Old Man in Tights

Old Man in Tights

My nephew in Christchurch, New Zealand posted on Facebook that he was enjoying lunch at ' The Bicycle Thief'. I assumed that the name of the restaurant was a reference to an Italian film classic. My nephew wasn't too interested in this or any of my other less serious speculations about the origins of the name but remarked that fat, middle aged cyclists dressed in Lycra should have their bikes stolen to prevent them appearing in public. He considered them an eyesore. I didn't take his comment personally as I am not fat and, to be honest, even stretching the definition to its limits, I can no longer claim to be middle aged.

 

As it happens, I do have some sympathy with his comments. Skin hugging Lycra shows every bulge and bump on a body and some bodies have an awful lot of bulges and bumps to show. To make things worse many XXL or XXXL wannabe racers choose to wear size WT clothing (WT = Wishful Thinking) and it doesn't help that the current generation of cycling shirts taper at the waist making even quite fit people look a bit bulky around the middle.

Generally sportswear evolves to suit a  specific activity. It is designed primarily for it's functionality not for fashion. In this case the function is cycling not strutting around town or going to the market. Most people don't look too bad in cycling clothes while they are on a bicycle and if they do, well, they'll be out of sight in a few seconds. However off the bike it's a different story! Shoes for racing bikes have cleats under the soles, that click into the pedals, designed for more pedalling efficiency but making walking difficult, clumsy and, sometimes, even dangerous. Cycling shorts have a cushioned pad sewn into them to ease the contact between the cyclists backside and the rock-hard racing saddle. Generally the pads that provide the best cushioning are the ones that are the most unsightly and most uncomfortable when walking!

Fat middle aged Lycra covered men either on bicycles or waddling around town with pads in their pants may not be a pretty sight, nonetheless, I can't agree with my nephew that they should be banned for spoiling the view. In the first place because, based on this criteria, masses of overweight and over fed people wallowing in unsuitable swimwear  would have to be banned from our beaches. In the summer city parks and centres would have to be cleared of all the fast- food-seeking, ice-cream-eating, oversized population in undersized clothing exposing  excesses of bellies and buttocks! Even if this was desirable or legal how could it be implemented? It would take an army of Ayatollahs with sticks and/or thousands of strategically placed templates that people would have to be able to pass through in order to obtain access to the streets, parks and beaches!

Furthermore endurance sports, like running and cycling, have become increasingly popular recreational activities for men and women of all ages, shapes and sizes. Cycling is now not only a sport but also a 'life- style' statement. It has become cool, trendy and, as a result, big business! Due to this popularity bike wear has become a little more attractive as well as being functional, the prices of cycling related products have rocketed and, as my speed and strength gradually diminish, I am increasingly being passed on the hills by faster, fitter and younger cyclists....

 

 

So, to be honest I don't want to ban overweight and under trained, Lycra wearing, middle aged cyclists at all. In fact I want more of them, many more. Why? Because while overtaking them as they struggle, swear and sweat their way up hilly roads or mountains tracks I can feel a lot better about myself and my own performance!

But to be fair, at least these middle aged men are trying..

...what really irritates me are those people, fat or thin, who pass by on their electrically powered bicycles. They are not dressed in Lycra but, more often than not, they have  annoying and totally unjustified superior grins on their faces!

Bloody Mary

Bloody Mary

Recently there was an election here in The Netherlands, weeks and months of facts, half facts, false facts and sometimes no facts at all. Somehow between the wall – to – wall political propaganda in the regional newspaper a small announcement by the local history society caught my eye. Mainly because the article mentioned Bloody Mary. It was the first time I had seen the name since I came across it some fifteen years ago in an English book about pirates. This notorious female pirate had once owned a bar in Breda, the city where I live. Usually the local newspaper and tourist board are eager to claim anything or anyone with even the slightest connection to the town but Bloody Mary has gone almost unnoticed.
So –while the news media is now mostly speculating on which complicated coalition of parties will be governing the country for the next four years – let's forget about politics, relax and I'll tell you a story:

Mary Read was born in England and, for inheritance reasons, was brought up and dressed as a boy. She went into service but soon tired of being a servant, enlisted in the navy as a cabin boy before jumping ship and joining the British army in Flanders. She fought in several battles and fell in love with the handsome Flemish corporal with whom she was sharing a tent. At some point, as one of the contemporary accounts puts it ' she found a way to make him aware of her sex'. According to the same account he was 'surprised and delighted' at this revelation - I bet he was- but, surprisingly considering her later reputation, she made him promise to marry her before they went any further. He did. They did. When the military campaign was over they left the army, got married and became owners of the Three Horseshoes bar and restaurant in Breda. The actual site of this bar is uncertain but one of the possible locations suggested by historians is very close to the café that I most frequently visit.

