Sojourn to Blighty

There is something about the pre-dawn of day that gives off an element of the ethereal. As the mist hung over the polders, I sped towards Amsterdam and shivered from the excitement that being back on the road always brings. Flying over the North sea towards the east of England is something I will never tire of. It is a familiar view: a patchwork country from up above.

It used to be a view of coming home and now it is merely one of coming back. Returning 'home' to Cambridge and seeing it rebuilt around the edges gave it a feeling of some place new. But once I was in the Friday afternoon bustle of the centre, it was once again timeless. I walked up Trinity Street as I had done all those years ago, letting myself feel the anticipation of seeing King's Parade and King's Chapel appear at the end of the street. It is still a beautiful view that will always bring a smile to my face. It was at that moment, years ago, that I decided (after about twenty minutes, mind) I would live there, work there, make a life there. Which I did. One long ago September I began a new adventure; therefore, Cambridge in September is always a special time. A time of new beginnings. The cobbled streets are filled with leaves and students, and the Great Tree outside of King's Chapel begins to change colours. The wind changes, bringing a nip from the north-east.

It's a funny thing, returning to a place. An odd mix of nostalgia and longing for old memories and the people you've known. For me, content as I am in ever looking forwards, it was but for the briefest of moments. I was happy to see it, to catch up with old friends and family; but I was just as happy to leave it in the knowledge that it hasn't changed much, even though I certainly have.

I left Cambridge to go north, at a painfully slow pace thanks to British Rail and its signalling issues (nothing changed there, either!). I had a wedding to attend in the far north of Norfolk, which was an adventure in itself. It took me two buses to get to the village, and during my trip I reflected on the thought that the English language is rapidly declining. Now, perhaps this is just because I live in a non-English speaking country, but each time I return to England I can't help but think..."is this really English I'm hearing?"

It seems to get worse the deeper into East Anglia I go... It began at the airport when a person asked me, "All right, darling, yeah?" After speaking Dutch (which can be at times quite formal) and "International English" it was rather a shock to suddenly find myself addressed thus. Then again, I wasn't exactly flying with British Airways...anyway, it happened again in Cambridge when paying for my stockpile of tea and biscuits (Dutch tea is lovely, but there is something about Twinings that I miss... and thankfully, Scottish Shortbread has not just become a foreign import...). On the train the calibre of conversation was pitiful...how do people survive such day to day dramas? And then finally, on this bus journey, when everyone who got on seemed to know everyone else: it was a constant stream of, "Hallo! Or'right?" I can't quite understand how people in the West Country and East Anglians (opposite sides of the country!) manage to sound the same when addressing one another.

The second bus I took, driven by a Sikh, managed to squeeze and manoeuvre its way through impossibly narrow country lanes. I was deposited in the village, which is really more a hamlet, right outside the pub. Fantastic! As I went in, everyone at the bar turned to look at me. "Or'right?"

At last, I was here. Away from town and bustle and the confining city, in the open. Out here, where it is all sky and fields, and the birds overhead; where a person can breath. There are many places in the UK that are beautiful in a stunning, enchanting sort of way. In the wilds of East Anglia, it is a subtle beauty that comes with an easiness. Like slipping on a favourite pair of shoes. The rich, arable land rolls and tumbles towards the sea in a gentle fashion; the late summer sunset that burst with pink and red have a peaceful quality; the frozen sharpness of the air that bites reminds one of its wildness; and the earthy smell of the dirt is so thick, one can almost taste it.

Having grown up with dirt and animals, surrounded by ranches, this tract of land made useful by farmers feels somewhat familiar. A place of retreat as well as hard work. It is a place that I could quite happily escape to, indulging in wellie boots, thick jackets, and the companionship of dogs. This was my youth, a world away, and being back in a place surrounded by open spaces brings to mind such memories. I enjoyed looking out at the horizon and finding it waiting for me, beckoning me, rather than taken up by buildings.

The wedding was beautiful and wonderful; traditional from the service to the country dancing. I hadn't attempted country dancing since Australia, but found my rhythm eventually after a few times of skipping about and going in circles with the best man. Quite fun really, and certainly beats a disco. I think from now on all discos should be replaced with country style dancing - can you imagine it? All the bright young things dancing like Elizabeth and Mr Darcy rather than grinding and bumping their way about a "dance" floor. Time to bring some old fashioned romance back into modern day...

