Haarlem

Monday dawned, and this time we were up in time for breakfast at 9AM. Then it was off to the train station in Leeuwarden, where we bid farewell to my great-uncle and great-aunt and settled down in the station café to enjoy a cappuccino (and the requisite biscuit) while waiting for the train to Haarlem.

About 3.5 hours of south-westerly travel later, we arrived in Haarlem, a pretty little suburban town just west of Amsterdam. We hopped on the bus and were checking into our hostel a mere 20 minutes later. A nice-enough hostel (actually the only hostel in Haarlem!) although filled with clientele considerably older than usually found in hostels… we went back to the city centre to wander around the historic market area and get a bite to eat on an outdoor patio. Another sun-filled and beautiful day…

More walking, more bicycles, and another stop for Heineken and “frites” with that scrumptious mayonnaise-like “fritesaus” that puts ketchup to shame. I wanted to hoard some, but Ang reminded me that Amsterdam would have lots of its own…

Back to the hostel to see what Monday-night fun could be had in the onsite bar… alas… none… at first we were the only people there, and later we were joined by a group of sexagenarians. In despair, we ordered another few (amazingly cheap) pints. And then, a miracle: one fellow our age appeared, ordered a pint, and came to talk to us. Behold, a fellow Canadian! A Montrealer! The night was looking up... He ended up cajoling and/or bribing the bartender to let us buy bottled beer and take it into the front lobby over-night, so that we could watch Canadian hockey on the internet… we had a blast. What else can I say?

One very brief night’s sleep later, we stumbled to the kitchen for the hostel’s complimentary breakfast. I was expecting instant coffee and toast; what we got was a virtual feast! Dutch cheese, sliced chicken and ham, hagelslaag, fresh bread, cappuccino from a machine, milk, OJ, and Dutch breakfast cake (yummy stuff!) A good start to the day. We had wanted to visit the Keukenhoff but decided it would be too much of a rush to fit it in our itinerary… so we said goodbye to our new friend and asked him to send us pictures. Off to Amsterdam, the evil city!

Day Trip to Dokkum

I have to finish these instalments before I forget the trip! Heaven forbid!

So the next morning was Sunday; my great-uncle and great-aunt went to church and Ang and I slept in a bit. After breakfast and some laundry (whew, finally clean clothes!) Ang and I decided to go out for a walk, since my uncle and aunt seemed quite tired after yesterday’s excursion.

We wandered out through Veenwouden, passing by numerous sheep and cows, vast expanses of grass, canals and, well, “irrigation ditches” I guess (although there is probably a specific term for them in Dutch). We stopped to get some pictures of the lambs gambolling across the lawn in the neighbouring village. The houses and landscaping were so quaint and so different from what we have in North America; oozing history and culture indeed! It was as if we had stepped into another planet where time went by more slowly, and I noticed each breath of air (damp and smelling vaguely of livestock, but not unpleasant!) Some runners were out, some of the first I’d seen on the trip. In fact, I noticed more fitness-oriented people in Friesland than anywhere else.

We arrived back at the main road in front of the train/bus station. As we were standing there on a gorgeous spring day, contemplating what to do next, I thought perhaps we could go back to Dokkum and peruse the shops and cafés for awhile. A few minutes later, we were trying to decipher the signs at the station and ultimately figured out which bus to take. However, shortly thereafter, when a MINIVAN pulled up at the stop, we doubted ourselves! Using my best sign language and as few words as possible I managed to get things straight. First, a confused look. Then, “Dokkum?” The driver says something which sounds positive. I say “Two euro?” and hold up two fingers. “Ja, dri euro” a woman says. I hand over 3 euro. She gives one back. Ahhh…. “dri” is “two”, not “three”. We clamber into the van and listen as Dutch chitchat ensues. I have no idea where to get off, but I hope the driver will stop in Dokkum. The air is rife with a sense of adventure.

I recognize Dokkum from our trip yesterday… the driver stops regardless. She says something but I don’t understand, so I just say “Dank u” and wave. We disembark and venture into what is now a ghost town… What a difference from yesterday’s carnival atmosphere! Everything is closed except for one café by the canal. The wind has picked up and we’re getting chilly, so the scarves went on and we headed to the café for some coffee and lunch.

