Cake, Combine Harvesters, and Unexpected Nordic Connections

Week one of living Danishly in the UK and I've already run away to the Danish capital? On crying, cake, cycling-based generosity and Big Haddock Energy

I’m writing this from the 15^th floor of a hotel in Copenhagen on the kind of brisk, sunny morning that makes your soul surge. No, I haven’t had a change of heart and moved back (despite what a few of you suggested…). I’m here for work, giving a talk. And Denmark will be somewhere I will want to come back to again and again – forever – for work and for play with all the amazing people I’ve met here.

After last Friday’s post about moving back to the UK, I was floored by the response. Your messages of support made me feel a little less lost and personal stories of relocations gone right have been a life raft. It's heartening to hear that sharing the chaos of uprooting from the land of hygge to the misty fields of the British countryside resonates. Leaving somewhere that you’ve called home is always emotional – so I want to take a moment to thank you. For making this transition feel less like an isolated venture into the unknown, and more like an exciting new chapter.

Reverse Culture Shock

I’m currently navigating the strange terrain of reverse culture shock - something I secretly hoped that I might swerve by dint of doing my research. Only it turns out that knowing something intellectually is no substitute to experiencing it first hand and can’t immunise you against it. I’m learning first hand that coming home is just as disorienting as moving away. If you’ve ever relocated, you may have felt the same. Reverse culture shock is when the familiar feels strange and it often follows a pattern, from excitement, frustration, adjustment, and (hopefully) acceptance.

In Denmark, everything had its place. Life is efficient and orderly. In the UK, everything goes and nothing is as neat or clean or uncluttered as in the Nordics (as my youngest put it: ‘everything in England is just…stickier than Denmark’).

But alongside the strange re-entry process, something magical is happening. I appear to have become a lightning rod for anyone with even the faintest Nordic connection. And that’s been one of the most unexpected joys of moving back. Let me explain.

The Great Nordic Network

It started innocently enough. I got chatting to a waiter who just happened to be from Helsinki. We got talking about Finland and the news that the zoo in Helsinki is returning its two loaned giant pandas to China eight years ahead of schedule. In classic panda rom-com style, the female panda Lumi (Finnish for "snow”) and male Pyry (meaning "snowfall") just aren’t that into each other. Plus fewer people are coming to visit and giant pandas don’t come cheap. Apparently ‘the zoo’s fiscal priorities’ have changed (‘and would you like to hear the specials?’). Who knew pandas would lead to a deep discussion about budgets and the economy?

Then there was the school coffee morning where I met a man whose cousin is married to a professional badminton player in Copenhagen (honestly, it’s six degrees of Viking Kevin Bacon over here). Another parent shared that her cousin is actually Danish and regularly voices Scandinavia’s collective disdain that people some countries carpet their bathrooms (‘What about the pee droplets?’).

READ: Sisu, 'sock bars' and social support - what makes Nordic countries the world’s happiest?

I went to London and saw someone reading How to Raise a Viking on the tube – a thrill like no other since I never saw my books in the wild in riral Denmark (How to Raise a Viking or The Danish Secret to Happy Kids in the US/Canada, available for Christmas pre orders now ;). And then there was the lovely Swedish woman I bonded with over Sweden’s pioneering parental leave policies - where now even grandparents can be paid to help support family life. This is a far cry from the UK, where many mothers at the school gates have had to give up work because they couldn’t afford childcare.

Many are now making tentative steps back into a workplace that still doesn’t quite value child-rearing on the same level as breadwinning. Which, as we all know, is madness. See ‘childcare pays for itself’.

READ: Why Viking Men Vacuum

I’m now a magnet for anyone who has ever embraced the Scandinavian way of life – a one-woman Viking homing beacon and I am a-okay with that.

