THE TWENTIETH DEGREE

Although the cyclist himself was bearing up well, after ten weeks on the road, various items of kit were beginning to show a little wear and tear. My laminated camping mat had developed an enormous blister that would have your average chiropodist sharpening a saw. It had the double whammy effect of reducing the often-slim chances of falling asleep, while at the same time increasing the chances of being woken when I did. The handlebar mount for my phone was no longer watertight due to a broken clasp. If the weather took a turn for the worse further north, this would cause problems in accessing online information whilst cycling. The extra battery pack purchased in Hamburg for use in the more remote areas of Norway was malfunctioning, making it as useful as a household brick. Of more immediate concern were my reading glasses; the old ones had a cracked lens so I threw them away as soon as I purchased a cheap replacement pair on a ferry. Perhaps, alas, the new glasses were too cheap, as the frame had already broken and they were held together with Sellotape. It detracted somewhat from the suave adventurer look that I had been trying, but failing, to foster.

As for the bike, although he too was faring well after his lavish upgrade in Hamburg, I had become concerned by the lack of tread on the tyres, the rear one especially. I wasn't sure how poor the terrain might become in the final third leg of the ride but I was sure that bike shops would be increasingly few and far between. This thought motivated me to pull into a branch of Fri Bikeshop during my final few kilometres on Møn, in order to have both tyres replaced.

It was thus with a little more traction that, after nearly a week of easterly movement, I was once again heading north in the direction of Copenhagen on my final Danish island of Zealand. The capital would hopefully be the perfect place to solve my equipment issues before I set foot on Swedish soil later in the week.

Cycling route 8 had now finished and was replaced with route 9, which followed the eastern seaboard of Zealand as far as Helsingør. I knuckled down to the job of cycling into a headwind on an unseasonably cold day. I couldn't remember if any of the previous 57 cycling days had been so decidedly chilly. Despite it being late June, the combination of a north wind and a clear blue sky had the temperature plunging to the lower teens and me wrapped up like an onion. On a scale of 1 to 5 – with 1 being T-shirt, shorts and factor 50, and 5 being Captain Oates with a bit less fur – I had started the day at 3 and upgraded to 3.5 whilst Reggie's tyres were being replaced. As is often the case, I was put to shame by other cyclists, in this case three Germans – grandfather, father and daughter – who had paused beside the road. They were cycling from Berlin to Copenhagen and all dressed at number 1 on the scale. Perhaps they were putting more effort into their cycling.

Then again, perhaps not. I realised that the older man and the woman were both cycling electric bikes. Although increasingly commonplace in towns and cities, this was the first time I had seen them used for cycle touring.

According to the Confederation of the European Bicycle Industry, 20 million bicycles were purchased in the European Union in 2014, a figure that has been stable for much of the twenty-first century. When it comes to electric power-assisted cycles (EPACs), however, the picture is much less static. In 2006 only 98,000 EPACs were purchased across Europe. By 2014, that figure had grown to over 1.1 million, with Germany, the Netherlands and Belgium purchasing nearly three-quarters of all electric bikes sold.

When I had met Kevin Mayne of the European Cyclists' Federation in Belgium, he told me that such was the popularity of e-bikes in some countries that many governments were grappling with appropriate legislation. How fast should an e-bike be allowed to go? Should they be permitted to use cycle paths? Is it just cheating for lazy people? (Sorry, I made that one up…). In British law, the following rules apply: an e-bike must weigh 40 kg or less, be no more powerful than 200 watts, not exceed 15 mph and have working pedals, and the rider must be 14 or over.

It looks like the e-bike's day is coming and that in Germany, where there are now over 2.5 million of them on the road, it has already arrived.

'How often do you have to charge them?' I asked the woman.

'We plug them in overnight but that's enough for the following day,' she explained.

I was beginning to see their merit, although I remained sceptical as to quite how long they would have lasted climbing the hills back in Spain.

Powered only by human energy, I found a campsite close to Faxe Ladeplads, a town that should surely have had a character in The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy named after it. The campsite was a large, anonymous place populated with empty caravans and only a handful of people. Its saving grace was the nearby beach, which made for a wonderfully peaceful place to sit and watch the evening fade into night.

The following day's cycle to Copenhagen involved me chopping off a chunk of coastline to shorten my journey to the capital but not before I had been given the low-down on the Danish thatching industry, courtesy of a female thatcher called Petina. Along with her boss, she was in the process of roofing another excessively pretty cottage but was more than happy to break off for a chat.

'A thatched roof will last for about forty years so, although it costs around four hundred thousand kroner [forty thousand pounds] per roof, it's worth the money,' she explained.

'Are there many female thatchers?'

'I think there's just me. It takes four years to learn the trade and there are only three or four who train each year. I'm going to England next month to see how British thatchers do their job.'

Shut down the mines, introduce a poll tax and ignore any opposition? I didn't want to spoil the surprise for Petina so refrained from comment and, after spending a few more minutes admiring her work, cycled on.

Copenhagen was on the horizon and, as I cycled around the long curve of the Køge Bay to the south of the city, I was beginning to encounter the urban environment again. I was now following a busy dual carriageway but there was, naturally, a segregated cycle path to use. As I neared the centre and as the red-brick buildings grew steadily from three to four and then five storeys, my mind was alert. I had read and heard much about Copenhagen, with its toplevel credentials as a city of cycling, and I was keen to experience it first-hand.

