We woke to another absolute scorcher. Marko, one of our guides from yesterday's kayaking, met us outside the Pile Gate for our biking and wine tasting tour. Once the other Scottish couple arrived, we hopped in the Adventure Dubrovnik van, for Gruda, the muncipal capital of the Konavle region.
The equipment -- really nice stuff, too -- was stored in a shipping container on the grounds of the nearby Dubrovački Podrumi winery. The 8 km circuit would bring us back there for the tasting. We enjoyed their award-winning Ragusa white so much, we decided to buy a bottle; only then did we find out that you can buy it there for 30 kn! (That's about £3!)
Beside a war-damaged house -- why are we smiling again?
Our route took us through Ljuta and Lovorno, to a Franciscan monastery near Pridvorje -- where we stopped for a quick lunch under an ancient oak. Once rested, it was time for a bit of off-roading: at one point a lady in a vineyard beside the knee-high grass we were plowing through gestured and shouted something. Tea, who was farther back than me, said she seemed angry, but Marko assured us she simply thought we were lost. (U'm, I know I don't understand Croatian, but... O.K.) On the way back, we stopped near Ljuta to see an old watermill, and replenish our water in the river of the same name. We also picked up a bottle of orahovac, a home-made walnut brandy that the region is famous for, from a small stand outside a restaurant.
Didn't quite make it across -- clearly the bike's fault.
Marko was a fantastic guide: really down-to-earth, with a great sense of humour. You can tell he loves his job, and who wouldn't, out amongst such beautiful landscapes every day. He also dropped tidbits throughout the day; one that stuck with me was passed on from a woman who'd spent time with Australian Aborigines, according to him: when water is in short supply, place a small stone under your tongue; the salivation will keep your mouth moist, easing discomfort and slowing your heart rate. Thankfully, we didn't have need of this today.
And now, for a kip.
Update 9:51 p.m.: We decided to have supper at Lady Pi Pi again. Excellent choice!
We knew it was a stroke of good fortune to buy the tickets to Amsterdam the day before from the moment we entered Brussels-Central train station: Saturday on a holiday weekend was in full swing, with long queues to both the automated and traditional tellers. [Note that we had difficulty buying tickets from the machines in Brussels and Amsterdam -- even those that said they accepted Maestro didn't; you're better off going to straight to the tellers, we found.] Our congratulatory mood quickly faded as we boarded the train, however: the air-conditioning wasn't working, and each of the six-person cabins we passed were jammed with luggage and sweating bodies (as was the corridor, shortly thereafter). In retrospect, the extra €50 for the high-speed train would've been a much better option.
Tea, modeling it -- it was long
This country is flat. I haven't been to the Prairies, but I'd imagine this is what it's like. My guide to the Dutch includes a famous story about a son who bought his parents their first holiday, to Switzerland, for an important anniversary. When he called them to see they were getting on, his mother replied that they were miserable, and coming home early: "There's no view here; all these mountains get in the way."
Once we passed Antwerp, the train began to thin out; still sweating profusely, I was then able to sit and take in the passing land: perfect rows of lurid tulips broke it up. At one point, a couple on bicycles led a horse. [At the time, I struggled to think of something more Dutch, but, then, I hadn't been to Zaanse Schans yet.]
Bikes near the ferries
The lady we were renting from said the houseboat was very close to Amsterdam Central Station, so we headed for the docks, where hoards of bicycles, scooters, motorcycles and pedestrians were making their way on and off ferries in a deliberate, measured chaos. [I did not witness a single accident of any kind during the visit. I still don't understand how.]
I am sat at the raised table in the kitchen of our houseboat as I write this. A cool cross-breeze brings the lapping water to my ears. There is a slight rocking, no more. Our neighbours are close -- we share a dock on one side -- but everyone is quiet, calm... gezelligheid, as my guide tells me. Each set of keys is on its own little pink buoy. I could get used to this.
My first afternoon is overwhelming, as I try to wrap my head around the Dutch way of life, while avoiding the cycles, scooters, motorcycles, small cars -- which share the lane reserved for those first three -- larger cars and trams. As in Rotterdam, there are many places where you must cross five different lanes of traffic moving at different speeds.
Some early observations:
No one wears helmets; no one; not scooter-riders, not young children, not babies (in infant seats on the crossbar, right in front of mom), not girls riding side-saddle behind their boyfriends. (On the latter, my guide tells me that early courtship can be a painful time for these girls, as their boys slowly discover how far their knees stick out. Also, they hop off and stand by them at the lights.)