Unfortunately her husband was killed in a knife fight and a period of peace was bad for business, there were not enough officers in what was essentially a garrison town. She closed the bar, resumed male dress, reverted to the name Mark Read and rejoined the army for a brief spell before boarding a ship sailing for the West Indies. The ship was captured by pirates. She was persuaded to joined the pirate crew, which, it is said, she did with great enthusiasm. Later as part of a general amnesty she and the crew were pardoned. She then sailed on a merchant ship which was, would you believe it, boarded and captured by pirates! This is when she came into contact with another female pirate, Anne Bonny, and her infamous partner Captain Jack Rackham known as Calico Jack. Anne, who dressed in male clothes but was not disguised as a man, took quite a liking to the good-looking sailor. However, when Mark revealed that she was really Mary it is said that Anne was somewhat disappointed while, on the other hand, Captain Jack was greatly relieved!
The three of them joined forces to rob, steal and terrorize the coast of the Bahamas until they were eventually captured. According to witnesses the two women were at least as fierce and bloodthirsty as their male crew mates and before their final capture they were reportedly the last ones on deck still fighting while the rest of the crew had surrendered.
The whole crew were tried, found guilty and sentenced to death by hanging however both of the women were pregnant ( Mary had obviously let another crew member become 'aware of her sex') and so, according to the law at that time, they escaped the gallows.
By now you are probably thinking that this tale has been ripped from a cheap romantic novel and is about as believable as an election promise,  however  I can assure you, although some accounts do vary, the core of the story is true and well documented. Also, unlike an adventure book or film, the end is a bit of an anti- climax. It is likely that Anne Bonny was bought out of captivity by her wealthy parents. Some say that she married and became a respectable wife and the mother of several children but there is no real evidence to support this.   

And Mary Read? She died of a fever shortly after the trial.........

Twenty- eight political parties took part in the Dutch general election, one of them was the Pirate Party. It always amazes me that anyone votes for the most obscure and eccentric parties. Nationwide the Pirate Party scored .03% of the total vote. In the local context the number of people who voted for them was maybe just about enough to crew one small pirate ship!

When a Dodo Flaps it's Wings...

When a Dodo Flaps its Wings...

They say that if a butterfly in Japan flaps its wings it could cause a hurricane in, let's say, Galverston, Texas. That is a whole lot of pressure, blame and guilt to put onto one small butterfly but of course, although many people do, it is not meant to be taken literally. It's just a way of saying that seemingly unimportant incidents can start a sequence of events with far reaching and unexpected results. For example: about eighteen months ago in Bosnia a young pregnant woman, desperately in need of a toilet, was forced to stop at a remote café where we happened to be drinking coffee.. as a result I have recently been providing cartoons for a project linked to a zoo in Poland!

The aim of the project, Fundacja Dodo (The Dodo Foundation), is to stimulate the preservation of endangered species in their natural habitats.

Most of my work as a cartoonist has been for magazines,books, course material or information campaigns. In most cases I am asked to illustrate and commentate on particular themes, subjects, articles or news items. Despite the fact that I provide humorous drawings this can, and often does, involve a fair amount of research. At the very least I have to read AND understand all the texts in order to make jokes about them...even though the humour often comes from deliberately misunderstanding or oversimplifying the subject. I have become quite a specialist in management over the years even though I've almost never had what most people would call a ' proper job'. I have also had to learn, among other things, about local government, TV cameras, canteen food, coffee machines, carers and quality control along with sewers, social housing, street furniture, and sperm donation. Knowledge that mostly gets discarded or forgotten the moment I move on to the next job.

Anyway, currently I have spent a fair amount of time dredging the internet for information and pictures of various animals, some of which I had never even heard of before.

There is plenty of information to be found and much of it makes for interesting reading but my researches have raised a few questions along with the answers. For instance, the Saola, a gazelle-like creature, was only discovered in 1999 and since then it has rarely been seen. 'Rarely seen' does, however, mean that they have been seen more often since 1999 than before that date. So it could be that Saola are flourishing rather than facing extinction!