Ordering was done by the “point-and-smile” method… I doubt the waitress was impressed. She either spoke no English or decided that we weren’t worth the effort, and we sat for 2 hours to get a sandwich. However, it was still a nice afternoon to get some sun and watch the bicyclists go by on the cobblestone streets. We then headed to a small pub with various international flags hung over the door… a good sign, we thought. To our relief, the friendly couple who ran the place spoke English and let us sip a cheap glass of Heineken in the warmth of the bar while we awaited the bus (van?) back to Veenwouden.

Getting back to town wasn’t that difficult, but after we got off the bus we had quite a time finding my great-uncle’s house again. The streets curved and wound every which way, and we wandered in circles for almost half an hour when Ang suggested we give them a call. I felt kind of embarrassed, but we’d said we’d be back by dinnertime so, as it was 5:15, I gave in.

Well! Lo and behold, my great-uncle was beside himself with worry, and my aunt was close to phoning the police! Apparently there had been a misunderstanding! I felt terrible and apologized profusely… Wondering when my parents would get the phone call complaining about my behaviour! They picked us up (we were actually only about 500m from their house…) and we sat down to a lovely dinner with plenty of wine to soothe the afternoon’s anxiety!

Veenwouden, Kollum & Ternaard

Saturday dawned and I arose to a breakfast of freshly-squeezed orange juice, whole wheat toast, Gouda and Hagelslaag (loosely, “chocolate sprinkles”). This was followed by a beschuit and a slice of suikerbrood (Sûkerbôle in Frisian, but neither word is easy to pronounce!), all washed down with tea. Scrumptious.

Then it was off for the grand tour… my great-uncle was determined to show us all the necessary sights (and sites). First it was the Elfsteden monument in Gytsjerk, commemorating the 200km ice skating race held in Friesland and passing through 11 towns. The first race was held in 1890, and since then it’s been held only 15 times, with the last being in 1997. Now it looks like the Elfstedentocht has become a victim of climate change… while the Dutch winters were never as long or as severe as Canadian winters, it seems unlikely that the canals will ever freeze over again. The monument is a mosaic of individual tiles decorated with the pictures of Elfstedentocht finishers, and the tiles form a larger picture in the traditional blue-and-white of Dutch ceramics. My grandmother’s picture dates from 1942; in it, she’s a demure 22-year-old wearing a light-coloured scarf. Finding her tile on that bridge was unreal. Ang and I, along with my great-uncle and aunt stood on that little pier in the marshland in front of the bridge, smelling the cows and pigs, hearing the reeds rustling and seeing the flat, open land… and it was a moving experience. I can’t really explain why.

Next .. to the pretty, quaint town of Kollum to see the house where my grandmother lived before she was married. It was a stately, square house that had aged gracefully. My grandmother’s father was a burgameister (mayor) and she was thus born into a higher social class than my grandfather. After my determined grandfather wooed her over (via hand-written letters, frequent excursions to the beach, and many long bike rides between villages), she also had to convert to my grandfather’s church. I always liked to hear their courtship story, the old-fashioned “triumph of love” told better than Disney!

Driving off yet again down those narrow roads with perfect pavement (we’re not used to that in Canada!) we passed a few cyclists with racing bikes and matching gear. I had not yet seen any cyclists of this type since arriving in Europe! Ternaard was our next stop; the town my grandparents lived in when my dad was born. It was run-down and abandoned (my dad called it a “dump”), but it was still good to see. First a house and then a shop, the thing was filled with miscellaneous junk and a mannequin dressed in sports gear. Glaring through the window, I initially thought the mannequin was a person and ran back to the car… strangely enough, the second mannequin that I encountered in Europe! I mean, since when do mannequins figure so prominently in my daily life?

The church in Ternaard is special to my family, as it is where my great-grandfather and grandfather played the organ, and where my grandparents attended. In the adjoining cemetery, my great-uncle picked out the gravestones of my great-grandfather and great-great-grandfather, which were in immaculate condition (in surprising contrast to many of the others of similar age), and also the monument dedicated in part to Albertus Nauta, my grandfather’s older brother who died in WWII, and the other fallen soldiers.

