Out and About

When we first moved to Haarlem I told myself the best way to explore was to just go out and get lost. That’s not such a sensible solution here in The Hague. Its’s a big city. Exploration has to be curtailed to plans, and maps, and a wander not too far from home.

Fortunately we live in a very busy neighbourhood with cafes, shops all within a few minutes stroll. This is the land of the hobby shop - small businesses which seem to operate on a very limited basis and to a very niche market.  I've come across the fascinator shop - that's all it sells, but I've yet to see it open, let alone filled with customers. Then there is the Zalm Huis - a tiny deli that only sells one product - salmon, any which way you like. Great for salmon lovers but, a limited business opportunity I'd have thought.

Wandering around this net-curtainless country, it’s easy to mistake a front room for a high end art shop, or vice versa.  The Dutch like to keep things low-key - there won't always be a sign telling you it's a commercial property. Cafes and eateries are also run on the same basis.  Anyone who owns a cat will know how much they love a long lazy snooze on the windowsill. Fortunately for Ed, we live one floor up, otherwise we could be in trouble. See a cat snoozing in a windowsill in the Netherlands, and it’s very likely you’ve uncovered a cat café - not the place for your cat to go and have quick latte with his mates, but a place for you to go and pet the café’s resident cats.  We have one just around the corner from us, although it would seem totally disloyal to go in. I can have cat-hairs in my cuppa at home, thank you very much.

T

Food Heaven or Hell

If you thought there was a bit of a ‘foodie’ feel to my last  post about our weekend of trips, you’d be right. With over 2000 places to eat, drink and make-merry in Den Haag, it is very easy to become obsessed with menus.  It would be impossible to work our way through all the available eateries, but in the name of research we will do our best.

In Haarlem we did occasionally come across a café/restaurant we wouldn’t rush back to, but it was never a question of having a bad meal, more of a ‘service’ issue. Here in the Hague it's not a case of   discovering places we wouldn’t eat in again, but finding places that would have us back. There has been a couple of times just recently when we’ve made a very hasty exit.

The first incident was the vegan cheese crisis. It was a rainy weekday evening so we thought we'd try an Italian a five minute walk away. The waiter was very attentive and the food quickly ordered. Pizza for Mr and Mr T; a vegetarian pasta for our daughter.  We hadn’t seen her for a little while and had lots to catch up on, so much so that although we spotted the waiter taking a dish over to a side table, it totally failed to register that he was grating fresh parmesan cheese all over the vegetarian pasta. As he proudly  placed his work of art in front of our daughter.we all cried, cheese!, like some kind of manic photo-shoot. His face dropped - you can almost see him thinking but you’ve just watched me grate cheese all over this dish. No! We hadn’t watched him, we’d been too busy chatting. There was no cheese mentioned on the menu, we pointed out. But all pasta comes with cheese, he replied.It is traditionale, Italiano… Eventually when it became apparent that the food was not going to be eaten he removed the plate and returned with a cheese-less version minutes later. Mr T left a big tip but we couldn't get out of the place quickly enough.

The second incident was the three course set menu for four people which the waiter transposed into the four course menu for three scenario. There is probably no need to say anymore, apart from in our defence, the starter was a sharing platter, so no missing portion noticed there, and we had been told fish was the main course, so when the  smaller than expected dish of seafood pasta arrived, whilst muttering amongst ourselves (in a very British let’s not make a complaint about this way)  that we’d rather hoped for fish with a backbone as opposed to a shell, it was still technically ‘fish.’  It was only when the knives and forks were placed on the table for what we were expecting to be dessert, that the very confused waitress returned to confess that there had been a mistake. No wonder the pasta dish was small. Surely someone must have realised there had been a mistake when the ‘secondi’ course had to be split between four serving dishes as opposed to three? Presumably the same couldn't be done for the three portions of fish (although other people have managed miraculous sharing issues with little more!). No wonder the original waiter had made himself scarce. Anyway, dessert hastily appeared and a negotiation was made on the final bill. Another one we definitely wont be going back to.

