One last hurrah!

The weather has been less than conducive to me leaving my home of late.  And when I do leave it's with long underwear, heavy coat, mittens and a knit hat.  But Saturday was one of those sunny days where if you stand in the sun, it feels rather pleasant and since there were few clouds, it did seem that the day would be one to be out and about in, minus the winter gear.

We went to Ærø Naturpark and "took a little tour" as they say in Danish.  Only with Danish words.  Usually.  Sometimes they'll say it in English, a direct translation of a saying in Danish and sometimes this makes no sense.   Although the saying "fit for fight" is apparently something the Brits say and the Yanks do not, so my confusion is sometimes completely cultural and I resort to the smile and nod and slowly back away.

Right.

The Danish Boy and I took a picnic and as we packed it my dear husband looked at what I was making and sadly said, "I should have just asked you to make mine for me."  This is because he fell back on his Danish upbringing and made a "food pack" - regarding which the non-Danes living in Denmark will all agree is a travesty unto culinary science.  I meanwhile whipped up a salami-cream cheese-jalapeño sandwich, apple, green olives, bag of popcorn, and cookies.  I didn't have time to boil any eggs, alas.

I then distinctly remember saying, "honey, could you grab the camera."  However, when I turned to him at the pond where the frogs were being so cute and photographic and there he was standing there with the picnic bag but NOT the camera... I cut my loses.  He had, after all, remembered to take the food.  Priorities people, food always trumps all in my book.

But it was a lovely day.  We hiked up and down hills, over some fences, through some fields and was molested by nary a cow.  There was a distinct lack of cows, in fact.  But cow pats we saw a plenty.

DB: Watch out, there's poop right here.
AG: Ummhmm.
DB: Oh, here's some over here.  And some right there.  Look, right there.  Watch where you step.
AG: Well it IS a cow pasture.
DB: I'M ONLY TRYING TO HELP YOU!
AG: OKAY!
*pause*
AG: But it IS a cow pasture.  Cow poop is everywhere and you don't need to point it out to me.  I'm already on the look out.

May I remind my gentle readers that I grew up in the country and he grew up in suburbia.  If anyone knows cow poop in this relationship, it is I.

After lunch we picked up some asshat's beer cans some asshat had left behind.  Hey, Asshat - it's a nature park.  Pick up your damn trash!  Besides, those cans would have been worth a few kroner if you hadn't smashed them to hell and back!  Asshat.

We then came across a large wood pile.  The DB tried to figure out how we could sneak our Volvo into the field in the dead of night and make off with the wood.  He had to give up the plan, there's no way the surrounding farms would not hear us trying to maneuver the car into position.
AG: You're too close.
DB: I am not.
AG: You're going to hit it.
DB: I have loads of space.
*clunk*
AG: I told you you were going to hit it but OH NO you never listen to your wife and who's always right, I'm always right.
DB: I barely touched it!

So instead we found ourselves some nice walking sticks.  And if they were 6ft/2m tall and as thick as your upper arm... well, they were just really SERIOUS walking sticks.