Windmills of my Mind

This Saturday saw the sideswipe of my hangover at the unusually early time of 0900 and a trip to some interesting installations in Holland. Hire car bound, the four of us sped through the confusing lanes / roads around Amsterdam, oft led astray by the pernicious whims of the sat nav.

Our first stop was the giant flood defences that have been installed to protect that country against the devastating damage that was inflicted in the 1953/4 disaster. It is effectively two large semi circular barriers that are lifted into position and then flooded to sink and create the necessary resistance. Sadly the tour that was supposed to be at 1230 was moved to 1530 so we missed out. However the wind whipping through our hair and the toy models made up for it.

Another short journey later and taking what is possibly the most expensive ferry ever (3.50EUR for 4 people going less than 200m) we arrived in the slightly strange village of Kinderdijk. This is a village that is arrange on an extended dijk so it's very long and very thin. All the houses are built into the dyke itself, with view extending towards the sea.

After a brief lunch, which included a free portion of aphids with the salad, we made the necessary right turn and discovered the most stunning UNESCO world heritage site: a large series of fields separated by dijks and with a profusion of windmills pumping water between then all using the principals of the Archimedes screw.

There was an auspicious start to Roadtrip 2 ©: wakened as the sun started to rise across London a pearlescent blue sky accompanied our rapid departure speeding down the A whatever, so heavily strewn with speed cameras I was getting whiplash within 5 miles.

From an 0430 start we made it to Dover and the chunnel link with time to spare at 0630, and after a more than welcome breakfast of a proper English fry up (no bacon for Nik, natch) accompanied by some shampoo rolled onto the carriage that was to take us to Europe.

We had some initial confusion in the tunnel as we assembled our Europe ‘pack’: a magnetic GB sticker for the car (which stuck no where and ended up on the roof for appearance sake), some light deflectors (with instructions that even the most studious of scholars would have needed a rossetta stone to decode) and a high visibility jacket (that I could not pursued Nik to wear).

30 minutes later Audrey, Nik and I nosed onto the first of the French freeways and had our first altercation: the navigation. I had planned a route through the country mostly keeping to the toll roads and other major tributaries, however Audrey’s in car system was determined to keep us off the fast lanes and on the farm roads.

This experience bore a remarkable resemblance the last roadtrip when XX, who’s map reading skills we relied on entirely, guided us miles into the Nevada desert with no form of civilisation in sight, causing us to run out of petrol and miss our show in Vegas. Taking a firm stance I laid down the law and insisted we kept to the route I had planned, conceding that we could ‘consult with Audrey’.

It was a fortunate move and as we drove rapidly towards Paris, rarely dropping below a compfortable cruising speed of 150kph the reality that we were driving to Ibiza set in. Paris came and went in a traffic jam of boring proportions, and as we crossed the Seine the rest of the country opened up ahead of us, the greys and browns of the north turning into the more luscious and verdant greens of le midi central.

Midday came around and tired and hungry we pulled into some anonymous lay-by, crammed a toastie down our necks and caught up on an hour of sleep. Nik, apparently not used to napping on the continent, left the car on, and the heating turned up and on. We awoke an hour later, sweating like farm animals, but refreshed enough to continue towards the beckoning southern coast.

It was at this point we had to make a decision: go via Perpignon and save time, or head towards Toulouse and go over the mountains. As my mother is planning on a move to the former city I was in favour of that route, but the promise of hairbreak turns, gorgeous views and imminent danger won us both over in the end. A brief adjustment to the route, we called the ever faithful Melanie at Altour who looked into some accommodation for the night. I had a talk with Audrey at this point and managed to override her desire for back streets, and have her plot the route to Toulouse at a rather different tempo to her usually glacially slow routes.

Shrew tamed, Novotel booked, 8 hours and 700 miles on the clock we were in good shape as we sped through Limoges and the fields took on the unmistakable hue of gold that is only found in Van Gogh paintings and the south of France.

The roads are excellent in France and as we were sticking mostly to the toll roads, which while not cheap for long journeys, are worth it as they seemed unpatrolled by the local gendarmerie. Another pleasant surprise was the politeness of drivers: when in the fast lane, indicators were used and it was only used literally to overtake. There was no sign of the raving psychotics that are so often talked about stalking the roads of Paris.

After another brief pit stop, and a brief stint at 150mph, we pulled around the mountain to the lush sight of Toulouse. It was almost 2100 by this stage, and we were both tired, but buoyed up by the prospect of a swim in a pool, some nice dinner and the pumping sounds of XXX the last few kilometres closed quickly, and after a brief stop of in a competitor’s hotel we found our home for night.

