The Netherlands: Amsterdam and Zaanse Schans

[More notes from the trip, covering the next two days.]

April 24, 2011: Amsterdam

Inside our houseboat

Waking up in the houseboat is a dream: it's naturally cool; easily five degrees lower than the outside temperature. And it isn't stale either, even though there's no obvious air circulation (with the windows closed). After relaxing for a bit, it's off to the tourist information, across the tram lines from Amsterdam Centraal Station.

The place is packed -- with the ubiquitous "take a number" system in effect; the Dutch don't queue well -- but Tea and Kae manage to wrangle someone stocking shelves; as well as pointing out which tram we'll need to take to the Dutch brewery, Brouwerij ’t IJ (attached to the De Gooyer windmill), she offers some excellent suggestions for both windmill and flower gazing. (The plan for the next two days.)

[Note: you don't need to stand in line at the tourist information unless you're booking something (e.g., tours, hotel rooms, etc.), which isn't immediately obvious when you first enter the madhouse.]

From there, we catch a tram to the flower market on the banks of the Singel. Lunch, at De Beiaard's 'bierencafé' (on Spui), is our first order of business, though; happily, it's another excellent choice: the smoked chicken salad with pineapple, walnuts and raisins that I share with Tea is fantastic, and Kae really enjoys her fried mushroom and pesto sandwich with cheese. They also have De Bekeerde Suster's beer on tap; I enjoy their tripel this time, while the ladies stick with the excellent Witte Ros of the previous evening.

Brouwerij ’t IJ, attached to De Gooyer windmill

(Very cheap) tulips -- and a cheese shop -- rule the next hour or so. Then we take another tram a ways out of the city centre to Brouwerij ’t IJ. Unfortunately, there are no brewery tours today -- a private function, it seems -- but we still enjoy a few glasses of their beer -- both the Natte, and their tripel, Columbus; neither much to write home about, incidentally -- on the banks of the Nieuwe Vaart, watching dozens of boaters go by. The bar is packed as we leave; evidence that they need more breweries in Amsterdam, I'd say.

Kae in Oud Holland

We jump off to see the Anne Frank museum afterwards, but the line goes on for blocks. [This would continue for the rest of our visit, unfortunately. I'll echo Lonely Planet on this point: if you do happen to see a short line out front, drop whatever you're doing and see it, as that's rarely the case.] So it's back on the tram -- day passes are key! -- to the 'Dam', as we'd scoped out the nearby Oud Holland for supper the night before. We then pass a lovely few hours with their excellent 'home cooked' food, served family style, and friendly staff.

April 25, 2011: Zaanse Schans

The lady working in the tourist information said Zaanse Schans was the place to see windmills, so we are braving the holiday Monday crowds and buying return tickets to Zaandijk. We're puzzled as we disembark, however, because the scent of chocolate is all around (like when Mom lets you lick the mixing bowl and your whole head is in there), and we don't really know where to go. The former is easily solved -- ADM Cocoa is just down the road -- as is the latter, when the convenience stand man gives us a map in exchange for buying some bottled water. [Turns out the maps are free just outside the train station. You have to admire the man's ingenuity.]

It's a quick walk from the train station to the bridge that connects Zaandijk to Zaanse Schans. Looking out to that flat horizon, broken by so many spinning windmills, is really mesmerizing. According to our guide book, the heyday of the Zaan Region saw 600 such mills in operation, but the tourist attraction before us this day has its roots in the mid twentieth century: in an effort to preserve the region's cultural heritage, a plan was conceived to consolidate the iconic houses and mills in Zaanse Schans. De Zoeker (or "seeker/viewfinder") oil mill was moved to its current spot in 1968, for example.

The mill in De Zoeker

They still make peanut oil there today -- it's an amazing sight, watching the enormous wheels grind those peanuts down -- and, in a brave moment, we climb a steep, narrow ladder to take in the view from its platform. It's hard to grasp just how fast those sails are moving, until you're right next to them, that is, with only a rope and a sign separating you. From there, we continue along the path, past De Os (a mill without sails, preserved as an example of the transition from wind to steam power), to De Bonte Hen (or "the speckled hen"), where a small ferry takes us back to Zaandijk. We slowly walk back to the train station, Tea reading off notes from the ferryman and his wife, telling us all about the region's famed decorative facades as we pass them.