Taking pot luck with the chef’s surprise menu is always a risk - but it hasn't all been bad. We've had a couple of extremely tasty experiences when we've felt like the judges on Masterchef. And, all this  fine dining has also made me realise how easy it will be to solve the cooking of the Christmas dinner dilemma. There I was wondering how many carrots I needed to buy to feed eleven, and now I realise the answer is just one. A couple of slices of turkey, carrot shavings, a miniature cauliflower floret each and a sprinkling of peas. That's all everyone really needs. I'll add a couple of dollops of pomme puree, some artistic swipes of turkey 'jus' and a shaving of burnt bacon crisp with a cranberry foam, all topped off with an edible poinsettia leaf. Just perfect.

Doing Some Dutch Stuff

Entertaining visitors means doing some traditional Dutch stuff. It’s what they come for, and we don’t want to disappoint.

For starters,  we ordered some traditional Dutch weather, a sort of grim and tonic, half a day's sunshine followed by three days of dismal, chilly dampness. For the next course, we visited Delft, the town famous for producing the dainty blue and white pottery as synonymous with all things Dutch as tulips, clogs and cheese. So far I had resisted the urge to purchase any traditional Dutch ceramics, having found no place in my home for the Delft tulip vase, an object reminiscent of an upturned cow's udder. However, with the in-laws in tow we decided to head for the Royal Delft Factory, mainly because it was a good excuse to keep out of the cold.

It was our lucky day.  We had turned up on the Royal Delft’s ‘open day’. All entrance fees were waived, and we could wander around the museum and factory floor at our leisure. I was starting to like the blue and white stuff more by the minute; so much in fact that when it came to the ‘seconds’ stall before the main shop, Mr T and I found ourselves browsing amongst the chipped and faulty offerings to see what we could pick up. One tea-light holder, a beer tankard, and two Christmas decorations later, we’d completed our tour.

Back in Den Haag in the afternoon and it was time for some more traditional Dutch stuff, and a bad case of déjà-vu. There are some traditions that need to be quite firmly knocked on the head, and Zwarte Piet is one of them. Yes, it was that time of the year again. Sinterklaas had come to town.

 ‘Surely here in an international, liberal city like Den Haag,’ I said to Mr T, ‘they’ll have done away with Zwarte Piet?’

But no.  There were hundreds of them. Everywhere. I thought the spectacle was bad enough in Haarlem; but here in Den Haag, jolly old Sint arrived in Scheveningen Harbour at lunch time and at five o'clock in the afternoon he was still winding his way from the harbour to the city centre in a mile long motor cavalcade of all-singing-all-dancing Zwarte Pieten. I don’t think the in-laws knew what had hit them.

We needed something sweet to take away the bitter taste. Dessert is always my favourite course. The following day we set out for Kinderdijk,  home to a series of 19 windmills. Kinderdijk is now a UNESCO World Heritage site, and it’s pretty impressive, even to someone like me, who is of the opinion that if you’ve seen one windmill you’ve seen them all. It was a chilly grey day, yet the sight of those windmills rising out of the mist was quite magical.

And finally, for the cheese course, we headed to Gouda, where unfortunately as it was winter there was not a single piece of cheese on show. 

Oh well, a bit like Black Pete; you have to take the good with the bad.

A Room With A View

After a quiet couple of weeks we decided to head down to Rotterdam for a day out. Rotterdam was completely flattened during the Second World War and during its re-construction it seems that every whacky architect on the planet has had a hand in its re-design.

The Markthal is one huge psychedelic dome, an amazing combination of retail, eating, living and office space in the Rotterdam Blaak district, an area which is already home to an eclectic mix of buildings. Opposite the Markthal are the cube houses – a honeycomb of dwellings designed in the 1970’s by the architect Piet Blom, together with a hexagonal apartment block in the style of a pencil, and the city library, which for anyone who has been to Paris, is reminiscent of the Pompidou centre with its vivid yellow external pipe-work.

