From Amsterdam Centraal to Hoek van Holland Haven

 

He was a man who knew everything.

He knew everything there was to know and nobody could tell him otherwise. He knew all the right answers and all the right ways to do things, all the right timetables, all the right names, all the right ingredients, all the right safety methods, all the right routes. Nobody else could tell him what to do, they would be wrong, he would hear where they were coming from but he would have a different answer which was the right answer and their answer would be the wrong answer. He was much more intelligent them, far more superior, he was totally in control.

He was with his girlfriend and it was the last day of their holiday together; they were travelling back from Amsterdam to Harwich by train and ferry. He knew that there was a dedicated boat train running from Amsterdam Centraal straight to the Hoek van Holland Haven and this was the train that they would be catching. He knew it left Amsterdam late in the morning and that this would be the best train to catch. She had a look at the timetable and pointed out that there were several trains running that morning from Amsterdam to Rotterdam and they could catch any of these instead; at Rotterdam they could easily change and catch one of the many fast sprinters that stopped in Hoek van Holland Haven right outside the ferry terminal and it would be so easy and quick to travel this way. But he said no, they were not going to do this; they were going to travel his way, they were going to travel the official and proper way, they were catching the boat train, everyone travelling to the ferry should catch the boat train and this was what they were going to do. Because he knew best.

They left their hotel room in the morning and slowly travelled to the station through the city sprawl by walking and using the tram. They arrived at the station mid morning and he said there was a little time to go before his boat train left. He suggested that they sat in the station bar where they could see the arrivals and departure board and relaxed with a beer to wait for the boat train to come up on the departures board, that way they would easily see what platform it went from and have plenty of time to catch it. She said that it was a little early for her to start drinking, but he knew best, he said nonsense the beer Amstel is not strong,  and it would make a pleasant last drink of their holiday in Amsterdam.

So they sat down in the the bar with a view of the departures board and the voluminous concourse with two glasses  of Amstel in front of them. The evening before the Dutch national football team had won a stunning match against another country, the result was something like 6-0. She had sat in a bar with him in the city centre and watched the match live. The bar was full and everyone was rigidly concentrating on the state of play, no one was allowed to talk except to whisper their drinks order to the barman. If anyone made a small noise all the people in the bar would turn to the perpetrator, putting their fingers to their lips and giving  stern frowns. When the final whistle was blown the bar exploded with utter joy, it was a touching sight to see. In the station bar the barman was re-showing the match again on a video recorder. They had seen it being shown through the windows of several establishments as they made their way to the train station that morning; the whole of Amsterdam was celebrating the magnificent win.

She slowly sipped her beer, one eye on the football match and one eye on the departures board. She could see three or four trains leave all for Rotterdam; instead of sitting here in the bar with an unwanted beer and re-watching a football match she had already seen they could have been on one of these trains and already be speeding towards De Hoek. She was frustrated and time was pushing on.

“What time is it exactly that your boat train is leaving?”

“I don't know the exact time, but I know it will leave by 11.30 and will match up exactly with the ferry.”

“How do you know it will be the boat train?”

“Because it will have the words Boat Train written by the side of the time on the announcement board.”

“I don't think there is a boat train. I think that you have to catch the normal train to Rotterdam and change there for the Hoek.”

“No, there will be a boat train, you will see, we will get there in time.”

Trains were announced on the board and then erased when they left, but no boat train showed. It became 11.35 and still no boat train.

“Look, if there was a boat train, it would have left by now to meet up with the ferry, there's nothing announced. I think that there isn't one. If we don't get a move on soon we are going to be late and miss the ferry. I think we should go.” He looked at her and pondered for a while.

“Okay, if you are that worried, for you, I will get another train.” She got up from her seat, lifted her suitcase onto it's wheels and told him to hurry because they did still have enough time if they left now.

On the platform there were a few trains bound for Rotterdam. They chose the one they thought was leaving next and sat down on the seat on the left nearest to them as they entered. She was still worried about their time constraints and peered out of the window, her eyes moving over the illuminated information boards over the other trains. Their train was just quietly sitting there with no feeling that it was going to depart in the near future.