Modern, well fitted out, the Novotel was a pleasant surprise, and after a dip in the outdoor pool we were ushered to a table by our waiter Johan, who was by anyone’s standards quite a character. Immediately ordering a bottle of Muscadet sur Lies (which arrived flawlessly chilled) we settled in to a delightfully tasty dinner.

WE staggered to bed and woke to the rude awakening of the alarm at 0630. 0715 saw us racing away from the hotel, having filled up on croissants and dark syrupy coffee. The most exciting part of our journey lay ahead of us, and before long we started to rise into the foothills of the Pyrenees, the fields of corn and vineyards giving way to deciduous woods and quaint towns rearing suddenly into sight, only to vanish just as quickly.

By 2500 feet the mountains were astride us and the roads, which were still excellent, were becoming thinner, and windy with tight corners and a plethora of warning signs. In what was to proof his most excellent show of driving skill yet, the Dunhill gloves were donned and line after line of ‘you’re never going to overtake them all’ tailbacks were swiftly overtaken, cut up and left in our dusty wake. I lost count of the number of times we were flashed.

Still no police though!

Unfortunately our path did not take us into Andorra itself, and after we drove through some extortionately charged tunnel the roads levelled out and started to descend again. We crossed the Spanish border however and started onto long wide fast roads again, some of which were still under construction. At this point, for the first time in our trip we spotted a police car, or guarda civilian as they have emblazoned on the 4x4. A game of cat and mouse ensued with the police man driving in the inner lane at exactly the 100kph speed limit, occasionally dropping to 90 so that we could start to overtake.

We decided the risk wasn’t worth taking and dropped behind him watching in amusement as several other vehicles encountered the same treatment. In the end he got bored and we sped off doing the last 40 kilometres into Barcelona in a matter of moments.

Arriving in Barcelona, a comic moment ensued as we got out of the car in the now sweltering heat, and decided to change outfits. I forgot to mention that there was a significant amount of luggage in the car, and of course the right outfit is never stored in just one of the many bags. Anyway, clothes and flips flops discovered we stripped off in the parking lot and got into more suitable gear before setting off for the docks and the prospect of a tasty lunch.

We set off into the harbour searching for a spot to have a tasty beverage but found a long stream of not quite open restaurants and a boat from Goergetown that was positively gargantuan. Stumbling onto a mall filled with wide variety of shops, each of which contained clothes or other assorted items that defied purchase due to their tackiness, we made the huge mistake of going to a tapas bar on the water front.

The writing wall on the wall: no locals, few patrons and high prices. The food arrived swimming in fat and was pretty much inedible. Unfortunately our hunger took the better of us and we chowed down anyway. Moments after finishing the carbo rape hit us and we limped back towards the mall in desperate search of anything to wipe the taste from our mouths. Ben and Jerrys came to the rescue, and as we walked back towards our car and the waiting ferry to Ibiza Nik started positively hissing and spitting at the restaurant. One of the staff caught notice and was looking at him quizzically, almost as though wondering if he should call for help. As a gaggle of American tourists started to make their way towards the place a shriek of advice was howled across the marina, “Don’t go, it’s crap!”

Thus began the ferry trip to Ibiza ...

Texel

Yesterday the weather was delightful, my friend Elise was in town from England and I woke up early and decided, screw it let's throw a sicky. By 0813 we were on a train and heading to the north of Holland towards a coastal town called Den Helder.

Train travel trips like this always fill me with a combination of excitment and nostalgia: sitting in the carriage watching the tulip fields flying by and finishing off a re-read of that truly most excellent of coming of age novels 'Becoming a Man' by Paul Monette I would have been happy if the train carried around in circles.

Of course it didn't and we pulled into the rather unremarkable port town of Den Helder and started to try and find our way towards the ferry to Texel. A supremely unhelpful woman declared there were no buses to the terminal and we had to walk, so we set off into the jungle of pontoons and lightships that lay on front of us. Of course predictably we were off on the wrong track and after confirming with a local that there a) was a bus and b) it went regularly from the very terminal we had asked the advice at directly to the ingress point of the ferry, we started walking along the dyke that would take us there. I won't pretend I was happy, in fact I was ruminating on ways to get a fatwah declared. Still we passed the interesting sight of a Royal Dutch submarine and mine-sweeper and arrvied the the mire of pathways and 8 lane traffic that made up the ferry terminal.

