The Berry Tavern

 In June of 1827, Fortunatus Berry and his family moved from Springfield, Illinois to Galena, and then shortly afterward to a small settlement then known as Gratiot’s Grove (then in Illinois but today in Wisconsin).  During this time, the region was experiencing a “lead rush”, and miners flocked to the area.  Berry built a log roadhouse in 1829, and when the Galena-to-Chicago stage line extended its service to Gratiot’s Grove in 1840, he constructed a larger tavern.  This tavern boasted seven guest rooms, bar and dining rooms, dance hall, and livery stable. The Berry Tavern would remain a focal point for many years, serving as not only a tavern but at times a school, a doctor’s office, a post office, a polling place, and a church.  Locals met here to plan their defensive strategies during the Black Hawk War. The tavern eventually changed hands, and by 1883 the structure was converted into a farmhouse.  It remained a farmhouse for over 130 years.

The tavern is infamous for being the site of several historic occurrences.  In 1842, a murder took place here, the result of jealousy combined with alcohol.  In July of 1854, cholera claimed the lives of nine family members and guests at the tavern as well as eight others who had very recently stayed there, including four stage drivers.  Not even the local casket maker survived; with his death, the bodies were taken to the root cellar and stacked until they could be prepared for a proper burial, which was done on-site.

Through the years, all of the associated barns and outbuildings have been demolished.  A historic homestead directly across the street was completely leveled just a few years ago.  The one factor that probably led to the preservation of the old tavern is a stone marker placed at the site in 1914 by the Daughters of the American Revolution of Shullsburg, which states, “The stone marks the old Chicago stageroad, and the tavern built by Fortunatus Berry in 1829”.  

In 2013, three impassioned individuals acquired the property and set up a non-profit called Friends of Berry Tavern.  Their goal is to restore the old tavern and the root cellar back to its original condition and promote the site as a public space.  One of those individuals is Cory Ritterbusch, an acquaintance of mine for some years.  Cory plans yearly events at the old tavern that include personal tours, folk music, food, drinks, and old-fashioned outdoor games.  This year, I finally managed to attend the festivities with Aimee and Lumen and it was fantastic.

Folk band playing at the old tavern.

This is where the kitchen led to the bar area.

A bedroom upstairs.

Original hand-hewn oak beams in the basement - with the bark still attached!

The infamous root cellar (with new roof).

Deep in the rear lower level of the root cellar.  

A wayward gravestone in the tavern basement.

                                                       

The gravesite of Elizabeth the wife and Elizabeth the daughter, victims of the cholera outbreak of 1854.

On the road, we helped this painted turtle off of the road.

We stopped at a beautiful state park on the way home and I was pleased to find several pickerel frogs along a cold, clean, fast-flowing stream.

Slightly Off-Topic: Roger & the Burmese Eggs

 Among the multitude of memories that have carved out an existence in the back folds of my brain is that of my experience with Burmese python eggs.  But in order for the reader to understand that part of the story, first I have to go back and explain how it all began.

During my years as a reptile department manager at a local pet store, I met countless people that I might refer to simply as “characters”.  I think pet stores have (or had) a special way of attracting society’s idiosyncrasies.  I’d seen them all.  Leather-clad motorcyclists, metalheads, and adults that cosplayed as Japanese cartoon characters.  But some of these customers would never stand out in a crowd.  Among these, was a man named Roger.

I met Roger rather unceremoniously sometime around 2004.  He was an imposing man, in his mid fifties and standing at least a full six inches taller than me.  I could tell that he visited the store after he got off of work because he was always well-dressed - button-down shirt tucked into his slacks, and with a slight Santa belly.  He would later tell me that he was a Marine Corps veteran and had spent time serving in Vietnam.  His neat composure, therefore, was no surprise.

Like many customers, he started out as a loiterer.  He would frequently stop in and just look at all of our reptiles and amphibians.  It didn’t take long before Roger went from being a loiterer to a talker.  And talk he did.  Roger became friendly with all of the employees at the store with the exception of Tony, the owner, and that’s just because Tony was all business and wasn’t ever a chatter during business hours unless you had money to spend (and even then, not always).  In fact, Roger spent so much time hanging around and talking that Tony would begin to work at his nervous pace, indicating to the others that maybe we should get to work and stop amusing this guy.  

