Connie Primmer: Adventures in Copenhagen

Along with nine friends, I visited Copenhagen, which is having a bit of a moment thanks to hit TV series The Killing.

For a country whose history is dominated by hairy men in chainmail, the modern Danish capital is incredibly cosmopolitan. The weeks (ok months) before the holiday were spent stocking up on knitwear, thick socks and warm boots as I’d heard wild weather reports about it being -20 degrees with only one hour of daylight in the winter months.

I was also a little wary of our choice of accommodation, having not had much experience of hostels, but we were in for a pleasant surprise with Copenhagen Downtown. It was modern, quirky and very clean (at least until we arrived) and as a group of ten we had a room full of bunk beds to ourselves.

On our first night we arrived fairly late so went straight to the bar in the hostel for the special pizza and beer offer.

The hostel bar was packed with useful things like maps, suggestions of where to go, weather forecasts and an impressive giant bed for weary travellers to sink into while they sipped their Danish beers.

None of us really knew much about Copenhagen, but fortunately we had our very own Danish tour guide in the form of our friend who works at a newspaper in Copenhagen.

Sadly on our first full day in the city he had to work so we were left to our own devices.

We decided to embark upon a canal boat trip to see The Little Mermaid - the only famous landmark any of us had heard of. There was much confusion about whether or not the Mermaid would actually be there, as rumour had it she was ‘on holiday’ in Dubai, quite bizarrely, so we chugged along the canal not knowing whether she would greeting us at the end or not.

It was bitterly cold being out on the water, so the girls had some hot chocolates to warm us up as we watched the beautiful Danish buildings drift past us.

The boys, of course tried a different tactic and went for some Carlsbergs instead, the fact it was 11am doing little to deter them.

We commandeered a large table on the main deck of the boat, and had a fantastic view of all the sights of the city, including some impressive Viking-esque boats anchored along the way.

When we reached the home of the Little Mermaid, the rest of the gaggle clamboured off the boat and eagerly ran towards the statue.

Myself and one of my friends hung back slightly, a decision I’ll be eternally grateful for as we watched our fully-grown adult male friends posing with their hands on the Little Mermaid’s breasts, giggling like ten-year-old school boys.

Unfortunately our composure and maturity was spoiled when just as we’d disembarked from the vessel, it seemed to rev up the engine and prepare to turn around.

Confused, myself and my companion stood and watched for a moment, not sure whether to try and hop back on as we’d left some of our things onboard to save our table.

Before we knew what was happening, the little boat was chugging out of the make-shift harbour, leaving us castaway on the shore, bewildered that our only means of escape was leaving us.

As the boat made its way back towards the city, we could just see all our beer cans, empty hot-chocolate cups and general litter sliding about our abandoned table, clattering around and hitting people as the remaining passengers glared as us, the Brits-abroad, who were so disrespectful of our surroundings, littering and - I was mortified to see as I turned round - now groping the Mermaid’s metal bum.

I was thankful that a different boat returned to pick us up (although we nearly missed that one as one girl went on a treck to find some toilets and had to sprint along the cliff top to get back before the boat set off - no mean feat in so many layers of chunky knits), and it probably worked out for the best that the boys lost some of their alcohol supply.

Our other tourist ventures were less reputation-destroying, as we had a civilised wander round the National Museum, discovering there is more to Danish history than Vikings.

We pottered round the cobbled streets filled with twinkling boutiques and behaved like giddy children in fairytale city-centre amusement park Tivoli.

Our Danish friend took us to the best bars and clubs, a particular favourite being Drone bar, in the gritty district of Nørrebro, where we danced the night away with all the cool kids.

There’s no smoking ban in Denmark so it took a while to get used to the clouds of smoke in every bar and all our clothes and hair stank of stale smoke.

Needless to say this only added to the delight that was our hostel room, which by the end of the trip was a pit of smelly clothes, empty bottles, and crisps and popcorn all over the floor.

Of course we cleared up before we left but there was an amusing incident when one of the boys was sat on the window ledge, leaning out to smoke.

(All but three of us decided that lung-damage from passive smoking may as well be lung-damage from first-hand smoking and succumbed to the Danish habit).

We could hear a woman shouting from outside, and our friend said with a big grin on his face, ‘She’s trying to chat me up!’

He was convinced she was asking him to come down and say hello. Before he had the chance though, she was banging on our door herself.

Undeterred by her keenness, our friend threw open the door, delighted that his attractiveness could be seen from so far away.

The smug smile was swiftly wiped off his face when it transpired she worked for the hostel and was furious that he was smoking out of the window and flouting health and safety regulations.

She threatened him with a 1,000 kroner fine, gave him a severe telling off and then, after noticing the state our room was in, said she’d be back with bin-bags for us to clear up some of the rubbish or there’d be a fine for that as well.

We managed to redeem ourselves, although not enough for our would-be-lothario to bag himself a Danish date.

Our last night was spent in an Irish karaoke bar, about as far away from Danish culture as you can get, but the locals seemed keen on it, and what better way to end the trip than to listen to Danes screeching along to Adele songs.

By the time it came to go to the airport, I was in love with the stunning city, gabbling faux-Danish à la AbFab and vowing to remain in my chunky knitwear forever.