Both Elise and I were surpirsed at a) the ludicrously cheap day return fare of 3EUR each and b) the size of these ferries: they were enormous. Clearly in the high season there must be a lot of tourists travelling to and from. The crossing was brief and uneventful apart from a shock at the canteen where a selection of unpalatable dishes were served, including fried 'custard cakes'.

A bus waited for us on arrival and transported us to Den Berg, the largest town on the island. After a rather unnecessary trip to the VVV (aka the Tourist Office) we made our way through the quaint village centre and met a delightful man who we hired great bikes from at the princely sum of 6EUR. He asked for ID but in what we found an unrivalled sign of trust of ages past no credit card imprints.

By 1130 we were off on our way to the north west coast of the island, cycling down the amply sized fietspads. My first impression was that I was still on the mainland: the island is large (24km) and completely rural dedicated to the hundreds of lambs and sheep and miscellanous animals (including goats, cocks, llamas, canadian geeze, black swans ...). The smell of sileage is omnipresent. In no time at all we arrived at the bird reserve of de Slufter and parked our bikes to walk out along the sand spit and into the bird reserve, half expecting Bill Oddie to jump out at any moment. It is a beautifully tranqil area, whose silence is occasionally broken by the sounds of falcolns shrieking as they strike their prey or the cacophony of gulls in some ornate mating ritual. Most of the area we were in was a protecting sanctuary inaccessible until August as the birds were nesting.

We returned to our bikes and cycled to the northern most tip of the island where there was a rocky outcrop and a lighthouse with some lean toos of houses, unfortunately there were stern KEEP OUT signs everywhere so we couldnt' approach. We stopped on the top of the strand which resembled, other than the sea colour, the kind of extended Bahaman majesty one often sees in toursit brochures.

By this time the stomachs were growelling and we headed off the short distance to the local town of de Cocksdorp, which was literally a two lane affair with a couple of shops and restaurants. The local fair was pretty simple with restaurants offering pizza or local dishes. We settled on the Topina as there was a substantial outside seating area and more guests there than anywhere else. Refreshed with a strange maaltijdsalade of 'lambham' and a selection of local cheeses we got back on the bikes - which were delightful for hire bikes: good breaks and gears and solid construction - down the curiously named 'Lancasterdijk' to cross back to the otherside of the island and explore the most popular town known as de Koog.

We had a tough cycle into the wind and 'at our own risk' along the steep seaside of the dijk, but we made it in the end, to the rather pedestrian and cookie cutter town of de Koog. After making the executive decision to not even stop we continued out along the bike path to a quietly shaded wooded area: as the weather had become really quite warm and sunny by this stage it was a welcome break. Crunching along the path strewn with needles and pine cones we followed the path into a heather moor and then to what was referred to as 'Westerslag' or a promentary along the beach.

Wondering what on earth this meant (slag means 'whipped' from slagroom 'whipped cream) we arrived through a cutting in the dunes to this incredible stretch of beach going on as far as the eye could see in either direction. It was such a great moment after the day of cycling to arrive here and share an ice lolly surrounded by such natural splendour and sun just thinking about begining to set.

We slowly cycled back through the forest to the main town of den Burg, ditching our bikes there and enjoying the delightfully joined up public transport of bus to ferry to bus to train all arriving within 5m of each other and arriving back in Amsterdam at 2000, almost exactly 12 hours after we started.

I'm looking forwatd to exploring more of the Netherlands, every time I leave Amsterdam some new surprise seems to await me ...

Puck me tender ...

I think one of the highlights of my trip to Davos was the night out to the ice hockey playoffs. I hadn't been to an ice hockey match since I lived in the states (my little brother was in the bantam league) and this was a serious game we were going to: violence was expected, anticipated and in the air. We (that being Daniel, Rui, Nik and myself) were thoroughly searched upon entry, so thoroughly that Nik's box of matches was opened one way and then the other! Anyway we arrived early and made our way over to the home side standing area which was already thronging, after beering up (conveniently served in trays of 8 - see below) there was a sudden stroke of genius to head over to the less heavily populated neutral supporting area. We got seats :-) the night progressed and Davos totally dominated. Beer flowed continuously, Zurich's supporters lit sparklers ... and Davos erected the most enormous flag you've ever seen:


The game moved very quickly and whiplash was a distinct possibility if following the game was your goal. Players literally appeared out of no-where! We were unfortunate in that we were the other end of the rink when the first and second goals were scored within a few minutes of each other (I confess I was beering up during the second) and irritatingly the third one was also scored at the other end. still there was a nice camera man on hand to give us the pixilated version.