Before long, Roger began to seriously consider having a snake as a pet.  He saw me as an expert on the topic and picked my brain quite a bit.  He was an active listener and an engaged speaker.  However, much to Tony’s dismay, Roger never purchased a snake from the store, but that was only because he wanted to skip the entry-level species and jump into the giant pythons.  And we rarely carried those.  Against my recommendations, Roger obtained a young Burmese python as his first snake.  He bought it from the Chicago Reptile House down in Orland Park, in part because he liked and respected the owner, who also was a Marine veteran.  I congratulated him, but it was clear to me that he may have been over his head.

Roger loved that snake, and soon afterward he purchased another. And another.  And soon he had acquired a large collection of Burmese pythons and other large snakes.  By this time, he knew that he had to pay his dues for visiting so often so he began to buy things like heat lamps and food for his snakes.  He really loved to talk snakes with me, and oftentimes snake talk would segue into other topics.  At one point he suggested that I date his daughter who he said was “about (my) age”.  It took me telling him that I was already spoken for two or three times before he could be convinced that his idea wasn’t going to work.  Well then!

Just as I predicted, Roger soon realized that his eyes were bigger than his bank account, and he needed to unload some snakes.  He first offered me a coastal carpet python.  I have no idea when or where he acquired this snake, but I did know that this was THE longest carpet python I had ever laid my eyes upon.  Long, but thin.  I kept the snake for a short time and couldn’t get it to accept food, so I gave it to a friend who specialized in Australian pythons.  Next up, an adult yellow anaconda with a typical yellow anaconda attitude.  Each time I saw Roger walking across the parking lot toward the store I rolled my eyes and took a deep breath.  What else was it going to be?

Then one evening, Roger popped into the store, sweating, rambling on about how one of his big Burmese pythons had wrapped around a towel in its cage and wasn’t letting go.  I asked why there was a towel in the cage.  Roger flashed an unconvincing shrug of his shoulders and asked, “Do you think you could come over and get the towel out of the cage?”

“Tonight?”

“If you can, I’d really appreciate it, Joe.”

So there I was, at 10:00 at night, entering Roger’s apartment on the northwest side of Chicago.  It was a small, dark, bachelor-style apartment, surprisingly unkempt.  Roger led me to the snake room.  There, he kept large pythons in six-foot long Vision cages.  The cages were filthy and the water bowls were parched.  Clearly, he was struggling to properly maintain these animals (which is exactly why I was trying to sell him the idea of owning a corn snake or sand boa in the first place).  Roger pointed out a large green Burmese python in the lowest cage in the stack.  “See?  It’s wrapped up in the towel and I can’t get it out”.

I cringed.  It wasn’t a towel, it was a large clutch of eggs.  What was Roger trying to pull?

“Roger, those are eggs.”

Roger once again improvised a look of surprise.  “Ohh, well, what am I supposed to do with those?  Will you take them?”

Maybe it was the pungent aroma of urates wafting out of the cage getting to me, but I did agree to take the eggs.  Removing a clutch of eggs from a large, protective mother python in a very tight space is not for the faint of heart, but I got them all out in short order and put them in the only thing we could find - a garbage bag.  I drove home that night all the while attempting to process what the hell just happened.

When I got home, all of the eggs were placed into a big Rubbermaid container in a warm area, and that’s where they stayed.  Over the next few visits to the store, Roger seemed to have a change of heart.  “If those eggs hatch, I’ll let you pick a couple if you want.”  Ha!  Roger would never know what really happened to those eggs.

One day I looked inside the bin, and saw that some of the eggs were pipping (beginning to hatch).  Frankly, I was surprised, after everything they had been through.  About two days later, every single egg in that clutch - all 57 of them - hatched.  And now I was faced with the big question - what am I going to do with these?  Fortunately, I had an acquaintance at the time willing to take the whole litter.  I didn’t think about it at the time, but, looking back, I hope they all found good homes.

As for Roger?  Well, he continued to stop in the store, but instead of clearing out all of our basking bulbs, he’d buy a few.  Then it became clear that he was burning out, and some developing health issues forced him to rehome all of his snakes.  He seemed unhappy about it.  His mental health appeared to decline, and one day he walked out, never to be seen again.  I felt bad, because he always meant well. 

While preparing to write this, I discovered that Roger passed away in 2022.  Later photos indicated that he was in good spirits, which made me happy.  He was referred to as an animal lover in his obituary, and I for one cannot deny that.

Kirtland's Quest: Helene & Deep Lonliness

 I travel quite frequently.  Sometimes I travel with my wife and daughter, sometimes I travel with friends, and sometimes I travel alone.  There are reasons why I do this that probably don’t need explanation, yet some people question my motive when traveling alone.  Don’t I get bored?  Lonely?  Isn’t that weird?

