A Blustery Day

In order to escape the air of despair that transcended over the house on Sunday afternoon following the student’s departure back to Bristol, Mr T and I headed for the beach. We knew it would be grim; Zandvoort is always grim and I find it very hard to picture this resort awash with warmth, sun umbrellas, bikinis and Bermuda shorts. The grimness would suit our mood, I thought, it will be quiet, just me and Mr T on the beach, drowning in the solitude of self-pity.

Of course it was not quiet. Had I forgotten what country we are in? There may well have been leaden skies and a force ten gale blowing, but that doesn’t deter the Dutch. What better way to defy the weather than to zip up your anorak, pull on your hat and head out into the elements.  The North Sea waves crashed onto the beach creating more foam spray than a night club in Ibiza, the gusting wind howled, making conversation more or less impossible and walking against it very difficult, yet still people were out there, strolling along the sand.

It was yet another occasion when I marvelled at the hardiness of the Dutch. Why wouldn’t you take your kids to the beach on a day they have every chance of getting  swept away? There’s no molly-coddling here. The day before we  had spent the evening at a friend’s birthday party, chatting to a friendly Dutch family. We had discussed our respective houses. How do you teach your youngsters to go safely up and down those steep stairs, I asked, their early years must be fraught with accidents. Yes, Dutch mum agreed, they are. A couple of falls is usually all it takes, however, for toddlers to become proficient and you always put something soft like an old mattress at the foot of the stairs to cushion those early falls. I must remember that when my elderly mother comes to stay.

So the student has gone after a happy week dodging trams in Amsterdam and soaking up a bit of culture. I took her to the Hague where we marvelled at the Panorama Mesdag, a full 360 degree painting, 14 metres high of the beach of Scheveningen created in the1860's. It was amazing, if slightly disorientating and something of a hidden gem. The good thing about having visitors is that it makes you seek things out. That bad thing is of course that visitors always leave….

 Scheveningen looking a lot calmer in 1860 than Zandvoort in 2015.

A History Lesson

It’s obvious the Dutch have a bit of a love-hate relationship with the elements.

They’re a hardy bunch, undeterred by the wind and the rain as they cycle their kids to school or to collect the weekly grocery shop. This week I actually cycled past a woman (cycling past someone doesn’t happen very often but when it does it’s quite a memorable event) with one child shoved into her shopping basket in front, another on a child seat just behind the handlebars, and another in a child seat on the back. That’s a lot of weight to be heaving around. It’s a common sight to see bikes with a wheelbarrow like attachments to the front where you will often find a couple of toddlers, or a ton of bricks. These people are tough.

This weekend brought more unseasonable sunshine, so once again Mr T and I headed outdoors. This time we drove the forty miles or so just north of Amsterdam to the small former fishing village of Marken, for a lesson in Dutch history.

Marken is now attached to the mainland via a dyke, but it used to be an island, with access to the North Sea via the Zuider Zee.  Like a lot of Holland, the island regularly flooded, houses were washed away and many lives were lost. When the fishing industry was in a boom there was not enough high ground on Marken to build homes for all the fisher folk, but with typical Dutch stoicism the Markers built their houses at a lower level on ‘stilts’, hoping that the flood water would simply wash under the house and leave them alone. It didn’t, it continued to wash them away.

However, the creation of the Ijsselmmer lake in 1932 cut off the access to the North Sea and although finally putting paid to the flooding, made fishing an unsustainable livelihood. Marken is now nothing but a hotspot for tourists who come to see how the Dutch used to live.  There’s a rather spooky museum which tells the story of the island, with a collection of grim faced (and who can blame them with everything they had to put up with ) waxwork ‘Markers ‘ in the traditional costume.

Outside  in the Autumn sunshine, in a cafe over looking Marken's deceptively picturesque harbour  I was highly envious of the tall, lithe Dutch family who arrived on their bicycles, no doubt having cycled the 20 miles from Amsterdam to get there, and sat next to us, tucking into their generous portions of apple pie and lashing of whipped cream. This I realised, is how they can do it, how they can waffle back doughnuts and potato croquettes as if there’s no tomorrow, drink pints of beer as if it is going out of fashion, and still stay slim. 

Earlier in the week we had to call an engineer to sort out our house’s heating problems and discovered for some inexplicable reason our home owners had set the internal thermostat at an incredibly low 14 degrees – basically the thing would never come on of its own accord until an ice-age hit. Why put the heating on when you can wear thermals and a jumper? Why hop in a car when you can pedal a bike? Why move somewhere safe and dry when you can live on an island that constantly floods? These people revel in adversity. The battle doesn't just make them tough, it burns calories.

So far so good

It’s my third day in Haarlem. So what about those facts I had gleaned beforehand from my research, have they proved helpful?

The Dutch are very house proud

We’re renting a 1930’s house that has been very lovingly restored by a couple of guys who have now headed off to Africa. I have inherited an instruction manual on how everything should be cleaned and cared for. I will naturally do my best to respect their wishes – after all I know that handing over your most precious possession to complete strangers is a daunting prospect.  I am beginning to wish I’d left my tenant a similarly precise to-do list rather than the hastily written  note detailing very little but what day of the week the bins are collected (and I only left him this when I realised our over-zealous packers had removed the council’s waste collection schedule from where I’d stuck it in the kitchen cupboard and shoved it in a box to be shipped it over to Holland.)

The Dutch are very tall

Yes this one is true too. When we moved to Los Angeles five years ago we acquired a family mantra to help us through the initial period of adjustment: it’s not bad, it’s just different. For Holland I have decided I need a different kind of coping strategy – I need to grow a foot taller.

A cheap plastic step has become a permanent fixture in our luxurious high-end kitchen. The wall cupboards were obviously designed for someone with an average height of 6' 7". The counter top is chest height. Even the cat struggles to jump on to it - not that he is encouraged to do this, of course.  

I’ve no idea how we're ever going to change a light bulb. We did bring a step-ladder with us but that has to be kept in the closet so that I can reach my clothes....

The Dutch word for today is Droogautomaat - tumble dryer. This has been placed on top of the washing-machine which incidentally is situated in the attic – as is common in all Dutch houses (as are the very steep, uneven, twisting stairs that take you up there).  I discovered today after downloading an English version of the instructions for the dreaded droogautomaat that there is a water-reservoir that must be emptied after every use.  The reservoir is the size of a petrol can and can only be reached when I balance tip-toe on top of a chair. When we viewed the house the agent told us the owners disapproved of tumble dryers as they were bad for the environment. I can only assume they purchased this particular model on our behalf to ensure I was similarly deterred from using one.

The weather?  We were prepared for the worse, and  it's as bad as we feared.  Mr T and I have not yet ventured out on our bicycles.  I’d rather walk with an umbrella than cycle in the rain.  I’m not quite ready to succumb to a full-length rubber cape, which I can see far from being an article of ridicule is a daily essential.

But so what? It rained in England too and I didn't have a view like this from my bedroom window. I can cope.