Gefion Fountain

Listen first. Before you look closely, let the sound of the water reach you. It is a heavy, steady rush, the noise of a great deal of water falling over stone. On a still morning it carries a long way. On a windy day, a fine mist drifts across the path and settles cold on your face. In front of you, a woman drives four enormous oxen forward through the spray. This is the Gefion Fountain, and it shows the moment a goddess cut a country out of the earth.

The story behind the fountain comes from Norse mythology. Legend has it that a Swedish king named Gylfi made a generous promise to the goddess Gefion. She could keep as much land as she could plough in a single day and night. The king expected a modest field. Gefion had other plans. She turned her four sons into oxen, yoked them to her plough, and set to work.

According to the tale, she ploughed so deeply that she tore a huge piece of land away from Sweden. The oxen dragged it out into the sea and left it there. That piece of land became Zealand, the island where you are standing right now. Copenhagen sits on it. The hole left behind in Sweden filled with water and became a lake. It is a myth, of course — but it is the kind of myth a nation tells about itself with real affection.

The tale survives in medieval Icelandic writing. The best-known version appears in the Prose Edda, a thirteenth-century collection of Norse myths linked to the Icelandic writer Snorri Sturluson. Different sources name different Swedish lakes as the one Gefion left behind. So even the old storytellers did not agree on every detail. What they agreed on was the image: a woman, a plough, and four great beasts hauling an island into the sea.

Now look at how the sculptor turned that story into bronze. The fountain is the work of the Danish artist Anders Bundgaard. He chose the most dramatic instant — not the calm after the work, but the strain of the work itself. The oxen push forward with lowered heads. Their muscles bulge under the metal. Gefion stands behind them, one arm raised, urging them on. Water pours around their hooves as if the sea is already rushing into the new channel.

Here is something many visitors miss. Look at the faces and bodies of the oxen. They are animals, but they are also her sons. Some people find a strange sadness in that. A mother has transformed her own children into beasts of burden to win land. The sculpture does not dwell on it, but once you know the story, the scene feels less like a triumph and more like a hard bargain.

The fountain was a gift. The Carlsberg Foundation, connected to the famous Copenhagen brewery, presented it to the city to mark the brewery's fiftieth anniversary. That link between beer and public art is not unusual here. The Carlsberg family funded a remarkable amount of Copenhagen's art and culture. So when you raise a Danish beer this evening, you are, in a small way, connected to this monument.

The work took many years. Bundgaard designed it in the late nineteenth century, and the fountain was completed in the early twentieth century. Since then it has needed serious care. Bronze and moving water are a demanding combination. Over the decades, the fountain has been restored, and at times it has been dismantled for repairs. Today it runs again, and it is widely described as the largest monument in Copenhagen.

Step back and take in the whole design. The fountain is not just a statue in a pool. It is built as a cascade, with water falling down a series of stepped basins. The water appears to stream from the plough and from the land itself. The effect pulls your eye downward, from the goddess, through the oxen, into the wide basin at your feet. The movement of the water does much of the storytelling.

Now glance into that basin. You will probably see coins glinting under the surface. The fountain works as a wishing well, and visitors toss coins in for luck. Locals say there are also wedding traditions here, with couples coming to the fountain on their special day. Whether you believe in wishes or not, it is pleasant to think of how many hopes now lie at the bottom of the water.

Look up behind the fountain and you will see a church with a pointed spire. This is Saint Alban's Church, an Anglican church built for the English-speaking community in the late nineteenth century. Its grey stone and English Gothic style make a striking backdrop for the Norse goddess. Two very different worlds share this small patch of ground — a Christian church and a pagan myth, standing side by side without complaint.

The setting around you rewards a slow walk. Just nearby lies Kastellet, a star-shaped fortress with grassy ramparts and a moat. It is still an active military site, and its earthworks make a peaceful place for a stroll. Follow the waterfront path northward along Langelinie, and after a short walk you reach the Little Mermaid. Many visitors combine the two. The fountain, in its way, is the more dramatic of the pair.

Before you move on, stay with the sound a little longer. Watch the light catch the wet bronze, darker where the water runs, paler on the dry edges. Notice the oxen's straining shoulders, the plough biting into the stone, the spray rising over the basin. As you walk away toward the harbour or the fortress, remember the old story under your feet. You are standing, as the legend tells it, on land a goddess dragged out of the sea.