Along with the Saola the available literature describes several other of the foundation's target species as being exceedingly shy which raises another question: are these creatures really dying out or are they just not going out?

Well,OK, these may be the somewhat distorted reactions you can expect when you let a cartoonist loose on a project. If you are really interested the genuine facts and figures should soon be available for all to see when the English language site is ready, which, I believe, is the main reason for my participation.

The Fundacja is named after the now long extinct Dodo.

Unlike a butterfly, when a Dodo flapped it's wings not very much happened at all.
The Dodo was a large, slow, clumsy and flightless bird.
What I did learn from my online explorations was that it wasn't its size, lack of speed, lack of agility or lack of proper wings that caused this birds extinction. None of these characteristics would have been a problem but for one other property: unfortunately for the Dodo, it tasted really good!

Sunday Biking

Sunday Biking

Last Sunday I took part in an organised cross-country bike ride at Prinsenbeek, NL.  Some years ago it was this event that inspired one of my earliest columns/blogs.The column, reprinted here in a slightly altered form, later appeared in the collection 'Letters to Kyrgyzstan':

Holland is mostly flat and has a large network of asphalt roads and purpose built cycle paths. These characteristics make it an ideal country for bicycles. Just about everybody has a bike. People use them to ride to work, to school, and to the university. To do the shopping and for leisurely rides around the countryside. Many of us ride the bicycle for sport.

At the end of September we put away our racing bikes and prepare our mountain bikes for the winter.

In most places, worldwide, mountain biking, like road racing, is a summer activity. In The Netherlands and Belgium, however, it has developed into a winter sport. We live close to Belgium and during the winter, on both sides of the border there are mountain bike events nearly every week. The concept is simple. The organising cycling club sets out a route, the cyclists pay a small fee and, starting whenever they choose, they follow the arrows. Half way there is a refreshments post. All sorts of people take part, from Olympic champions and cycling pros to sporting grandmothers with their grandchildren. Some see it as a recreational tour, others as a personal challenge. Some will be racing against their friends and team mates while still others will treat it as a relaxed winter training.

In the beginning of the season these events provide spectacular pictures as lines of brightly dressed cyclist weave their way through the woods and forests over paths covered with
autumn leave or as they appear through the early morning mists on the shores of lakes and rivers. As the winter progresses it gets colder, wetter, windier, and especially muddier.
We all have our own ideas about how to stay dry and warm. None of them work. We ride through wind and rain, we ride when it freezes, and sometimes even when it snows.
You can see us arriving at the finish on our muddy bikes. You may not recognise us at first as we too are covered from head to toe in mud. We are cold and wet because we slipped or took a tumble on a particularly wet part of the circuit or because it had started to pour with rain. Maybe both!

At this point you may ask: “Do you do this for FUN?”

You won’t get a direct answer - but follow us into the sports centre, club house, or café, as we peel off our wet outer garments with stiff, cold fingers and put on dry T- shirts . Inside it is crowded and smells of damp clothes and sweat..... and...there is something else. In the corner there is an improvised table where two cheerful ladies are serving ‘erwtensoep’, a Dutch speciality, thick pea soup, out of a huge pan. We find some empty chairs and a table, after finishing the soup some of us drink tea, coffee, chocolate flavoured hot milk or my choice: dark beer. As the warmth creeps slowly back into our bodies, we will begin to tell our individual stories about the ride that morning. The falls, the obstacles, the wrong turnings and especially how good (or bad) we were. You will see the colour slowly coming back into our faces as the stories become more enthusiastic and somewhat exaggerated.................. and then, at last, you will get your answer:

“Of course it’s fun, why don’t you join us next week?

 

Never Go Back?

Never Go Back?

“Never go back to a place where you have been happy. Until you do it will remain alive for you. If you go back it will be destroyed” - Agatha Christie

To tell the truth if I never saw the inside of a church again it wouldn't bother me much. No, I'm not a cultural barbarian. I have in my time visited a great number of cathedrals and churches. There was a time when I could have pointed out to you all the various styles of church buildings: Roman, Doric, Gothic and so on. I could have told you all about flying buttresses and gargoyles, along with a whole lot of other features. It's just that at some point I reached saturation point. Yes, there are some great works of art and a lot of magnificent craftsmanship but there is a limit to the number of crucifixes, crosses, candle sticks and communion cups I can take! At some point enough was, well, more than enough.