“I'm worried about this” she said, “I think we are on the wrong train to get there in time.”

He pulled a grimace at her:

“I'll go and ask someone just to put your mind at rest.” He left the carriage, got down onto the platform and she saw him talking to a tall man in a very smart train worker's suit. He nodded sagaciously as the man explained something to him while pointing to a train on the platform next to them.

He got back in the train in a very agitated manner and started to shout at her loudly that they needed to transfer to the train on the next platform which left in five minutes. He then grabbed his bag in a panic and started to briskly move, not to the exit next to them, but to the exit at the other end of the carriage, all the time shouting at her to hurry up.

“Don't go that way” she shouted to him, “Use this exit” as she pointed to the one next to them. He took no notice of her and carried on up the aisle to the exit furthest away, so she started to follow on behind him. Up the aisle to the right there was a table with four men sitting at it; they were slim, blonde and Dutch looking, loudly talking and laughing in a foreign language she did not recognise, it was probably Dutch but there was a Canadian twang to it. One of them suddenly got up with his side facing them and blocked the aisle. Mr Know-it-all couldn't go any further. The man was relaxed and laughing as he crushed into him.

“What are you doing, please get out of my way”, he said, but the man continued to block his way, smiling all the time.

She crashed into the back of Mr Know-it-all and there was an almighty heave ho going on between the three of them. Then the blocking man desisted and sat down with a great laugh and nodded jubilantly at his three colleagues. Thank god he sat down, she thought, now we can get off.

“I told you not to go that way, why didn't you get off at the other door, it was much closer?”

“I was panicking”, he replied,

“I could see you were panicking, so could everybody else. Your diabetes must be kicking in, it's caused by the rush we are in. I told you from the start we should have got the first train, now we are on that sort of train anyway despite all your efforts to get a boat train that didn't exist.”

“Okay, okay, what are you so worried about woman, we will be there soon, it's not far to Rotterdam we still have time, don't get your knickers in so much of a twist, for god's sake.”

They got on the other train and sat glowering at each other for a few minutes while the hostilities calmed down. The train slowly pulled away from the station and clattered along the track to Rotterdam. From the window seat she stared blankly out at the passing buildings, people and trees and watched Amsterdam recede. 

Then she noticed that he was not sitting still and got increasingly irritated by him as he fidgeted around in his seat, putting hands in his jacket pockets, taking them out again, patting his trousers, standing up and sitting down. It looked like his clothes were full of little crawling spiders.

“What are you doing?” she asked impatiently, “have you lost something?”,  he was always loosing things, famous for it.

“I do believe I have, I'll take one more look...it seems like.. I can't feel it... It's not here..I can't find my wallet!” He patted around his body a bit more.

“What you do mean, your wallet, of course you have your wallet, take another look”; he was always loosing his wallet, you could almost predict the time of month by it, the state of the moon, the tides.  It was the first thing he had done on their first date together. He felt around a bit more and then came up with the same answer.

“No, it's not good, I can't find it, it really isn't here”. They looked at each other slowly with cold white serious expressions. She thought for a bit and the it suddenly came to her.

“It was the man on the first train, the man that blocked you in the aisle as you tried to get out. He was a pickpocket! He blocked your way so that he could rob you”.

“Oh my god, you are right. He has it. Probably a professional, Amsterdam station is full of thieves,  I didn't stand a chance.” The realisation of this hit them both and her stomach turned to ice.

“What did you have in it?”

“About twenty euros, I was running them down, and some pound notes, not many, I was going to get some more at Harwich”.

“What about your passport, have you got it?”

“It's in my inside jacket pocket”, he felt inside for confirmation. It was there.

“I have the tickets, I am so glad I have the tickets" she said, she always kept hold of the tickets, couldn't trust him.  "What about plastic, credit cards?”

“I had two credit cards and a debit card.”

“Oh god we have to stop the cards before they spend on them. What can we do?”.

