Thank you Österlen, for giving us Lars.

It’s lunchtime, and we’re somewhere in the heart of Österlen, tucked between winding country roads and wide fields swaying with early summer. The kind of afternoon that feels unhurried, like even time has decided to rest a while. We spotted a small hand-painted sign by the roadside—"Antikt & Kuriosa"—barely visible behind a bush. A gravel driveway curved out of sight, and without much discussion, we turned in. 

We parked beneath a crooked apple tree and walked up a set of worn wooden steps to a weathered old house. It looked half-asleep in the sun. There was a small sign on the door, faded but charming, swinging slightly in the breeze. We knocked, waited. Nothing. Peering through the windows, we saw only dusty light and the shadowy outlines of objects—shapes stacked and scattered like a puzzle waiting to be solved.

We were about to turn away when we heard it—the slow, deliberate click of a lock turning. From the other side of the glass came a figure: an older man with white hair and a cane, moving carefully but with purpose. He opened the door with a wide, familiar smile, as if he’d known we’d come all along.

“This is Lars,” one of us whispered.

He welcomed us in like old friends. “The season starts after midsummer,” Lars said, waving us into the space with a casual grace, cane in one hand, door in the other. It wasn’t just a shop—it was clearly a home. A home that had slowly evolved into something much more: part gallery, part museum, part sailor’s memory chest. Every inch was filled. Sea charts, maps with curled edges, model ships balanced on narrow shelves. There were delicate glass bottles, clocks stuck at impossible hours, porcelain figures next to animal skulls, stacks of old books, a whole wall of walking sticks.

Somehow, it wasn’t overwhelming. It was like walking through a story, page by page. Lars moved slowly, but his voice had energy, a subtle joy in telling you where things came from. “This one’s from Skagen,” he’d say, tapping a carved figure. Or, “Found this in a shed outside of Svendborg, nearly threw it away until I saw the mark under the base.”

He’s a sailor, still. Even if he hasn't been to sea in years, it's in his stance, in the way he gestures, in how he notices details others miss. He’s spent his life traveling, collecting, listening. For the past decade, he’s made Österlen his harbor—but Copenhagen still pulls him often, along with the markets of Denmark. He doesn’t chase trends; he hunts for stories, for pieces with a heartbeat.

And then there’s the art. You notice it slowly, then all at once—Lars’ paintings are everywhere. Quiet but persistent. Small canvases nestled between teacups, larger ones behind cabinets, some propped against floorboards, half-hidden under old coats. Most of them are animals—foxes, hares, owls—painted with a kind of tenderness, like he’s captured something not just seen but felt. If you ask, he’ll tell you their names, their habits, what he saw in them. He doesn’t brag. He just shares.

Every spring morning, he tells us, he lights a fire in the hearth, reads the paper with a cup of coffee, then takes out his paints. That’s how the day begins—no rush, no pressure. Just brushstrokes and the soft crackle of old wood burning. In the winter, he paints more. “You have to, to keep the soul warm,” he says, half-joking.

We wandered for over an hour, maybe more. Time didn’t seem to matter in there. We found things we didn’t know we were looking for: a compass in a velvet pouch, a tiny oil painting of the sea, a wooden matchbox with a carving of a horse on it. We left with a few treasures, but mostly with a feeling. A kind of fullness. As if we’d stepped into another pace of life and, for a while, matched its rhythm. As we stepped back outside, blinking into the sun, Lars stood in the doorway. He waved, like someone seeing off a ship.

Thank you, Lars. We’re glad we knocked. Some doors open to whole other worlds—and yours was one of them.