My short answer is almost always “no”.  I love the comfort of solitude.  Sometimes, I need it.  There are times when I don’t really want to talk, or be talked to.  I don’t want anyone to try to sell me anything.  I don’t want to get caught up in an algorithm.  I need to shake the heavy burden of a society obsessed with smarmy political discourse, manufactured fear and divisiveness, and breaking updates.  In these situations, nature is almost invariably my sanctuary.  Nature doesn’t care about society’s problems, it carries on more or less the way it has for millions of years. 

So I was slightly taken aback when, on a recent trip to Indianapolis, I felt lonely.  I felt like I was missing out on something greater than what I was experiencing.  I was living through Hurricane Helene at her northernmost reach, and then the dreary, misty day that followed.  Oddly, I did not attend the first full day of ColubridFest - the reason for my travels - because I didn’t feel like sitting through a symposium.  This event would have put me in contact with other like-minded folks, but I knew almost no one there and wasn’t feeling particularly gregarious.  

Instead, I hiked a lot, begging for nature’s acceptance.  It was hard to tell if she was willing to do that.  I spent a lot of time looking for the always elusive Kirtland’s snake.  A patch of habitat supporting this species remains near the city.  But the cool conditions, and a lack of suitable cover, prevented me from finding any of the precious natricines.  I did find a couple of Jefferson’s salamanders as well as a smattering of young-of-year green and cricket frogs.

I decided early on that I was going to just hike all day.  So after finding a few amphibians, I just pushed forward, the looming forest my only company.    

I decided to sit and rest at the base of a large bur oak tree overlooking a tall and steep riverbank.  The ground was covered with recently-fallen acorns.  There wasn’t a soul around.  I sat quietly, imagining a lone indigenous castaway in the same setting, in a time forgotten.

Back on my feet, I suppressed the pain in my lower back (a nagging fractured vertebrae from a year ago) as I climbed over fresh, leafy downed trees.  The hurricane didn’t lift without leaving a few parting gifts.  At my age and in my condition, navigating the crown of a large, wet tree on its side presents quite a challenge.  I put a lot of faith into some skinny branches and thankfully I made it through without further complications (read: I still got it).

For miles I hiked, unsure exactly what it was I sought.  Exercise, at the very least.  Hours passed, but the sky remained unchanged.  A fine mist would occasionally blow through, which pleased the slugs but complicated my trek as it would for anyone that wears glasses.  At one point, the forest gave way to a large reservoir, and the path traced the edge for a distance.  This is where I saw a few other hikers.  Pairs or small groups of people, chatting on about the everyday trivial stuff.  And wishing “that sun would just come out!”.

At the end of the day, I returned to my car, drove back to the hotel, and crashed.  The following morning, I drove to ColubridFest for its final day.  It was fun, but my heart was elsewhere.  

I look back fondly on my past years, and I look forward to what the future brings.  But right now, I’m living the best years of my life.  I am privileged to say this, and I’m keenly aware that the reason for this is my family.  Without them, life would be one long, gray existence.  

At home, when I opened my front door, my eight year old daughter ran and threw her little arms around my neck.  And just then, the sun came out.

The lost grave of Emily Ann Adams

 Last spring I had a bizarre conversation with an individual on Facebook messenger related to historic and prehistoric features on the local landscape.  It began while he was commenting on some local page - maybe the local history page, I really don’t remember.  He mentioned his discovery of an effigy mound shaped like a turtle located near a major intersection local to both of us.  I scrutinized the area on Google Earth and indeed there was some sort of structure or shape there that resembled a turtle.  Curious as I am, I drove there the following day to find that the turtle was actually a retention pond filled with phragmites and cattails.  There were no “mounds” to speak of.  Later, we again engaged in a discussion through DMs and he was adamant that this was the work of an ancient culture from ten thousand years ago.  My issue was twofold - I visited the site and saw no obvious mounds (he knew the site only through digital maps), AND historic aerial maps dating to 1938 show a featureless farm field.  He dismissed this evidence against his claim and continued presenting his own evidence - modern LIDAR images and a more recent historic map that seemed to show a path through the adjacent woods toward the area in question.  He suggested that at one time this was a well-known artifact and may have been well-visited by people.   If this were the case, then there should be some documentation available today.  While I haven’t viewed every single resource available on Chicago area Native American culture, I’ve read enough to know that it is extraordinarily unlikely that this turtle isn’t anything more than a landscaper’s art project.