Settling into British Life—With a Danish Twist

It’s not just the adjustment to a new country that has been challenging—there’s the mix of excitement, homesickness, and the sheer admin of it all. At the time of writing, I still have no furniture. Or milk. Or mugs. Or sugar. So there could well be a mutiny when the lorry finally arrives today and the moving crew refuse to unload before sufficient libations are proffered *sends WhatsApp to husband to buy tea/coffee/snacks, stat…*.

The mini-Vikings have joined a British school where, suddenly, sitting still is required (a skill they hadn’t had to master back in Denmark). They all miss their friends. Desperately. And there’s nothing quite like the heart-tug of watching children struggle with something you can’t immediately fix. They’ve been brave, but starting school again in a new country, with new faces, is a lot. They’ve also discovered they’re not quite in the same place academically as their new classmates - and don’t even talk to me about spelling (“why are there so many letters? Why bother making some of them silent?” Great question. Or rather: ‘kwest-chun’).

I keep telling them that it’s okay – it’s not that their new classmates know more than them, it’s just that they know different things. My children may not be so hot on spelling. But they have learned a few useful life skills, like collaboration and cooperation. As well as how to make fire, build a bivouac, use an axe – you know useful life skills like that. They also, happily, know how to harness friluftsliv – or free air life. They are used to embracing rainy walks and handling six months of winter darkness without going feral. Which is fortunate, since their walk to school is now a 20-minute hike past a field and a horse we’ve named ‘Gary’. ‘Gary’ seems very friendly so far and always trots over for a whinny and occasionally a forelock rub in the misty mornings.

It’s abundantly clear that we’re not in NW6 now, Toto (our old London postcode). We’re not even in the largely agricultural Jutland. We’re in the proper countryside - think winding lanes with no markings, making driving an ‘extreme sport’.

Hello? Is it combine harvesters you’re looking for?

The mini-Vikings are learning songs about combine harvesters. The smallest stomps about, proudly belting out the lyrics (“…chug, chug, chugging along…”). All while miming a giant farm vehicle. Like it’s totally normal. And while I now appear to be raising future farmers (you’re welcome…) I’m doing so in good company.

A Warm Welcome

I love my Danish friends. Dearly. But it can take a while to befriend new neighbours in Denmark and many internationals find it hard to find their feet socially. Danes don’t like to get in your business, as a rule. I say ‘as a rule’, since I was often the exception. I have one of those face that invites unsolicited advice at every turn (“You know what you’re doing wrong?” = every Danish man over the age of 60 in the gym, on every visit, for the past 10 years…).

The kindness I experienced in Denmark didn’t always come quickly, but it was lasting. Danish friends are proud possessors of a straight-talking honesty that I’ve grown to appreciate. But from speaking to immigrants throughout Denmark over the past decade, there’s a general consensus that although most people will help you if you ask, they won’t necessarily offer (usually).

I had it explained to me by psychologists and sociologists that this is because ‘Vikings’ are independent - and autonomy and independence re so valued in Danish society.

Whereas in pockets of England? People love getting in your business. Everyone talks about everyone and knows what’s going on. At all times. Often, before I know myself (‘Oh I hear your husband’s arriving today! So you’re getting the keys to your new place later? Your son’s learning piano!’). But you know what? As a new arrival, I’m all for it. The proactive help and support we have received has been totally unexpected - and more than I dared hope for.

Neighbourhood Watch and Learn…

When a parent I’d never met found out we’d just moved and didn’t have a bike for a school outing, they lent me their son’s (plus helmet). No questions asked. The trust that I so valued in Denmark still has its tiny shoots poking through in communities in the UK.

Another parent sent me the most insanely useful list, of everything I might need to know in my new home (library, doctors, dentists, hairdressers, you name it. I’ll be the one who looks like she’s just stepped out of a salon…into the pouring rain…).

Neighbours have dropped off welcome cards and one left a bunch of flowers. I have no vase (I have no furniture…). But I do have a saucepan, panic bought at a charity shop. So, into the saucepan they went. This felt like the perfect metaphor for where we are right now and the state of our move - shambolic but strangely beautiful all the same. And then the smallest mini Viking fashioned me a ‘vase’ out of an old bottle, so: win-win.

