ABSTRACT
On 2 August 2012, I started to write a diary. I was at Vejle in Denmark, and on that day I took a walk to Jelling, an ancient Christian place, and passed along a straight road edged by verges of wild flowers; beyond these lay sweeping fields of wheat and barley. I was bored with the landscape; it was too much like the English scenes of my childhood. Only the style of the houses and their particular yards and gardens told me I was in this country called Denmark.
