we longed for an overseas holiday that would suit Rosemary and I, and our two small children, Richard and Rebecca. The travel agent selected a huge pile of brochures from the brimming racks, filling a carrier bag, and handed it to us with a smile saying, in effect, go read.
We did. When we could.
I had a busy shop to run and my wife Rosemary was very spending any time she had exploring an interesting and creative new job in botanical illustration at Oxford University. She is a superb artist. Meanwhile Richard and Rebecca devoured the brochures, almost literally. They covered them in chocolate, blackcurrant jelly and stickers of fantasy monsters as they explored the exciting multi-coloured pages. Gradually we narrowed down what was still legible.
Most of the holidays we ruled out immediately on price. A few looked good, but we rejected them because we couldn't make out what they were beneath the edible layers. Others we cut as being either unsuitable either for children or sensitive, cultured adults like what we are.
Favourites among the few remaining legible trips were a couple of Danish bed and breakfast farm holidays. Pictures of adorable piglets, (did the children realise the connection with Danish Bacon?), cows and calves in buttercup strewn summer meadows shone from the pages and called to us across the North Sea. We chose one which offered accommodation in a huge Hans Christian Andersen type thatched farmhouse on the island of
Funen.
A few weeks later we boarded the ferry and set out across the North Sea. On board we discovered one of the best children's playrooms I have ever seen, simply a large carpeted room containing nothing more than a six foot mountain of loose Lego. Richard and Rebecca took one look and dived into Lego heaven. Now and then we dragged them out for meals and visits to the toilets.
Next day, as we sailed in to Esbjerg, Richard discovered the riches of other languages.
"Daddy! Daddy! There's a rude word on the wall!"
"What? Here?" I asked, admiring the nesting storks squabbling around chimney pot nest sights and stilt walking along roof ridges, "Are you sure?"
"Yes! Look! There!" he urged, pointing.
And there, on the dockside wall, in letters two metres tall, was painted the word FART.
"Ah, erm, no, Richard. In Danish people's talk I think it means 'trips' or 'voyages' or something like that, erm ... It's not rude."
"Our teacher says it is and we're not supposed to say it."
There followed the usual tortuous conversation of trying to explain to a small child why you can say just any word in some countries and some words in every country, but you mustn't say any words in every country. By which time my brain was hurting and I suggested we explore the availability of chocolate with Mummy instead. I'm still not sure whether he was convinced Daddy knew much about languages.
In those days Customs was only to be dreaded on return to UK shores. Going to mainland Europe was relatively easy and we were waved through with a smile. Even in our old jalopy, It didn't take long to cross Jutland because the roads were first class and, compared to our crowded island, the traffic was light.
Soon we were pulling up in front of our holiday address, a magnificent, huge thatched, traditional Danish farmhouse with whitewashed walls.
The children were amazed, because it was straight out of their Hans Christian Anderson story books. The front door opened and Mr and Mrs Joseph came out to meet us in a flurry of smiles and handshakes. And in Mrs Joseph's case, fluent English. More of Mr Joseph's linguistic skills later.
It soon became apparent that we had come to stay on a proper traditional farm, with cows in willow lined meadows, pigs in beautiful clean straw styes and chickens contentedly scratching around everywhere. Once we had settled in we were offered a guided tour of the farm by Mr Joseph. Off we went through immaculate cowsheds, dairies, barns and meadows, patting and petting animals wherever we went. This holiday was getting off to a wonderful start, especially with Richard, who was very taken with the pigs.
First day, so we relaxed, watched Mr Joseph give the pigs their morning feed by scooping food from a hopper and putting a measured amount in each pen's trough. In the afternoon we took a very pleasant stroll around the farm and came back to find our wonderful hosts had prepared a sumptuous cream tea, in the large rambling old garden, sun shining, bliss.
Nobody noticed that Richard had wandered off.
Suddenly we were jolted out of our dreamlike state by a squealing cacophony from the pig-pen. Mr Joseph, closely followed by the rest of us, ran towards the noise. We found all the pigs standing on their hind legs at their pen gates, squealing at the pen at the end, the only pen of pigs not making a din. These little piggies were contentedly tucking into a pile of food and ignoring their agitated companions. Richard had so enjoyed the morning visit to see the pigs being fed that he thought he'd go back and have a go himself. His mistake was not realising that all pigs are equal, and he gave all the food to the pigs in the first pen and none to the others, a sure way of creating chaos in the piggery.
We spent the rest of our week in Denmark visiting famous sites including Copenhagen's Little Mermaid and Tivoli Gardens, the Odense home of Hans Christian Anderson, and Legoland.
Becky acquired a lovely colourful helium balloon in the Tivoli, which we carefully tied around her wrist. She kept fiddling with the string because she wanted to make her balloon dance, but our knot seemed to be secure. It jiggled along with us all the way across Copenhagen to our train, amused cigar smoking grannies during the one and a half hour journey from Jutland to Funen, and followed us into Mr Joseph's car for the final leg to the farm. Indeed, it followed us to the farmhouse door, where Becky finally managed to undo it's string so that she could 'make it dance'.
It danced, up, up, up and away into the evening sky, while Becky cried for it to come back. She learned that parents can be useless in some of life's most distressing moments.