The match continued and we all got fairly thrashed, the pictures are vague and messy but worthwhile so I'll include them to give you an idea. I even came back with 8 beer and a bratwurst at one point, my waitressing skills have never been so capable!















... that was the 'extended' last interval's drinking















and look what it did to us!!!

Davos or Bust

Travelling to a destination has seldom been more amusing than the trip I took to Davos. I met my friend Nik at Zurich station where we confidently boarded the train that would (after two changes) deposit us bags and all in the exclusive alpine resort of Davos.

No sooner had we arrived at Zurich HB and ensconced ourselves in the dining car when the train pulled back through the airport. Realising the extremely detailed instructions given to us by CBB / Swiss rail monopoly were flagrantly incorrect we scarpered off the platform and had to take the round trip again, arriving just in time to miss our connecton to Landquart. Tempers simmering we found another dining cart not only with spare seats for us, but an attractive swiss conscript in uniform.

By fluke both of us had bought hip-flasks filled with our favourate tipples and quickly got stuck in to irish coffee ville. Landquart was a blur as we drunkenly dashed across platforms and got into the rather more crowded, but equally attractively populated compartment.

A carriage awaited us at the station courtesy of our diggs: the sophisticated yet still pleasantly alpine Hotel Waldhuus. Our arrival, or rather Nik's, was greeted ecstatically by the staff remembering him from last time and the swift appearance of two very welcome Lynchburg Lemonades.

The restful night's sleep that one would expect from such luxurious quarters was not had by all. I awoke the next morning to find Nik asleep and mumbling in the bed beside me looking stressed and rigid like he'd licked a light switch. It would seem that his room had some strange static / electrical disurbances that had plagued him all night ...

We're not sure what it was, but needless to say, we requested an exorcism (Catholic) via room service the next morning before breakfast where we then met fantastic ski instructor mate Daniel who had kindly taken his day off to spend with us and hang out.

More later, particularly on the fantastic experience of attending the ice hockey play-offs between Davos and Zurich.

Oh, did I mention we were there to ski?!

Post skiing

By flying from Amsterdam to Barcelona and then catching a coach I think I took a more circuitous route than strictly necessary to Andorra this weekend but it was worth every mile. I have to say the experience of traveling with teen-aged students on a bus made me a) appreciate how annoying I was and b) feel old and vaguely responsible. Oh if only they could capture that feeling and sell it, school masters everywhere would breathe a sigh of relief. (Note to self what else makes me feel like that?!)

Jane a great friend who I met when I was just a wee slip of an 18 year old lad accompanied me. She spent last season teaching English in BCN and then snow boarding every weekend in the mountains of Andorra. Oh the life!

I was only in Andorra, well Pal actually, for two days but the weather was almost perfect: it dumped thick wet snow the whole of Saturday while I was getting back into the groove. Viz was pretty poor but we knew the next day would be worth the pain upfront.

I had an amusing lesson with an Argentian guy who didn't really show me very much but laughed a lot, had cute italian teeth (don't ask!) and showed me round some of the mountain. I got a few blues under my belt and was cruising by the end of the day.

Sunday morning in true turnover day style the pistes were empty, and we had almost 15cm of powder - perfect! I did a blue run first thing, stumbled a bit but before I could say Nancy Reagen - I mean no - Jane pushed me onto the lift up to the top of Pic du Cubil. We could barely see 15m in front of us when we got there and the prospect of a difficult red run terrified me. As it happened I shot down enjoying the more challenging faster, thiner pistes, it dumped us onto the blue that was irking me earlier and I just breezed through finishing a la the Olympics in a spray of victory.

On the way back up we noticed there was this beautiful open slope off piste covered in untouched powder. A quick look around and we surreptitiously crept under the fence (bloody hard when you're in skiis - thank God for my limbo skills) and I had my first powder off piste experience. I tumbled, I fell, and then I switched my music off and concentrated on form: boy what a feeling, tight turns on fresh powder, the whole vallye below you and no one else around. Bliss.

I finished the day going back up to the Pic du Cubil and flew down the whole red and blue run listening to KT Tunstall's "Suddenly I See" stopping for no one and takng no prisoners. Man I wished I was staying for another day when I got to the bottom.

Still I'm off to Davos in a few weeks :-)