Zandvoort

It's been a gloomy week, not helped by the fact that our landlords must have removed a number of fancy light-fittings from the house just before their departure. Waking up on Saturday morning to bright sunshine we decided to forego the planned trip to  begin our exploration of the many museums of Amsterdam  – the rainy day plan – and instead spent the morning browsing Haarlem's interior design shops in search of some lamps. The Dutch do seem particularly partial to rather quirky décor and judging from the price tags in most of the shops, the discerning inhabitants of Haarlem haven't  been hit by the recession either.  We eventually ended up spending the afternoon in Ikea.

However, on Sunday, despite the threatening drizzle (in the short time I've been here I've learned that drizzle does not constitute rain) we set off once again on our bikes. This time we headed for Zandvoort-aan-Zee.

Zandvoort is one of the Netherland’s top beach resorts. This time of year it’s reknown for its kitesurfers bouncing up and and down in the waves, and we too had a bouncy up and down journey to get there.  Back in the UK, Mr T was regularly out on his bike at weekends cycling 20 km before breakfast. I was not, and although I had a bike, every road from our village lead uphill, so my bike stayed quite firmly in the garage. However, now I’m here,  I’m determined to get fit and acquire those long lean Dutch legs, even if it kills me, and I think, after this weekend, it probably will.

Half way along the 9 km 'off-piste' cycle path to Zandvoort I discovered that there is a mountain range in Holland and lies between Haarlem and the sea. The Dutch refer to it as zandduinen (sand dunes to you and me).  At one stage I even had to get off and push - the shame of it! With legs like jelly  and pounding heart, we finally pedalled into town, and I would be lying if I said I thought it was worth it.

I’m sure Zandvoort is a delightful place in summer when you can stroll along the seafront without  being sand-blasted but the architecture itself is pretty grim – think concrete.  The highlights are a bizarre phallic shaped water tower at one end of the strand and the 1970’s high rise Centre Parcs Hotel at the other (don’t book this expecting something to rival Longleat Forest).  We revived ourselves with a portion of frites and a gigantic dollop of mayo, hardly conducive to the fitness campaign, and then headed back along the longer, flatter road-route to home.

We spent the evening at the cinema. It's is a mere five minute walk from the house and this was our second visit in as many weeks.  The cinema is a great way to learn Dutch as films are shown in their original language with Dutch subtitles. Last time we watched The Hundred Foot Journey, which no disrespect to its star, Helen Mirren, was pretty twee. This week we watched Pride, a film about Welsh miners supported by a gay protest group during the 1980's strikes. There were plenty of words in this gritty black comedy that probably shouldn’t be dropped into casual conversations with the neighbours. However, as I’ve reached the age where the ability to retain anything in my head diminishes daily, there’s not much risk of me remembering any of them, and of course the real thing I like about going to the cinema here? Seats designed for six footers – plenty of space to stretch out those weary legs!