At that moment the ticket inspector came into the compartment asked to see their tickets. Know-it-all started to give out a long panicked incoherent explanation of his woes. The inspector put out both his hands in a calming rocking motion, and asked her to clarify what he was saying.  She gave out a reasoned and rational history of the events as she handed over the train tickets from her shoulder bag. The inspector gave a few curt nods to show he had understood and said he would get someone to help them. Know-It-All calmed down a bit, and sat back in his seat.

A few minutes later a very tall slim blond man  around forty years old, wearing jeans and a plain jumper, stood beside their seats. He calmly and soothingly said in very clear English,

“I am a plain clothed police officer, I am part of the railway police. My name is Geert van der Meulen. I am working today on this train. I understand that you may have a problem. Would you like to tell me about it?”. She took over and slowly told him about the men on the previous train and how Know-It-All had been robbed, or so they thought that he might have been robbed, that the vulnerable plastic was missing and that they didn't have very long to catch their ferry. Geert nodded wisely:

“Aha, aha, hmm, it happens a lot, especially at Amsterdam Centraal. There are a lot of thieves about. You must be careful and look after your possessions and keep them safe, otherwise things like this can happen, and that is why I am paid to have a job like this! Don't worry I will see what I can do. Give me a few moments.”

Geert disappeared away down the corridor, the two travellers looked at each other in silence. It took another half an hour to reach Rotterdam and as the train slowed down on the outskirts just past Rotterdam Alexander, Geert had not returned.

“He knows that there is no chance of you getting your stuff back and that he can't help, he's just abandoned us”, she said in a deeply pessimistic voice, she had always been a pessimist, her glass was almost always nearly empty, never ever half full. Geert re-appeared just as the train was pulling into the station. Again, he was calm and rational.

“I have been arranging things for you. Your train to the Hoek leaves from platform one in twenty minutes. It will take you to the ferry in time for you to catch it. It is very doubtful that we can get your wallet back, the traffic in Amsterdam Centraal is very fluid. We can help with the credit cards. I am going to take you to a police phone where you are to phone your credit card companies to stop them. I assume you know the phone numbers, that you can do this?”

“Oh yes,” said Know-It-All, "I have them on a fob on my keyring, I can phone one number to stop them all”; for once Know-It-All had taken sensible precautions; he had been in this situation many times before.

“Please come with me then.”

The train had stopped at Rotterdam. He lead them out of the train, down some steps into a lift which went down to an underground corridor, at the end of which they entered into a huge hall right underneath Rotterdam Centraal's platforms. It was full of computer terminals, flashing lights on boards, people talking and walking around looking important and doing important things. There was a lot of cigarette smoke. He stood them in front of a small table on which was a telephone.

“You may use this telephone. I will wait over there. When you have finished I will take you back up again and show you where your platform is. I suggest you do it immediately. You don't have very long.” Know-It-All started talking slowly to her about what he was going to do. She asked him not to waste time talking to her, but to use his time wisely and get on with his phone call. He grunted, dialled the numbers and go on with it. The call took just a few minutes and the cards were blocked.

Geert then took them upstairs and showed them where their platform was. They made the train in good time.

She asked him if he had lost anything else in his wallet. He shook his head:

“No, no, there wasn't a lot in it. Mainly cash and plastic.” Then a contemplative look came over his face.

“Oh I forgot, there was something else, I lost the photo I kept in there of my wife.”

The Everlasting Light.

They were so happy – they had just got married and had moved into their new flat. Well, it wasn't a flat so much as a bedsit, but they went round proudly telling people that it was a flat because they were so pleased with themselves. The room was in an old Victorian red brick house in an extension at the back, so it was a little newer than some of the other rooms, but that didn't make it any smarter. But who cares about shabby when you have your own little world away from the control of your parents, space to be yourselves for once.

The room was on the first floor about three quarters of the way along the back corridor; the passage contained about ten doors leading to the rooms each side. They shared one bathroom and a separate toilet each of which lacked a window and ventilation. The toilet was dirty, always stank of sour, tart shit, and had a bunch of neatly cut newspaper, each sheet pierced in the corner and strung together with some old rope which hung from a pipe above the cistern. They wondered who it was that sat there and constructed this. There was a once white old brush in a plastic holder but Sallie had never dared to look in the holder or pick the brush up. The bathroom was continually grubby; it was dirtier that the person that took a bath there and it always reeked of cheap, stale bath salts and body odour.