I didn’t know if we were going to be able to see the interior, but my great-aunt can work magic, and she found the gentleman with the keys at his house across the road, just on his way out for a bike ride. He let us in and played the Dutch national anthem on the organ, so I could hear the instrument myself! And what a gorgeous old pipe-organ it was.

I climbed the narrow, almost vertical steps to the loft, and Ang took a picture of me standing there. Strangely, I struggled to keep my tears from overflowing as I stood there in that old church and listened to that old organ. It was as if for one instant I felt close to my own heritage and history… for the first time I felt my roots in this country.

Below our feet there were worn, ancient slabs marking tombs of founding church members and royalty. Most of the inscriptions were barely legible, and some were completely erased with time and foot-traffic. I was astonished that in modernity, we can just walk over those pieces of history, slowly erasing vestiges of the past. At St. Patrick’s in Dublin, slabs of similar age were protected, cordoned off and sealed or guarded. But here…we lived, breathed, and trampled it.

Before leaving Ternaard, my great-uncle drove us to the street named after Albertus Nauta. Most of the streets in the Netherlands were named after someone or other; I didn't see many "Main" and "King" signs...

Back to Veenwouden for lunch, and then a drive around the dunes, eyes open wide at the vast and flat expanse of grass, sky and water. We stopped at the seaside and climbed up onto the dijk. My great-uncle pointed at the stretch of sandy soil in front of us... Over time, the sea washes soil up to the land… and after 100 years or so, the Dutch will build another dijk to keep the water out. Amazing to see.

Next, the town of Dokkum! On this, a Saturday, it was positively buzzing with tourists, lovers and weekenders. The atmosphere was set by the organ-grinder in the centre of the square, and Ang captured it all with a video from her camera. Just lovely, even without the monkeys. Cobblestone streets, 400-year old houses in the traditional Dutch style, and several restored windmills made this a very picturesque little place. We walked around for a bit and took pictures.

Dinner time… and my great-uncle drove us to Lauwersoog to sample some Frisian fish and watch the sea. We ate at a cute little restaurant called “Pierenend” (Pier’s End) where almost nobody spoke English. (Ang and I had fun trying to decipher the menu, but for the most part, we let my great-uncle choose for us). The fish was good, and I personally devoured every morsel of every vegetable abandoned by Ang and my great-uncle and aunt. (Hey, as every Dutch girl knows… you just can’t waste it!) Dessert was spectacular enough to merit its own set of photos: roomijs = ice cream, or “cream ice” as our friendly waitress tried to explain to us, topped with a Dutch biscuit, slagrom (whipped cream) and various syrup flavourings.

All four of us were tired out by the day in the sun… but my great-aunt still had enough energy to whip up a great cappuccino, accompanied by a stropwafel, those sweet flat waffle-cookies which I fondly remember from my childhood. Some more Dutch TV, where I tried in vain to decipher news about the Amstel Gold race, and then Ang and I watched the tail-end of Spiderman 1 (with Dutch subtitles, of course).

On to Friesland...

Paranoid for pickpockets, I put on my most aggressive face and we got on the train to Leeuwarden. Several English-speaking folks were quite helpful as we tried to navigate the dizzying train system and use the automatic ticket machines which didn’t accept our PIN-less North American cards. I felt proud that we actually made it to Leeuwarden in one piece.

Ok, my first experience with being the obvious foreigner. I look like everyone in that station, but I can’t understand a word of the language (either Dutch or Frisian). Many times while in the Netherlands, I had to stop a person after several moments of Dutch came careening my way, saying I didn’t understand. I felt kind of ashamed; I didn’t feel like this was my homeland... in fact, standing in the station at Leeuwarden, I’ve never felt so alone and far from home.

Also my first experience with having to pay to use the toilet. Something I definitely don’t miss now that I’m back in Ottawa. Cripes. 0.60 EUR (almost $1.00) to use the toilet... makes you think twice about staying hydrated.

