Driftwood Love

33. The Old Net

We had spent the entire morning and noon on Røjbjerg Knude, sitting on the hill and enjoying the sea. Eventually, Morten stood up, extended his hand to me, and pulled me up. "Well, we've sat and looked around enough. I'd love to come here with you again, as often as you like, but now I'm really hungry." He smiled, his voice tinged with a hint of nostalgia. "My grandfather often brought me here, and later my parents, even though they never had much time."

"There's a small fishing village nearby," he continued as we started heading back to the car. "The place has so much character, I'm sure you'll like it. Let's go there and grab some food. I know a restaurant from my childhood, an old fisherman's hut that's now a restaurant. It's called 'Gamle Net,' or 'Old Net' in English. Be my guest," he said, gesturing broadly and bowing slightly.

I felt uncomfortable that Morten insisted on inviting me again. A small wave of anger welled up inside me. I was confused and unsure what to make of it. I didn't want to be maintained. His gaze seemed to read my thoughts, and just as I was about to voice my objections and raised my arm to emphasize my words, he gently placed his hand on my shoulder. A jolt of electricity shot through my body as he looked deeply into my eyes and said, "Hey, I'm on a sort of vacation that I haven't had in ages. To be honest, I haven't had this much fun since my childhood. I'm happy to invite you because you wanted to ride the horses of my childhood with me. It's my pleasure, and I want you to be part of it if you're coming along with me."

I looked at him, shook my head, and laughed. "That's ridiculous, Morten. This is an absolutely crazy vacation for me. But you don't have to maintain me all the time." He looked at me questioningly, tilted his head, and asked, "Are we going to eat or not?" We both laughed. It was a shy, yet liberating laugh.

His laughter was contagious, and I couldn't help but shake my head, confused and amused at the same time about what he wanted from me. Then, unexpectedly, he grabbed my left hand and slid it under his right arm, hooking me in as if it were the most natural thing. Together, we started descending the sand dune.

Unfortunately, I slipped and ended up landing right on my butt. The rest of the hill I slid down rather involuntarily. Behind me, Morten's booming and deeply rolling laughter echoed; he could barely hold himself as he watched my mishap. Gracefully, he descended the hill, came to me, helped me up, continued laughing, and shook his head. "Oh my God, sometimes you're really a show all by yourself!" I wasn't sure if that was a compliment or a dig.

I grinned, looked down at my feet, and then back up at him. He placed his hand under my chin, lifted it up, and looked at me adventurously. "You really have no idea how charming you can be," he said as he tenderly stroked my upper lip with his thumb. I beamed at him, and in that moment, everything around us seemed to fade.

The drive along the Danish coast was again like a scene from a movie, marked by the untamed beauty of the North. The vast sky shone in soft, silvery tones, turning the sea into a sparkling canvas. We curved past charming, old cottages, whose straw-thatched roofs and weathered wooden facades looked as if they could whisper sweet secrets. These picturesque cottages nestled shyly against gently rolling hills, framed by wildflowers and a breeze that smelled of salt and adventure.

As we neared our destination, as Morten informed me, the road became narrower and more picturesque, until it felt as though we were diving from the modern world into a secret from another time. Finally, we reached a charmingly inconspicuous fishing village that unabashedly snuggled up to the beach. We parked right in front of the "Gamle Net," and I was blown away: The restaurant, once a modest fisherman's cottage, looked like the setting of an old romantic film—absolutely quaint and dreamy. Morten, who had been coming here with his family for years, shared with a nostalgic smile that this was his secret hideaway. The building, with its silver-gray, sea-weathered wooden facade and charmingly crooked thatched roof, seemed as if it had sprung straight from an old Danish legend. Wild roses climbed around the entrance door, above which a hand-carved sign with the name of the restaurant hung, inviting us to a nearly forgotten adventure. On the beach in front of us, a few abandoned boats rested in the sand, seemingly waving at us as if they wanted to tell us old sailor stories.