A Town Where Fairy Tales Live
Odense, Denmark’s third-largest city. Located in the heart of the island of Funen, this town is known as the birthplace of world-renowned fairy tale author Hans Christian Andersen. In this city of about 200,000 people, a gentle landscape unfolds—medieval cobblestone streets, colorful half-timbered houses, and winding canals.
The name Odense means “Odin’s sanctuary,” with ancient history stretching back to the Viking Age. At the town center, St. Canute’s Cathedral, one of Denmark’s oldest churches, maintains its dignified presence, while in the old quarter, the small yellow house where Andersen spent his childhood years still remains.
During the Industrial Revolution, Odense prospered through shipbuilding, and today it’s known as a city of culture and education. The University of Southern Denmark has its campus here, where the energy of young generations coexists with traditional Nordic tranquility. Summer brings daylight hours close to the white nights, while winter sees early twilights when street lamps begin to glow. In every season, this town has its own unique flow of time.
I decided to visit Odense not only because I was drawn to the idea of a “fairy tale town,” but even more because I wanted to experience “Denmark at human scale.” Not the bustle of Copenhagen, but somewhere quieter, where people’s daily lives are visible. With such expectations in my heart, I set off for Odense in early summer.
Day 1: Memories in Cobblestone
An hour and a half by train from Copenhagen Central Station. Through the window, lush pastoral landscapes spread out, dotted with red-roofed farmhouses. The Danish countryside was flatter than I’d imagined, with wheat fields stretching endlessly and white wind turbines looking like scenes from a picture book.
I arrived at Odense Station just after 10 a.m. Exiting the modern station building, I immediately spotted signs pointing to the old quarter. As I pulled my suitcase along the cobblestone streets, the wheels made a pleasant rhythmic sound.
My accommodation was a small hotel near Kongens Have (The King’s Garden). It was too early for check-in, but the friendly front desk staff kindly stored my luggage. “Have you visited the Andersen Museum?” she asked in fluent English. Not yet, I replied, and she smiled, saying, “Then go today. It’ll be a bit crowded tomorrow since it’s Monday.”
Now unburdened, I set out toward the town center. Kongens Have, though small, was a meticulously maintained garden where people lounged on the grass eating lunch. The adjacent Odense Castle, now used as the city hall, reflected the early summer sunlight off its white walls.
I had lunch at a café near Torvet Square. I ordered smørrebrød, Denmark’s traditional open-faced sandwich. On rye bread, marinated herring, boiled egg, and red onion were beautifully arranged. One bite, and the tangy vinegar and herbal aromas filled my mouth. Danish conversations and laughter flowed from the neighboring table. Though a tourist destination, I could feel the local people’s lives still deeply rooted here.
In the afternoon, I visited the Hans Christian Andersen Museum. This museum, completely renovated in 2021, has a labyrinthine structure extending underground—like wandering into one of Andersen’s stories. His life is carefully exhibited, allowing visitors to trace the footsteps of how a poor shoemaker’s son became a world-famous author.
What struck me most was the section displaying Andersen’s own travel journals and diaries. He traveled throughout Europe many times in his lifetime, and these experiences became the wellspring of his stories. Gazing at handwritten manuscripts in glass cases, I reflected on the deep connection between traveling and weaving tales.
Just next to the museum stands Andersen’s birthplace. The small house with yellow walls looks so old it might collapse any moment, and the interior is the essence of simplicity. Cramped rooms, low ceilings. What did the boy dream of here? In the light streaming through the window, he must have already been imagining distant worlds.
In the evening, I strolled through the old quarter. The area called Overgade is lined with half-timbered houses from the 16th to 19th centuries. Colorfully painted walls, mismatched windows, sunset reflecting on cobblestones. I felt caught in the illusion that time was flowing slowly. Peeking into a small gallery in a back alley, I found local artists’ works on display. A woman who seemed to be the owner called out, “Please, take your time looking around.”