'Cycling is not a goal in itself but rather a highly prioritised political tool for creating a more liveable city,' wrote Ayfer Baykal, the Technical and Environmental Mayor of the city. The city's current 'Bicycle Strategy' covers not just a two-, three- or even fiveyear period, but 14 years – 2011 to 2025 – and the document is littered with practical, costed plans that would make your average UK cyclist weep.

The goal is 3 lanes in each direction on 80 per cent of the network…
In 2025, most one-way streets for cyclists have been eliminated…
Funding has been allocated to intelligent traffic system solutions for cyclists. Pilot projects with LED lights embedded in the asphalt, perhaps with alternating use of space like virtual bus stop islands…

I don't even know what a 'virtual bus stop island' is. But I'm convinced that someone at Copenhagen city hall is busy making sure they build one.

The northern part of Copenhagen was a far cry from the industrialised and commercial southern side of the city through which I had cycled earlier in the day. We British would label it as 'gentrified', although I suspected that, this being Scandinavia, it had never been anything other than genteel. The best camping option appeared to be 7 km to the north, in a coastal suburb called Charlottenlund. It was either that or pay a small fortune for one of the few remaining hotel rooms available online.

Camping Charlottenlund Fort turned out to be a real find. Located within a small decommissioned military base dating back to 1887, it came complete with 12 cannons and was surrounded on all sides by a functioning moat. With that level of security, who needed a D-lock? It had once been a small cog in a ring of steel surrounding the Danish capital and helped to keep the inhabitants of Copenhagen safe during the fractious years of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Alas, even wide moats and thick stone walls provided little defence in an era of air bombardment, and the network of fortresses, batteries, ramparts and floodable plains became somewhat redundant. In the long run, Copenhagen's loss turned out to be its gain, as many of the fortifications were now dedicated to the peaceful pursuits of leisure and tourism.

It was only a couple of days after my rest day at Møns Klint but that wasn't going to prevent me from taking time out to explore Copenhagen. Without the panniers and tent, I felt more at one with the 'normal' cyclists of the city as I pedalled back along the road leading into the centre. As I cycled, I counted the bicycle shops – there were 18, one every 400 metres – and watched the cyclists carefully. It struck me that, despite what I had assumed, many did wear bright Lycra and a sizeable minority were wearing helmets. Some even ignored red lights.

However, the most surprising thing of all was the number of cars. In a place so renowned for its cycle-friendliness I had always imagined them to be few and far between. But the roads were just as busy as in any other large town through which I had cycled. Copenhagen appeared to have found a way of building a transport infrastructure that provided for all rather than persecuting the carbon-producing drivers. More carrot than stick; there is a more environmentally friendly, healthier and perhaps even quicker way to get to work – come join us! But if you insist on taking the car, so be it. Was this the real secret of the Danish capital's cycling success story? Keeping everyone happy and on board, even those who weren't yet prepared to embrace the two-wheeled revolution?

Aside from stalking my fellow cyclists, the bulk of the day was spent wandering the streets with a large group of fellow tourists. Several competing 'free' tours of the city had their starting points in front of the town hall at 11 a.m. With price not being a factor – each guide earned money through tips – it was tricky to choose between them. The decision as to which group to join was based entirely upon a snap judgement about how engaging the guide might be. Those who gave the merest hint that any forced hilarity or, God forbid, audience participation might be involved were swiftly cast aside. I opted for a woman in her early thirties who turned out to be Irish. Despite her lack of authentic Danishness, she was a wise choice.

Admittedly, like any northern European city, Copenhagen wasn't at its best under a grey sky and an occasional downpour. However, Maria, the guide, escorted us cheerfully from interesting nook to fascinating cranny, recounting tales of past and present Danes and their exploits: of Tivoli, the nineteenth-century city centre amusement park and Christiania, its liberal 1970s cousin. Of Hans Christian Andersen, his outstayed welcome at Charles Dickens's house in London and his charmingly diminutive, if somewhat disappointing, Little Mermaid. Of Tommy Sneum, a Danish aviator-turned-spy who, in 1941, planned but failed to assassinate Heinrich Himmler with a crossbow. And of kings and queens, their 1,000 years of rule and the Crown Princess *, a Tasmanian-born Aussie of Scottish parents who first met the Crown Prince in a pub in Sydney during the 2000 Olympic Games.

With the tour over, I wandered around the colourful harbour before seeking out various replacements for my damaged or defunct kit and cycling back to the campsite for a second night next to the cannons. All that remained of Denmark was a relatively short but rain-sodden 40 km cycle to the northern port of Helsingør along the self-styled Danish Riviera. At times it was the kind of rain that left me cowering under trees in a vain attempt to stay dry. It was, however, much appreciated by the slugs and snails who basked in the dampness in their thousands along the quiet, tree-lined cycle paths I was following. To the many orphaned slugs and snails of eastern Denmark, I can only apologise, but please take comfort in the knowledge that your parents were squashed by a brand-new set of high-quality puncture-resistant tyres and I for one didn't feel a thing.