The hottest new interiors trend (Marigolds model’s own)

And the real highlight of the week?

When Drizzle Saves the Day

A neighbour I’ve never met dropped off a lemon drizzle cake. Let’s just pause to appreciate this: they baked and delivered a LEMON DRIZZLE. I’ve lived in places for years where people barely acknowledged my existence. One of my more reserved Danish neighbours only said four words to me, ever (and two of those were “goodbye now”). But here I am, in the UK, receiving cake from someone I hadn’t even introduced myself to. And we all know that cake isn’t just cake: it's care in baked form.

Emotional Loop the Loop

Of course, it hasn’t all been rain and lemon drizzle. There have been tears. Lots of them. From the kids, mostly, but also from me because, well, emotionally looping the loop is a ride that few of us enjoy. I’ve cried into my tea. I’ve cried on the phone. I’ve cried in the bath while drinking the tear-tea (#bleak). The exhaustion of a major move is real. And in classic "this-is-your-life-now" fashion, all this has resulted in a stye in my right eye. Yep. I am officially run-down to the point where my own body is waging tiny, irritating battles against me (but, you know, I’m fine. Totally fine…oh look, there’s Gary the horse, everyone!).

On a day when even Gary couldn’t lift my mood, a dear friend from Denmark managed to squeeze in a flying visit and I got to hug someone who wasn’t a member of my immediate family and feel ‘normal’ again.

There’s something about showing someone familiar around your new, unfamiliar world that makes it all seem less scary, somehow. Less daunting. We tramped through muddy lanes, splashed in puddles, passed a dead pheasant (‘It’s like a Richard Curtis movie!’) and went for a pub lunch, where she was served a haddock bigger than her head. Forget Michelin stars: if you haven’t tucked into a plate of fish and chips the size of a toddler while laugh-crying over a shandy, you haven’t lived.

Big Haddock Energy

My old friend’s enthusiasm for my new surroundings was strangely comforting. “You’ve got this!” she kept saying, and while my brain was quietly panicking about how to balance school drop-offs, book deadlines and my dwindling stash of Danish rye bread, her words sunk in. Her presence made everything feel more real, and dare I say it, more manageable. She loved my new home, which helped me to love it, and for a brief moment, everything felt okay. Sure, it’s terrifying to think that I’m going to have to make whole new friends in a new place, but that’s a whole other hurdle/post/haddock-fest…

Reflecting on Community

Leaving Denmark after so many years was hard. My children and I miss the friends we made, and there are days when I wonder if we’ll ever feel as “at home” here as we did there. But the warmth, the unexpected connections, and the strange but wonderful feeling of being a Nordic lightning rod have helped me feel as though we’re finding our way.

Moving is always a blend of heartache and hope, of letting go and embracing the new. I can see the threads of my life in Denmark weaving through this new chapter, whether it’s in the candlelit cosiness of our still-furniture-less house, school runs in the rain, or the connections I’m making with people who understand the Scandinavian mindset. The feeling of community transcends geography, and I’m lucky enough to be experiencing it in pockets—whether in a lemon drizzle cake, a bike loaned in trust, or a fleeting conversation with a waiter from Helsinki.

So, to everyone who has reached out with kind words, shared stories, or simply sent virtual hugs - thank you. Your support has been a balm in the middle of this madness. Skål to friends, old and new (and ‘cheers’ to haddock bigger than my head…)

Until next time, vi ses,

Helen x

PS: Did you know that if you tap heart, re-stack (that’s the recycle symbol below) or comment, it makes a huge difference and helps others to see this post? Go on…!

PPS: Don’t worry, I’m stocking up on rye bread for the flight home later today. Unless customs are reading this, in which case…I’m just weight training/rucking…