Beneath the brightly coloured murals inside the Markthal there are a variety of eateries and food-outlets; you can embark on a culinary journey around the globe, eat your way from China to Mexico, Spain to Turkey. There was even the opportunity to sample the delights of vegan-land.  The student daughter, visiting for the weekend, was very impressed with the chocolates.

Traditional Dutch offerings were also on display – albeit with a twist. My eye was caught by a wedge of blue cheese, and I don’t mean blue as in Stilton, I mean blue as in sky-blue, all over.

‘Its’ lavender pesto,’ the stall-holder replied when I enquired what magic ingredient gave the cheese its unusual colour. Of course. Lavender pesto. I should have guessed.

Below the foodhall there is a large Albert Heijn supermarket (just in case you prefer to buy your cheese  cheese-coloured) together with a car-park. Hugging the outside, apartments. It’s a vast, innovative space.

Despite all the exotic dishes on offer we played boringly safe and lunched on frites before heading out off on a short tram ride to the other side of town, and the Euromast, a 185 m observation tower.

On arrival we were told that unfortunately, the glass elevator to the final 85 m was currently out of bounds. We could only go up to the observation platform at 100 m high. That was fine by me.  At a blustery 100 meters up there’s a restaurant and also a couple of hotel rooms.  The views are fantastic – we could see north to the Hague, and west to the vast Europort, where Mr T very enthusiastically pointed out his oil refinery, and of course, we could also see through the plate glass full height windows straight into the hotel room.

As I watched the maid scattering rose petals on the double bed, presumably in preparation for some unsuspecting guests,  I thought, no, a night at the Euromast is a bit like that bright blue cheese. Not for me.

Never On A Sunday

Last weekend we set out to explore Zeeland – the Dutch province south of Rotterdam.  For those interested in geography nearly half of Zeeland is water. The fact that anyone would choose to live there at all is a tribute to Dutch resilience and their engineering ingenuity. The fact that the province’s coat of arms features a lion half submerged in water gives you a good picture of what these people have been up against over the centuries. Their motto ‘luctor et emergo’ translates as ‘I struggle and I emerge ’.

Nowadays, the low-lying islands of Zeeland are protected and connected by a series of dykes and very long bridges. The province has emerged from the threat of flooding to face a barrage German tourists. They come for the beaches – miles and miles of soft pale sand, and they come to windsurf on the breezy lagoons created by the modern day sea defences.

Having found ourselves in the land of the Deutsche camper-van we stopped for a toilet break at a windsurfing gala.  Where else but the Netherlands would you have a water-slide into a freezing cold lake and think it fun??

We gave the Delta Expo a miss – I’m sure for anyone interested in the history of pumps, drainage systems and hydro-engineering it’s a fascinating place to visit, but we decided we didn’t have time.  My Rough Guide to The Netherlands recommended starting a tour of the expo with the 30 minute information film – Mr T and I are speed visitors when it comes to museums – half an hour is often our max (in fact we have been known to give entire exhibitions a miss and just pop in for a snack and the loo). It sounded rather like the Delta Expo was a day-out in itself. Something to go back for, if we drive that way again. Which is highly unlikely to be honest.

Instead, we travelled on to Middleburg, the capital of Zeeland, a compact, pretty town but a town that is closed on Sundays.  Middleburg sits in the middle of the Dutch Bible belt and it was deserted. The inhabitants of Middleburg weren’t even out walking their dogs – the belt is that tight.   In the main square a few cafes were open, but not many. Elsewhere shops and bars were firmly shut, giving the town a somewhat eerie atmosphere.  We joined the few other bewildered looking tourists ambling around the quite cobbled streets and admiring the historic architecture and wishing we’d come on any other day of the week.

