It's déja-vu all over again!

It's déja-vu all over again!

The campsite, somewhere along the Rhine, was full of mobile homes and caravans. The receptionist reluctantly showed us a patch of grass where we could pitch our tiny tent. Looking remarkably like the painting of The Last Supper by Leonardo Da Vinci, a row of campers were seated at a long table, they invited us to join them. The couple at the centre of this tableau were celebrating the silver medal they had been awarded to mark their 25^th visit. They seemed genuinely sorry for us when they discovered that this was our first time and we would probably never be able to recieve such an honour!

Similarily in the south of France a Dutch couple proudly told us that they'd visited the same campsite for years. Just once, they said, they'd stayed at campsite down the road but it wasn't as good AND it was full of French people! Adding seriously in response to one of our increasingly less  serious questions “Well, yes, we did try the local food once but we didn't like it”

At the other end of the spectrum backpackers seem equally uninterested in local cuisine and customs. Now, there have been adventurous people travelling around the world  wearing backpacks since they were invented but 'backpacking' as a lifestyle has evolved into mass tourism on the cheap, at times verging on the miserly. You will see them  at backpacker hotspots swarming around wi-fi points clutching bottles of water and packets of cut-price cookies. They spend more time interacting with other backpackers rather than the with the locals. However, unlike the caravanners, they will not be staying long. They will soon move on to the next hostel listed in the packpackers handbook ticking off countries,cities and sights on the way. 
A long weekend in Paris and they've 'done' France, one night in a Yurt just outside Bishkek and they've had their nomad experience in Kyrgyzstan! 
Now, to be honest, we were also restless travellers, never spending more than three days in one place and on long bike trips less. Until at some point we decided to explore more fully some of places we'd previously breezed through. A change of pace maybe but it has not often involved visiting the exact same place twice and never, ever, three times. 
Until this year...............

2x Smizany, Slovakia:  Same time, same place. The big difference was that Ivan greeted us wearing swimming trucks that were way too small instead of a rain cape. This time his extensive covered patio sheltered us from the blistering heat rather than the frequent and heavy showers last year!

3x Breb, Romania: our third visit and the second year in a row helping at the village campsite. Did we get bored? Not at all, actually we had a much busier social life than we do at home. At the end of our three weeks we still had things to do places to go and people to meet. There is every chance we the will go again next year. On the way, maybe, to a bronze medal??

1x Runc, Slovenia: There has to be a first time for everything. Allegedly this tiny, remote village has two shops we only managed to find one. They had bread on Wednesdays.

5x Parad, Hungary: We had visited this campsite twice when guiding bicycle tours, then again quite by chance, then once more! Is it such a great place? Well, no, not really. The grass is well maintained, it has to be said. The sanitation block is clean but in a perpetual state of disrepair.  The rest is bent, broken, loose or faded. It has not improved over the years but, strangely, has got no worse.

“Nothing changes here” said the lady behind the bar “only the staff”.

It was damp, dismal and deserted but the next day there was a change. It was sunny and we were overrun by a project for lively underpriviliged gypsy children. Ah well, we thought, after a moment of panic, 'if you can't beat them join them'. And that's what we did, earning us a huge hug from the generously proportioned project leader when we eventually left.

3x Kapfelberg, Germany: Yvonne had picked out a suitable stopover campsite to punctuate a two day drive. The description seemed familier to me but Yvonne assured me that it wasn't the place I was thinking of and I believed her right up to the moment we left the autobahn.

“It's déja-vu all over again”! I exclaimed!

Yes, we had been there twice before AND the circumstances leading up to the second visit had been exactly the same. 

I guess I'll never learn! 

It had changed though, it now had a proper reception with a desk, a computer and a potted plant, instead of an old man with a note book.

2x Walldorf, Germany: After weeks of intentional and unintentional repeat visits it seemed fitting that we should finish our journey by dropping in on a Kyrgyz friend living in Germany. Yes, you guessed it, we'd done the same before at the end of another trip. Well, it was not quite a repeat,  she had moved house, even if it was only just around the corner and down the road a bit!

No News - is Good News

No News – is Good News

Once upon a time we were tour guides. We led bicycle tours in, among other places, the south of France and Hungary.