Coffeeshops are to be avoided. We couldn't remember whether it was coffeehouses that sold recreational drugs, but quickly found out as, sitting at a table outside a coffeeshop, we overheard "Hello, do you smoke weed? I'm doing a survey..." from the next table. We immediately stood up, offering an apologetic shrug to the waitress who was already making her way toward us, menus in hand.
So much is geared to relaxing: yes, as exemplified by the coffeeshop menus, but also in the decor, with fully reclining chairs for two -- beds, really -- under awnings outside them, and the regular coffeehouses. And in the pace of traffic as well: no one is honking or even pedaling strenuously. Even the tourists seem to grasp this respect for others that is at the heart of gezelligheid (which is so much more than easygoing, or any other English word that comes to mind).
The power of human potential is on display. I don't know how else to phrase it. The energy -- like Brussels in some respects, but channeled so differently -- brings me up regularly, wondering why it can't be like this at home. (Is it simply the hills and distances back home, or is it something more fundamental?) So modern and clean. Like a utopian movie set.
It's common to see boats that I would say seat six carrying well over a dozen folks, standing, havin' a drink 'n' a chat. (And not a life-jacket in sight, I'm sure you're surprised to learn.)
Shirts with banal English sayings seem to be very popular.
"Come to Mama!"
We're tired when we make it back to the houseboat, burdened with groceries that include a wheel of cheese the size of my head. Well into our antipasti-style meal, I notice Kae's brow furrow as she reads an ingredients label I've peeked at earlier. As she's about to voice the question, I say, "Tomatosaurus! ROWRrrr!" She can only nod, collapsing in the laughter of the exhausted, and we soon join her. (I have no idea what the ingredient actually was, but, honestly, Dutch looks that foreign a lot of the time.)
The 'floating playground'
Luckily, the houseboat is a fantastic place to kick back. After a kip, we hang out for a bit, planning our evening. On the agenda: De Bekeerde Suster, where they brew their own beer -- a rarity in Amsterdam, as the Dutch national drink is undoubtedly coffee; very strong coffee -- and the Red Light District. The former turns out to be an excellent choice -- the Blonde Ros and Witte Ros are both very good, as is the food -- which surprises me, as I hadn't had a chance to do much research. (Truth be told, I've been spoiled these last three trips, with Good Beer Guides for each.)
Partway through our meal, a safely-dressed gentleman approaches our table, asking, in perfect English, whether the ladies can help him finish his shirt. Turns out that "Bob the Builder" is a local -- more shocking for us than his outfit -- on his stag do, and needs to get 26 ladies, each with a name beginning with a different letter of the alphabet, to sign the back of his shirt. He was very excited when "Princess Zara" (a.k.a. Kae) told him he only needed a 'Z' to finish. Much congratulations all 'round ensued.
Then it was off to the Red Light District. Some observations:
There seemed to be a good variety of all that nature has to offer on display. Ahem.
Some seemed keen; others bored.
Some men were negotiating just inside some doorways, either for themselves or their stag dos. It's odd, to see such a public transaction, in the sense that it's keenly watched by so many.
There were more cameras around than I expected, given the warnings in our guide books. And it was much smaller, and therefore, crowded, than I expected as well.
Like many other aspects of Amsterdam, and Dutch life generally, it is very... contained. If you seek it out, it's there; if you don't, you might easily miss it, and certainly won't be bothered by it. (Unlike, for example, the constant flippity-flip of call-girl and escort cards and brochures being handed out on the strip in Las Vegas.)
And with that, we headed home. An exciting hunt for the light switches later -- that boat gets dark -- and we were off to bed.
When friends of ours said they were going to be in Dublin for a long weekend in July, we jumped at the excuse to visit one of our favourite cities. One quick train ride to Birmingham International and forty-minute Ryanair flight later, and there was much hugging and back-slapping all round -- shortly followed by "Good night!" Hey, none of us is gettin' any younger; it's all about pacin' yourself.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
In Kilmainham Jail
Since Cee hadn't been to Dublin before, we decided that a hop-on-and-off bus tour would be the first order of business the following morn. After a hearty breakfast at the hotel -- including soda bread and black pudding -- it was off to buy our tickets for the bus, and for the hurling and football matches on Saturday, something the original Jae had been assured was a must-see.
In the Victorian wing
Our first hop off was the 'Gaol'. Tea and I enjoyed some great tours on our first trip to Dublin, but I have to say, if you have time for just one while you're there, the Kilmainham Gaol tour can't be beat. The history presses down on you before the informative guide even gets started. In particular, as we walked out to the yard that includes the Invincibles' unmarked grave, we all agreed that its significance was made known to us -- be it through chills or a weight in the air -- before the guide even pointed out the plaque. That, and seeing Joseph Plunkett's cell (amongst those of the other planners of the Easter Rising), where he and Grace had that short span 'alone' as a married couple, and then seeing her cell in the much-filmed Victorian wing later on; it wasn't hard to imagine why she decided to devote herself to the cause.