My great-uncle and aunt picked us up, and after my initial nervousness re: not being able to recognize them! we got along famously. This was helped along by a generous serving of red wine and some home-made Dutch soup, baguette and various cheeses… the first home-cooked and non-processed dinner we’d had in some time. My eyelids were drooping by 10pm, and after a struggle to understand Dutch television, it was early to bed for all of us.

Dublin

Our first day in Dublin dawned with clear and cool weather. We stopped at a nearby restaurant to sample the traditional Irish breakfast… delicious, but something you definitely can’t do every day! By now I’d accepted that I wouldn’t be drinking a “real” coffee until I got home; instead, there were two coffee-like beverages you could order: Espresso, watered-down espresso (Americano), and watered-down espresso with milk and mocha flavouring (cappuccino). On top of that, the minimum cost for any of these atrocities in miniscule cups was 1.70 EUR. Seriously.

Next, a walk around the city centre with stops at St. Stephen’s Green, the poet’s walk, and Trinity College to see the Book of Kells and the Long Room (the old library). I should mention that the Irish have it right… instead of towing your car away for illegal parking, they “clamp” it, and you have to pay a fee to have it removed: how sensible! At St. Patrick’s Cathedral, we chanced upon a free Handel recital, and it was absolutely lovely to sit there in that huge, historic church and listen to some pretty darn good singing. We were approached partway through by an English gentleman who asked: “Are you girls from America?” Surprised, we corrected him, and asked what gave us away. “Oh, you’re both chewing gum in church,” he replied, and we both blushed bright red and started for the garbage bin. However, the man laughed and said he didn’t mean it that way; it was just a decidedly non-euro thing to do!

Back to the hostel to shower and clean up, and a chat with the cute French guys who liked to walk around our room clad only in boxers. They were aware of Canada’s French-speaking regions and asked if we could understand them. “Oh, but, can you understand me, that is the question”, I thought to myself. From northern France, their English was almost as broken as my French. Made for an interesting attempt at communication. I invited them out for drinks, but they were going to rest up for a long night of partying. Such is life in Dublin’s Temple Bar… a perpetual party for all of Europe.

For dinner, a stop at the Bad Ass Café for some pre-beer grease. Well, not exactly... Just a good pizza and a pint of Murphy’s. I never eat like this at home so it was stellar. It also cost me $37 bucks CDN for a modest dinner. Geez.

But that night, Wednesday, was the craziest night yet (aside from my birthday). The front desk person at our hostel was kind enough to provide some recommendations for good music and good beer, so we started off at the infamous Temple Bar, Temple Bar. Of course it was full of tourists. We could barely move, but somehow that was fun… we were starting to get used to watching European football instead of hockey, and pretended to be right in there with the lingo. Go Liverpool! When the band came out, it was great. Just so many smiling, happy faces nodding along, and the odd person doing an Irish jig right in the middle of the floor. No-one was especially rowdy or intoxicated, no fights, no shouting, just a bunch of people having fun. That’s what it was like at every pub we went to in Ireland.

Then we crossed the street and went to The Quays, were I was AGAIN asked my age. Geez, on my 27th birthday trip, nobody believes I’m 18! I thanked the bouncer heartily.

The Quays… Fresh and tasty Guinness and 6 EUR a pint, with Ang drinking Bulmer’s like it was going out of style. Good times! The hot blond bartender had a tie full of national flag pins, and he picked us out right away: “I’ve got one for you girls,” he said, pointing to the Canadian flag. We were stunned. How did he know? “I just know these things”, he replied, “and I could tell by your accent”. No way… we didn’t believe it! “Fine,” he admitted, “I saw your Canadian flag keychain”. We ordered all our pints from him. He even walked out into the crowd to give me mine when I forgot it on the bar.

Music was traditional Irish, mostly drinking songs. It was awesome. The old dude with his guitar was just perfect. The atmosphere was friendly and again, full of happy faces. Ang and I met two friends from England. The first guy was a Hungarian with an English accent, who artificially inseminated cows and other livestock, and his friend was a headstrong gal who spoke “the Queen’s English”, whatever that meant. Lovely people, and we had a lovely time.

