LEGO of Your Inhibitions
There comes a time in everyone’s life when they feel compelled to go big—an unspoken challenge to outdo their previous adventures, preferably in a way that involves fewer calories than cycling across a continent but more logistical chaos than a weekend in Devon. For us, this was that moment. Having already completed tours of the Iberian Peninsula, Southern Europe, the Balkans, the Alps, and Eastern Europe in Vishnu, our trusty and slightly grumpy converted transit van, we set our sights on Scandinavia. Here was a land of staggering beauty, untamed wilderness, and a reputation for bears so robust that I began to suspect they had their own marketing team. Scandinavia had topped my wish list for years, though its notoriously expensive beer and the prospect of spending weeks in perpetual drizzle had, until now, kept it firmly in the “maybe later” category. But at last, the stars aligned, and we decided to take on the challenge—8,000 miles of fjords, forests, and ferry schedules that would make NASA engineers weep. Our plan was ambitious, as plans made in the comfort of one’s home often are. We would visit every Scandinavian country, push ourselves as far north as the continent allowed in Norway, and return via the Baltics and Poland, mapping a route that would challenge not only Vishnu’s suspension but also our patience. With heads full of visions of endless coastlines, rugged landscapes, and faintly alarming ferry timetables, we packed up and set off, blissfully unaware of just how much cobblestone lay in our future.
After a mercifully uneventful Channel crossing and a hurried zip through Germany, we arrived in Ribe, Denmark’s oldest town and a place that might have been designed specifically to charm anyone with a pulse. It’s impossibly pretty, every street a carefully curated display of medieval architecture and historical whimsy. However, driving Vishnu into Ribe was like trying to navigate a space shuttle through a maze of corn. The streets were an unholy combination of narrow, cobbled, and winding—picturesque for pedestrians, hellish for vans. By the time we reached our parking spot, Vishnu was audibly groaning, and I wasn’t far behind.
Ribe’s charm is undeniable. The pastel-painted houses lean at angles that are just enough to be endearing without causing structural concern, and the cobblestones look as though they were hand-laid by someone who spent a lot of time sighing at the sky. At the centre of it all is Ribe Cathedral, a towering piece of Romanesque-Gothic architecture that has presided over the town since the 12th century. It’s the sort of building that makes you feel uncultured just by standing near it. We chose to admire it from the safety of a pub, reasoning that a pint and a view were far better than sore necks and hushed reverence.
The next day, we dove into Ribe’s Viking past at the Ribe Vikinger Museum, which is, quite frankly, delightful. The Vikings, as it turns out, were not just about raiding monasteries and wearing horns on their helmets (a fact I was devastated to learn wasn’t historically accurate). They were also highly skilled craftspeople with a flair for both jewellery-making and dramatic funerals. The museum’s interactive section lured us in, and before I knew it, Lowri was decked out in Viking garb, wielding an axe with unsettling ease. Meanwhile, I did my best to look intimidating, though the effect was somewhat undermined by a chainmail tunic that made me look like a medieval Christmas pudding. Perhaps the most memorable part of the museum was the section on Viking funerals, which involved flaming boats, elaborate ceremonies, and what I can only assume were a lot of panicked bystanders shouting, “Not the crops!” It’s remarkable the Vikings had time to invade anywhere, given how much effort they poured into setting fire to things. Still, the museum left me thoroughly impressed and slightly alarmed at how well Lowri took to her temporary role as a Viking warrior.
After a rather peaceful weekend, we packed up Vishnu and headed to Billund, a town that seems to exist entirely for one reason: LEGO. The LEGO House dominates the town like a multi-coloured beacon, its architecture an unapologetic celebration of the beloved plastic brick. Inside, it’s a riot of colour and creativity, divided into zones where you can build, experiment, and marvel at massive sculptures of dinosaurs, castles, and entire cities. These masterpieces were so intricate and impressive that they made my childhood LEGO houses seem like poorly thought-out cries for help.
After several hours immersed in LEGO-fueled wonder, we emerged into the sunlight feeling oddly nostalgic and vaguely inadequate. Billund itself is a stark contrast to the kaleidoscopic chaos of the LEGO House—quiet, tidy, and so unassuming that it seems perfectly content to let LEGO handle all the excitement. As we packed up and turned our sights toward the east of the country, it was clear Denmark was going to exceed expectations. Ribe had charmed us with its medieval allure, and Billund had reminded us just how much joy (and mild humiliation) can come from a small plastic brick. The capital awaits…
J