Dinner was at a restaurant by the river. At a place by the bridge over Odense River, I could watch people passing by from the terrace seating. I ordered frikadeller, Danish meatballs that could be called a national dish. The meatballs made from pork and onions were surprisingly juicy, served with boiled potatoes and sweet-and-sour pickled beets. When I ordered a local beer, Odense Pilsner, the waiter winked and said, “Good choice.”
After finishing my meal, it was past 9 p.m. but still twilight. I felt the long daylight hours of Nordic summer. Walking back to the hotel along the river, street lamps began lighting one by one. Back in my room, I gazed out at the old quarter’s rooftops. Red and orange roofs overlapped, and beyond them rose the spire of St. Canute’s Cathedral. What kind of day would tomorrow bring? With anticipation and fatigue mingling, I fell into deep sleep.
Day 2: Where Green Meets History
At breakfast in the hotel buffet, what caught my eye was the variety of cheeses and cold cuts. There were also many types of Danish bread, and after some deliberation, I chose rugbrød, a rye bread. The firm texture and distinctive sourness felt refreshing. I’d heard that Danes take breakfast seriously, and indeed, with such abundance, energy for the day naturally wells up.
In the morning, I decided to venture slightly outside the city. I took a 15-minute bus ride to visit the Funen Village Open Air Museum. This museum preserves 18th and 19th century farmhouses, windmills, and smithies relocated from various parts of Funen.
Walking among buildings scattered across the vast grounds, I glimpsed rural life of that era. Inside thatched-roof farmhouses, actual tools and furniture were displayed, with wooden benches around the fireplace. How did people spend this country’s long winters?
Ducks swam around the pond, and sheep and chickens roamed freely. Children ran toward the animals with excited shouts. A volunteer guide was demonstrating traditional bread-making, and the aroma of freshly baked bread drifted on the breeze. When I tasted a sample, the simple flavor revealed the sweetness of wheat.
“This bread could only be baked once a week back then,” the elderly guide explained. “So they baked it harder for preservation.” History exists not only in textbooks but lives on in people’s daily practices, I realized.
Returning to the city center around noon, I visited St. Canute’s Cathedral. Built to commemorate Danish King Canute II, this Gothic-style structure was completed in the 13th century. Stepping inside, I was enveloped in cool air and dimness. Light streaming through stained glass painted colorful patterns on the floor.
The ornate altar decorations, white pillars reaching to the ceiling, and the silence. Though several tourists were present, everyone spoke in hushed tones and walked carefully. I naturally lightened my footsteps, behaving respectfully toward the solemnity of this space. Sitting in a pew and looking up at the ceiling, the geometric arches were beautiful. Over the centuries, how many people had offered prayers here?
Leaving the church, I walked through Brandts Passage, a shopping arcade. Under the glass roof, clothing stores, general goods shops, and cafés lined the way. Browsing a Danish design store, I found simple, functional tableware and furniture. When I mentioned to the clerk, “I’m from Japan,” she replied happily, “I’ve heard Danish design is popular in Japan too.”
Late afternoon, I walked to Odense Harbor. Once prosperous with shipbuilding, the harbor has now transformed into a quiet marina. Yachts lined up neatly, waves gently rocking. I sat on a bench along the harbor, gazing blankly at the sea. Occasionally seagulls cried, and children’s voices at play could be heard in the distance. Without any urgency to do something, simply being there felt comfortable.
In the evening, I discovered a weekend market at the town square. Local farmers sold vegetables, fruits, and cheese, while sweet aromas wafted from pastry stalls. I bought a basket of strawberries and ate one on the spot—intense sweetness filled my mouth. Nordic summer is brief, but natural bounty seems concentrated in that short time.
Dinner was at a small bistro near the hotel. I ordered Danish-style roast pork. The skin was crisply roasted, the meat tender and juicy. The accompanying braised red cabbage was slightly sweet, enhancing the meat’s umami. At the next table, a family celebrated a birthday, and when cake arrived, everyone sang together. The Danish birthday song had a simple, warm sound.