After that, we stopped at the Patriots Inn for lunch before walking to the Storehouse for some Guinness swag -- no, you can never have too much. We hopped back on the bus at that point, getting off again near Grafton Street for more shopping. Well, the girls shopped. Cee bought a cigar, and then we went wandering, stumbling upon the James Toner Pub for a pint before meeting the girls back at the Porterhouse for, you guessed it, another pint (of their own porter in my case -- delish!).
Within minutes of greeting Jae the previous evening, she'd mentioned Montys, a Nepalese restaurant she'd heard about; that was on the docket for supper. Well, what a treat! From the opening recommendation -- dumplings! -- we were hooked. My lamb ledo bedo (traditional Nepali curry) was amazing, and the peshwari nan was ridiculous -- seriously, probably the best I've had to date, and I'd like to think that means something now, after a year of trying great curries.
We finished the night off with a few more pints and live music at O'Neill's.
Friday, July 16, 2010
We started with another good breakfast at the hotel before heading to the train station to take the DART to Howth. The Victorian row houses gave way to greenery and, finally, the beautiful Irish Sea and Ireland's Eye. The air was heavy with salt as we left the train, and while the sun was shining through the clouds, we'd packed for showers. We noted Beshoff Bros fish and chips shop immediately, knowing how good that would taste after our cliff walk.
The harbour, Dún Laoghaire in the distance
Walking up the trail, the cliffs falling off to our left, reminded me of childhood walks around Cape Spear, and our recent trip to Cornwall. The cries of the seagulls and the crash of the surf accompanied us as the showers began. They were more cooling than anything; we really couldn't have asked for a better day. As we neared the top, a spectacular view of the town of Dún Laoghaire (which sounds like 'Dun Leery', I believe), across the harbour, greeted us. It was then that we noticed the houses, and the pub. It was a bit disheartening, thinking we'd conquered some significant mount, only to discover a thriving community in our midst. We attempted to cover our embarrassment by busily talking amongst ourselves, but a local quickly picked us out, stopping his car and leaning out the driver-side window with a friendly smile, "Do you know where you are?"
When we pointed at what we thought was the way down, he replied, "No, that's the boring way. What you want is there," pointing to a gap in a low wall that was in a similar, yet entirely different, direction. He said the way was intuitive: that so long as we were heading down, we were heading true. He emphasized that, while it was simple, we wouldn't see "any big German signs pointing the way," which had us in stitches for most of the way down -- Cee in particular, given his heritage.
Down we went, past row houses painted such bright colours you'd swear we were in St. John's. At one point we passed some guys unloading kegs from a flat-bed truck; they had this great system where one guy'd get a keg to the edge of the flat-bed before letting its weight carry it to the pavement below, and this little pillow they'd set for that purpose. The keg would bounce off that, turning on its side in the process, where the next guy would ensure that its momentum carried it right through the pub's side doorway. It was like something out of Donkey Kong!
The fish and chips from Beshoff Bros hit the spot, just as we'd imagined. Sated, we decided to pop into the tourist information centre quickly before heading back to Dublin. On the way, we noticed a crowd by the dock and were surprised to find a group of sea lions frolicking for the masses. A few people bought some bags of fish heads at the nearby shops, and the sea lions just went wild for them. Perfect timing!
Once back in Dublin, we decided to take the Laus (pronounced 'louis') -- or really neat, futuristic tram, as we liked to think of it -- to Abbey Street for more shopping. We were a bit confused about where to catch it, and ended up waiting longer than it would've taken to walk the distance, but it was worth it: we couldn't very well leave the city without riding it, after raving about it for days. While Cee went with Jae to buy his sweetie a ring, Tea and I crashed for a bit in St. Stephen's Green.
At Salamanca
We planned to meet another friend, Aye, who was returning from Prague, at the Spire around 6 p.m., so we headed back to the hotel to freshen up beforehand. That done, Cee and I were just finishing up a pint in the lobby when Tea came running back in, telling the staff to call an ambulance. She'd just gone out with Jae a moment before, so both Cee and I thought something had happened to her. As it turned out, they'd been standing on the sidewalk for but a moment when a cyclist flipped over his handlebars and landed horribly on his unprotected head, out in the street right in front of them. Some others trained in first aid took over from Jae, telling the man not to move (once he regained consciousness), as the rest of us directed traffic around him and tried to avoid looking at the pool of blood spreading around his skull. The ambulance arrived very quickly -- within five to seven minutes -- allowing us to gratefully take our leave. He seemed to be O.K. by then; undoubtedly concussed, but moving under his own steam. Always wear a helmet, kids!