The room was not tiny but not large either. It had one medium window overlooking the school playground next door: they could see and hear the children playing during play breaks in the school yard. The window was grubby and was framed by some distasteful gaudy curtains and one of the first things Sophie did was to measure up and get some more acceptable modern curtains to cheer the room up. There was a side unit running underneath the window that housed a small sink with hot water provided by the Heatrae Sadia gas water heater above, and a small Baby Belling Cooker with a hot plate and a small oven under it. A double bed lay against the right hand wall, and they brought along their own pillows, sheets and continental quilt and cover. No one in their families had a continental quilt, to have one was revolutionary; theirs came from the Summer Sale at Woolworth's. They were making a statement. The electric switch was a cord hanging from the ceiling; when coming into the room during darkness it was difficult to find.

There were two old comfy armchairs between which they placed the new coffee table they had bought at Waring and Gillow's. This table was of maple, very grand and not very suitable for everyday use; it also cost a lot of money but they justified the cost to themselves that it would last a long time. At that stage neither of them had a good grasp on budgeting. There was a curtained cupboard at the end of the bed for hanging clothes and a narrow shelf on the left hand wall on which lay a fire extinguisher.

“I don't want to be looking at this all the time” he laughed.

“Neither do I, you are quite right!” she replied.

The cupboard under the sink housed an electricity meter that “sold” electricity at a much higher cost than when it entered the building. It took fifty pence pieces. In disgust Tom took down the fire extinguisher and hid it in the cupboard next to the meter.

The entrance door on the back wall was opposite the window and between the bed and the wall with the shelf. The shiny carpet was old but reasonably clean, and the room had been decorated by the landlord prior to the start of their tenancy. He had painted the woodwork and ceiling, and pasted some stripy wallpaper on top of the old stripey wallpaper so the room was reasonably fresh. He had got hold of a job lot of cheap wallpaper and was in the process of papering every room in the house with it. When they had first viewed the room, a few weeks previously to moving in, he had shown them a bigger, better room which he had already decorated using this paper and it had looked quite nice, which sort of psychologically got them in a positive judging mode before they had had the shock of seeing their current room which he had intended to let to them. The shock of the difference was perceptible but they took it anyway: the rent was cheap.

The landlord was a large Irishman with a bushy beard and rough red skin. He did everything himself, gas work, plumbing, electrical work; he was not qualified in any of these trades. When he fitted a gas oven he tested that it was not leaking gas by lighting a match and passing it over the joints: he was that sort of landlord. He drove a blue three wheeled reliant robin with dodgy brakes and the name of his property company on the side. He had called the building they were to live in “Worthington House”, and had called the adjoining building which he also owned and rented out rooms from “Guinness House”. It was rumoured that he owned houses in Dublin on the wrong side of the Liffey where he also rented out rooms.

“I want to show you round so that you know everything” he said on their first tour of inspection. “This is my office, I am usually here or if I am not here I may be somewhere near”, and they nodded in understanding and union.

“If you need anything, just let me know, I will always be around. You can have a bath any time you want to and there is no charge for the hot water, and please feel free to use the newspaper in the toilet”. He then ushered them down the corridor of room doors to the end. There was a large vertical strip light.

“This is a safety light” he explained to them. “It's always on. You don't need to worry about a thing. It's on all night and all day. It will always be lighting up the hall safely for you to walk up and down the stairs. Just be reassured that I will never turn it off. It's permanent, OK?” They both nodded enthusiastically in agreement.

“The rent will be eleven pounds a week and I will be giving you a rent book that I will fill in every time you pay. I am usually found down stairs in my office or will be some where close by. Hope you like staying here.” They gave him their thanks, shook hands and entered at last their own little room, their own little kingdom.