The cyclists would usually arrive at some ridiculously early hour in the morning after a long overnight journey. This was  before there were mobile telephones, yes, there was a time before mobile telephones and yes, I am old enough to remember it. Anyway, just about the first thing they would do was look for a public telephone. In no time there would be a queue of weary and bleary eyed travellers waiting to call home and announce that they had arrived safely. Now, I have never been able to understand why people do this. The majority of people who start out to go somewhere end up by getting there, and most of them do so more or less on time. Surely it's only when you don't arrive safely, at the wrong time or the wrong place that there may be a need to call home. I never felt the urge to do this, nor would I demand or encourage anybody else to do so. If nothing happened, there's nothing to report. 

Of course things are different now, with so many instant, easy and inexpensive forms of communication people are contacting each other throughout the journey and posting pictures on the way. So really there is even less need to report your safe arrival but I suspect many people still do! Maybe it's because we have so much news. Twenty four hours a day, seven days a week. There is always something happening somewhere in the world and we get to hear about it all day long: riots revolution and wars, epidemics, earthquakes and extreme weather conditions. The news is, per definition, about the new and the unsual but faced with a daily barrage of demonstrations, delays and disasters the extraordinary begins to seem like the ordinary. It is hardly surprising that many people feel relieved when they arrive unharmed at their destinations!  

Due to the 24/7 news machine our concept of what news is has become somewhat distorted. However in recent years there has been more attention on the distortion of the news itself. Fake, misleading or manipulated news has always been with us, modern technology just allows us to do it  bigger and better!  And it's probably fair to say that all news is manipulated in some way, even if it's only to fit it into the allotted space or time slot. 

The reliability of the news media was put into perspective for me by some Polish girls I met in London. This was before the collapse of communism in Central Europe and when it was still okay to call young women girls. These were fiercely opposed to the communist government so I was surprised to discover that they were less than enthusiastic about the free press in the west. “ In your newspapers”, they explained “ it's difficult know what is true and what is not true. In our country it's much easier...we know it's all lies!”

Anyway, tomorrow we're on the road again and I won't be troubled much by  news of any sort over the next six weeks.   
For the second part of our trip we have no definite plans. I'll probably be posting photos and stories on the way but if for some reason you don't hear from me you can simply assume that I'm okay and having a good time. 

No News – is Good News

Storms, Sand and a Slab of Jam

Storms, Sand and a Slab of Jam

Just a week ago we took a bike trip  along The Borderlands Trail, a long  distance hiking route. Mostly off-road it  twist and turns through forests and fields, along wide unpaved roads and single tracks that roughly correspond to the boundaries between Belgium and The Netherlands. It was warm and sunny but we soon discovered there was a seriously strong head wind and that long periods of dry weather had turned many of the gravel roads into elongated sand pits. It was tough going. Yvonne began to feel the effort. Her legs were aching, she frequently had to mount and dismount as she had chosen the wrong bike and tires for the conditions. Red-faced, sandy-mouthed but still in fairly good spirits she called out “I have a suggestion for your next column.......... "

Another day, another mountain, the centre of Spain is a massive plateau which doesn't mean that it's as flat as a pancake. However, many of the climbs are long rather than steep. A seemingly endless series of hair pin bends wind their way slowly to the top. “Originally paths for heavily loaded donkeys” I suggested. With so many twists and turns we could often see each other as we each proceeded at our own pace. I looked back to see Yvonne about seven or eight bends below, she waved, I waved cheerily back. It was quite a while before she arrived, obviously not very happy, at the top. She swore at the mountain, she swore at her fully packed bike, I can't remember if she swore at me but angry words were exchanged. I'd apparently misinterpreted her gesture. She was not waving but beckoning me to come back...she was tired and exhausted and could go no further. I'd smiled, waved and continued on my way, there were no mobile phones, so she had to struggle on. There was a bit more swearing before we entered a mountain hut, ordered coffee and the only food that was available, a slice of bread with, what can only be described as a slab of jam on top.

It did the trick. Her bicycle and I were forgiven but not the mountain, it is still reffered to by her as 'That !!@#!**!! Mountain'

We'd signed up for a night mountain bike ride. Although it had been raining for days before, and on the day itself, we decided to go anyway. The ride took us through cow sheds, saw mills, garden centres and villages lined with enthusiastic spectators....but it also led us through unlit, muddy, slippery and wet forest paths. At the end of each of these sections groups of cyclists were calling out in an attempt to relocate team mates. Hard to know if they ever found them. With mud up to the eyeballs nobody was recognisable!

