Cimbrer Land, a home (Himmerland, en hjemstavn)

My land is a peninsula, attatched to my other flesh merely by a small strip of land between Angest and Klejtrup. All other borders are water. This is true. Only by the four kilometres southern border between Klejtrup Lake and Onsild, there is no water.

There is water, lots of water, sources that spring from between massive hills. Sources that bubble up from the underground. Streams. lakes. The raised bog Little Wild Bog is a big sponge, which maintains the winter three weeks longer than in the other land, except from Great Wild Bog (up north, Vendsyssel, in the darkness), which is also shrouded longer than everyone else in the cold fog. here, i can sit in the hollow road for days, and turn chippings of stones, if it was not because The Thunder Calf, in a mighty drunkenness, had punched such a big one, that the chizzle fell out of my hand, and got stuck in my wrist, right in the artery with such a tremendous power, that the doctors had to place a menhir in the wound instead of the chizzle, as the blood would flow like the water from Little Blue Spring (the mighty one) through the stream of Lindenborg and out in Limfjorden (the limit)

At this time of year, the moor is all black and shrouded in fog. The fragrances of heathers and crowberry and honey keep hanging on, and I breath so greedily, as if my survival depended on the sweet fragrance. The smeel of the moor, never let me down, it eludes me never. Its area is less extended than in the former great moor plains of Mid-vest jutland. But the fragrance is similar. The heathers. their blackness in november.

I saw the light of day the nineteenth of october in Terndrup, Lyngby parish, Fleskum shire (as the name reveals, its about bacon, the seal of the shire is a boar with raised bristles.)

I do not remember the weather in clear pictures on that exact day, but it occurs that it was greyis, October dampness. After this, I was installed by Gravlev, on top of a hill with rowanberry trees, that shone in silhouettes in front of the sunset. Strangely, these hills are a common theme. I have always had an excellent outlook. If I d not sit in a hollow, where the Thunder Calf can surprise me in his mighty drunkenness, I generally can see him come. As in the before mentioned hollow road, where my outlook did not reach. he surprised me there. he may surprise. that is what he do.

I prefer the high places. I prefer to be able to see far. Even far from the Cimbrerland, there are high places where I can establish a suitable overview. the Thunder Calf shall never surprise me again with his brandy reeking mouth. When it has rained, he shakes his big fur like a dog, and the smelly water encircles him like a halo.

"To me comes all flesh," he laughs, only God knows where he got it from. He laughs with his worm-eaten and weather-beaten face right into my face, and he reeks of brandy!