On the way back to the hotel, I passed through the old quarter’s alleys. Though past 10 p.m., it hadn’t grown completely dark yet. In the twilight, silhouettes of old buildings emerged. Only my footsteps echoed on the cobblestones, wrapped in a stillness as if time had stopped. Back in my room, I opened the window and breathed in the night air. The church bell rang in the distance as the day came to a close.
Day 3: A Morning of Farewell
On the final morning, I woke earlier than usual. With my departure in the afternoon, there was still time to spare. I wanted to walk through the quiet morning old quarter once more.
After breakfast, I left the hotel just past 7 a.m. On Sunday morning, the town was still sleeping. Shop shutters remained closed, and few people were about. Walking through Overgade’s alleys, I saw a different expression than yesterday. Morning light was soft, gently illuminating building walls. Flowers in window boxes, bicycles by doorways, nameplates on mailboxes. Such small everyday details spoke of the lives of people dwelling in this town.
I stopped before the Andersen statue. Seated on a bench, he seemed about to speak. A man born in this town, raised in poverty, yet never abandoning his dreams. That his stories are still read worldwide must be because they contain something universal.
I walked along Odense River. People jogging in the early morning, walking dogs. Like morning rituals, each person spent their own time. Looking down at the river from the bridge, the water surface sparkled, reflecting the morning sun. Ducks swam in formation, small ducklings paddling desperately behind.
Around 9 a.m., I found a bakery café just opening. I ordered wienerbrød (Danish pastry) and a café latte, sitting by the window. The pastry was surprisingly light with rich butter flavor. Tasting it in the homeland of Danish pastries was exceptional. The café gradually filled with people—reading newspapers, deep in conversation with friends—each person’s Sunday morning beginning.
In the morning, there was one place I wanted to visit one last time. Kongens Have. The garden I’d visited on the first day was now bustling with families and people taking walks on Sunday morning. Families picnicking on blankets spread across the grass, people reading in tree shade, parents playing catch with children. A peaceful scene unfolded.
I sat on a bench, watching the scene for a while. Though it was only a short two-night, three-day stay, had I breathed in some of this town’s air? By not merely touring sights but placing myself beside people’s daily lives, travel gains depth, I felt.
Returning to the hotel, I completed check-out. “Did you enjoy yourself?” the front desk staff asked. “It’s a wonderful town,” I answered, and she smiled, saying, “Please come again. Different seasons are lovely too.”
On the way to the station, I turned back one last time. The old quarter with its rows of red roofs, the church spire visible beyond. I burned this scene into my heart so I wouldn’t forget.
Waiting for the train on the Odense Station platform, I opened my notebook. What I felt over these three days, people I met, food I ate, scenes I saw. Reading the fragmentary notes, each moment came back to life.
The train slid in. I boarded and took my seat. Through the window, the town of Odense slowly receded. Would I be able to come again? I couldn’t know. But the time spent in this town would surely remain within me.
Pastoral landscapes spread out, windmills turning. On the journey back to Copenhagen, I closed my eyes and recalled the texture of Odense’s cobblestones.
The Certain Memory Within Imagination
This journey was not something I actually experienced. It is entirely a story woven in imagination.
Yet Odense is a real town, and there truly are cobblestone streets, Andersen’s birthplace, and a medieval cathedral standing tall. The Funen Village Open Air Museum, Odense Harbor, Kongens Have—all are real places. Smørrebrød and frikadeller are dishes Danish people eat in their daily lives.
While this AI-painted journey is fictional, the places, culture, cuisine, and people’s lives depicted aimed to be as true to reality as possible. That’s why, when someone who reads this travel blog actually visits Odense someday, they might feel, “Ah, this is what was written in that travel account.”
Something that exists surely, even while imagined. This is also what fairy tale author Andersen pursued throughout his life. His stories depicted mermaids and snow queens that don’t exist in reality, yet within them breathed universal human emotions.
Travel might not mean only physical movement. Visiting foreign lands in imagination, sensing the air of that town, letting your thoughts reach toward people’s lives—perhaps that too is a form of travel.
I hope this imaginary journey becomes the beginning of your real journey someday.
