Cycling Between Cities: My Bicycle Journey Through Aarhus in December

The cold was immediate when I stepped out of the train station in Aarhus. A thin mist hung low, not quite rain, not quite snow—just the kind of Nordic moisture that clings to your scarf and settles in your gloves. The December air was crisp, but not cruel. The streets shimmered with a recent frost, and twinkling holiday lights wrapped around lampposts gave the city a warm pulse despite the cold. My rental bike, a sturdy gravel hybrid with thick tires, waited for me near Bruuns Galleri. It was fitted with winter tires and fenders—a necessity in Denmark this time of year. I fastened my helmet, zipped my jacket up to my chin, and rode out into the sharp northern light.

1. Arrival in Aarhus and Early Winter Impressions

December in Aarhus isn’t a postcard kind of winter. It’s more subtle, more lived-in. The snow, when it comes, arrives softly, sometimes just dusting the rooftops before melting in the afternoon sun. More often, it’s the light that defines the month—the long blue hours, the golden window glow of bakeries, the quiet hush that hangs in the air when the sun sets by 3:30 PM.

I began by getting my bearings in the city. The cycle lanes were surprisingly clear—gritted and maintained, with locals confidently pedaling past me in every direction. I wandered slowly on the bike through the Latin Quarter, down Mejlgade where the scent of roasted almonds and gløgg drifted from market stalls. There was a gentle bustle to the Christmas season—shoppers bundled in wool, parents guiding children toward the illuminated ferris wheel at the Christmas market near the Concert Hall.

My evening ended near ARoS. From the rooftop, the Rainbow Panorama offered a strange kind of warmth—colors wrapping the skyline in a circle of light, making the winter city feel vibrant, even playful. Below, I traced my route for the coming days on a folded paper map, circling destinations that, even in cold, called out like quiet invitations.

2. Eastward Through the Cold: Aarhus to Ebeltoft

I set off early toward Ebeltoft, wrapped in layers, my breath visible in the morning air. The route was quiet—December keeps most fair-weather cyclists indoors, so I had the roads to myself. The ride took me through the woods of Riis Skov, where frost painted the leaves white and the sea sparkled cold and silver beside me.

The stillness was almost sacred. At a pull-off near Kalø Vig, I stopped to warm my hands with a thermos of coffee and watch a group of swans move slowly across the bay. The forest paths were slightly frozen, giving the tires a crunching rhythm that echoed in the otherwise silent morning.

Through Mols Bjerge National Park, the hills rose gently, and the landscape, bare of leaves, revealed distant views I never would’ve seen in summer. At times the wind stung my cheeks, but it was the kind of cold that made every breath feel sharp and honest. Small farms sat quiet under gray skies. Occasionally, smoke curled from a chimney.

I reached Ebeltoft just before dark. The town was dressed for Christmas—strings of lights across the old streets, wreaths on every door, and the smell of baked cinnamon in the air. I parked my bike near the harbor and took a slow walk. The old wooden warship, Fregatten Jylland, stood silent in the dim twilight, lit only by soft amber lamps along the dock. I bought a pastry from a corner shop and ate it with bare fingers under a heat lamp outside, watching the town settle in for the night.

3. South Toward the Wind: Aarhus to Odder and Hou

The next leg of my trip pointed southward, toward Odder and eventually the coastal town of Hou. December mornings in Denmark come late—full light doesn’t arrive until after 8:30, so I lingered over a long breakfast before pedaling out. The Marselisborg Forest was almost dreamlike under a light snowfall, the trees bare and quiet, the paths covered in a delicate layer of snow that crunched rhythmically beneath my tires.

I passed by the royal summer residence, Marselisborg Slot, whose gardens were empty save for a few joggers and dog-walkers. Beyond the city, the terrain opened into farmland—rows of fields sleeping under frost, the silhouettes of barns and church towers marking the horizon.