However, he also brought up the existence of a long-forgotten settler’s cemetery located in the same general area.  This one he did find in person, but because of physical limitations, he hadn’t visited in years.  He reluctantly provided a vague description of the surrounding area and it wasn’t long before I pinpointed the possible location of the cemetery within a small grove of trees - once again, with the help of historic and current aerial maps.  In the 1930s, there appeared to be a small graveyard in the middle of a farm field.  Back then, there weren’t any roads leading to the graveyard, only a narrow footpath that seemed to wind around neighboring properties.  A glance at my 1874 plat map of Wayne Township showed that the cemetery was on the property of a "M. C. Haviland", whose home was indicated as being across a set of railroad tracks that bisected the property.

M. C. Haviland, or Milton C. Haviland, was born in April of 1817 in Pawling, Dutchess County, New York. In the 1850, 1855, and 1870 censuses, Milton was listed as a farmer in Wayne (oddly, he was recoded as living in Bloomingdale in 1860 - this is likely an error). His wife was Emily Ann Haviland nee Adams. She was born in about 1820, also in New York. Records show that Milton and Emily had four children together, and by 1870, a "domestic" (probably a hired housekeeper) and a day laborer. Milton died on April 2, 1902 in Iowa and was buried at Seney Cemetery in Plymouth County.

While there is a fair amount of information about Milton floating around, as well as information about Emily's family tree (her great-great-great-great grandfather emigrated to the colonies from England in the 1600s), finding information on Emily isn't as easy. Back in those days, women were seen more as "supporting roles" than equals, and records confirm that. Records claim that Emily was part of the household at least during the 1870 census, and that Milton was widowed by the 1880 census, when he was sixty four years old. What I discovered may challenge that information.

I visited the graveyard for the first time last June.  With me was Matt and Nathan.  What was then a farm field is now a prairie.  We located the sad-looking cluster of trees and worked our way toward it.  A dense thicket of brambles must be traversed in order to gain access to the gravestones. Nearly insufferable.  Even then, once you’ve reached your destination, you are surrounded by a luxuriant growth of poison ivy.  I’m not saying this to discourage visitors, I'm just telling it like it is.  

And there it was.  Concealed by decades of weedy growth was an old limestone headstone, still erect though hardly legible.  I was able to transcribe the following:

“A. Adam(?)

DIED

Dec. 25, 1865

Aged(?)

(illegible)”

Erosion and a healthy splattering of lichenous growth had really done a number on this stone. But I do believe that this is the final resting place of Emily Ann Haviland, nee Adams.

None of Emily's children were named Adam or anything starting with the letter "a", so that rules out any of her children. What about the 1870 census, which listed Emily as a part of the household, aged fifty one? Perhaps it was assumed that she was still alive. Remember, by 1870 the household contained a domestic and a day laborer. Convenient for a widowed husband who still had a teenaged son at home and a farm to tend to. In my time researching genealogy for various projects, I've found that errors are very commonplace. I believe that Emily died on Christmas day in 1865 around the age of forty five, leaving at least three children (one son, George, seemed to fall off of the map after the 1860 census and may have died as a teenager).

Curiosity got the best of me last weekend so I decided to revisit the site.  This time it appears as though someone else has been here recently.  There was a suspicious trail through the tall grass, and because human beings generally suck, the stone has been knocked over.  

However, I decided to check around to see if there were any other stones.  To my surprise, I saw another one maybe ten feet away, deep in a tangled mass of vegetation.  I made my way through, getting cut and stabbed in the process.  This second one was also knocked over although it looks to have been so long ago.  Through the strongly dappled sunlight I was not successful in identifying any sort of etching on the exposed side of the stone, and I was neither in a good physical nor ethical position to turn the stone over. Is this the final resting place of son George?

Here is a detail from the 1874 atlas. You can see the cemetery, marked by an enclosed cross. The farmhouse, pictured as the black square across the tracks, disappeared sometime between 2005 and 2007. However, the Yolton farmhouse directly across the street still stands today. It was constructed just in time for the atlas - in 1874.

The Yolton-Vogt farmhouse today.  The entire farmstead is a designated historic landmark.

In a day and age where virtually every square inch of our urban and suburban landscape is trampled by the caravan of society, it is interesting that a place like this exists in its current condition.  But for how long remains a question. 