We selected a different route for the journey home just so that Mr T could enjoy the drive over even more dykes and very long bridges. Personally, I’m of the opinion that if you’ve seen one dyke and a very long bridge, you’ve seen them all. But at least we’ve ticked Zeeland off the list.

A Walk in the Park

I may on occasions complain about the blandness of the Dutch countryside so it's always a treat to uncover a hidden gem. We have continued our exploration of Den Haag, making the most of the unseasonal good weather – I can’t actually remember the last time it rained (it’s a sign of how much I’ve acclimatized that drizzle no longer counts).

Last Sunday we set off for the Japenese Garden at Clingendael. This garden is only open to the public for three weeks in the spring and three weeks in  October.  If you have a beautiful garden, in a public space, which it is, it seems a bit of a shame to limit the access, but I suppose the park-keepers only want the public to see looking its best.

But it was good to discover the entire Clingendael park which is open all year round and a good place to stroll around on a sunny Sunday morning. Mr T was highly delighted when we stumbled upon these ladies also out for a stroll. It could have been some sort of photo shoot but you can never tell with the Dutch. It doesn’t take an awful lot of persuasion to have them stripping off!

And talking of stripping off, my hunt for a regular swimming slot has ceased. Mr T has splashed out and treated us to a years’ membership of the health spa just a five minute walk from our apartment. No need to get lost around the streets of Den Haag seeking out those elusive municipal pools. We can now relax in our luxurious surroundings, swim in a 20 metre pool and have full use of hot whirlpool, sauna and steam room, aerobic exercise and ‘mind and body' classes as well as a very large gym.  I did hesitate, not just at the expense or because I am a bit of gym-phobic, but because of the house-rules.  Swimwear is compulsory in the pool, but not anywhere else, and in fact is a definite no-no in the sauna and steam room. I know it’s just the way I’ve been brought up, but this might take some getting used to. In addition, there are certain parts of my body that really are best kept from public view. I’ve ordered a wrap for the steam room, but the whirlpool is the shady gray area where you can keep your swimmers on, or let it all hang out. As anyone who has ever sat on a European beach will know, it’s always those who should keep covered up, who are the first to bare all! Oh well, as they say, when in the Netherlands....

From the body beautiful (or not as the case maybe) back to the beautiful outdoors...

Finding Our Feet

Now that people are starting to ask me how’s it going in The Hague? I have to come up with a plausible answer.  I’m beginning to realise what a privilege it was to live in Haarlem, and how familiar I’d become with everything there.  Here we’re the newbies again, and yes, although we’re used to those wacky Dutch people and all their funny little ways,  we’re very much still finding our way around town, and the supermarkets.

I may seem obsessed with supermarket shopping but as a ‘stay at home’ huisvrouw I like to have a meal, if not ready, then at least in some state of preparation by the time Mr T comes home.  In Haarlem I knew what I could and couldn’t buy. Here I have three Albert Heijn within walking distance and I find myself blindly wandering around the aisles in a desperate attempt to acquire enough ingredients to create a wholesome dinner. I feel like a stone-age hunter-gatherer. What can I capture to bring home tonight? There’s little point going in with a set-plan.  Sometimes it’s more a question of what is left on the shelves. Don’t get me wrong, there aren’t food shortages over here, far from it, but these shops are relatively small and they don’t carry back-up supplies.

It’s a time consuming exercise but I’ve empty days to fill. After two years in Haarlem I had established a regular social life, a couple of days a week out doing something, a couple of days at home. It seemed to work. When we first arrived in the Netherlands I was determined to swim regularly and after a couple of abortive journeys around the backstreets of Haarlem, I managed to locate the municipal swimming pool. I’ve encountered exactly the same problem here in Den Haag.  Bikes don’t come with Sat Nav. I have to memorise the route before I set off. Dutch road signage leaves a lot to be desired, and so does my sense of direction. It does help if you know your right from your left, but anyone who has ever cycled on the ‘wrong’ side of the road in an unfamiliar town will surely sympathise with my predicament.  Today, at the second attempt, I actually found the nearest of Den Haag’s five municipal pools. And it was shut. Zwembad Gesloten said a notice propped on the unmanned reception desk, with no indication of any opening times. At least I know where it is, even if I can’t use it. A bit like capturing dinner, it was a moment of triumph.