After the wedding they moved in permanently and started their new jobs and fell quickly into the routine of married life. Sallie found where the nearest launderette was; Tom assumed that she would be doing the shopping herself and she sort of half agreed with this, but found it a little unfair. She worked just as hard as him, they both had full-time retail jobs, and had hoped that the domestic jobs would have been shared a little more. But as he pointed out, he had to work longer hours than her that included overtime, and his higher salary and the extra money from the over time he did went towards the rent and saving for the deposit on a house. And she thought this was a fair conclusion so every lunch-hour with legs aching from her having to work continually on her feet, she used to scour the supermarkets for the cheapest food she could find, plan the menus and carry all the shopping home herself from the shop she worked in to their bedsit which was about two miles away. She never used to bus as she wanted to save the money, and besides that she had no clue which bus to use anyway and had no desire to find out.

As each night she got home about thirty minutes before Tom, she always started to cook the evening meal so that it was ready for when he got home. He was pleased with this. There was always that nagging feeling in the back of her mind that this arrangement wasn't fair and that before she got married she though things would be different and that they would have done this sort of thing more together. Because of the nature of retail work they would usually have different days off in the week and just Sunday off together. On his free day in the week he would go out and shop and cook, so there was some fairness so she accepted this but felt he was doing it as a leisure hobby rather than part of an essential daily routine as she had to. He never had to trek round a shop when his feet felt painful during the lunch hour or after work, or carry home heavy shopping bags when it felt like his arms were dropping off. But OK she thought, he was right, he earned more and the money was useful.

Another thing that niggled her was that he was spending quite a lot of money on his driving lessons. She had proposed to take them too, and he had told her, no, we need to save the money for our house deposit; and that seemed quite unfair too. Perhaps this was the way married life was supposed to be and she had chosen to enter this relationship, it hadn't been forced on her. She imagined her mother saying to her “You made your bed so you lie in it!”; and she could have never accepted the comments she predicted would be made if she had left him of “I knew it would never last, they are far too young to get married”, and then there was the matter of her giving up her skilled office job........ and taking the shop job instead........her loss of her leisure freedom......the doubts grew and grew. But she buried them deep in the back of her mind. This was a new start and a new life; and it would take time to grow into.

After a month or so the Christmas rush started and the retail world was very busy. Sallie discovered that she didn't like change and it felt like she was standing, shattered, on the edge of a cliff and couldn't decide which way to fall. Things became very black and she doubted very much whether she had done the right thing in getting married. She didn't like the room, the lack of a career or the seemingly dead end job she was in. But she kept these dark thoughts to herself and carried on with the daily routine and looked forward to Christmas. She thought about how Tom might be feeling but he seemed happy enough, was in a better career and earned more money.

One night she entered the main door of the house and climbed the stairs to find the upper hall completely black and cold. She sensed the walk down the hall from having done it so many times before and blindly searched for the lock to put the key in to let herself into the room, and felt for the light cord. It hung from the ceiling in an odd place and wasn't easy to find. As she was floundering around with her arms Tom came in behind her and started to laugh at her.

“You look so funny doing that!” he exclaimed, laughing at her, and it hurt because she was just doing her best. Her chagrin was hurt, she was doing this because of him. By luck her hand engaged with the cord and the light went on.

“I was just trying to find my way round in the dark” she responded, “Its so black in here at the moment. Do you remember the everlasting light? The one that is eternal, that never goes off? The one that will exist throughout the history of humanity? The Earth's core may crack open, the World may fall apart, the seas dry up, the volcanoes all erupt at once, the world's population die from plague and famine: but you will be sure, you can depend on it that the light in the hall will never go off; it will always burn to light your way along the hall?”

“Yes”, he said “I remember”. She fell into the armchair and started laughing so very loudly.

“It's been turned off”.

Amsterdam

De Tweede Kamer which translates as the Second Chamber is officially called the House of Representatives and is the lower house of the States General, the providers of law in the Netherlands. The higher house is the Senate which is called the Eerste Kamer (First Chamber) which controls that new laws are in agreement with other laws and European regulations. These two Chambers form The States General and are situated in The Hague.