The view from De Zoeker

There's a queue at the locks back in Zaandijk

Walking through Zaandijk, toward the train station

[My notes jump around a bit, with the history of this and that. After we crossed the bridge, but before we got to the mills, we spent some time in the clog workshop and museum.]

The clog workshop is a treat! Kooijman Souvenirs & Gifts combines a wooden shoe workshop, store and museum, and is "one of the largest and best collections of clogs in the Netherlands," according to our guide book. We see them made before our very eyes -- the demonstration of how wet they are prior to the days of drying is my favourite bit: blowing inside, toward the toe, causes an enormous froth to gush forth -- and we spend a good, long while trying to decide which ones to buy.

"Start the car!"

You're supposed to be able to fit a finger in comfortably behind your heel when wearing good wool socks; as a satisfy myself that I've picked a good pair, a worker comments on my "good arches" for clogs -- ha ha! A use for flat feet! We stop for a snack -- Dutch pancakes, which look like crepes made with cheese and salami, and a sandwich for me -- before heading to the mills.

Up next: the Keukenhof, and the best pubs in Amsterdam

Check out our Amsterdam and Zaanse Schans albums for more pictures from the two days.

The Netherlands: Day 1: Amsterdam

[Notes from the trip continue.]

April 23, 2011: Amsterdam

Our houseboat

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.

Up next: Zaanse Schans

Check out our Amsterdam album for more pictures from the day.

Belgium: dichotomous Brussels and divine Ghent

As on previous occasions, I've decided to post these notes in the present tense, under the dates when their bulk was penned.

April 19, 2011: Brussels

[I never warmed to Brussels; however, I came to truly appreciate the balance it represents, in Belgium and the rest of Europe.]

Leisure class on the Eurostar from London was very nice; with a full meal, unlimited wine, and only one other group in our whole cabin, it's truly an affordable luxury.

The view from our apt.

While the walk to pick up the keys was a bit far to drag luggage, we found the office, and then our apartment, with little difficulty. Our apartment is amazing: so spacious, and a block from the Grand Place. At night, I simply stare out our corner window on the scene below, sipping gueuze; television can't compete.

There's a nice, big grocery store on the next corner; the only hiccup was milk. They only carry various flavours of UHT. I wonder if this is normal. We picked up some breakfast stuff, meats and cheeses, and some local beer:

• Cuvée René Grand Cru Oude Gueuze: the Good Beer Guide Belgium gives it four stars. My virgin palette -- yes, this is my first lambic -- found it to be like a witbier, with a tang. Like, oh, the best of the limited champagne I've tried.
• Mort Subite Gueuze, which I don't believe is made in the traditional way. (The style isn't protected, unlike the German styles, for example, so corners are often cut to save money.) Either way, I enjoyed it; a bit darker than the Cuvee Rene, with ginger notes.

This city has such life. Like Dublin. Maybe more so. The clusters of kids on the cobblestones of Grand Place; so many different conversations and styles of music drift out on the street and up to our windows.

In the Grand Place, with chocolate shops all around, it's Bruges, through and through. At times, staring down a narrow cobblestone alley, it's like Venice. Seafood on the tables enhances this. Near our apartment, with the Asian grocers, Japanese restaurants, and, at night, the lurid neon, one could be forgiven for replaying Blade Runner. The trash helps with this. As do the homeless, laying out on mattresses under scattered canopies.

I thought we arrived on garbage day, but this veritable army of trucks operates continually, including in the wee hours. This dichotomy, the trash and dirt beside the Grand Place and European politics, reminds me of Athens; extremes of excess and beauty, and then whole blocks forgotten, no doubt populated by those same elements each night. I'm of mixed feelings, it must be said. We've met some fantastic folks, but there are certainly areas where you should keep your map out of sight and your head down.

The restaurant area facing St. Catherine's Church reminded me of La Rambla, particularly when Spanish guitar could be heard from a big top tent further down, earlier on. Barcamoule was where we had supper, and my mussels were excellent. Very friendly staff. So many languages around us. A group that seemed to be winding down from a conference included a woman from Lisbon (now living in Sao Paolo), an Irishman and an Englishman. The city is crawling with suits and purpose.

Who needs sleep? This city surely feasts on them. It's Tuesday night!

My strangest observation, however, and another dichotomy, has to be the amount of pollen you see in the air, against all the concrete. Where does it come from? And yet, strangely, I'm fine; clearly it isn't ragweed. If this turns, I will be miserable.