We met Aye shortly thereafter and made our way to the tapas restaurant we'd spied earlier, Salamanca. The place was packed, so we put our name on the list and went to a different Porterhouse close by. Aye was shocked when they told him they didn't have Guinness on tap -- 'til we explained it was a microbrewery. The hilarity continued when we were seated in Salamanca, however, because they didn't serve it either. As he said, we probably found the two places in Dublin that don't serve it (and it was all he'd dreamed about having since his flight had touched down). We got the story out of the waitress eventually -- apparently you have to buy Guinness in such large quantities, that it doesn't make sense if it won't appeal to most of your clientele -- and consoled ourselves with a few Murphy's (and sangria for the girls, a Paulaner for Cee).
At the Mercantile
With a few dishes a piece, it wasn't long before our large table was full of delicious morsels. Tapas has to be some of the most fun you can have at a meal, picking and choosing, and all on those small plates that slows you down before you're ridiculously full. Sated again, we set out to get Aye his pint of Guinness. The Mercantile, while not much to look at (under construction as the façade is), caught our ear, so to speak. More pints, laughs, and a bit of air guitar for good measure, followed, into the wee hours -- and Aye didn't miss his flight home the next day!
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Match day!
It rained heavily all morning, which was just as well, 'cause Tea and I slept late. (Cee got soaked on his morning walk, though.) It started to clear up in the early afternoon, so we went to a pub for a late brunch before heading to Croke Park for the 3 p.m. hurling match. As we got closer, you could see the crowds converging, with plenty of supporters of the boys in blue: Dublin.
Hurling match at Croke Park
I had this big ole grin plastered across my face five minutes after finding our seats: there was this fantastic cacophony and barely concealed tension in the air. Both these matches, back-to-back, were play-offs: this was the GAA Hurling All-Ireland Senior Championship Quarterfinal was between Dublin and Antrim, to be immediately followed by the GAA Football All-Ireland Senior Championship Quarterfinal between Dublin and Armagh; as we found out later, the latter was a real grudge match: the last time Dublin and Armagh met in the play-offs was five years earlier, with Armagh clinching the victory.
Fans pile in for the football match
We still found so many opportunities to laugh, though, like when the five-year-old behind us squeaked, "Take their heads off!" Another time, as I was just about in the lou, this giant of a man grabbed me by both shoulders, and, staring down most earnestly, said, "Is there anything blue on my face?"
As if the question weren't strange enough, his heavy accent really threw me. "Anything blue?" I said.
"Yeah!"
"U'm, no." (I decided to ignore all the little bits of paper towel all over his face; the guy had obviously been scrubbin' somethin' fierce in there.)
"Ah, bless you!" he said, taking off for the stands.
I saw him again later as the last match was letting out, and noted that he was sporting no colours while being harassed by a crowd of his friends, all dressed in blue. Cee had speculated earlier that supporters of the boys in blue had painted a rival fan -- against his will, shall we say -- and this gave weight to the argument.
I'll close out this section with a video clip from the football match. Just after it ends -- with Dublin winning, as should be obvious -- the guy in the middle of the frame turned to us and said, "We've waited five years for that!" Awesome!
At Chameleon
For our last supper in Dublin, we decided to try an Indonesian restaurant called Chameleon. Our good fortune continued as the host said that we'd have to sit on cushions and be on our way by 9 p.m. (still two hours away). We heartily agreed and were soon reclining in our cushions like so many sultans. Another fantastic meal followed, and we were asking for the bill with mere moments to spare. (And then had to walk through a significant line of waiting diners!)
The raucous Temple Bar then greeted us, in full swing by this time, and we set a meandering course. A few streets later our way was blocked by a crowd. Peering over heads, standing on tiptoe, we picked out the band and stopped to listen. Folks of inner circle were dancing as that song finished, and then a haunting tune was struck up. We were mesmerised by the crescendo, swaying, and then clapping, faster and faster, when suddenly this "Wop! Wop!" of a police siren pierced the bubble. Against the odds, they'd decided that this was their best bet of getting through Temple Bar to whatever crime was in progress. I took a hasty video of it, and, as you'll see, they did make it.
And that, other than momentarily losing the girls as we walked along the Liffey, thanks to a series of well-built gentlemen deciding that ironing in the buff in their well-lit apartments was the best way to spend a Saturday evening, was our trip to Dublin, done and dusted.