Danke, Deutschland

Germany - specifically the rural northern region - is a scenic area rich in cultural and natural resources. Due to our schedule and locations, there wasn't a whole lot of time for exploring natural areas and such.  But I'd be remiss if I didn't touch on a little bit of the area's dark history, if only to reflect on what we have - or haven't - learned as a species.

We stayed the first night in a tiny hamlet about thirteen miles northeast of Lubeck, a stone's throw from the Baltic Sea.  Our hosts were very gracious with their time - Regina, my wife's coworker, and her husband Rolf.  Their home rests alongside a wheat field interspersed with wildflowers as a way to attract pollinators (imagine that).  Lumen and I swam with the jellyfish and at night, we walked the rural roads in search of amphibians (without success).

Our hosts prepared a delicious meal for us, including nuggets for the picky kid

We visited a Star Wars museum on an absolutely blazing hot day.  The museum, which is called Outpost One, is jaw-droppingly awesome if you're a Star Wars fan.  I could not fathom how this vast and detailed collection of life-sized and miniature sets, characters, and spacecraft was, especially considering that it is not officially associated with Star Wars/Disney (hence the name of the museum).  Moreover, the place is located in a rural area in an unassuming campus of WWII-era factory buildings.  This is a place I'd HIGHLY recommend should you ever find yourself in or near Dassow.

Life-size Luke about to confront Vader 

A miniature replica of Mos Eisley (Rolf for scale)

Life-sized TIE fighters

Sadly, the only herp I observed in Germany was this dead-in-field slow worm.  We were visiting St. Nicholas Church (Nikolaikirche) in Dassow (which dates to the Middle Ages) when I was understandably distracted by a stone wall near the perimeter.  And there, atop the wall, was a desiccated slow worm.  

In 

Miniatur Wunderland - an astonishing array of miniature scenes from around the world.  ASTONISHING.  In 2021, the model railroad track measured 51,558 feet in length, which to scale measures 850 miles.  But the railroad is only a part of this layout.  There are entire amusement parks, stadiums, concerts, cityscapes, and even a gigantic airport with aircraft that take off and land.  Located in Hamburg.

There were scenes from various parts of the world, and I loved that USA featured a shootout/crime scene, with CNN coverage, near a Burger King billboard.  Germany knows all all too well.

The ruins of St. Nikolai in Hamburg - what's left following heavy destruction during World War II.  Today, it is a memorial and monument to peace.

I was a little surprised to see this Canada goose along the Alster.  They sure do get around!

St. Peter's Church

While asleep on our first night in Hamburg, the hotel's fire alarm went off.  It was 12:55 AM, and the noise was an ear-piercing series of falling notes.  We awoke, confused...and it took a few moments for me to shake off the stupor.  We glanced out of the window to see that others in the hotel were confused as well.  Grabbing our passports, wallet, and keys, we entered the packed hallway, following the rest of the tenants down several flights of stairs, alarm still sounding.  Lumen was scared.  We were shuffled to the quad area with the rest of the group and waited out an inspection by the firefighters.  We never received an update so I'm not sure exactly what happened, but there were some jokes made that live on today ("The hotel's midnight social club really shouldn't be a selling point", etc).

A flight back to Lisbon, where we stayed a final night with my cousin, and then a flight back to Chicago, and the trip was over all too soon.  And just two weeks later, I started a new job - a career change - that has me reevaluating everything and hoping that my next adventure awaits just around the bend.

Tak, Danmark

 We had spent ten days in beautiful Portugal but now it was time to make our way toward the next destination - Denmark.  A three and a half hour flight to Hamburg, Germany, and a five hour drive (including ferry across the Fehmarn Belt) later, and we were in beautiful Stege, on the island of Møn, in Denmark.  Our stay on Møn was intended to act as a “cool down” after a very active and busy time in Portugal.  And, it fit the bill perfectly.

The primary purpose of staying on Møn was to see Møns Klint, the white chalk cliffs located at the extreme easternmost portion of the island.  The cliffs soar nearly four hundred feet above the coast and are constantly eroding, exposing a plethora of fossils dating back seventy million years.  To get to the beach from the top of the cliffs, one has to descend a grueling 498 steps.  Guess how many steps one needs to ascend to return to the top?  You guessed it.  498. Okay, so maybe this wasn't very relaxing after all.

The chalk residue leaves the shallow water looking blue/green.

Top photo: mine.  Bottom:  Same perspective in an 1850 painting by Peter Christian Skovgaard.  Much can change in 174 years.

