Why not, he thought, drive to Denmark?
With the inside of the boat now looking just a little tidier than a Lunêville bric-a-brac shop, that stupid throw away thought started to form little solid bits round the edges. The urgency in our shopping for provisions disappeared during our planned trip to town just after the lovely people at the hire car place confirmed that we could keep it for another couple of weeks at the same silly rate.
A quick call to Jørn and Birgit confirmed they would indeed be home were we to appear on their doorstep.
Even a call to a recently turned nonagenarian resulted in confirmation of sorts when we told her of our new plan:
“Norway?”
“No Mum, Denmark.”
(Confused silence.)
“You know. Denmark, it’s where Princess Mary lives.”
“Oh. Tell her I really enjoy the photos of her children.”
That’s settled it then.
What the heck. So long as you were so close, it was Denmark or Greece. Or maybe Tunisia.
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