It was a delightful weekend on many levels. I was glad to get away from it all for a while and breath the country air. To feel some space around me and get my boots dirty: a wonderful escape for a time. Now, it is a new week, very nearly a new month, and there is no peace for the wicked. After a few days of fresh air and hearty meals, I feel ready to take it all on again.

Music Idols

It's not often one gets to see or even meet their music idols. In fact, depending on your taste in music, it can be nearly impossible (eg: they are no longer living...). I've been very lucky to see a few of my favourite musicians - multiple times in different countries, on opposite ends of the world even.

As a singer/songwriter and folkie (a folk musician) my heroes include, to name a few: Bob Dylan, Joan Baez, Tim O'Brien, Mark Knopfler, The Band, The Beatles...and so on (it's a very long list). The last two were obviously not an option when hoping for concerts, but the others...

I've seen Bob Dylan three times: once in Albuquerque, in London at an Irish festival of all places, and in Nottingham when he played with Mark Knopfler. I've seen Mark Knopfler in Denver too. Tim O'Brien frequented the local Folk and Bluegrass Festival in my home town when I was growing up. An incredibly nice guy when I spoke with him, and he had some great tips about song writing. And Joan Baez.

Joan Baez at the Oosterpoort

Last weekend Joan Baez came to town. Which was both fortuitous and slightly random - I mean, Groningen isn't exactly the first place one thinks of when you hear the name of a top American musician. I had the very great fortune to see her in Cambridge three years ago and meet her as well after the show was over. She was lovely, as you might imagine, beautiful and full of energy. She had played all my favourite songs - songs that I cover during my own sets - and it was all rather surreal. 

This time she was playing at the the 'Take Root Festival', which is an American music roots festival here in Groningen. I was pleasantly surprised by it, as I didn't really know what to expect from an indoor festival. It was quite simple and relaxed actually: four different stages, different bands scheduled throughout the evening, plenty of beer and food: voila! I was able to stand near the stage and listen to Joan Baez sing and tell stories to the crowd. It really is incredible to hear songs you've listened to so many times, sung a mere ten feet away. It is also very moving; her songs are powerful in their own right, but being present always gives them more weight. A most wonderful start to the evening.

There were also plenty of other bands to see once Joan Baez had finished her set. Some rock bands, a folk singer, and a six piece country and western band. With cowboy boots, Stetsons, and steel guitars! I was in my element! Country music was a big part of the culture of where I grew up, and the first songs I ever learned to play on the guitar were country songs. It gets a lot of flak these days, and it is true that it isn't the same as it used to be. It's more rock and pop with a country flair, which doesn't quite cut it.

One reason I loved living in Australia was because country music is quite big there - Tamworth is the country music capital; Keith Urban is from Oz; and country music is often heard on the radio. Living in England, however, was like a country music desert. My oasis: a one hour weekly slot on BBC radio that I listened to regularly. And goodness, trying to explain what a tailgate is... But there was a great collection of English ballads and Celtic inspired music that filled the void, and that too was good.

Therefore, I never expected to move to the Netherlands and suddenly find myself in the midst of an Americana reboot. After all, what was the Netherlands' entry at the Eurovision Song Contest? Calm After the Storm - a country song by the The Common Linnets, a Dutch Americana band. It took Europe by storm and came in second place. And it's not just the Netherlands either: a Danish film maker has just made a Western film with Danish, Swedish, and English actors: The Salvation. A Danish Western...dark and broody with excellent story telling, no doubt! I can't wait to see it. Everywhere I turn I seem to find this interest in Americana: cowboy hats and boots; belt buckles; the rise in popular fiction of "the cowboy" and Western genre. I can think of at least three films coming out in the next few months that are Westerns, and pubs aren't just full of jazz bands, but more often country and western bands - both original and cover bands. It's wonderful!

Anyway, my point is that I found it very inspiring to see my music idol, Joan Baez, as well as get back to my roots a bit. As a musician I believe it is very important to put down the guitar at times and go listen to others. I walked away from that festival with a whole slew of new song ideas and new chords patterns I want to try. When I get to see my music heroes, it always takes me back to when I first heard their music. Back to those first few times I tried to play their songs, learning the tabs and chords. It's like coming full circle, you see: very special. I look forward to sitting down properly and making music after this!