As I exited the train station at Rotterdam, I was struck by two things: first, by the rain – it continued to rain heavily over the three days I was there, in sharp contrast to the beautiful weather I'd had in England over the past two months – and, second, by the sheer scale of construction going on. As my guide was explaining on a walking tour the following evening, Rotterdam has had to start building a second time: first, after the bombings of the Second World War that left all but three structures in rubble, and, second, as the hastily-constructed buildings from that period and up to the 70s started to fall apart (somewhat en masse, if I've understood her correctly).
Particularly in those first hours, and in the hustle between the hotel and the conference, I thought of the term concrete jungle often. I'd often hummed the Beautiful South's light tune Rotterdam (Or Anywhere) to myself upon learning about the trip, and the title took on a more derogatory tone when my companion unconsciously quoted it at one point during our walks. Happily, however, the rain let up for that guided walk one evening, and for an impromptu midday walk the following day, when I was able to see more of what is really a beautiful city, particularly around the canals of the old port – a new one was built some 12 kilometres away to accommodate the bigger ships – that now host a variety of living museums, I guess you could say.
Everyone was really so friendly and accommodating; honestly, it must be stressed. At times, I thought I was in England, their English was so good; but their dress was much different: smarter (as my companions would say), with more wraps, diagonal cuts, and wool, as well as the truly pervasive orange. And I can't forget the bicycles, of course.
So many, many bicycles. And, sturdy, heavy specimens at that, with large metal racks on front and back, and big curving handlebars. There's whole lanes for them, separated by other sidewalks, and woe betide the pedestrian who wanders into them. There is no cycling attire, either. Ladies in elaborate skirts – carrying umbrellas, no less! – ride beside gentlemen in full suits and kids in uniform; clustered together too. It isn't uncommon to see a tight grouping of half a dozen, that will then easily split to allow a motorized bike or scooter to fly up between them; it's organized chaos, really, when you add in the trams that run through the middle of the roads, presenting the befuddled newcomer with no less than five lanes of traffic running at different speeds. (Truly the best representation of Frogger I've ever seen.)
And so it begins! A decent flight with a strong tailwind got us to Heathrow well ahead of schedule. In an attempt to avoid the awkwardness of our Customs experience in June, we placed our landing cards in our passports such that the visa pages would be the first thing the agent saw. It worked well, except the agent then stamped those pages as they would any other blank page in a passport; you can't even make out my birth date or nationality now. *sigh* I think both Tea and I cried a little (inside) to see the fruits of no small amount of labour vandalized in such a fashion. Of course, we said nothing, and were through in no time; here's hoping the next Customs agent who looks at them doesn't bat an eyelash.
Oh, and one final note on Customs: I saw Michael Geist in line behind us with his family. I didn't introduce myself, however, so that's all I have to say about that.
Since we were well ahead of schedule, we decided to see if we could catch an earlier National Express coach to Cheltenham. Tea had paid extra for this option -- in case Customs tripped us up -- and for an additional fee, we were on the 7:15 a.m. coach, Caffè Nero snacks and drinks in hand.
We sent James, our landlord, a text message on the way asking if showing up early would be a problem. He said that so long as we didn't mind him under foot for a bit, it was fine with him. He's quite the funny guy, actually -- Tea says he reminds her of our friend 'W', and I can see why -- and we all hit it off really well. (We'd met his wife, Linda, on our house-hunting trip.)
Malvern Road BridgeAfter dropping our bags, and going through their list of important things to know and the inventory (they're very organized), it was off to Waitrose to see what the nearest grocery store had to offer. As if the fifteen-minute walk door-to-door (with convenience stores much closer than that) wasn't sweet enough, we got to take in the beautiful Honeybourne Line Cycle Path while doing so. Add to that that there are many lactose-free products available at Waitrose -- there are none at Tesco, and I was beginning to wonder if that was indicative of the whole town -- and a free delivery service, and you can understand why I was grinning from ear to ear as we left for home.
Our kitchen tableThen it was time for a nap; Tea's was only slightly longer than mine, ;-) leaving me time to finish The Falcon and The Snowman and have a good long chat with Kae.
We decided to have take-away delivered from The Everest -- a favourite of ours on the June trip -- for supper, and used the Waitrose and Tesco Web sites to plan what groceries we'd like delivered over the next two days while we waited for it. Our supper arrived in no time, piping hot; the balti chicken was just as good as I remembered, and it was a great experience all-round: I've never shaken a delivery guy's hand before! :-)
