THE COAST IS CLEAR

Jørgen Petersen is the harbour master. He also repairs the roads and can turn his hand to a bit of roof thatching. When I first meet him, he’s astride a shabby red tractor, chugging across his farm’s stable yard to saddle up the horses he keeps for the riding tours he runs with his wife, Nette. “I’m the island’s chief fire officer and policeman, too,” Jørgen tells me, as if worried I might judge him to be one of those idle types with time on their hands.

There’s no room for idle types on Endelave. This small island off the east coast of Denmark’s Jutland peninsula is home to an ageing population of just 150 people, which means the fit and able are kept busy putting on the many hats that need wearing to keep the community alive. But it’s quickly clear that life here is about something more than mastering the harbour and repairing the roads. What really shapes this community is the colourful narrative of the island itself, the sense of identity forged in the fire of its legends and history, its rumours, anecdotes and incidents.

“There are so many stories,” Jørgen observes with satisfaction, as we ride a circular route through the south east of the island, our horses’ hooves clipping against pieces of flint. “See that house? In the 1940s, a lion tamer lived there with four lions. One day, a neighbour was milking his cow when he looked up to see a lion stalking him! The animals had escaped, you see. Three of them were shot, but the fourth was never caught. They say it still prowls the forests.”

It’s the stuff of fairytales in