The thing about getting lost is that you discover areas you didn’t know existed, and so far Den Haag is throwing up some very pleasant surprises.

Over the weekend we put on our tourist hats and headed out on a more formal expedition with some very welcome family visitors.  First we visited the Escher museum, and for anyone who doesn’t know – and I didn’t until I looked it up – M C Escher is the artist behind those optical illusions such as water flowing uphill, never-ending staircases and birds turning into fishes. Some of his pictures give you a bit of a headache but the museum was well worth a visit. As was the Dutch National Motor Museum – the Louwman, which we did the next day. Although the weekend ended on a damp squib of a visit to Nordwijk, it had begun with a very enjoyable glass of wine on the beautiful  beach at Scheveningen. 

It’s not Haarlem, but I think we’ll be all right, and in case anyone is wondering, yes I have let the cat out on the balcony unattended, and yes, he did jump off.  The drop from our balcony is higher at one end than the other, and just to confirm my theory about the size of Ed’s brain, he dived off the deep end. Fortunately,  he survived unscathed.

One week in

We are now into our second week in our new home, and I’ve identified a couple of  potential problem areas.

(1) The balcony

Ed and I are not coping.  Our orientation trips onto the balcony bring on synchronised palpitations. Although blessed in the looks department Ed isn’t the brightest button in the box, but he has, I think, managed to work out that the only way I am going to let him onto our outside space right now is to suffer the indignity of wearing a fluorescent orange harness and staying on a lead.  I am perfectly aware of what I should do, which is to remain indoors and  just let him go out on his own. If he jumps, he jumps. At least I wont have to watch him go over the edge. We’re only one floor up. For a cat it’s a perfectly do-able leap, and that’s the problem. It’s inevitable he’ll give it a go. If Ed was landing on grass I’d probably be a little happier, but he’s not. We overlook the car-park. And how does he get back up?  The answer is to stay indoors while I pluck up the courage to let go of the lead. So instead we are over-compensating with play-time. Having purchased a variety of cat gizmos, a length of wool is so far proving to be his favourite toy.

 (2) What’s Upstairs

I have lived in apartments before, but I realise now I’ve always lived on the top-floor. It definitely makes for  a difference experience.  Right now, it sounds like there are a herd of elephants living on the floor above, although it's probably just over-excited children.  I don’t mind children – I’ve had two of my own – but even at a tender age if I told them to stop doing star-jumps or whatever it is they are doing at nine o’clock in the evening because it might just annoy the neighbours, they’d probably have obeyed me. Which makes me think it might well be elephants after all.

 (3) Tram-lines

The Hague definitely doesn’t seem quite so conducive to cyclists as dear old Haarlem. We’ve not encountered tram lines before. It’s not the thought of being run-over by a tram that bothers me – it’s getting my wheel stuck in the tracks and somersaulting over the handlebars. You have to make sure you cross them at just the right angle.

(4) People

I might be wrong but they just don’t seem quite so friendly here.  Despite encouraging smiles at dog walkers and other joggers as they pass, those cheery ‘morgens’ I used to get in Haarlem are noticeably absent. The check-out assistants in Albert Heijn are also made of a different metal – in Haarlem predominantly teenage and comparatively (for the Dutch anyway) chirpy,  in Den Haag, predominantly dour and middle-aged.  And, I’ve only been asked for my bonus card once. They just don’t seem to care if I am missing out on a bargain. Perhaps they are just fed up of all the foreigners, or perhaps it’s a north-south thing – after all in the UK northerners always say us southerners are an unsociable lot.  Maybe it’s the same here??

