The Year of Living Danishly

by Helen Russell

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh,’ she says in a voice that implies, ‘in that case, you’re really screwed…’ before adding: ‘Well, good luck with the hygge!’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Lego Man returns from outside, lips now a blueish hue and shivering slightly. He announces that the toymaker and his elves are all ready for their new arrival and that he’ll start work as planned in a week and a half, once we’ve settled in. I tell him that this last part may not be as easy as it sounds and relay my conversation with Pernille.

  ‘Interesting,’ he says, when I’ve downloaded. We sit in silence for a bit, staring at the fully loaded plate of glistening carbs in front of us. After a few moments, Lego Man raises himself up, removes his glasses and places them on the table, stoically. Then clears his throat, as though he’s about to say something of great import.

  ‘What do you think,’ he starts, ‘Danes call their pastries?’ He holds one up for inspection.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Well, they can’t call them “Danishes” can they?’

  ‘Good point.’

  In the great tradition of British repression, we ignore the potential futility and loneliness of our new existence and seize on this new topic with enthusiasm. Lego Man gets Googling and I crack open the spine of our sole guidebook in search of insight.

  ‘Ooh, look!’ I point, ‘apparently, they’re known as “wienerbrød” or “Vienna bread” after a strike by Danish bakers when employers hired in some Austrians, who, as it turned out, made exceedingly good cakes,’ I paraphrase. ‘Then when the pastry travelled to America—’

  ‘—How?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘How did it travel?’

  ‘I don’t know – by ship. With its own special pastry passport. Anyway, when it made it to the US, it was referred to as a “Danish” and the name stuck.’

  I don’t read any more as I realise that Lego Man has been using the opportunity to get a head start on stuffing his face and I don’t want to miss out.

  ‘This one’s a “kanelsnegle” or cinnamon snail,’ he points at the curled, doughy, cinnamon-dusted delight that he’s just eaten half of. I pick up what’s left before he gets the chance to polish it off and swiftly sink my teeth in. It is a revelation. My taste buds spring into action and dopamine starts surging around my body.

  ‘This is outstanding…’ I murmur through my first mouthful. It’s nothing like the part-dry, part-soggy, artificially sweetened ‘Danishes’ I’ve had back home. This tastes light and rich all at once. It’s zingy yet sweet, with intense, complex flavours that trickle in one by one. The pastry is crisp, then soft, then gooey in turn. I am momentarily transported into another world where everything is made from sugar and no one gets cross, or has to work or do the washing up, or stubs their toes, and smiling is mandatory. I gobble down the rest of it before sitting back in wonder at this remarkable new discovery.

  ‘I know! And that’s only the basic one,’ Lego Man tells me. ‘They also do chocolate ones. And they get much fancier down that end of the counter,’ he points.

  ‘That was only a gateway pastry?’ I slap a buttery hand to my forehead. ‘Oh God, I’ll be in elasticated waistbands by Easter.’

  ‘Forget the post-Christmas detox,’ I tell him through pastry number two, ‘if this is what living Danishly is all about then we’ll be fine. And I don’t care what Pernille says, we’re going to get hygge, come what may.’

  ‘I still have no idea what that means,’ Lego Man replies, ‘but I’m in.’ He crams another snegle in his mouth to seal the deal.

  We roll out of the bakery several thousand calories up and set off to meet our relocation agent – a slim woman with bleached blonde hair in an obligatory Scandi topknot, a black leather jacket underneath a thick, goose-down affair, and trousers that look distinctly flammable. She’s set up several appointments for us to nose around Danish houses and we’re fascinated to discover that they’re all incredibly similar, with white walls, bleached wooden floors (complete with under-floor heating) and not a single item of clutter in sight. They’re also hot. Jutlanders, it seems, like to lounge about in just a T-shirt at home – even in January. On every threshold, we peel off scarves and winter coats while perspiring as we attempt to adjust from the snowy outdoors to tropical interiors. We’ve lived in a poorly insulated Edwardian terraced flat for the past five years and having grown up with the mantra of, ‘if you’re cold, put another jumper on until your arms can no longer touch your sides’, such centrally heated extravagance seems close to criminal.

