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  • Paul Kilgour

Round Trip #5 Femøren St-Vestamager St

Monday 5 April 2021


Volcano’s erupting in Iceland. Vaccine shortages in Europe. The war on guns in the USA. Someone should get Country Joe McDonald to write a song. I don’t give a damn.


6:00am It is early, and blissfully quiet. Tina snores. George snores. Ringo…oh shit, he’s woken up. The art to having a reasonably relaxed start to the day is to get breakfast into Ringo before his wailing approaches the volume of a Motörhead concert. One being held in your living room. With Lemmy on the sofa beside you. And whilst it may be a late night for him, it is very early for me. Not that I have anything against Lemmy, you understand. He may be a very nice chap. Or was. Probably a bit wiffy by now. In which case he’s definitely not welcome to sit on my sofa.


6:15am Ringo seems satisfied with his first course, and awaits his usual desert of cheese Dreamies. These are his favourite. They make him fart.


The daily routine has become, well…routine. I sometimes have to remind myself that he’s not being a pain in the arse on purpose, he’s being like your sad old granddad. Minus the smell of urine.


7:45am So, Ringo having crawled off back to his bed to sleep off his morning feast, we’ll be on our way. Today we’re going to a fortress!!


8:30am Arrive at fortress. Fortress closed for Easter. I do hope the English are not planning an invasion today. So, off into suburbia we go.



This may be boring. You have been warned. Tiny house after tiny house, occasionally punctuated by a nice trimmed bush (as an acquaintance of mine so eloquently put it), a caravan, or a boat. No sign of life, mind. These are the ghost towns of Copenhagen. A nice quiet, pleasant walk though, until Spring, having arrived all fresh and full of hope some days ago, decided it was safe enough to take its eye off the ball and allow Winter to mount a last ditch, injury time counter-attack. And Winter is throwing the kitchen sink at it. Snow, hail, wind. Shelter is sought at a local supermarket where I’m tempted into buying a coffee even a tramp would recoil from.



The weather finally abates and we continue on through more streets full of tiny houses that no one appears to occupy. It’s like one of those horror movies where some poor unsuspecting soul arrives in town only to find that all the elements of life seem to be present, except the humans. No children playing, no one cleaning their car, no barking dogs. Actually, it sounds wonderful. I think I’ll move there. And then…


A scrapyard! I am easily pleased, and my natural sunny personality re-emerges.


On my return home, and after Ringo (demented cat - not the ex-fab) has welcomed me in time honoured fashion with one of his finest banshee wails, I reflect on how strange suburbia is. A place for people to lock themselves away from the outside world. To hide in the shadows, occasionally emerging into the light to cut the grass, or to check the caravan which is never used. At that point Ringo decides that although he doesn’t remember who I am, he’d quite like a cuddle please. Life’s OK in the city.


In the next fun packed instalment: landfill!!


Weather: Cold. Snow. Cold.

Reflections: Cold. Snow. Cold.

Coffee: Føtex, Amagerbrogade - Plain filter, white 2/10, not great but I was sheltering from the snow. 10kr Extra point for being 10kr.

Distance: 12.97km

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