Ed looking wistfully north.....

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The Next Chapter

Welcome to Dutch for Beginners Part II, which in theory I suppose should be called Dutch for Intermediates, but as my linguistic skills are shamefully still very much at a child-like level I’ll stick with the Beginners title. It does seem a very long time since I last posted on this blog, enthusiasm for all things Dutch taking a backseat while I spent a very happy summer in the UK catching up with family and friends,  but now I am back  and ready to tackle a second bite of the Dutch apple-cake with renewed vigour.

There’s nothing like a change of scenery to provide inspiration for a burst of creativity. Within days of my return to Haarlem, our rented town-house overlooking the canal was packed up. ‘Oh no I don’t need fifty boxes,’ I told the girl from the removal company as she insisted on filling my hallway with flat-packs. ‘Half that will do, I don’t have much that stuff.’ Fortunately she ignored my protests. So much for me being the know-it-all serial house-mover.  

Using all fifty boxes plus more we made the move 60 kilometers south to Den Haag, and a rental apartment in a purpose built block in the city centre. The move itself went pretty smoothly - My main concern had been for the removal men’s safety  (or more importantly my furniture’s safety) on our narrow steep Haarlem stairs but of course these death-traps present no problems to Dutchmen  who see adversity as a challenge. It was the patio table that left them perplexed – there was even mention of sawing off the legs to make it fit through the door. Mr T had to point out that as it had come in through the house in one piece, logically, it should go back out.  In the end my suggestion that the removal boy’s fingers should be sawn off instead seemed to do the trick. He re-adjusted his grip and rolled the table out of the front door.

After just a couple of days in the south I realise they do things differently here.  I thought Haarlem was up-market but The Hague does up-market on a much grander scale.  When you walk past a sign for a shop selling hand-made shoes you know you’re dealing with a different league.  We’re in the land of the diplomat, and diplomats have wives who need that high-end retail therapy. An abundance of ‘conceptual’ art shops are sure sign of affluence; as are the numerous mani-pedi-waxing salons available for those who have nothing better to do. Apparently there are over 1000 restaurants,  bars, cafes and coffee shops in The Hague, and for once, I do mean coffee shops where you sit and drink, as opposed to the other sort, which I haven’t seen one of yet (not that I have been looking I hasten to add). 

The Hague is a big city and it's early days. I will obviously miss our home in Haarlem, although not the black carpet, to which I wish a very heartfelt  good-riddance. We have to adjust to new surroundings and apartment living, but first impressions? The sunshine obviously helps, but so far - good.

Its A Mad (Dutch) World

Anyone who reads this blog regularly will realise that I can be very ambivalent about life in the Netherlands. However, there is one thing that never ceases to amaze me, and that's how mad the Dutch are. Sometimes you just have to smile.

This Saturday we ended up in Scheveningen Harbour in Den Haag after another futile house-hunting recce.

It was Vlaggetjesdag - basically a festival to celebrate the humble herring. The arrival of the nieuwe haring season is a big thing over here, and the locals were waffling back the national dish of raw herring and cucumber pickles by the bucket load. The sea-shanty competition appeared to be in full-swing, and a whole programme of events had been planned for the wet and windy afternoon, including later on a concert by the singer Joe Cocker. Lets hope he likes his fish - if not, I'm sure his friends can help him out.

There were craft stalls, games, and lots of people in traditional costume - always a worry.  There are many regional variations on the national dress but the Scheveningen harbour version included womens headgear held in place by two large gold circular hairpins which looked like antennae. The whole thing was just too weird. After a quick sandwich sheltering from the wind we gave up and came home.