The Quays closed its doors around 1:30, and I’m not sure exactly how it came about, but Ang asked the bartender where else we could go, and then it was off to Gogarty’s for the late-night crowd. The bartender joined us shortly thereafter, chugging Miller’s through a straw to reach an intoxicated state all the quicker. And so the 5 of us joined the party across the street… and what a party it was. I can’t remember when I actually started liking songs such as “Clementine”, but for some reason it was the cat’s meow to sing along at the top of my lungs with a few hundred inebriated Irish souls. I just stuck to Guinness and had a blast with my new English friends and the cute bartender from the Quays, who somehow decided to hang with the 4 of us all night.

Around 3AM, Gogarty’s closed its doors too, and the bartender shooed us to the next haunt. This appeared to be a type of nightclub in the old-school Toronto fashion, and I balked. There was a cheerful, portly middle-aged guy from Scotland who was trailing me and I really wanted to lose him. Plus, I thought I had reached my alcohol saturation point, and the Quays bartender (no one’s fool, a total player) looked almost dangerously hammered. There was no way I was going in there… I dug in my heels. Dig dig dig… Scottish dude went in. Phew! Ang and the bartender went in, but Pete and Christine stayed behind with me, probably feeling almost as tired as I was. Moments later, Ang emerged, followed reluctantly by the bartender. The 4 of us agreed to call it a night, but the bartender would have none of it. He put the moves on Christine, but she laughed him away, then pointed to me and said something. Next thing I know, he calls me over. “ You playing hard to get?” His lids are drooping, he’s totally smashed. “Uh, no.” Without warning, he’s kissing me, ashtray mouth and all. Christ, why do people smoke!? And so that was unprovoked kiss number 2. I only learned his name afterwards.

The bartender, shot down by all three of us girls in turn, headed back into the nightclub: "I'll see ya when I see ya," he said to me, dejectedly (so I thought!). Ang and I walked Pete and Chris back to their hostel and we ended up taking a cab back to ours. Who knows why this made sense at the time?

We got back just after 3:30AM, detoxed with 2L of water, and got ready for bed. Ang went right to sleep, but I was sitting up on the top bunk when the French guys arrived. The tall one stripped down to his boxers right in front of me, and proceeded to ask me, in his sexy France French accent, how my night went. “Um, it was great of course, didn’t expect much else from Dublin!” I listed our plan of attack for the evening. He smiled. He didn’t seem drunk at all.

4 hours later, we awoke to yet another beautiful day. Ang and I abandoned our illicit cans of beer in the room, needing to jettison them for weight restrictions on the plane. I hope the French guys like Heineken. After a small breakfast at a nearby café, and a quick stop at a souvenir shop to pick up a Temple Bar T-Shirt (I mean, c’mon!), we headed to the Guinness factory. Nothing like more Guinness and the smell of hops to cure a hangover. The factory was great fun; I actually learned something… The tour ended with a fresh pint of Guinness at the “Sky Café” overlooking the city of Dublin. Sure beats the CN Tower…

We ran like mad to make it back to the hostel, grab our bags and head to the airport. However, for a multitude of reasons… we didn’t make it in time to catch our flight to Amsterdam. Much hand-wringing ensued at the airport. This was my nightmare come true… the next flight would cost $350 CDN each. So much for a budget holiday… we looked at other options, but the best was to continue with our original plans. So we took the bus back to Temple Bar, got another room in the Barnacles hostel, and proceeded to drown our sorrows with yet more pizza and Guinness.

We went straight to the Quays that night, where the bartender spotted us, and, in a surprising fit of annoyance, slammed his fist right down on the bar. All eyes turned to us… the other staff stared at us, and at him, quizzically. We confessed that we had missed our flight to Amsterdam. “Oh, I have a feeling that you’ll miss the next one too,” he said, both peeved and mysterious at once. He didn’t speak to us the rest of the night, and left before closing time.

Things perked up at Gogarty’s, where we met a nice fellow named Tom from Northern Ireland, and his boss. They work in the bottled water industry, with a small brand named “Classic”. That’s pretty much all I remember about that, except that Tom felt sorry for us having lost all that money on the flight, and he bought us each a few rounds. Perhaps it was because of that, I incurred my second hangover of the trip… yes, really, no kidding.