  ‘Too … hot…’ I mumble to Lego Man through a mouthful of merino wool as I start stripping off in the second home we visit.

  ‘Yes, why is that?’ he pulls at his collar to let out some hot air and wipes the steam off his glasses.

  I wonder whether the Danes have gone in for hyper-heated homes historically because the climate is so cold. It always seems as though the colder the climate, the better prepared people are to deal with it. Perhaps the mildly chilly wet lick of your average British winter has meant we’ve been slow to catch on. I put this theory to Lego Man but the relocation agent, overhearing, cuts in.

  ‘Danes are well known for their central heating, actually,’ she tells us. ‘We have very good doors and windows’ – she points to an example of each in case we haven’t quite got it – ‘for thermal insulation. In England, I think, you have drafts,’ she sounds disgusted at the very idea. ‘Danes would not tolerate this.’ She goes on to explain that an elaborate district heating system uses heat from burning waste, wind power and central solar heating to warm the pine floorboards of almost every house in the area. ‘It’s very efficient, so you don’t need to turn it off!’ is how she puts it. I’m not sure that’s quite how a sustainable approach to energy consumption should work, but I’m impressed with her knowhow.

  Each hot home we encounter is also rigorously neat, minimalist, yet full of designer touches. One proud renter, who boasts completely clear work surfaces and an ordered, Zen-like home, opens up her kitchen drawers to show off their soft-close mechanism and I see that her utensils are filed in the same impeccable order as the rest of her house.

  ‘This isn’t normal!’ I hiss at Lego Man as we move on to the next room. In our kitchen back home, you couldn’t open a cupboard without first protecting your face with your free arm, lest something spring out at you. The mismatched Tupperware drawer was stacked so precariously that it was just waiting to pounce on anyone who dared open it. But here, all the homes are ordered and spotless.

  ‘These people are renters, right?’ I ask the relocation agent. ‘There’s no incentive for them to do a big tidy-up before visitors come?’ She looks confused.

  ‘Tidy up? Before visitors? Is that what British people do?’ She pulls a judgey face. ‘Danes try to keep their homes nice all the time.’

  I feel compelled to make it clear that we try to do this too. It’s not as though we’re smearing human faeces up the walls just for a laugh. Lego Man, sensing my ire, rests a gentle hand on my arm to warn me off this particular battle. Judgey Face also informs us that it’s customary to remove your shoes before entering a Danish home, with all footwear stacked neatly on racks by the door. ‘Just so that any dust or outdoor dirt isn’t brought into the house,’ she tells Lego Man, having clearly given up on his slattern of a wife.

  Pretty soon it becomes clear that cleanliness is next to Danishness, and sleek, smart, wipe-clean design is everywhere; from wall-hung loos with tanks hidden in fake walls to universally built-in wardrobes and lighting that looks like it belongs in a gallery. On the downside, there are no baths. Judgey Face tells us that everyone in Denmark ripped out their tubs a decade ago to go for a more up-to-date look. (‘Plus showering is more hygienic,’ she asserts.) This is a setback to my happiness project.

  How can anyone, let alone a whole nation, be happy without baths? Lego Man, understanding my pain, promises that we can always look online for a free-standing version à la Dow
nton Abbey and adds this to his ever-growing list of things he’s decided we need for our new Danish digs.

  By the end of the great house hunt, day one, I start to wonder whether this great emphasis on having a clean, clear, sleek designer home plays a part in the Danes’ chart-topping quality of life. Curious to find out more, I track down Anne-Louise Sommer, director of the Design Museum Denmark, and enlist her expertise. Anne-Louise has investigated the relationship between furniture design, cultural trends, national identity and ideology and come up with a few theories of her own.

  ‘Denmark is very much a design society, and this plays quite a big part in happiness,’ says Anne-Louise. She explains how the stylish Danish aesthetic was influenced by the German Bauhaus school and how good design has been a tradition here since the 1920s.

