Like a branch cast into the water, the island of Langeland stretches along the southern coast of Funen, Denmark - a branch that never drifted into the Baltic Sea, but stayed rooted in place. Its landscape looks much as it did 200 years ago, when inspiration for the Danish national anthem was found here. The fields are still divided by earthen hedgerows, the old mills still stand tall, and the scenery remains breathtaking in that quiet, romantic way.
To reach Copenhagen, the capital, you must cross four bridges. Langeland is known for its postcard-perfect village charm, and, inevitably, for the disadvantages of being far from Denmark’s urban centers. Schools are closing, jobs are vanishing, and people are moving away.
Statistically, this is the poorest municipality in the country. But on Langeland, that’s not the story people want to tell. Here, pride runs deep. Whether you’ve just arrived or your family has lived here for generations, belonging is immediate.
It’s like the street you grew up on, where everyone played together simply because they lived side by side.
Some come seeking solitude in the island’s vast, untamed nature; others build new communities across cultures.
There are those with wounded hearts, and those drawn here by love.
Surrounded by water, perched on the edge of Denmark, life here is lived at the very edge of the sea.
The sun turns orange, casting long shadows where the wall meets the ground at the bathing establishment in Rudkøbing. A few people sit on a bench, drinking shots. One person stands on the roof of the freshly painted wooden sheds, begging cigarettes from Linea below. It’s Pia Sørensen’s 21st birthday - those are her shots. Meanwhile, Emma gets thrown into the water.
LEJEBØLLEGAARD. Søren Cilla lives at Lejebøllegaard with his two dogs. On Langeland, he was able to buy an entire farm with his retirement savings. 'I can live here for the rest of my life,' says Søren, who took his surname, Cilla, from his first dog, now deceased.
THE STRYNØ FERRY. The small island of Strynø lies just half an hour’s sail from Langeland, yet it still belongs to the same municipality. After a long struggle, the islanders finally secured an evening ferry. One of the first things they used it for was to cross over and protest the school reform—and they succeeded. Today, Strynø is home to 202 residents representing 12 different nationalities.
STRYNØ. The school on Strynø also serves as a polling station during national elections.
RUDKØBING. In the parking lot of Rudkøbing, the island’s largest town, young people gather with little else to do. Linea shares a few kisses with her boyfriend, Cliff, while Flemming - who prefers to go by 'MC F' - blasts hardstyle techno in the background.
MAGLEBY. Parish priest Rebecca Aagaard Poulsen moved to the island in 2013, newly divorced from her wife and accompanied by her twin daughters. She knows what it’s like to be at the center of local gossip - but also that, in the end, it doesn’t matter much. 'On Langeland, you’re judged far more harshly if you’re disloyal or selfish. Those are the things that really count. I’ve never met more open and tolerant people,' says Rebecca.
MAGLEBY. At night, Rebecca Aagaard Poulsen comforts her daughter after a bad dream. She feels that life on the island allows her children a kind of freedom they could not have experienced elsewhere.
MAIN STREET. On Constitution Day, a group of men from the village of Humble gather to raise flagpoles along the town’s main street. It’s a tradition that has lasted 37 years - and one they’d like to keep unchanged. Back then, a group of enterprising locals were allowed to use surplus funds from new streetlights to buy the poles, and they did the digging themselves. Today, they still volunteer to put the flags up. The friendly 'flag war' with neighboring Tryggelev is joked about - their poles are shorter, and nicknamed 'cake flags' or 'eye-level flags.' As the men like to say: 'Everyone is welcome here in town - even people from Tryggelev.'
BOARDING SCHOOL. Clara Ludvigsen’s time on the island is nearing its end. At 17, she has spent the past year at Langeland Boarding School—an experience she calls one of the coolest things she has ever tried. But in just a few days, she will have to pack up her room. The boarding school students and the local island youth rarely mix. 'They ride around on scooters and call us fucking hippies. We probably are, too,' says Clara’s classmate Frida.
FREDSKOVEN. Each year, the Rudkøbing Civil Shooting Club gathers in Fredskoven near Rudkøbing for its annual bird shoot. The day begins early with breakfast, followed by a march through town. After lunch, the shooting begins. Both the rifle and the wooden bird are fixed in place, and the competition continues until every part of the bird has been shot away.