* * *

April 20, 2011

It's so warm. Unseasonably so -- by ten to fifteen degrees Celsius, according to a gentleman at the train station. We haven't packed for it, but we'll happily make do with the shorts we have.

First, to the Grand Place to witness its transformation to a garden centre; oh, to be here for the flower carpet. Then, to the boot sale/flea market in Vossenplein Square. So many old board games, Tintin books, paintings and records. After a snack on the patio of a bordering cafe, we're off to the Cantillon brewery and museum.

We almost missed the place, it's large, wooden warehouse doors are so unassuming. The front area, for there's no room to speak of, opens to the basement where they clean the barrels, so our first smells are heavily laced with a dampness, and mustiness, just under the expected yeasts. I was immediately a boy, back in the Bussey's basement before they'd finished it. I have good memories of summer explorations there, the coolness welcome after the midday heat. (Little wonder I lose days in secondhand bookshops.)

All are free to wander; the only tour is the pamphlet they provide. Once you've finished exploring, it's back to the 'bar' at the front for samples of their gueuze and kriek (flavoured with cherries or raspberries). The spontaneous fermentation that is at the heart of these lambic beers is a hefty subject, but all can appreciate the "holy" cooling tun, where wild yeasts and bacteria living in the Senne river valley are allowed to blow over its open top; pictures of the resulting foaming barrels really do appear miraculous.

I bought a bottle of their Grand Cru, and a bottle of Gueuze Boon at de Bier Tempel shortly thereafter [before I realized that Favourite Beers, in town, stocks the latter; Leigh has a fantastic selection of Belgian beers].

We walked back such that we'd pass the Manneken Pis, to see the little guy, yes, but also because the GBG Belgium recommends the pub next door: Poechenellekelder. We enjoyed a few lambics -- Girardin Gueuze 1882 for me, and some faros for the ladies (sweetened with sugar and caramel vice fruit, normally) -- as the ebb and flow of Pis lovers washed over the patio area. Make sure you go inside, should you have the chance: the puppetry displays are amazing (and a little unsettling, if I'm honest).

A bit tuckered out from the walking, we elected to have a kip before supper and further exploring. Sushi delivered by train was the consensus later that night, followed by another recommendation: Delirium. I don't know how many different bars they have in that place, but be warned: the menus -- books, really -- are different for each. While the ladies sampled various fruity Floris options, I went for a Rulles Estivale, followed by a Grande. The place was hoppin', and we enjoyed checkin' in periodically with the marine, Paul, and his friends as they attempted to meet every person and beer on offer.

* * *

April 21, 2011: Ghent

Leaving Brussels for Flanders, you quickly realize that the guides aren't exaggerating: it's a different country. I'd never considered that I should've felt many reminders of our trip to Bruges by this time. I hadn't -- other than the Grand Place, as stated -- until we went to Ghent. The French of Brussels gives it a familiar feel to anyone who's spent time in the Outaouais region. Both Bruges and Ghent, however, while very welcoming, are clearly foreign when it comes to communicating. And, much like Czech, I found that the limited Dutch in our guides was useless without pronunciation details.

Our pace to date is beginning to show: in between nodding off on the train, I looked over at Tea and noticed a red fleck on her eyelid. Confused, I made many pawing attempts for it before concluding, "It looks like you have cheese wax on your eyelid." This kicked off many waves of overtired hysterics before we reached our destination.

The entrance of Sint-Pieters station is truly beautiful. After a few minutes of gaping and snapping pictures, we eventually found a working vending machine and bought tram tickets to town. Not even half a dozen stops later, we were in the heart of gob-smacking Ghent: the Graslei. Based on yet another recommendation from the GBG Belgium, we made our way straight to the Belga Queen, securing a table on the patio while lunch was still on.

We saw many disappointed groups turned away as we supped on delicious steak and lamb, and, in my case, many glasses of unfiltered Palm. Belga Queen was a footnote in my guide -- with a joke about the communal toilets with translucent doors (prior to locking) -- but I cannot recommend it highly enough: the staff were so friendly and helpful, and the food was the best to date [and of the whole trip, looking back].

Next, we stopped at the tourist information centre in Sint-Baafs, and picked up a recommended walk. Happily, it intersected with another recommendation, Dulle Griet or 'Mad Meg', named after the cannon of the same name in the square known as Friday Market. I witnessed the famous basket being raised to the roof, only later learning that they ransom shoes to ensure tabs are settled. [Correction: Tea has informed me that the shoes are actually collateral for a particular beer that's served in a very expensive glass. Ah, Belgians and their custom glasses.]

