He’s got a Saab 9-5, but drives it as little as possible.
He’s a medical director at Holbæk Hospital and has seen too many car accident victims, especially from Skovvejen, to think driving is worth the risk.
He keeps an old black Raleigh at Holbæk Station.
Now and then his wife suggests they buy a villa down by Isefjord, but he prefers sea air.
They live in the first row, close to the Coast Hospital, and have lived there for twenty-nine years.
In the early days, he would browse articles in Medical Weekly or Politiken, but now he just stares out the window letting his thoughts wander.
The sun has yet to rise, but it’s slowly getting lighter.
He can see the cars out on Kalundborgvej.
He can see three windmills in a field of winter wheat.
He can’t see them, but he knows they’re there: Saltbæk Vig, Alleshave, and behind those, Vesterlyng with all the free-range cows and horses.
When he considers the afternoons he and the children rode their bikes out there, he feels that life has treated him well.
None of his children have become doctors.
He has his wife to thank for that.
She’s a high school teacher and very interested in modern art.
He doesn’t understand (or like) all of it, but they each own a sea kayak, and during the summer they make regular evening trips along the coast out toward the tip of Røsnæs.