The woodlands surrounding the cliffs were stunning.  Beeches are the predominant trees, with some over 400 years old.  On the day we visited, the forest floor was teeming with black slugs (Arion ater) and to a lesser degree, leopard slugs (Limax maximus).  In addition, a variety of terrestrial snails were seen, including some impressive Roman snails (Helix pomatia).  Lumen couldn't be bothered to continue forward without helping just about every slug off of the dirt path so that they wouldn't be stepped on.  

Black slugs are not always black.

Three flavors of black slug

Lumen with a friendly Roman snail

Opposite the cliffs are these picturesque meadows.  I could almost smell adders but an electric fence proved its effectiveness when I tried to get to the other side.  The view would have to do!

Møns Klint also features a really fun interpretive center that appeals to all ages. There is information on the flora and fauna of Møn, complete with preserved specimens.

Foreshadowing...

We then left Møns Klint to do some hiking and herping near a primeval forest near Ulvshale. On the way we stopped to see this grassy hill which is actually an intact Bronze Age (1800-500 BC) burial mound. In fact, there are ancient sites all over the island, including more mounds, stone burial chambers, and boulder walls. Simply incredible. I was falling in love with Møn.

A short drive later, we arrived at the site I had researched prior to the trip. It was a grassy area containing what appeared on Google maps to be refuse strewn about. As we walked through the site, my suspicion was confirmed. After flipping a few "meh" cover items, I spotted a staggered stack of flat concrete blocks in the dappled sunlight. They looked SO juicy. I turned the first block and bam, two adult slow worms (Anguis fragilis)! One of the most iconic of Europe's herp species in my hands. Turning the remaining blocks yielded even more slow worms but I could only grab a couple at a time. These legless lizards are steeped in folklore, which figured in to the excitement, even though I know well enough that these are simply shy, gentle creatures that like to eat among other things, garden pests such as slugs and snails. As we continued throughout the area, we found more slow worms - including a very young animal and another writhing tangle underneath an old discarded tire.

Acidic pond with what appeared to be edible frogs (Pelophylax kl. esculentus). They were too quick for photos.

On the way back to the quaint hotel, Aimee wanted to get a better look at something she saw on the way in. A "creepy teepee" is how she described it. I had no clue what she was talking about. But, soon enough we arrived at an unusual scene - a "creepy teepee" indeed, with a makeshift witch and broom, on the beach. Also in attendance were a few dozen spectators. What was going on? A man began reading to the crowd in Danish before selecting a young boy to set the "teepee" ablaze. Then, the crowd began to sing.

We were witness to Sank Hans Aften, a yearly ritual held on the summer solstice throughout parts of Denmark. This has been a tradition since the 19th century and originally took place to deter "evil forces". Allegedly, there is little to no connection to the execution of suspected witches that occurred during 16th and 17th century Denmark and Sweden. In those years, about 1000 people, mostly women, were burned alive after being convicted of witchcraft. Still, Sank Hans Aften is controversial.

While watching the bonfire burn to the sounds of the Baltic Sea waves and the singing of "Midsommervisen", I felt this incredible sense of peace and a connection to this place. I was still high on slow worms, watching the sun SLOWLY make its way to the western horizon. And with my wife and daughter at my side, I wasn't sure life got any better than that. We stayed until the final log collapsed into the red hot embers and the last of the witch was burned beyond recognition. An experience I will never forget.

As we arrived in Stege, we noticed yet another fire, this one much larger and with a bigger crowd. We watched this one too, and it was fun, although it didn't produce quite the effect that the smaller rural one did. It was nearing eleven o'clock PM, but there was plenty of sunlight left, casting an eerie orange glow upon thousands of moon jellies (Aurelia aurelia) pulsing in the shallow bay.

View from the hotel

We had to leave for Copenhagen the following morning, but not before one last stop in Møn. Located on the tiny island of Nyord is the smallest museum in Denmark and certainly one of the smallest museums in the world, Lodsmuseum. This museum focuses on the history of the island's ship pilots. It was interesting learning about the area, but the building itself seems to have been neglected long ago as indicated by the bird droppings and spider webs littering the interior.

Some highlights from Copenhagen.

                                                     

"Goose Republic" is a tiny village run by geese and chickens.

A one-eyed cat at Goose Republic

Lots of big, dumb carp in a pond in the King's Garden

Another resident of the King's Garden

Cool building featuring a scorpion, a squid, a lizard, and a snake

Classroom at the Medicinsk Museion (Medical Museum)

Our trip through Denmark is just about over. Next up - Germany.