A few more stops, for ice cream, and the famous Tierenteyn-Verlent mustard --

"What types of mustard do you have?"
"We have our mustard."
"Ah... I'll take two jars then."

And we were back for sunset on the Graslei, a sight I'll never forget. On the way back to Sint-Pieters, we walked through the beautiful Citadel Park, and the immense Sint-Pietersplein (St. Peter's Square). As it was on the way, and uniquely situated on a moored houseboat, we took in one final recommendation -- De Planck -- and some of their own 'huisbier'.

* * *

April 22, 2011: Brussels again

With the ladies shopping, I find myself with some time at À la Mort Subite, intriguingly referred to as possibly "the best surviving fin de siècle long bar on the planet" by the handy GBG. It means "in sudden death" and is named after a card game, I gather. While reading about all sorts of Belgian beers and breweries -- the outrage at Flemish institution, Hoegaarden, temporarily becoming "a Wallonian lager" is a favourite -- I sampled Lefebvre's Hopus, a beer of the month that was pleasant, with currant notes; the bar's gueuze "sur lie", which was tastier than the stuff I bought in the grocery; and Alken-Maes' Hapkin. (Incidentally, Alken-Maes owns the Mort Subite line, and have been bought out by Heineken.)

After lunch on "kebab street" -- as it's called in Use-It Europe, Tourist Info for Young People, a neat map with commentary that Tea found -- near Grand Place, we spent some time in the comic strip museum before hitting up one last recommendation: Bier Circus. I have another book on beers of the world that includes three tours of beer meccas, one of which happens to be for Brussels; it chooses to end at Bier Circus. I take that to be a (well deserved) compliment. (Although I guess some could say that few would remember it then.)

Oddly enough, it's where my evening ended as well. But before that, with rain threatening, I finally sampled Geuze Boon Mariage Parfait -- and it really was -- with the ladies, wondering whether the nearby film crew would get their shot before the skies opened. When they did, I enjoyed a Rochefort 10 inside.

All was fine 'til, standing, we noted that the rain still had an edge. U2's Rattle and Hum is playing on the television too at this point, and I'm shocked to realize that while I've listened to the album hundreds of times, I've never seen the footage that accompanies the candid interviews between the tracks. It was so obvious that the barman came up behind me, saying, "You don't have to leave."

Another then. And what do I choose? De Dochter van de Korenaar's Embrasse is on special. Oh, so beautiful, but at 9% and 66 cl, not a nightcap. I was fine -- Tea and Kae support... u'm, no, back me up on this -- 'til we hit the stairs of our apartment -- the many, many stairs -- at which point, with the blood a-pumpin' through my veins, I had myself a little sit down. The ladies then went shopping for one of those five-minute hours, returning with pizzas for themselves and a kebab for me. One bite of that wrapped napalm later, I packed it in.

Up next: Amsterdam

If you're interested in more pictures, there are 90 between our Picasa albums of Brussels and Ghent.

Puttin' the Kae in UK

Kae's visiting again! Woo hoo!

Trooper that she is, after much excitement and a big breakfast, the three of us then went shopping in Gloucester. Well, Tea and Kae shopped, for our imminent tour of Belgium and the Netherlands, while I'll kicked back in the New Inn with a book and a pint. I got chatting with a local, Don -- thanks, again, to the Roots swag I picked up in January; that stuff is aces for starting conversations about Canada -- who'd visited a fair bit of our beautiful country.

Many of the old travel guides I've been reading lately reference rail lines that no longer exist, including the old Honeybourne Line, which Don remembered from his college days, travelling from his home, then, in South Wales, to Cheltenham. I said that our rail network pales in comparison to theirs, and while he agreed, he said it's as the modern system does to that of his youth, when, for example, Cheltenham had three stations, and there were twice as many stations along his route to the college.

He and his family visited Canada in 2008, and had planned that part of the journey would be by rail. When they got to the station in Toronto, they learned that some signalling error had caused a derailment, and that Via was now putting buses on. (Their destination was Montreal.) Coincidentally, this was in late July, and they'd just learned about the terrible fate of Tim McLean. None of them slept a wink on that leg.