There was more weirdness on Sunday. We should have known better but we're suckers for punishment. The rain had stopped so we set off for Royal FloraHolland factory at Aalsmere and the local flower festival. Aalsmere is the world centre of the flower distribution industry, and according to Wikipedia The Royal FloraHolland auction factory is ‘by footprint’ the largest building in the world covering a massive 518,000 m2 (128 acres). 

At the factory, it all seemed very low key. Presumably as most people who live in Aalsmere work for Royal FloraHolland it’s the last place they want to visit on their day off. However, we were able to make a video of ourselves driving a forklift truck around the shop floor, and of course, there were more bizarre costumes on display.

Our next stop on the flower festival tour was Fort Kudelstaart, a UNESCO world heritage site where we caught a water taxi to Aalsmere town itself.  By this time it was getting up quite warm, so warm in fact that Henk, the boatman, decided he was too hot in his trousers and needed to change into his shorts. Most people would have nipped off to the loo to do this, but not the Dutch. I supposed I should just have been grateful he'd remembered to put his boxers on that morning.

We did a quick tour of the horticultural museum and then followed the sound of music (the Dutch don't do anything without music) to the windmill square. We decided to give the Rose Nursery and the Flower Arranging College a miss. We had seen enough (or more than enough in Henk's case). 

And so to the football.

Friends back home will be sat watching  Euro2016, listening to the expert analysis dished out at half-time by a smartly dressed Gary Lineker and co in the studio,  while we, in the Netherlands, have this lot. And a dog.

Need I say more?

Let the sun shine

Last week I succumbed to a severe case of feeling sorry for myself. A sore throat and snuffles caught from Mr T whose immunity was still down after his Viking Challenge became a debilitating illness (I just had to go back to bed),  an on-going bout of writer's block signalled the end of my career before it had even begun, and the Dutch climate was at its worse. It was so cold the heating came on.  I felt so miserable that I even turned down Mr T’s offer of going out to dinner. It would be a waste of money, I wouldn’t appreciate any of it…blah blah blah, followed by the usual this is all your fault, this wouldn’t happen if we were back in the UK.. etc etc

Basically I  lost the plot. Lack of motivation is a huge problem. There are days when I only have the cat for company.  It’s like being at home with a toddler - it can be great fun but the conversation is very  one way.  The TV show Pointless can be a highlight of my day - a couple of weeks ago I had two pointless answers in the final! It’s an opportunity to shine, I have to think, and a bit like our weekly pub quiz, the opportunity to prove I am still a capable and intelligent person (or not as the case may be in the pub quiz - this week's specialist topic Muhammad Ali. Note to self; always check  the obituaries before heading out.) 

I fear I am turning into bored housewife of Haarlem. We all like to feel valued.  Mr T goes to work, gets told he’s done a good job, gets a salary to prove it and has lots of people asking him for advice. He is making a contribution. I don’t have that. I don’t have anyone slapping me on the back when I’ve finished vacuuming my black carpet for the umpteenth time, and trust me, when the words don’t flow from the keyboard, its very easy to look at the cat hairs and the inevitable dust and think, ooh I’ll have to run the hoover over that again.

Dull Dutch days make it all seem ten times worse.

It so much easier to be positive when the sun comes out and appreciate the opportunities that ex-pat life has given me. 

Back in the UK I wouldn’t be walking ten minutes out of my front door on Saturday morning to an impromptu comic-con fest in the centre of town, to a market full of fresh, local produce before cycling out on a purpose built traffic-free path to a vast stretch of soft-sandy beach for a picnic. I wouldn’t go to a yoga class on a Monday afternoon where I could sit by a canal afterwards and enjoy a chat and a drink with friends from New Zealand, Australia and Belgium. I wouldn’t take a  morning jog (there’s no way it can be called a run - I'm not that positive!) along the banks of a canal and see cygnets, baby geese and ducklings. 

I know. I just need to get out more.

Out & About Again

If it seems like this ex-pat blog is grinding to a halt then you’d be right. Our sedate Dutch lifestyle doesn’t throw up a great deal of interesting anecdotes to write about it. Middle-age couple potter around Haarlem market on a Saturday morning before cycling to the beach is hardly going to make riveting reading.