The Mont Ventoux has legendary significance for followers of The Tour de France. Its 21 long, steep kilometres are a magnet for racing cyclist of all ages and abilities. With a van full of tents, bicycles and other equipment we were on the way to lead a bike tour. We'd made a small detour so that I could cycle the mountain. It was a bright sunny day, Yvonne found a nice spot to park and relax before the tiring days ahead ...and off I went. As I progressed up the mountain it started to get misty. By the time I reached the top the only thing I could see was the finish line. It was cold and there was literally nothing to else to see. No point in hanging around I went right back down again. The mist turned to drizzle, then to heavy rain. The road turned into a river, my fingers, on this midsummer day, were so cold I could barely use the breaks. The sharp, wet bends had become treacherous. About half way down I was relieved to see Yvonne driving towards me. My relief was short lived. Yvonne is a kind hearted person, she had fished up two wet and inexperienced cyclists and their fully packed bikes. 
There was no room for me in the van! 
I had no choice but to continue my cold, wet and at times scary descent.

In a café at the foot of the mountain it took me more than an hour and four glasses of Ventoux Liqueur to stop me shivering. Well, three glasses actually but I didn´t refuse when Yvonne offered to buy me a fourth one!

It was a perfect day as we left the narrow Ligurian coastal strip and the smell of sun tan oil behind us and almost immediately started going uphill. The tourists rarely get beyond this point. Some road workers waved as we approached the second long climb of the day heading for the highest point of our tour. There were few other people around. Onwards and upwards. Approaching the top the weather turned, quite suddenly and unexpectedly, nasty. There was a crashing of thunder and flashes of lighting, close by and all around, accompanied by heavy rain and hailstones. We thought it safer to get off the road... we dived into the bushes to get at least some shelter. The storm went on for ages, it stopped and started again. It eased a little then returned with extra force. Circling around as if on a search and kill mission, with us as the targets. Our thin summer cycling gear provided no protection and we´d foolishly not bothered with wind or rain jackets. I was considering following a file of cows that was weaving its way through the trees and undergrowth, in the hope that they may lead us to a herders refuge, when we were rescued by a passing truck, the only vehicle on the road. He drove us through the winding mountain roads, some now flooded others covered with a deep layer of hailstones as big as Ligurian olives. He dropped us off at a pass where we sheltered until we eventually made our way back to the coast. We arrived, almost dry but still cold and bedraggled, to find nothing had changed, the day as perfect as we had left it. 

Christmas eve in Louisiana, we found a campsite. We were shown to their 'luxury tent pitches' which consisted of a square patch of ground boarded by planks at ground level, at the four corners metal poles supported, would you believe it, a roof. Ah well, we'd camped in much stranger places during our year long bicycle trip around North America. However things really dit feel strange the next morning. It took us a while to realise that we were floating. It had rained heavily during the night. The planks were there to keep the water out. What they actually did, and did very well, was to allow water in and then keep it there! In effect we were floating on inflatable mattresses in our own private pool. In the right context I suppose that could be considered luxury! The high point of our Christmas day was watching our sleeping bags and clothes fooling around in the tumble dryer.

It was hot, very hot, even for a Georgian summer it was hot. Even high in the mountain resort where we had been staying it was hot. That was the reason we had planned to leave early but, not for the first time in Georgia, we were delayed by an excess of hospitality. It was gone midday, after too much lunch, when we left. No problem, we thought. It was all down hill from here... and so it was except that there were two tough climbs in the scorching sun to be negotiated first! We arrived at our destinations in a sorry state. Dehydrated and unable to eat much. We could not stop drinking. The rooms had no air conditioning, there was no relief and little chance to recover. I had painful cramps the whole night, neither of us slept much. All the symptoms of heat exhaustion. Next day, however, we had recovered enough and from there the road really was downhill all the way to the coast, where we encountered the most oppressive weather I have ever experienced but that's another story......  and there are plenty more involving, among other things, bears, guns, tumble weeds and police escorts.... 

….but the simple point that Yvonne wanted me to make is that,   and I know it's hard for some to believe,....yes ….we do all this for fun!