However the outside of great churches, that's a different story. Apart from the architectural grandeur many of them, especially in the British Isles, are situated in the most green and pleasant surroundings. When I lived and studied in Canterbury the short cut through the cathedral grounds from my college to the town centre was an almost daily pleasure.

I have been back to Canterbury. It was a few years ago on the way home from a family visit. In order to avoid the exorbitant parking fees we parked in a residential area close to the college I used to attend. As we made our way towards the centre a sudden and violent downpour caught us by surprise.

“Quick run” I gasped “We'll take the short cut”. We ran as fast as we could, splashing through the deep puddles which were already forming, only to find the small oak door in the city wall that led to the rear of the cathedral grounds locked. It had probably been locked for years. Now the only way in was through the main entrance. With no place to shelter our only choice was to take the longer way into town. By the time we found sanctuary in a Starbucks coffee house our jeans were waterlogged. Soaked through and uncomfortable we perched on two bar stools close to the window and dripped into our coffee. From this vantage point we were able to observe what was going on outside, which was not a lot. Once in a while some heavily rain-coated tourists, like soldiers trying to avoid enemy sniper fire, would make a daring dash across the open square towards the main gate of the cathedral. Small groups of bedraggled French school children shuffled miserably past the window chaperoned by, even more miserable looking, young teachers. One of them, I'm sure, had a soggy cigarette drooping from her lips, though this could be a wishful cartoonist memory.

Somehow the rain managed to get even worse and the wind increased. The staff of the pub opposite were gallantly trying to erect huge parasols. Not beacuse they were overly optimistic but to cater for the needs of desperate smokers.
We ordered more coffee...

...after a considerable time it did stop raining.
Now lukewarm and damp we waded our way around the town, past some of my old haunts and a few historical monuments. We had lunch in The Seven Stars pub, which had really gone downhill, it was dark, shabby and the service was poor with food to match. Another short, cold, trudge around town before, still damp, we gave up and squelched into The City Arms for a drink.

No - it had not been the best of days... but did it destroy my memories of Canterbury?  Well no...not really.

A few of us used to drop into the City Arms for a short break from student life. The building, inside and out, was several hundreds years old and so were most of the customers!

Since those days the name and the exterior hadn't changed but inside it was now bright, the furniture simple and functional white wood. Posters on the walls advertised concerts, dance events, exhibitions and experimental theatre. The friendly, attractive, young bar staff were obviously supplementing their student grants or loans.

Like it or not - times change!

If you revisit a place expecting it to be the way it was, to relive past happiness or recapture lost youth you are bound to be disappointed.

As it happens, for better or worse, I was born without a nostalgia gene. I tend not to look back and I don't have a sentimental attachment to, or a longing for, 'the good old days'. Of course I have a large store of anecdotes and tall stories from my student days but that doesn't mean I have a rose-tinted view of the past or that I think things were better back then. It is true that I always remember the sun shining during those walks through the Cathedral grounds but that is not due to a romanticised memory. It's simply because, unlike day trippers, tourists or school parties, when I lived in Canterbury I didn't have to go out it was raining!

RUNNING ON...

Running on...

There are sure signs that autumn has arrived but in our town it is not the colour of the trees, in fact most of them are still green. It's not the falling chestnuts, though there are plenty of them. No, its the sudden wave of joggers that hit the streets and parks. Many of them wearing suspiciously shiny shoes and gleaming new track suits. Yes, it's time for the annual half-marathon. Last Sunday more than 18,000 athletes and fun runners took part. About 2000 of them participating in the main event.

Although it had been raining for an hour or so the sun was shining as the leading athletes breezed past so smoothly and effortlessly I swear that their feet never actually touch the ground. That must be against the rules! After what seemed like an age the next competitors came into sight, and the next, and the next. Gradually there were fewer and shorter gaps between the runners. Where the tail end of the race merged with the best of the recreational runners there was noticeably a greater variation in style and body shape. It was also the beginning of a seemingly unending kaleidoscopic ribbon of head bobbing bodies. We were on a new part of the circuit, just a few hundred yards from our apartment. The runners approached along a footpath on one side of the river, crossed the bridge where we were standing and made their way back towards the city along the opposite bank. A picturesque, multi-coloured spectacle on both riverbanks.

