Taking the plunge in new countries and new cities

As they walk past, with their morning coffee and cardamom bun, all they hear are the squeaks of our shoes on the parquet, a few of us breathlessly mouthing the words to Sweet Dreams. Somehow, I am not even a little self-conscious. Somehow I have found myself at a silent disco in this community arts space, Folkehuset Absalon, in Copenhagen, embarking on 48 hours' and two countries' worth of facing my fears.

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Even sporadic readers of this column will know I’m hardly a "timorous beastie". I’ll travel across Russia alone by train, I’ll take a 2am motorcycle to a secret beach in Vietnam, I’ll get a haircut in a basement in Belgrade with blunt scissors (less advisable). But at the big age of 43 there are some things I’m still irrationally feart of; going dancing alone is one of these things. See also solo gigs and sea swimming.

So, thanks to cheap flights and a dose of impulsivity, I headed to Copenhagen and Malmö; new countries, new cities, new, braver me, right?

I eased myself in gently, with a stay at the NH Collection Copenhagen, because a woman can’t be expected to conquer lifelong phobias without a decent night’s sleep and a good breakfast. Thankfully the hotel offers both, with the stylish rooms overlooking the panorama of modern and historic Copenhagen and a rooftop bar serving excellent and, vitally, strong cocktails.

In the morning I fortify myself with a true smorgasbord of salads, fish, cheeses and, again vitally, a glass of the free-flowing breakfast fizz for Dutch, or indeed Danish, courage. Within 40 minutes I’m in the achingly hip Meatpacking District completely amazed that it has been so easy to step onto a dancefloor alone in public and that, if anything, I’m even more extra because I’ve already thrown my inhibitions to the wind by even being there.

Next, I head to Malmö for number two and three of my challenges. It’s a short inexpensive hop from Denmark to Sweden on the train over the Øresund Bridge perhaps most recognisable to Scottish readers from the crime series The Bridge which often featured its zoetrope-esque form as detectives raced from one gruesome discovery to another. Perhaps because that series comprises most of my knowledge about Malmö I am surprised to exit the stunningly stark and architectural Triangeln Station, not to a grey, bleak, "Crime Capital" as Malmö is often called, but a beautiful European city with pavement cafes, red brick buildings studded with black embellishment reminiscent of the liquorice Sweden is so fond of, colourful bicycles and greenery everywhere.

Malmö is also a hugely multicultural city, with 186 countries represented, and has a diversity and warmth that is instantly appealing to me. By the way, the closest I saw to any hint of criminality was a tenacious seagull gang which stole the last chip off my plate.

That night, with a dash of red lipstick as armour, I head to my first solo concert. I have, in fact, attempted this once before, newly arrived in Berlin and desperate to see the Tune Yards perform at Berghain. Then, I cycled around the block three times before I accepted that I just felt too self conscious, and went and had a kebab by a U-Bahn station. Whether it’s the 10 years that have elapsed or simply that there is a sense of permissiveness and equilibrium known as "lagom" in Sweden, I think nothing of walking into the gig venue or ordering a drink and just soaking in the music. In this case the brilliant Swedish folk rock band, iOr, at local music venue Medley.

Like gigs in the Czech Republic or in Japan, it is not quite the raucous experience of being at home, no one jostles, shouts the lyrics or spills their beer. Instead, it is warm and supportive, the crowd, this crowd at least, are there for the music not just the party. They’re also not there to perceive a woman just quietly enjoying herself with a cold beer. I leave unscathed, thrilled even, and wish I could tell my younger self to get to the Tune Yards, she can still have a kebab afterwards.

The next morning I walk to the beach. I don’t know what I expected of the Baltic Sea but it was not that it would be clearer than many tropical seas, even though someone had told me Swedes were "obsessive" about water purity, or the that powdery sand would not have an empty chip-paper or Coke can in sight.

The Øresund Bridge that links Copenhagdn and Malmo (Image: Getty)

I’m on my way to Ribersborgs Kallbadhus, a beautifully preserved public bath and sauna built in 1889. I walk along the wooden pier, pay my fiver entrance and walk through a door to be confronted with sundecks sardine-packed with women’s naked bodies of every shape and age. Thankfully, this is one fear I did manage to overcome during my time in Germany, where naked lake swimming and mixed saunas became entirely natural. In fact, after months of soggy swimsuits and chlorinated leisure centres, it’s blissful to swim naked in an enclosed area where swallows which nest under the pier swoop overhead.

Afterwards, I warm up, and get my courage up, in the sauna with a huge window looking across to Copenhagen. Then I take on my third challenge. Although I do swim in the sea, I do so under duress and often clinging to someone or something nearby. I’m not a strong swimmer, being very much of the "nana breaststroke" mould, and I treat the sea with both respect and fear. The fact I’m naked, does, I admit, add another level of vulnerability. Still, as I stand tentatively at the end of the jetty and watch women twice my age nimbly descend the wooden ladders and dive into the cold sea with barely a murmur of alarm I know I must do the same. So I lower myself into the surprisingly calm and somehow barely salty Baltic Sea and take my slow breaststroke for a spin.

Like dancing solo at an early morning disco while people drink their coffee in Copenhagen, or cheering for an encore at a gig alone, swimming out into the sea entirely naked is made only better for the pummelling heart. That, and the sense that even in my forties there are new challenges to be conquered and new borders, of all kinds, to be crossed.