In Odder, I stopped at a small café just off the central square. A fireplace was burning inside, and the owner insisted I try her Christmas version of smørrebrød—thick rye with liver pâté, crispy onions, and a slice of pickled beet. I stayed for a while, sipping warm apple cider and listening to the slow ticking of a wall clock.

The ride to Hou was more exposed. The wind came off the sea in gusts, and I learned to tuck low over the handlebars. Occasionally, flocks of birds would rise from the stubble fields, moving in great dark clouds. I arrived in Hou just before sunset. The harbor was nearly deserted, the ferry docked and quiet. I found a bench facing the sea, pulled on a second pair of gloves, and just sat for a while. There was something immensely peaceful about the way the winter light dissolved into the sea, slow and dignified.

4. Inland to the Lake District: Aarhus to Silkeborg

The most physically demanding day came when I headed inland, riding toward Silkeborg through Denmark’s lake district. December made this route more challenging—icy patches, shorter daylight, colder hills—but also more rewarding. The landscape here is more varied, and the winter reveals its structure in full.

I left before dawn, using a strong headlamp and reflective gear to stay visible. The early roads were glassy, and I took them slowly, mindful of every curve. As I climbed past Skanderborg, the light began to rise—soft, blue-gray, then golden. The lakes were partially frozen, the reeds tipped in white, the trees skeletons of their summer selves.

By midday I was riding through deep forest. The trail from Svejbæk into Silkeborg was particularly beautiful, winding between lakes and cliffs. A light snow began to fall, thick and quiet. The world around me muted, as if wrapped in cotton. My tires left a lone path through the soft blanket on the gravel.

In Silkeborg, the town square had a small market—simple, with hand-carved ornaments, woolen goods, and a stand selling æbleskiver hot from the pan. I parked my bike outside the inn and took a long walk by the lake in the dark, where Christmas lights danced on the water and children dragged sleds behind them. I slept deeply that night, lulled by the faint whistle of wind through pine.

5. North to the Edge: Aarhus to Grenaa

Riding up the coast toward Grenaa in December felt different—more exposed, more solitary. I left Aarhus under gray skies, tracing the shoreline where the Kattegat Sea loomed dark and endless. The wind was ever-present, sometimes behind me, sometimes pressing hard into my chest.

In Rønde, I stopped for a warming lunch—soup, bread, and coffee that steamed against the windows of the café. I listened to the chatter of locals, the jingle of bells on the door as people came and went. The holidays were everywhere—in the shop windows, in the smell of spruce garlands, in the kindness of strangers who offered directions or asked where I was headed.

The ride past Djursland was surreal. Snow flurries came and went, and in the quiet spaces between, I could hear the crunch of ice under my tires and the distant creak of tree branches in the wind. A fox crossed the road ahead of me near Tirstrup. For a moment, it turned and looked directly at me before vanishing into the brush.

Grenaa, when I reached it, was subdued. The harbor, partially frozen, had boats tied tight, sails wrapped like winter coats. I found a small guesthouse where the owner lit candles in every window and served homemade risalamande. The kindness of that gesture stayed with me long after I left.

6. Moments Between Places

Not every moment was a destination. Some of the most vivid memories came from in-between places—an unexpected sunrise near Højbjerg, the scent of fresh bread wafting from a bakery in Malling as I passed by, the frost-covered statue in a village churchyard.

One evening, just past Skødstrup, I found shelter in a small roadside bus stop during a sudden snow squall. I watched as the snow thickened the world around me, and for nearly half an hour, there were no cars, no sounds—just the hiss of falling snow. I sat on the bench, sipping the last of my tea from a thermos, my bike leaned against the glass.

Another morning, I came across a school group walking through the woods outside Lystrup. The children wore reflective vests, their cheeks red from the cold, their teacher pointing to animal tracks in the snow. I slowed to match their pace and listened for a while before riding on.

At Egå Marina, I pitched a small tent just outside the harbor, using every trick I knew to stay warm—double socks, hot water bottle, a woolen cap pulled low. The stars were brilliant that night, sharp and unblinking in the frozen sky.