  ‘In Denmark there was an economic recession and there were huge social challenges, but the government at the time decided that design was a high priority. They recognised that it was important for well-being and happiness,’ she tells me. Danes, it seems, were ahead of their time. In 2011, scientists at University College London studied this phenomenon and confirmed that looking at something beautiful really can make us happier, by stimulating dopamine in our brains. (Just like the pastries! I can’t help thinking.) Research shows that great art and design can even induce the same brain activity as being in love – something Denmark cottoned on to 90-odd years ago.

  ‘For a young, socially democratic government, it was crucial to present quality design as part of the residential regeneration plan,’ explains Anne-Louise. Big talents like architect and designer Arne Jacobsen (of the Egg Chair fame), lighting legend Poul Henningsen and furniture makers Hans Wegner and Finn Juhl made names for themselves and brought Danish design to an international audience. I ask if the average Dane appreciates how great their nation’s design is. Anne-Louise thinks about this for a moment.

  ‘If you stood in the street and asked someone, they might not have a reflective relationship with culture and design – but this is because they haven’t had to. It’s internalised in the consciousness. We are simply used to having nice surroundings,’ she says. ‘It starts from the very beginning of life. Children come to school and interact with quality architecture and furniture, and so from an early age they develop an understanding that functional yet beautiful design is essential to realising the good life. Then when they grow up and work in offices or public spaces, most Danes experience a high-quality environment combining function and design.’ I can see what she means. The public spaces I’ve seen so far have been heavily invested in, with architectural flourishes and quirky design features everywhere (porny pony fountain aside).

  ‘And of course, the weather plays a part too,’ says Anne-Louise. ‘We’re inside so much during the long winters that we invest more in our environment. You’re spending so much time at home, it may as well be nice!’ And can having a designer home really make you happy? Anne-Louise thinks so: ‘To my mind, there is a clear relationship between your aesthetic environment and how you feel.’ Being surrounded by beautiful design all day long at the museum certainly makes her happy, she tells me. So how would she rate herself out of ten? ‘I’d say I was a nine,’ says Anne-Louise, before correcting herself. ‘Actually, I can’t think of anything else that would make me happier right now, so maybe I’m a ten!’

  Feeling inspired to make a happy, Danish-design-inspired home, we now just need to decide which of Judgey Face’s recommendations to go for. We’ve whittled the list down to two: a flat in ‘The Big Town’ near the porny pony (my choice), or a house by the sea (Lego Man’s preference) in the grounds of an old red-brick institutional-looking building that Judgey Face informs us used to be a hospital.

  Lego Man loves the countryside and vast sweeping landscapes marred by as few people as possible, something I put down to his upbringing in rural Scotland and the Yorkshire Moors. In contrast, my idea of getting back to nature is a stroll by the river in Hammersmith. Unsurprisingly, we’re finding it hard to agree.

  ‘Living here is never going to be like London,’ Lego Man argues, ‘so what’s the point in living in a town that’s rubbish in comparison to the world-class city we’re used to? [People of Jutland, I apologise on his behalf.] We might as well make the most of this opportunity and live by the sea!’ It’s all very well for him, I think. He’ll be going to an office every day and I’ll be stuck out here working from home with nothing but the dog and the waves for company.

  We’d talked about living by the sea one day, but in my head this was a) when we were about 100 and b) in a smart terraced house wedged between a chichi café and perhaps an artisan bread shop in Brighton or Hove or somewhere. The sun would always be shining and we would have lots of visitors. Our seaside home was never, even in my most melancholy fantasies, a former hospital in rural Denmark. In winter.

  And yet, somehow he wears me down. Or bribes me with the promise of a lifetime of pastries. Or gets me drunk. Or something. Because the next morning I find we’ve agreed and we get an email from the shipping company confirming that they’ll be delivering all our possessions to Sticksville-on-Sea next Tuesday.