Our lust for exploring the Dutch countryside has dissipated, our sense of adventure has become swallowed up or submerged beneath those flat green fields. Even the tulips have now disappeared – a bright, brief respite from the blandness.

We need to get back out there, I said to Mr T. I need to find inspiration and motivation. Mr T doesn't lack motivation - last week he completed a Viking Challenge with a team of his young work colleagues. I have every admiration for his enthusiasm, a 13 km run interspaced with 30 obstacles which involved lots of crawling through mud and climbing over walls. Not for the faint hearted or anyone over the age of 50. Needless to say he won't be doing it again. My own personal challenge, having gone along to watch the start and elicit promises from his colleagues that they would bring him back alive, was cycling the 10 km or so back home through the Dutch countryside into a very strong prevailing wind. 

This weekend in stark contrast, we set off in search of Dutch culture. We drove cross-country, to Paleis Het Loo on the outskirts of the town of Apeldoorn approximiately 100 km east  from Haarlem. In the east the landscape does change. We found trees, and although there was nothing that could be called a hill, the land gently undulates. At one point we were 90 m above sea-level – that’s nearly enough to bring on a bout of altitude sickness by Dutch standards.

Het Loo was originally a hunting lodge owned by Stadtholder Willem II. For those who like a little history lesson this is the William of William and Mary fame, and when this Royal couple succeeded to the British throne in 1689 they decided they needed something a little grander than a hunting lodge so they expanded the lodge and created a palace. As extensions go, its pretty impressive.

The Dutch Royal family retained Het Loo as their main residence up until the death of Queen Wihelmina in 1962. Since then it has been fully restored and is now a national museum. The main attraction for me, were the gardens, and not so much the formal garden, which is laid out in typical Dutch style with cleverly crafted box hedging and a large fountain, but the informal ‘parkland’ which is based on an English style country estate . None of it is natural of course, the lakes and streams all being man-made, but with the rhododrendrons in full-bloom it made a very welcome change from the typical Dutch landscape.

And talking of something different, after we’d finished at Het Loo, we headed for the Kroller-Muller Museum which is set in the middle of the Hoge Veluwe National Park, a privately owned area of natural wood and heathland – similar in appearance to parts of the New Forest.  As this all looked quite samey to us, and by now it had started to rain, we gave up on the idea of abandoning the car at the gates and using one of the free bikes to explore the park, and drove straight to the museum. The Kroller-Muller  is home to the second largest collection of Van Gogh’s in the world, as well as displaying work by Monet, Picasso and Mondriaan, and the usual selection of ‘modern art’.

It’s hard not to admire modern artists, not for their creativity but their ingenuity. We can all make a display out of a pile of rocks, its convincing somebody to pay thousands of euro’s for it which is the clever bit. If I stuck a couple of dinky toys on a shelf next to a milk bottle with a handful of ballbearings in the bottom of it, would anyone call it art? No? So how do they get away with it?

In the sculpture garden people had got away with even more. Mr T is wasting his time buying pipes for the oil industry. He should be ‘sculpting’ with them instead.  

One of the highlights of the show is probably the Jardin d'email by the artist Jean Dubuffet. I can't think of any words to adequately describe it and even the photographs don't do it justice. Philistine that I am I can see no connection between a large white epoxy-resin mass and an e-mail, (junk perhaps?) but what do I know.  At least it was fun and you could clamber all over it.

The Kroller-Muller's most redeeming future is its beautiful setting. Who needs art when you have nature? It was quite noticeable how many visitors were posing for photographs beside the rhododendrons rather than the exhibits.

(Incidentally this is not Mr T and I posing by the rhododrendons but an exhibit entitled 'Femme et Homme'.  If ever a piece needed a bit more work with the chisel - this is it.)