The Tweede Kamer consists of one hundred and fifty seats which are filled by national elections run on a proportional representation basis. The seventy-five seats of the Senate are decided by the members of the twelve Provincial States and the three Carribean States of the Dutch Antilles.

The Tweede Kamer is also a cannabis coffee shop situated in Heisteeg in the middle of Amsterdam near Dam Square and the Singelgracht. I was on holiday and found myself standing outside this coffeeshop: I really did fancy going in and try some hash as this was so different to what I was used to because of living in England with it's restrictive laws on cannabis use. I couldn't smoke cigarettes. When I was a young teenager I tried to smoke to show off and look interesting to my friends, but when I did, I ended up choking, spluttering with a red face and looking ridiculous, so smoking cannabis was out of the question. So what to do? I wanted to be daring.

I became very courageous and walked through the door to the counter and explained my problem to the very nice, tall and blonde man standing behind the counter. He looked puzzled for a fraction of a second at me and then invited me to take a seat at the counter. He then placed a plain white ceramic tile in front of me and from a tin on a shelf behind the counter took out a small lump of something and weighed it. He nodded when he saw the reading on the scales. He then put the lump of something on the tile in front of me. It looked like camel dung; it was greeny brown, moist, crumbly and with a very fresh vegetable smell. He told me to take out my credit card (how much is this going to cost me? I thought to myself), then he used the card to cut into the lump, making very small pieces on the tile. He gave me the card so I could carry on doing it myself, and told me to break it up into almost a powder.

I carried on for about ten minutes while he toked on his joint and went off to do other things. He came back, nodded in satisfaction at the little pile I had made of the camel dung and got a box of ready made chocolate drink out of his his fridge with the words “Chocomel” all over it. He poured the brown contents into a mug and heated it from the coffee machine. He sprinkled the camel dung dust into the brown drink and stirred it vigorously and told me to sip it slowly. It tasted of chocolate with a green aroma. While I did this he took a few more tokes from his joint and explained that he didn't like to ingest hash as he then had no control over it, when smoking he could take a few puffs and then stop when he got a little high. When eating the stuff it was too easy to take a lot all in one go and it went down into the belly and there was no going back. I nodded in agreement: I had no idea of what I was doing. He charged me seven euros.

I took the mug of chocolate and sat at a side table where a woman was sitting.

“Do you mind me sitting here?”

“ No not all your company would be great!”

She was Dutch and could speak English perfectly with a charming accent and it wasn't as I expected. She had a huge fat trumpet on the go. Her voice was a little deep and she was quite tall and thin and then I realised that she may have changed gender. She looked at my chocolate, smelt it and exclaimed in an loud and amazed voice Hot Chocolate! How decadent, divine and bohemian! How wicked! We hit it off immediately. We shared life stories and declared life long love for each other and she was absolutely amazing. It hadn't been easy for her, she had been through so much to declare her true gender to the world and I was very impressed. She got to learn all about my troubles and why I had ended up on holiday and alone in Amsterdam.

By now the hash was starting to hit me. My mouth became very dry and I started to float. My thoughts became ethereal and slow. I wondered about the nature of the Universe and why did life exist, and where was I going and why I was going there. My eyes saw the people outside gliding slowly along the cobblestones and my companion was a beautiful extension of my own thoughts. She smiled at me and our conversation became slow and deep. I looked out at the pavement, wondering who all these people were and why they were all these people and not some other people, and where they were going and why there were going there anyway and would they ever get back? I could hear voices coming from distance spaces echoing in the room, flying round it and leaving from where they entered and I couldn't hear what they were saying. The laughter was angelic and came from heaven.

We spent a pleasant hour together slowing down and taking stock of everything, of trying to find our own direction and I became very spaced out; and very hungry. I said I was hungry and she said she knew what to do. We got up and she lead me out of the bar, along the pavements and through some alleys. It was like walking on pink marshmallow, walking very slowly almost floating on rosebuds, on feather quilts, and seeing all the people hanging in stasis on invisible stilts.