A Declaration of Independence

A Declaration of Independence

If you live in a foreign country, or even when you are travelling, you will find that the local population will often consider you to be a spokesman, a representative and the embodiment of your country of origin. You will be held responsible for its actions. For example, way back in 1982 a year long bike trip around North America coincided with the ' Falkland Crisis'. I was often asked why I had invaded the Falklands?! Back home in Breda, the Dutch city where I live, during a rare trip to the local Chinese take-away, it was 1997, the young girl behind the counter was chatty and friendly but her mood changed when she discovered I was British, angrily she demanded to know why I had given Hong Kong back to China?! Now in 2019, and for the last three years, I am constantly being asked why I want to leave Europe?!!! When confronted by this last question and when writing this column it's hard for me not to embark on a long and angry discourse, involving a lot of unprintable language, to convey what I really think about Brexit.

Brexit doesn't, however, just make me angry it also makes me sad.

Sad that a bunch of (over) privileged people have managed to persuade under privileged people that their lives will magically improve if the United Kingdom leaves the European Union. It won't.

Whatever happens there will inevitably be some people who will profit from the outcome but, and you can bet your life on this, it won't be the poor and needy.

Sad too that political leaders of all shades, over the whole world, still think the way do solve internal problems is simply to blame foreigners and outsiders.

But let's stick to my personal circumstances.

Last week I received a letter from the Dutch Department of Immigration containing a document, to be activated if the Britain leaves the EU with no deal, entitling me to remain in The Netherlands until July 2020. Coincidentally the same day I had an appointment at the local City Hall to discuss the situation. As it turns out I qualify and my paperwork is adequate for all the options open to me for continuing my residence in The Netherlands. If or when I make my choice there will be no barriers but, of course, there are costs involved. Not an awful lot of money but money I would rather be spending on something else. Maybe I can persuade the Brexit instigators and voters to pay for the extra expenses I will  incur due to their actions?

Or......

I could try a few options not suggested by the Department of Immigration.

Like asking for asylum? Probably not, I suspect that being governed by an inept and dysfunctional parliament is not enough grounds for refugee status.

What about a divorce? My partner was shocked by this suggestion for a second, until I explained that I meant from the United Kingdom not from her. However I rejected the idea almost instantly, judging by recent history it would take far too long to reach a settlement!

How about this though? I could declare myself an independent nation! Now that does have possibilities.

The fact that I would have to apply to become a member of the European Union shouldn't be a problem. With Britain gone, there will be a vacancy and with the Republic of Bob, New Bobland, Bobizstan, Bobzania or Boblandia being situated close to the Dutch/Belgian border, a relatively short drive to Brussels, it should be possible to negotiate membership in just a week or two!

Oh, and by the way, I promise not to invade anybody or give away any territories.

Muskrat Ramble

Muskrat Ramble 

Last week a polling card arrived by post, telling me where and when I could vote. Now , I know that previously I've informed you that I have been more or less disenfranchised. I wrote that for various reasons the only elections I can take part in are for our local city council but I misinformed you. I'd forgotten that I can also vote for the regional water authority! Nobody knows why but since 2014 the electorate are expected to vote for some of the seats on these ancient and previously undemocratic local authorities. Well to be honest, I expect somebody does know why but I haven't met him, or her, yet. One third of The Netherlands is below sea level, and quite a lot of it was previously under the sea, so water management is of the utmost importance. I mean, if the dikes begin to leak you can't just hope that a small boy will chance along and save the country by plugging the hole with his finger! Yet the public are far from enthusiastic about these elections, many will not bother to vote. It takes time and effort to work out the policies of all the traditional political parties and other lesser known parties and special interest groups taking part. And the issues, however important, do not exactly fire the general public's imagination!

I will vote... and not just because it's one of the few things I can vote for. As it happens I have a passing knowledge of the wide and wonderful world of water, for many years I have provided cartoons for the magazine 'Dutch Sewers and Water Management' (Top of your reading list I expect!). However my choice will be, at least partly, guided by the attitudes towards trapping and killing muskrats. For many people, and I think the Dutch public in general, these creatures are four-legged terrorists that, due to their tunnelling activities, are threatening the security and stability of the dikes and drainage systems in the lowlands and thus are a threat to the whole community. Consequently the government has an extensive national programme aimed at wiping out the whole species. However nature, conservation and environmental organisations consider this programme to be costly, ineffective and even counter productive.

