Part 4 - The Great Escape: Lighthouse Flees the Shore
In this blog and ongoing series, you can follow Abandoned Nordic's urbex road trip as we journey from Finland to France along a longer route. The trip will take about a month, and along the way, various things happen. It’s the 5th day of our road trip, and we are still in Denmark.
If there's one type of abandoned building that particularly fascinates me, it's a lighthouse. Denmark's Rubjerg Knude, first lit on December 27, 1900, is an abandoned lighthouse whose uniqueness is further enhanced by its location. Its existence is threatened as shifting sands and coastal erosion are a serious problem in the area. It was expected that the tower would fall into the sea by 2023; however, works to relocate the lighthouse began, and on October 22, 2019, the 23-meter-high lighthouse, weighing 720 tonnes, was moved 70 meters inland on specially built rails. The cost of the move was 5 million Danish kroner and was expected to secure the future of the lighthouse at least until around 2060.
Now, as sunset approaches, we quicken our pace. The sandy path leading to the lighthouse is bit longer than we expected, but we’re confident we’ll make it in time. Low vegetation, typical of the sandy coastline, stabilizes the dunes on both sides of the path, and the idyllic view is completed by grazing sheep. Both of us eagerly await the first glimpse of the lighthouse beyond the dunes, and when it finally appears, we gasp in admiration.
Denmark isn't the most appealing country for urbex adventures, and we've recently preferred to seek out more exotic locations rather than staying within the Nordic countries. However, this lighthouse has been on my list for a long time, and finally, it's time to see it. I planned our route to include it, and the additional drive is only 600 km - fortunately, there are a couple other interesting places to explore along the way.
I suspect the lighthouse was more impressive before it was moved, and naturally, the idea that it was on the verge of falling into the sea added to its tragic allure. Now, it seems unlikely that it will be partially buried by the dunes, as it has been in the past, but with the right winds, that could still happen. There's certainly plenty of sand here, and its movement is impossible to predict on such a short visit - only the locals would know how much the landscape changes.
We spend a lot of time at the lighthouse; it’s fascinating. We capture stills and video, including drone footage. The evening is windy, and the breeze is strong as we are so close to the sea. It's completely calm below the tops of the dunes, but as soon as you rise above them, the wind grabs the drone with force. We take numerous photos; in the Nordic countries, summer twilight lasts a long time, and we eventually tire from photographing before it even gets too dark. Finally, we climb into the lighthouse to admire the view - desolate and beautiful. The sea stretches endlessly, and the sky darkens toward night.
By the time we make it back to the car, our shoes are so full of sand that our feet barely fit inside them. You'd think your feet would push the sand out, but it seems to work the other way around. I try to close the tripod legs, but the grating sound of the sand is concerning - will I be able to clean the threads of the telescopic legs? Will the sand ever completely come out of my ears, eyes, and clothes?
It's already dark when we reach the campsite, and by the time we finally get to sleep, it's well past midnight. I'm already dreading the 3:00 AM wake-up; I plan to head back to the lighthouse then, as the sunrise might offer very different photos from those we captured in the evening. Since we've come this far, I can't bear the thought of not giving it my all.
When the alarm goes off, it's raining, but not enough to stop me from photographing. I pull on my sandy clothes from the previous evening and drive to the spot where I can park before heading down the sandy path toward the lighthouse. The rain continues to fall softly, and the light is dull, gray, and dreary - perfectly matching my mood.
I arrive at the lighthouse and try to motivate myself: "I'm unlikely to ever come back here," - my classic pep talk, although there's often a next time, and sometimes even one after that. But with a destination this remote, it could very well be true. I take pictures, but without much enthusiasm; I don't search for creative angles and find myself annoyed by the wet sand. I launch the drone, but the light is flat, and the view doesn't seem much different from what it was in the evening after sunset, which dampens my motivation further. Then it starts to rain more heavily, so I quickly land the drone - there’s no point in getting it wet when I’m not fully committed. I’m extremely frustrated with myself, how much I let fatigue, rain, and sand affect me - it’s not good.
Back in the car, I drive to the campsite. By the time I crawl into the tent, the rain is pouring down, my clothes are wet, and there’s sand everywhere. I fall asleep immediately once I’m in the sleeping bag and wake up hours later.
It rained heavily while I slept, and when we get up, the tent is practically sitting in a puddle. Luckily, all the water is outside, and our tent has handled its first water challenge well. The clothes that got wet during the early morning shoot are now completely soaked. We hastily bundle everything up - it's still raining. We jump into the car and start driving; we want to get away from the Nordics, now!
It’s July 4th, and we've only been on the road for a few days. We aim to reach the German side by evening. After driving for a while, we warm up and dry off a bit, starting to feel better. The next night will definitely need to be spent indoors so we can dry our things. We book accommodation in advance, and it’s reassuring to know we’ll be under a roof. Flensburg, on the German side of the Danish-German border, sounds very appealing. Our Airbnb apartment is in the city center, so it will be nice to explore a new city too.
And the abandoned places in Germany are incredible, just wait!