She lead me to a herring stall, stood me against a wall and handed me a dish containing a roll with slices of raw herring with chopped up mild raw onion, and it tasted delicious. It was the best food in the world. I was ravenously hungry so I had another helping. I could have eaten it all afternoon. Then I got worried about how I was going to float back to my rented room. I knew where the tram stop was and I had a weekly tram pass, but it's no joke walking over Dam Square and getting up the steps of the tram when you are high. She was so good. I had to get Tram Number Four to Fredericksplein and then walk back to Utrechtsestraat and turn off at Utrechtsedwarstraat and she went with me all the way to make sure I got safely back to my room. She was my angel and I didn't even know her name. I still wonder who she was and if I would recognise her again.

It wouldn't be the same without the onions.

Bruges

The holiday had been planned for a long time and now they were actually going. The children had been sent to a willing relative and they were actually making the journey by train from London to Bruges via Folkestone and Ostend. Their pockets were filled with Belgian francs and it was very exciting. The hotel they booked was not far from the main Market Square and they found it easily from the map and information that the travel agent supplied.

The Hotel was very impressive with steps flanked by balustrades, leading up to a grand entrance hall where large brass lamps hung from the ceiling and old paintings hung from the walls. This lead into a relaxing and individually decorated dining room which looked into the inner garden full of beautiful and unusual plants, which could be admired from the several sets of strategically placed benches. The bedroom was large and aesthetically decorated, and the attached bathroom was luxurious; everything was so perfect.

He had prepared for the trip by collecting detailed information on the styles of Belgian beer and the best bars to try them. He had carefully plotted these bars on a map and traced out walks to see the tourist attractions which took in the bars on the way. The possibilities were endless as Bruges is full of beautiful places to visit and also countless bars selling wonderful beer. He was determined to visit as many bars as possible and to try as many beers as he could.

After breakfast the next day they were in the first bar of the day. The beer came with a side dish of radishes which was a novelty. Ha ha! Then came a walk round the Halve Maan Brewery and after the tour there was a glass of Straffe Hendrick poured out and waiting for them in the bar. There was a little bowl of peanuts as well. After this they walked along the river to look at a building where nuns lived, then he got out his beer map and they were off again to find another bar which sold a tripel so good that it must not be missed. This bar had a sign in English saying only three beers per customer. I wonder what caused that, she laughed to herself. After this beer he said that there was a bar down the street selling another beer that they had to try, so OK she thought, we are only here the once. This was followed by another bar selling excellent lambic, and then another selling geuze.

It was late afternoon and she had had enough. They had not eaten anything as he didn't want to waste money on an expensive cafe. She was hungry. Her head told her to stop drinking: she had had enough, but he wanted to go to yet another bar so she sat in this one with a cola while he carried on. He finally left. They stood in a square somewhere, she didn't know where, and it was all becoming too much. A woman walked by, tall and slim wearing continental clothes and he couldn't help himself, he just ogled her. Then he told his wife that Belgian women looked beautiful, slim, well dressed, feminine and that she should look like that too.

His wife wasn't very tall, had had three children and could never or want to compete with this Belgian picture of perfect femininity that was walking by. She became very hurt and confused so blanked out her husband's comment. He then looked at her and said that it was always him that had to arrange things to do, trips, itineraries, organising tickets, why couldn't she organise things sometimes? They sat down on a bench. Why was she so useless? Why didn't she look like a Belgian woman? His eyes were turning blank and black. She was becoming very nervous. I can't help the way I am, this is me. I've always put you first and done what you asked. The beer kicked in to control their argument which became bitter about the past.

She stood up to distance herself from him but he stood up next to her and suddenly punched her side on in the stomach. The strong, painful blow sent her reeling over onto the pavement; this had come as a shock and she was down on the floor hoping that no one else had seen. They probably had, but people kept out of domestic tiffs. She steadied herself on all fours, stood up and limped back to the bench and sat there stunned. Her knee had been damaged from the fall and was hurting. She was used to this, it had happened before. He sat beside her and looked at her in disgust; there was no apology, there never was. Then she hit him back by telling him that she had many chances in the past for a career but he was always there stopping her, not supporting her. The arguments escalated into their usual rhythm and routine. This had all been done before.

