I was once walking through a Danish city with the beloved Mrs T when she suddenly exclaimed "my god ! What's that stink - is it a gas leak? A broken sewer, maybe?"
We were just on the edge of a market square, and I peered into the distance to the other side of the market, a good 100 metres away.
"Nope - there's a cheese stall over there," I replied. And sure enough, despite the hole in the road nearby where some works were clearly taking place, the source of the penetrating odour - nay, overwhelming stench - could be traced to a particularly ripe round of Esrom. I'm sure it would taste lovely on a slice of rye bread with some chopped onion, but there's no way I'd actually want to touch the stuff. There's more than one reason why Danes tend to eat their sandwiches using a knife and fork.