Ah well....while we're on the subject of rodents...let's talk about hamsters....

...Back in December/January I took part in a campaign to brighten the lives of refugee children, just a little bit, by sending them greeting cards. On the back of the cards, alongside the greeting, there was a questionnaire. It asked, among other things, my favourite colour, my favourite Dutch song (that was difficult) and my favourite Dutch word, I can't remember what word I chose but I think it was something worthy, appropriate and, for a child, really boring! Pity. Last week a newspaper article reminded me of a word that really is a favourite. Apparently Dutch people have started hoarding essential medicines manufactured in Britain fearing that the supply may dry up when GB leaves the European Union. Hoarding is not a very attractive human trait however the Dutch word for hoarding is. That word is hamsteren, the literal translation would be hamstering. The verb ' to hamster' is based on the hamsters habit of storing food in its cheek pouches for later consumption. Another of my favourite Dutch verbs based on animal behaviour, is ijsberen , literally ' to polar bear' like me, if I'm forced to stay indoors for any length of time, pacing up, down and around the room, like a bear in a cage. There are other examples in Dutch and I can think of about twenty in English. Instead of listing them maybe it would be more fun to invent some new ones, especially after a glass of wine with friends or a beer or two in the pub. 
How about:

to walrus = to lay around (e.g. like Russian tourists) on the beach or in the health spa,

to marmot = to spend a lot of time sleeping,

to butterfly = to flit effortlessly from one thing/subject/task to another.

to muskrat = to dig holes in dikes.........

…...oops!...maybe I should leave that last one out.... if I really want to save the muskrats from extermination!

(Cartoons  first published  in Access , an expat magazine, 2018 and  'Riolering', water management magazine, ' 2015)

Natural Habitat

Natural Habitat

It was 19^th December we arrived much too early. I had forgotten that performances in bars or cafés never begin anywhere close to the advertised time. However, it was a lucky mistake. Another characteristic of live music in cafés is that the venues rarely suit the purpose. This one was long and narrow with a bar running most of the way down one side. However we managed to find ourselves a perfect spot at the corner of the bar, close enough but not too close to the podium. From this position we watched as the musicians fiddled, struggled and unravelled switches, sockets, cables, microphones, music stands and drum kits. A woman dressed in a shabby track suit, looking every bit as if she'd just escaped from rehab, occasionally gave helpful advice. The man next to me started a conversation, on discovering that I was British he asked me why I wanted to leave Europe. My answer was brief, partly because I couldn't be bothered to explain the whole Brexit thing yet again but mostly because his evening meal had contained way too much garlic!

I was born and grew up in London during the sixties There can't have been many places at any time with so much and such a diversity of music! The older brothers of some of the girls we used to hang around with were into modern jazz. There was a Traditional Jazz revival based, somewhat loosely, on 1920's music from New Orleans. Rock and Roll had arrived, my older sister bought her first ever record, it was Elvis Presley, we played it secretly in our attic. When I left school the Beatles,The Rolling Stones and similar bands were emerging. Then there was a 'folk revival', a curious mixture of (using modern terminology) Americana, Singer- Songwriters, and bearded men in knitted jumpers and  women with long straight hair, in flowery smocks, singing traditional English, Irish and Scottish ballads. Collectively they were  known as folk singers! There were clubs everywhere, jazz clubs, blues clubs, folk clubs and more. Well known ones like Ronnie Scott's, The 100 Club or the Marquee Club and an infinite number of others above or behind pubs, in bars and there were lots of damp and dingy cellars. Other venues included decaying hotels,schools,universities, church halls and derelict factories. Often small and/or uncomfortable, in the weekends they were crowded. Oh yes.. and I had friends who were repeatedly forming and reforming bands, while others were closely involved or part of the folk scene. It's not so surprising then that I spent a lot of my time in pubs, clubs and other places watching and listening to live music. The beer and the attractive young women were, of course, a welcome bonus!