Overall, they really enjoyed Canada, though. They got to see Niagara, Toronto, Ottawa, Quebec City and Montreal during their time there. I was surprised by what impressed him the most about our country, however: how apologetic the French Canadians they met were about their poor English. He said it was just so unexpected and genuine.

As I packed up to move on, he said I could come back and visit him at his 'office' any time. I love the New Inn!

From there, with the girls still occupied, I moved to another pub I'd been meaning to try: Dick Whittington's. Like the New Inn, it is also a historic building. I was surprised to find, in Darrel's book, The Story of Gloucester's Pubs, that the pub had suffered from poor management recently. I strongly suspect that's no longer the case, as the publican who served me was very friendly and generous with bar snacks. He also had an excellent spread of real ales on, including two from the Great Western Brewing Company, which I'd never tried before. Excellent stuff.

* * *

The next day -- a very special one for Tea -- we decided to go to Birmingham, for a day out and supper at Jamie's Italian. While standing around at our train station wondering why there were only buses on, who should appear before us but Matt, picking up his tickets for Edinburgh in a week's time. Having nothing better to do, he agreed to join us, on what would now be our drive to B'ham (for the first time).

The trip was seamless -- surprising, considering we were driving in the second biggest city in the UK -- and, as happened the day before, the girls soon left me -- with company this time! -- agreeing to meet at Jamie's later.

Aside: prior to splitting up, we'd all been shocked to discover a wide range of 'American' foodstuffs at the Food Hall of beautifully-designed Selfridges store in the Bull Ring: we're talkin' Jif and Skippy peanut butter (from Ohio!), Aunt Jemima pancake mix, Lucky Charms, a whole 'American baking' section... The list goes on. How the heck we've been ignorant of this mecca for so long is beyond me.

You'll no doubt be shocked to learn that we found ourselves at a pub shortly thereafter. First, the Wellington, which was much calmer than the last time I'd been there, and then the Anchor again. The highlight of the afternoon was definitely Beowulf's Killer Stout, which we wisely consumed as half-pints (7.9% ABV).

Eventually we found our way to Jamie's -- much later than the girls, we learned, sitting in the Anchor. Having had to walk by the patio at Jamie's to get from the Wellington to the Anchor, both Matt and I somehow failed to notice them waving at us. Ahem! A few missed calls and texts later, we sheepishly finished up our pints. Thankfully Jamie's wasn't busy, so we were quickly sat, once we'd made our way back -- and only ten times off our agreed time, I must add!

You must (must) be tired of hearing this by now, but, yet again, Jamie's failed to disappoint. In fact, my special of pork loin with beetroot and basil that had been honey-glazed and roasted, was one of the best dishes I've had to date. We got the antipasti plank again, and the bread selection; just a fantastic spread. This was Matt's first time at a Jamie's, and I'm sure he'll be bringing the family to one when they're over for a visit.

All in all, a great weekend. Now, off to pack!

Up next: Brussels

Tropical Britain: Naunton and Bristol

The unseasonable temperatures, the likes of which haven't been seen in 50 years*, had Britons out in droves this weekend. We were amongst them, of course, shaking out the cobwebs of a Friday night sending-off party and heading to the Cotswold Farm Park. Lambing season is being heavily promoted across the county right now, and Tea was determined to cuddle a good percentage of the latest to the flocks.

* According to BBC Radio Gloucestershire

A dovecote in Naunton

Despite the crowds, we had no trouble getting our hands on the lambs and kids -- U'm, that's baby goats, folks! Let's keep it clean, now. Even the lambing demonstration -- twenty minutes on all that's involved in bringing healthy lambs into the world -- was scheduled regularly to keep the audience to a reasonable size. The layout of the whole park worked very well, in fact: the fenced areas were such that you could feed the animals that were hungry -- from bags for sale -- while others rested away from the excitement.

After that, it was home for a kip before our table reservation at the Hollow Bottom -- one of the Cotswolds' most acclaimed pubs (and deservedly so).

* * * * *

We were up fairly early on Sunday, planning to hit the boot sale and antiques show at the racecourse before my noon train to Bristol. While the boot sale was packed, the £4 door charge at the antiques show kept the numbers down. The Antiques Roadshow happened to be filming as we wandered the floor; a suspicion we only confirmed later that evening. (Sorry, Mom; should've got an autograph.)