In this jostling mass of runners it was difficult to pick out the few friends taking part – some of them saw us first – experienced, fit, trained, not quite as fast as they used to be but that didn't matter. Each one had a broad smile and a relaxed stride: fun runners, having fun.

Then it was time for the less trained, less talented, beginners and one-timers. For some this half marathon would be their ultimate physical achievement, for some an impulse for a healthier life...and some were almost certainly regretting a boast or a bet made after 'one or two beers' in the café.

As the field thinned out again and the gaps between the stragglers got longer my attention began to fade and my thoughts drifted..................

…...... back to London when I was about 18. It's difficult to believe now but joggers had not yet been invented! Just about anybody doing any running was a member of an athletics club, all events were run by the Athletics Association and one had to be a member to take part. There were few opportunities for all-rounders or recreational runners to participate in events. One possibility was 'business house' competitions where teams from the police, fire brigade, civil servants and some companies competed on the road and cross-country. It will, I think, surprise you to know that I was a member of the City of London Police team, an elite corps selected, among other things, for their representative appearance and height. I had long hair, a beard and was at least 10 cm too short. Later the local council where I worked formed its own team, yes, another surprise, once upon a time I did had a proper job! We entered several events organised by local athletic clubs , mostly cross-country and road relays which were popular at the time, maybe they still are. It was during one of these races that I experienced crossing the finishing line to the applause of the crowd... well..okay it was a mistake I was  almost a whole lap behind the actual winner who appeared a few seconds later!!!....... We were the only business team taking part and despite achieving, looking back, quite impressive times we were often so far behind the 'real' athletes that just about the only thing left when we got to the finish was the line!

The back markers, all shapes, sizes and ages were still straggling doggedly past us. Brave, determined, foolish, unprepared or unlucky many of them were suffering – and they still had 5km to go! These were the ones that really needed encouragement. Most of the spectators were beginning to lose interest and drift away. The rest cheered them on. A brief smile or a wave from the runners as they gratefully forgot their aching legs for a few meters before continuing their weary way for at least another half hour!! Remembering those lonely runs at the back of the field I felt a little guilty that we didn't wait for the very last participants but you know what? - standing on a windy bridge for more than 2½ hours with no beer in sight, that's tough too... and anyway it had started to rain again.

POLONAISE

POLONAISE
(A slow dance of Polish origin)

The smallest things can, and do,  influence my choice of travel or holiday destinations. Live cycle racing broadcasts on Belgian TV have led to new destinations and I once visited a city on the strength of a brief background shot in a detective film. Possibly due to our several Dutch friends with Polish origins Poland has always been on my list of places to visit but it somehow never made the number one spot - until this year!  A five week round tour through the eastern part of Germany and the south-west corner of Poland.   

As a prologue to a new season of columns/blogs here are a few impressions based on posts that appeared previously on Facebook:

A FENCE RAN THROUGH IT........

I grew up with there being two German nations, it was hard to imagine that it had ever been otherwise, now it is equally hard to believe that the country had ever been divided. However you don't have to look too hard to spot the differences and the imagination does the rest.
There is always a certain amount of randomness about our trips and our first stop turned out to be just on the western side of the now invisible borderline. Along with the progress of the national football team conversations frequently turned to the 'bad old days' which in turn led us to visit a windswept museum on a rainy day and a bike ride up the highest (and steepest) mountain in the region which was also the site of a former observation post...... 

TRABBI TOWN

The only reason we visited Zwickau was that, by chance, I noticed that one of my 'Kyrgyz connections' lived and worked there. I had never heard of the place and certainly had no idea of its historical significance for the German car industry and therefore for the automobile industry in general. A city where, among others, Ferdinand Porsche developed a whole string of famous cars Audi, Auto Union and Volkswagen. Less prestigious, maybe, it is also the birthplace of... the Trabant. The Trabant was a product of the German Democratic Republic, East Germany. It was made from plastic, looked like it had been designed by a seven year old and had an ignition key so large that I once asked a Trabant owner if he used it to wind the car up. Luckily he was more amused than offended! The actual power unit sounded like a lawn mower and each car came with its own personal cloud of pollution. After reunification many Trabants were abandoned as the population went in search of something better and in a different colour however this curious car has now achieved an almost cult status becoming something of a collectors item!
Zwickau now has a hi-tech, high status University and has regained some of its former importance.
The town centre has been renovated, several Art Nouveau buildings restored and even the old soviet-style buildings have been given a face-lift. But we didn't give Zwickau much of a chance, we had a brief but enjoyable visit, then we went on our way intending to return at the end of our trip. However, as so often happens, circumstances dictated otherwise.