The last sound check was over. The band was ready. The track-suited lady had transformed into a perfect copy of a 1940's, 50's jazz singer, with voice to match. Music from before my time. Because of those early brushes with jazz, in an age of blues-rock and protest songs, female singers like Ella Fitzgerald, Billie Holliday and the less well known Blossom Dearie were my guilty pleasures. This band mostly played numbers by Peggy Lee, you can add her to that list. The bar filled up, the musicians moved into top gear. The beer flowed, the conversations got louder but never so loud that they interfered with the music.

As I ordered another couple of beers brewed by Belgium Trappist monks I was hit by a tidal wave of good feelings. The atmosphere, the jazz, the singer, the gentle babble of conversation, the beer, the amiable bar staff and enthusiastic customers. Cool music in a warm café on a cold, wet, midwinter evening, it felt good, it was good. I even became quite friendly with Mr Garlicbreath sitting next to me!

A different era, different country, different town, different beer and different music but nonetheless a rare sighting of the Robertus Potestates (Bob Powers) in its natural habitat.

Play it again Sam!

Brexpat

Brexpat

Abraham Lincoln said “ You can please some of the people all of the time, you can please all of the people some of the time but you can't please all of the people all of the time” - true - but the British government, with considerable help from the opposition parties, have found a way to displease all of the people all at the same time! To explain all the twists and turns that have led to the current state of affairs concerning Britain and the European Union would take up more space than I allow for these columns. So I will restrict myself to my own situation, a British citizen living in the European Union. A situation which, like the whole Brexit story, is about as clear as a pint of Guiness!

Early in the negotiations is was agreed that the status of Brits living in the EU and EU citizens living in Britain would be protected however if there is no deal will this agreement still be valid? Nobody seems to know. As a result I have been studying my options which, depending on the outcome, could mean doing absolutely nothing or a change of nationality.

I find myself reluctant to take this last step but I'm not at all sure why. I mean, it's not as if signing a piece of paper would make me Dutch overnight. I wouldn't suddenly start liking salty liquorice or smartlap (Dutch tear-jerk) music. I wouldn't start eating chocolate sprinkles for breakfast, talk loudly in public places or paint my face orange on April 27^th! I would become a Dutch citizen, not Dutch. Nor would losing my British Passport remove my last remaining traces of Britishness: eating toast with Marmite, listening to BBC Radio, a reluctance to show feelings or 'make a fuss' and (so I'm told) my typical British humour. Anyway, one of the options open to me, curiously called 'The Option', would enable me to become a Dutch national and retain my British passport. Now I rather like the idea of having a dual nationality, mildly exotic and more interesting than having just one, more a reason for taking the 'option' than resisting it!

It's true that despite having family and long standing friends in both countries I don't feel any deep emotional attachment to either The Netherlands or The United Kingdom as nations. It is also true that while other people are desperately searching for their roots I am quite happy with a vague and unconfirmed family history. Every person, however integrated, who lives somewhere other than their country of origin feels a bit of an outsider and most, and this certainly applies to me, would feel at least as much an outsider if, or when, they went back. Anyway for an artist (for want of a better word) and writer being 'a bit of an outsider' is more or less of part of the job and it seriously doesn't bother me. So, if it doesn't bother me either way, why would I hesitate to take on Dutch, or any other, citizenship for practical reasons?

Could wanderlust be the problem.

The Netherlands despite it's faults must be one of the easiest countries to live in but somewhere at the back of my mind I have a small but deep seated desire to move on, to experience new and more challenging places. But no, a feeling of transience caused by a repressed wanderlust, that's not it either. In reality I'm not going to suddenly pack up and leave. Age and finances would make a permanent move highly unlikely if not impossible! I'm here to stay, my trips to other countries just get a bit longer!

So what's the problem then?

Well-  the situation I'm faced with has been caused by, among other things :

a failed political gamble,

misinformed and misguided patriots, chauvenists, xenophobes and people with genuine grievances but the wrong target,

an ineffective and complacent campaign to remain in the EU

and a parliament full of politicians who were too scared or unwilling to point out that the referendum was not binding and that, although a significant number of the population (about 35% of the total electorate) were, rightly or wrongly, far from happy with the EU, the result did not give the government a mandate to make huge and far reaching constitutional changes and it certainly didn't give parliament the right to get the country into such a mess!

No, it's not the choices that I may have to make that are bothering me, it's the fact that, through no fault of my own, I may be forced to make them.

Oh, and by the way, I wasn't even allowed to vote!