The find of the morning -- thanks to Tea! -- and a recent fascination for me, was a copy of a Ward Lock 'red' guide book of Bath from the 1930s, in beautiful condition. The guy who sold it to us was the spitting image of Tom Baker (in his heyday) -- the best of the Doctors, I'm sure you'll agree. I strung-out the conversation much longer than necessary to revel in it; luckily, he was very friendly.

From there, I hopped a train to Bristol with some friends to see Bristol Rugby host Nottingham at Memorial Stadium. With some time before the 3 p.m. kick-off, and at the suggestion of the Bristol native amongst us, we headed to the Wellington, just down the street from the stadium. A Bath Ales owned pub, the Wellie offered every one of their regular brews on hand-pump, and had plenty of outdoor seating.

Full of Sunday roast, we made our way to the 'cheap' section, which turned out to be the well-shaded area behind Bristol's end (for the first half); we had front-row seats for much of that half's action, and some great moments in the second to boot. Mike, our host, couldn't get over the number of tries: 29-19 for the home team, once it was all said and done.

One of our group was visiting from the States, so Clifton and the famous suspension bridge were next on the agenda. The whole area was something to see, especially on the day -- more like a slice of London than what I think of as the South West -- and folks were out on blankets, soaking up every last bit of it.

Mike had been talking up Exhibition cider, so the wind left our sails a bit when we saw that the Coronation Tap was closed. (Probably for the best, what with work the next day -- the stuff is legendary.) The Mall stood in admirably, though -- I certainly enjoyed my pints of "cellar cool" Tribute -- serving very good food well after 7 p.m. (Unheard of on a Sunday in Chelty, for example.)

Check out our Picasa album of the weekend for lots more pictures of lambs, flora and blue skies.

Close to home: Gloucester, Cleeve Common and Chedworth

We've spent the last two weekends much like the two before: close to home.

Last Sunday, we spent a great day in Gloucester. We'd seen the cathedral from a distance many times, but this was our first opportunity to stand in the shadow of its spire. It's such an impressive edifice. We have tickets to see the Choral Society perform Rachmaninov's Vespers there next week; absolutely can't wait.

From there, we spent some time on the Docks, the Candle an impressive spire in its own right. Plus, there's such an eclectic range of houseboats tied up there. We saw what looked to be a television crew shooting some footage, and it wasn't hard to see why; just a perfect day for it.

The same could be said for the Monday, which we'd booked off much earlier, so we decided to head up to Cleeve Common; another spot close to home that we'd heard good things about. Well, what views! The rolling hills go on and on -- there's a golf course up there -- and from one side of the highest point, Cleeve Hill, you can look down on Prestbury, while from the other, Winchcombe and Sudeley Castle can be seen (on the clear day we had, anyway).

At times you'd look out across those hills, right to the horizon, and pick out a lone tree; just like that test at the optometrist's office. I didn't know scenes like that existed in nature.

* * * * *

While this Saturday was pleasant, today was the best day of the weekend, particularly once the rain stopped around mid-morning. When that turn for the better became apparent, we pulled out our trusty walking guides, quickly settling on one from our Short Walks book around Chedworth and the nearby Roman villa.

The old stone cottages around there, and Withington, are lovely. Combined with hills reminiscent of last weekend on the Common, it's a perfect example of why the Cotswolds are cherished. Another highlight of the walk was the livestock: sheep, of course, and a few horses we got right up next to, but also a dozen or so llamas of various colours in a field on the way back; they didn't seem too bothered by us, rolling about in the grass to scratch one itch or another.

Am I forgetting anything? H'm... ... Oh, yes, the pub! Take note: the Seven Tuns Inn in Chedworth is worth the drive from just about anywhere in Gloucestershire. The staff were really friendly and competent, there's a great atmosphere, with plenty of seating indoors and out, the real ale was excellent -- the best Tribute I've had in a while -- and the food... Oh, the food topped it all.

Tea loved her ploughman's and soup, and my beef and Yorkshire pudding were excellent. (The latter's probably the best I've had; so fluffy!) The roasted veg that came with mine deserves special note: the parsnip was a perfect mix of sharp and sweet, and the carrots and courgettes were clearly locally grown. Finally, the sticky toffee pudding had caught Tea's eye earlier in the meal, and let's just say it was even better than it looked; a superb finish.

Check out our albums for more pictures from the past two weekends: Gloucester Docks, Cleeve Common and Chedworth.