  Four strapping Vikings unload 132 boxes from a shipping container before taking their shoes off and laying down rugs to protect the wooden flooring as they unpack our belongings, passing judgement on them as they go. Of a vase, ‘I like this. The other ones, not so much’ and of a painting, cryptically: ‘Was this expensive?’ ‘No.’ ‘Good.’

  The boxes have been coded according to what room they came from and I’m delighted to find that the contents of my London wardrobe have been labelled ‘Lady Russell Dresses’ (I’m hoping more people will address me by my official title in future). These are taken courteously to the bedroom where I later discover that, less courteously, the contents of my pants drawer has been liberally spread over the newly assembled bed and my navy lace bra is missing. But other than potential lingerie pilfering they are the most polite, articulate, over-educated removal men we’ve ever encountered and ask us multiple questions about coalition politics, what we think of David Cameron’s hair (which, I learn, is a source of great hilarity over here) and our attitude towards the EU.

  Once they’ve left, we both make resolutions to be better informed about the state of EU politics so we don’t get shown up in future, and start rearranging our possessions and finding homes for things we’d forgotten we owned. It’s then that I realise with horror how filthy everything is.

  ‘Do you think it’s from being in transit?’ I ask hopefully, trying to buff the murky, grey tinge out of our white bookcase.

  ‘Could be,’ Lego Man looks sceptical. ‘Or it could be that living in a lower ground floor flat we just never noticed how dirty everything was.’

  I tell him I prefer my version and we set about soaping down visible stains, wondering whether we’ll ever measure up to the standards of house-proud Danes. After a few hours of scrubbing, we have semi-clean furniture, but there isn’t nearly enough of it to fill the new space. It turns out that the kind of space you can afford when you live in central London only necessitates about half as much furniture as your average Danish home. As the sun starts to set at around 3pm, we discover that we’re also being plunged into darkness. It’s customary to take not only your light bulbs with you when you move in Denmark, but also the fittings. There’s not a ceiling rose in sight and I haven’t a clue how to begin to tackle the wriggle of live wires that appear to be poking out from the ceiling at various points.

  So we make tea by torchlight and resign ourselves to the fact that we’re going to have to go shopping. Lego Man is delighted. For an outdoorsy, DIY-handy Yorkshireman, he has always been surprisingly obsessed by interior design. After years of ‘passing’ and allowing everyone to presume that the Livingetc subscription and our attractive home were down to me, he finally came out – mood boards, scrapbooks, the lot – and admitted his secret passion. Now he’s hoping that a year of living Danishly will allow him to express
this more fully, so that he can be out, proud and stylishly lit. He’s already very taken with the Nordic aesthetic and decides he wants to populate our new home with all manner of eye-wateringly priced designer items. Concerned that we may never be able to afford snegles again if I let Lego Man go all-out, I call up an interior design expert to get a better idea of the essentials worth buying to make our new home hygge.

  Charlotte Ravnholt, of Denmark’s biggest interiors magazine, Bo Bedre, suggests keeping it simple. ‘There’s no need to go crazy buying lots of things to start with to get the Danish look,’ she says. ‘The more typical thing here would be to start with a few key items and mix and match them with what you’ve already got.’

  This is encouraging. So what do we need first?

  ‘Well, we use a lot of natural materials in Danish homes, like wood and leather, and we tend to have lots of lamps. In most of the world, lamps tend to be in the middle of the room, but here we loop the cords to position them and create pools of light or new areas of hygge, or cosiness. Then there are also pendant lamps, floor lamps and table lamps that you need to think about.’

  I scribble all this down on a Post-It. Lego Man, who is craning to hear our conversation, leans in closer so that I have to swat him away before writing:

  ‘She says we only need A FEW KEY ITEMS.’

  I set down the pen to give Charlotte my full attention again. When I glance back at the pad, I see Lego Man has added a ‘’ to the end of my message and wandered off in a huff to find more ways to spend money we don’t yet have on things we don’t really need for the home we don’t own.

  I ask Charlotte about hygge and she tells me that Danish homes typically have throws or blankets on the sofa for extra cosiness, as well as lots of cushions.