By early evening they were lying on the hotel bed, each with their own private thoughts.

The same old record stuck in the same old groove.

Sleep it off Lady.

Tavira

Lake Windermere

The Ferry Between Southampton and East Cowes

My Grandad

My grandad was my mother's father. He was born in the South Shields, Cullercoats area of Newcastle. He was a merchant seaman, then a marine in the First World War. After the war ended there was a very big recession in Newcastle and not very much work so he went to London.   I am not very sure of his history around this time but I do know that he met my Grandmother on Exeter bridge and she was immediately attracted to him because of his sailor's uniform. He was very tall and handsome she later said.

Cullercoats Beach

They married at the Parish Church of St Thomas in Exeter, and went to London and lived in a series of rented accommodations while Grandad worked at sea. Then my mother was born, and later on her two brothers: and when she was still small the Second World War started. She was sent down to Exeter to live with her Aunt Rose, my Grandmother's sister, and Grandad joined the marines again. My grandmother then worked in an ammunition factory while the two boys went to a Government nursery.

He must have been one of the first  drafts of troops to go to the Continent for I know he was involved in the Dunkirk evacuation.  He had collected some trinkets in France for my mother and had to leave most of them on the beach when trying to escape under a rain of Nazi bullets.  He did manage to wade out with his rifle and rucksack containing some rosaries and French coins with holes in.  I have them now after my mother passed them to me when she died.  He escaped safely but was returned to the Continent as a marine during the D Day landing of 1944.  He must have been very brave and I try to imagine what it was like for him and his colleagues during those times.



On the beach at Dunkirk

When he returned at the end of the war he wanted to spend more time with his re-united family so left his maritime life behind, but there was very little work for returning heroes. He got a job as a decorator attracting a company house which had a low rent and a secure tenancy,  and he and my grandmother lived in this house until their respective deaths. The job was not without its' own dangers as he once fell off the scaffolding when decorating the top of a stairwell and lost some of his fingers.

I first remember him when I was around two years old, standing high above me on the front door step holding out a beautiful black-haired doll in a grand box for me.   He died when I was eight because of stomach cancer and I was not allowed to go to the funeral. In the Navy they gave everyone a daily ration of rum (grog) which was very strong. He got addicted to this and carried on drinking it when he left. We think this caused his cancer. I remember standing close him when he was lying on his settee in his pyjamas, and he vomited blood into a bowl, which shocked and frightened me. He was very thin and had stopped eating. The last I saw of him was him lying in bed down the distant end of a hospital in London. Because I was a child they wouldn't let me in.  He waved feebly and I waved back and that was it. I never saw him alive again.

In the early '70's my friend and I played at holding our own seance one wet Saturday afternoon. I was very honest and didn't influence the pointer in any way, and my friend didn't know the person at all so she couldn't have been playing tricks, but when we asked “was anyone there?” and “who are you?” the pointer spelled out the name “Ted Pat”. I told my mother what had happened and she said that “Ted” was my grandfather's nick name, and that “Pat” was a shortened version of his surname.  Now – that is spooky. Was he really there for me; watching over me?

I am now much older but recently thought of him again. I was sailing on a high deck of a ferry between Southampton and West Cowes and had a wide, open view over the Solent.  The day was bright and blowy and the weather oscillated between vivid, blinding sunshine and dark purple rain clouds. The sea was choppy and blueish grey and I fell into a reverie thinking about him.

Suddenly a large, strongly coloured rainbow appeared next to the boat, rising from the sea on one side, arching right next to the boat and falling to the sea on the other side. I saw it in its' entirety, all the solid, definite colours of the spectrum floating in the sky, contrasting against the dark gunmetal grey of the clouds and framed by the brightness of the sun. Was he still spiritually with me and communicating with me?  I like to think so. Some other passengers got their cameras out, but I think my mind has taken its' own photo which I will remember forever.  In my world there is always a rainbow when someone dies if you look hard enough.   I think Grandad's rainbow came very late.