 

Oh – and by the way, we didn't see one Trabant while we were there!

 

 

ON TOP OF OLD SNOWBALL

“You'll be climbing the Sniezka then? ” Marta mailed after I had mentioned that we were now in Karpach. I had no idea what the Sniezka was.
We had arrived that afternoon at Camp 66. It didn't look or sound very promising – an open field with no shelter from sun, wind or rain. However a covered terrace, a communal kitchen and dining room, a pleasant bar, a friendly greeting and an uninterrupted view of the mountains more than compensated for the lack of shadow. The campsite was new and fairly undiscovered, the trees will grow in time. The mountain at the centre of our daily panorama was, we discovered, the Sniezka. The highest peak in the Karkonosze (The Giant Mountains).
“Sounds like a good idea” I replied ”we'll do that, either on foot or on the mountain bike”.

The next morning we realised that Karpach was one great tourist trap. On our bikes we weaved our way through the multicoloured masses, tourist trains, car parks, hot dog and souvenir stands. There was a road shown on the map that led some way up the mountain but it was closed to traffic...it was unclear if mountain bikes were allowed but we'd had enough. It was too crowded, this was not for us! We sprinted back to our tent, had lunch and cycled off in the opposite direction.
Ah, but the Sniezka was still there when we got back, in full view.
“ How can we face Marta now if we haven't climbed it “ Yvonne said. We would be visiting Marta in a few days. “Maybe there is another, less crowded, route” she suggested. We consulted the map, it looked like there was. It involved a short drive and a longer hike taking in two smaller peaks on the way.

The following day it was raining, with nothing better to do we drove up to check out our chosen route, maybe take a short walk or just drink a coffee somewhere. We found the path easily, it was well marked and not too busy. The rain stopped and before we knew we'd already covered about a quarter of the route. “Ah- well, might as well carry on to the top then” we both thought. It was, we soon realised, the easiest part of the walk! Half way there was a mountain refuge we paused for goulash and coffee. The hut was Czech and so were all the other customers. We had crossed the border about 50 meters from our Polish car park. Luckily they accepted Polish currency.
It was a tough three hour walk up. As we approached the very top we encountered more and more people as various routes converged, many had taken the ski-lift, only walking the last 500m, some, judging by their gear had chosen more challenging routes.
On the way back we revisited the mountain hut before tackling the last stage with legs that were now beginning to protest. “You've trained us for cycling not for walking up and down mountains!” they screamed. However we reached the end, tired, aching a little but pleased and satisfied, and just as it started to rain again!

Later that evening,sitting in the one chair at the campsite where there was a good and constant wifi signal I discovered that not only had we climbed the highest mountain in this region of Poland (The Sniezka) but at the same time my very first steps ever in the Czech Republic involved climbing the highest mountain in that country (The Snezka), and I didn't even know I was doing it!


MARTA'S BACKYARD
They were not the main reason we decided to visit Poland this year, though they did provide an extra impulse. We met them last year in something resembling a café at the side of a dusty track in Bosnia. They were, however, the reason we visited Wroclaw.
“We're easy to find. We live in the zoo. You can't miss it “ were the somewhat surprising instructions.....and we didn't. Despite a few tram related adventures and diversions we eventually arrived at the service entrance as directed. There we were met by Marta, Mickey and their baby who was only 'work in progress' at our first meeting.
We were treated to a tour of the zoo.
They knew many of the animals personally, their names, origins and their background stories. For those who are uneasy about animals being kept in captivity, and I'm one of them, it was nice to know that many of the animals had been rescued from situations where they had been cruelly treated and were now able to spend their last days safely and in relative comfort. Generally the animals were provided with spacious and attractive environments many new or vastly improved over the last years.

Later Mickey took us into town to show us that there were also human beings living in the city....and for a beer!
In the evening we visited a multi media light show in the park across from the zoo before returning after hours and after dark to have one last conversation with two insomniac zebras and Zidane, the head – butting donkey.

 
We spent the weekend in Wroclaw and it was, indeed, full of people, most of them seemed to be under forty, except for the German tourists. This busy, bustling and very attractive city, is also inhabited by a large number of bronze gnomes, small and fairly inconspicuous. Subtly placed, they are amusing and entertaining rather than kitsch and they all look like a friend of mine!