BAGENKOP. There’s striptease, and the male waiters have their polo shirts ripped off. Some are married, others related—but everyone joins in singing 'Cotton Eye Joe.' When Katja and Nina first came up with the idea for the annual Girls’ Lunch three years ago, they were told, 'No one will like it.' Yet 200 women aged 18 to 70 showed up. This year, 300 tickets sold out in just 40 minutes.
HUMBLEHALLEN. The Apprentice had already gotten drunk quite early in the evening and eventually fell asleep on a chair in the middle of the hall. Later, he woke up and resumed partying—this time with his pants around his ankles. People merely shrugged; after all, everyone knows him.
THE FIELD. "We meet at the Humble church parking lot at 4:20. There are a lot of mosquitoes right now, so remember mosquito repellent," wrote 22-year-old Daniel Møller Larsen when we were heading out to hunt. Hunting requires patience: you sit completely still for two hours, waiting for the buck to appear - and you only take the shot if it’s positioned just right. This morning, it never was.
THE VILLA. Nine-year-old Samiyar is from Iran and now lives in a yellow villa on the corner in Humble together with 16 other asylum seekers. He has been on Langeland for a year and already speaks almost fluent Danish. On the coffee table, there is tea and a plate of digestives. None of them know when they will be able to move on from Langeland. The house has been rented to them by the municipality.
THE FORTRESS. At Langelandsfort there was both a maypole and a great bonfire for Saint Hans. Since the end of the Cold War, the fortress has taken on a new role in the Langeland landscape. Once it played a central part during the Cuban Missile Crisis; now it gathers people of all ages beneath the evening sun to celebrate Midsummer Eve.
SIMMERBØLLE. Gregor Kozboor, 34, works in the potato fields, while Kavol Bevnoicki, 32, tends the strawberries. Both are from Poland, and both say they love living on Langeland. The island did'nt have a single permanent traffic light - only the temporary ones that appear whenever there is roadwork - until 2024.
RÅGEVEJ. "I am as soft as I am hard," says Bo Mortensen. He has a checkered past, yet he cares for his plants the way my mother would. Beneath the surface, he is clearly hurt. "People don’t accept me because of my appearance, and nobody really greets me." On the table in front of him sits a full ashtray and a glass of vodka with Coke. He keeps offering me cigarettes, and when I say goodbye, his eyes well up with tears.
THE RASTA ROOM. Nicolas and Sara Amalie, both 17, attend Langeland Efterskole. It was there they fell in love, though soon they will leave school and step out into the world. Sara Amalie says she will miss the sense of freedom that life at the school provides, while Nicolas looks forward to having even more freedom—to do exactly what he wants. “For example, smoking a bit of pot,” he adds quietly.
HØGEVEJ. Today, a group of friends is set to play roundball against Humble Handball Club. Before heading to the ballpark, they warm up with Mokai - and a few amphetamines. That’s just how it goes.
THE CORNER. In one corner of Broløkke Manor stands a stuffed ostrich. Counts, barons, and royalty once feasted here, celebrating the pleasures of the hunt. Even Karen Blixen and H.C. Andersen enjoyed the fresh air around the estate. Today, the manor has been remade into a restaurant, conference center, and hotel. Across town, at Hjørnet (literally "The Corner") in Rudkøbing - a residence for people with mental health challenges - lives Gregers Skovgaard Henningsen, born in 1947. He has been there for five years. Before that, he spent 12 years in prison for murder. His employer had cheated him out of a boat that was meant as his wages; in anger, Gregers shot him.
LONGELSE. Laura is five years old. She peeks out of the room to see if the food is ready. Her father, Bo, has grilled meat on the barbecue; her stepmother, Rikke, has prepared salad and boiled potatoes. “If Copenhagen is all the way up, and Southern Jutland somewhere in between, then Langeland is all the way down,” Bo explains. He casts a slightly disappointed look at Rikke before commenting that “these are definitely not Jon’s potatoes.” They aren’t - but they’ll do.
SNØDE-HESSELBERG. Vagn Aksel, 83, is a bottom-net eel fisherman. He has been one since the age of 13, when he learned the trade from his father. “When I die, eel fishing will end here on the island. Back then, we just fished - and the French ate glass eels the way we eat spaghetti. But now it’s all rules and regulations,” says Vagn. He doesn’t expect to be able to fish much longer. Still, he always leaves the barn door open so the swallows can fly in and out.