So the next day, definitely NOT wide-eyed and bushy-tailed, we make it to Dublin airport alive and on time. The flight was, er, “bouncy?” and the landing in Amsterdam was positively frightening. The lady next to me had her seat in a death-grip, knuckles white and all. I was glad to be over with that one.

Aran Island

To get to Aran Island, we had to take a bus for 30 minutes and a ferry for an hour. I was practically starving on the ferry (not used to those “continental breakfasts” of OJ and toast) and thrashed back my raging appetite with an instant coffee (*grimace*) and another made-in-Europe chocolate bar that you just can’t get here. As soon as we disembarked, we were accosted by taxi drivers/ tour operators who were vying for our tourist euros… kind of funny actually. You basically make a living on the Island with fishing or tourism. The first guy who approached us was the guy we went with (the other option was to rent a bike, but A) it would be hard to cover the Island in 4 hours and B) the bikes were pretty much spoken for by the absolute HOARDES of French students! Must have been school trip season in Europe). It all worked out though in the end. Our tour guide spoke Gaelic (Irish) and English with a wonderful accent. Easy to tell he did this same tour twice a day and has done so for years, because he talked so fast it was hard to take it all in! His modus operandi was to talk like mad, drop us off periodically to see the sights, hike, etc and then pick us up again. Total price? 10 euros.

The fort (Dun Aengus) was, of course, the highlight. Built on a cliff with a great vantage point over the sea and the Island, it was begun in the middle ages. I was pretty much in awe to see the sky and sea meet in an incredible shade of blue, stretching as far as the eye could see. Indescribable, really.

All of Aran Island, and indeed most of Ireland, is covered with low-lying, hand-built stone walls. They stretch on and on, curving and snaking through the sand, rock and grass, a testament to the industry of the Irish in making arable land from the rock. The walls served both to demonstrate ownership of property, and to clear land for farming and raising livestock.

After the tour, we picked up lunch at the local Spar store, where I tried again to tell the difference between 20 and 50-cent euro pieces. Delicious baguette sandwiches and fruit were enjoyed in the sun… alongside the healthiest and largest seagulls I’ve ever seen. We browsed the gift shops, full of clothes and crafts made by the locals, and then caught the ferry back to Galway. A bit tired and sun-kissed (the trek to Dun Aengus was quite a climb!) but it was definitely worth it.

We had a 20-minute turnover to catch the next bus to Dublin… and we just made it. I tried to stay awake as we passed through Limerick and Athlone, but to no avail. We were checked in to Barnacles in Temple Bar just after 11pm. The front desk guy working the night shift was Canadian – from Hamilton! – one of the many reasons we enjoyed staying at this hostel. We didn’t bother going out that night, although we hit up another Spar for some food. A good sleep was in order.

Galway

Monday dawned with a raging appetite, and it was off to Galway for us. Brunch was purchased at a nearby Dunn’s store, where I also picked up an Irish newspaper and a couple of the famous European chocolate bars… the chocolate there is amazing (Galaxy bars!) and makes our junk food seem like… well… junk in comparison. We took a cushy bus to the city centre and dropped our stuff off at the hostel, literally 5 steps away. Kinlay House… it’s a pretty decent place, friendly staff, but oh the showers are hot!! I think it’s a good way to save on water bills, because you couldn’t possibly stand under that water for more than a second or two… you literally need to scald yourself clean.

The rest of the day was spent traipsing around Galway, mostly the historic part by the harbour. We walked the long pier out to the lighthouse and took some photos of the palm trees… a strange sight in Ireland. We made our way past the cathedral and the University of Galway… a pretty campus, but nothing we saw during the trip could beat the University of Cork City. I don’t have many pictures because I was getting disappointed with my camera, so I just asked Ang to take pictures on my behalf!

For dinner, we picked a tiny restaurant on the main strip that advertised “real Irish” fare, and we filled up on seafood chowder and shepherd’s pie (with cabbage, not corn). Then off to a pub in search of some Monday night nightlife… well, we were still recovering from Cork so we ended up nursing a few pints and discussing what had happened so far!

Next: off to Aran Island for a day trip.