 

THE BEST OF BAD DAYS:

 

To say that the weather in Poland is changeable is something of an understatement.... last weekend above thirty degrees... yesterday 14!
The forecast was heavy rain in the morning and light rain in the afternoon, fairly accurate except that the light rain turned into a storm! So what to do?... Well, much the same as other holiday makers - put on raincoats and head for the nearest town. The lady at the tourist information was friendly and enthousiastic, she made several suggestions but as a parting shot she mentioned a special place for coffee. Just around the corner, under a bridge, up some stairs, above an ice cream parlour. It was, as it happens, time for a coffee! Wow! The enthusiastic owner served us coffee with a selection of the best ice cream creations I have ever tasted - and I am not particularly fond of ice cream- each was an exotic delight and a surprise and the coffee was even better. Somehow a guitar appeared and I was persuaded to play.... for an hour or two the owner and I told stories, sang songs and entertained the other customers. ... and we were treated to a few more unique coffees. Back at the campsite the bad weather, as usual, resulted in good contact. Most campsites in the former communist countries have some sort of sheltered cooking facilites. On rainy days in these communial kitchens  new fellowships are formed. Now it seemed that some of our Polish fellow campers were able to speak a little English and several of them had family living or working in The Netherlands. A pleasant evening followed together with our Dutch neighbours and to complete the day I, at last, managed to work out how to transfer photos from my new camera to the tablet.

 

POLONAISE

 

It took us just over a year and a half to arrange our last get-together with Annabel, Hubert and David who live in Eindhoven, just 60 kilometres down the road from us. It took,  a few minutes, a couple of SMS texts and an E-mail to arrange a meeting in Bolkow, Poland!
But before that we stayed at two of the nicest campsites situated in beautiful mountainous surroundings. The weather remained, to say the least, changeable. We visited just about every small town in the area between sunny spells and took bike rides between showers. We took another short detour through the Czech Republic. We ate ice cream, sang songs, drank exotic coffee and in a mountain hut in the Owl Mountains two old ladies served us thick slices of bread and dripping accompanied by the largest gherkins you will ever see. (Do any of my English friends remember bread & dripping?). We tasted a variety of pierogies, sampled several local beers and tested a few vodkas. 

The campsite in Bolkow was bigger and busier than we had been led to believe and full of Dutch families. I should be used to it by now but it's only when I come across Dutch people in other countries that I realise just how LOUD they are.
A train used to run through the town, as in so many places the line was closed years ago, however although the train rails have long started disappearing into the undergrowth the traffic signs warning of its existence all seemed to be brand new!  Further there was a castle, a supermarket and a restaurant... oh and an ironmongers that luckily had a few bicycle wheels.  Despite the fact that I was sick, my bike was broken and I was bitten by a tick we had a good time!

It was time for us to leave Poland. While we moved slowly westwards via Thuringen Wald in former East Germany Annabel, Hubert and David headed further east trying to find their roots and avoid the Pope who, they learned just at the moment of departure, was visiting Warschau, their next planned stop. Warschau was expecting seven million extra visitors for the occassion! We left them disscussing plan-B. 

 

THE LAST DANCE

The last week of our trip/vacation  we were in the Thuringen Wald, at the end of a valley, not only without mobile internet but not even a telephone network. No TV, newspaper, radio and a guesthouse/ restaurant that had been closed for several years even though the tables were still laid! Together with just a handful of other campers on a beautiful but remote former DDR campsite.
It was time to go home.... but I wasn't at all sure why.  It is true that after being away from home for more than a few weeks I never want to go home but this time it was different: not much work and no plans.  If I have to hang around doing nothing I might just as well hang around here... and it might just of happened!
Our departure was delayed for a couple of hours... we couldn't find anybody to pay!
There was a telephone number pinned to the door of the reception but as we didn't have a network that didn't help much. Eventually we borrowed a telephone that did have a connection but, it turned out later, the managers telephone wasn't working AND when we did track her down she wasn't in the next town as we thought, no she had been in a neighbouring house the whole time! It was all annoying, irritating, amusing and refreshing at the same time.... although we did grumble a bit and maybe swore a little the fact was that in this tiny German backwater, rules, regulations and time were not priorities and, to be honest, like the people who lived there, we were in no real hurry.