Open Monumentendag: a day of National Heritage

I'm slowly realising that even for a small country, the Netherlands is quite big on celebrating things nationally. What's brilliant is that the entire country gets behind these things, so it feels like a jolly great party! This weekend is Open Monumentendag, or 'Open Monuments Day'. This year's theme, celebrating 200 years of the Kingdom of the Netherlands, and 300 years since the Treaty of Utrecht (lots of history that I won't be going into, but basically this year is all about anniversary's...), is 'Power and Glory'. And as I've learned, small nation or not, there is a lot of history and past glory to be explored.

Martinitoren

After a week of feeling poorly, having caught a cold from my lovely students, getting out and exploring was probably a good idea. Pulling on my favourite pair of bluejeans and my Chacos, which have taken me over four continents and always remind me that there are more paths to travel, I was ready to step away from "cough-cough" and into "tourist mode". What I found most fantastic about this national event was that I got to poke around all of Groningen's old buildings, being utterly nosy for free!

Carillon at the top of the tower

First stop was the Martinitoren. I've been wanting to climb the tower of this famous church since I moved here, and now I finally was doing it! One dizzying climb of 260 steps later, I was being gloriously deafened by the bells, inspecting the inside of the clock, gazing out over my wonderful city, and watching a man play the carillon. He gave us some history of it too - can you believe there have been people playing tunes from that tower since 1525?? Wonderful! He played us some Bach, and you could really see what a workout it was. The largest bell he has to sound with his foot is just under 8000 kilos(!). It is all no doubt mechanized, but he did have to stamp a bit. What a sound! I had the time of my life, but was more than pleased to get down to solid ground again.

Groningen's Grote Markt

With the city echoing with the sound of bells, my next stop was the University Museum. I pass it each day on my way to work and have been meaning to go in; again, now I had no excuses! It was filled with mostly portraits of rather dour faced Dutchmen, who all had something to do with the Uni. The rest were artefacts and jars filled with ghastly specimens. Floating bits of bodies, bizzare deformities studied by scientists, preserved things...you know, the sorts of things you can't "un-see".  It is interesting of course, but I couldn't help but feel glad that someone else can deal with those sorts of things.

Academie Building

I moved on to something more cheerful: The Academie Building, the main building of the Rijksuniversiteit Groningen (affectionately shortened to RUG). The RUG has many beautiful buildings from its 400 year history (did I mention this was an anniversary year?) but the Academie building is truly gorgeous. It was a reminder, if I needed one, of how lucky I am. I have the great privilege to give lessons there! This is also where I saw King Willem-Alexander a few months ago.

Great Hall in Academie Building

The room where I give lessons!

Ducking away from grandeur, I went to visit a tiny church called the Doopsgezinde Kerk. It is also known for the Mennonites, and has an interesting history as a radical reformed group from the Protestant branch. It all goes back to the 16th Century, but you can look it up yourself as this isn't really meant to be a history lesson, fascinating though it may be. Afterwards, I went across the road to have a look at maps, which is always fun. In Het Calmershuis they had all sorts of books filled with pages of maps. As a seafaring nation, the Dutch were responsible for "filling in the map" as it were, and it was interesting to see some of that history displayed.

Pump from 1729

Many of these places had free drinks and hapjes (snacks), so I wasn't becoming the least bit faint on this exploration. Which means I still had energy to drop by the Armhuiszittend Convent which was started in the 15th century for the poor who needed somewhere to live (basically). There is a beautifully restored pump from 1729 in the garden. It is located just beneath the majestic Aa-Kerk. I had a wander through this church, but prefer the Martini Kerk for inside beauty. They are much the same in regards to simplicity (nothing like the grand cathedrals of Europe, all gilded in gold), but their histories are quite different. The Aa Kerk started out as a Catholic church, and there is still evidence of this in the frescos on the ceiling.

Tiled hearth with painting

I also passed through the Stadhuis (City hall) and lastly, the Provinciehuis (Province House) which is a beautiful building. There are many wonderful tiled hearths and paintings from important Dutch artists. It is incredible that there are so many treasures hidden away in these buildings that the public aren't aware of.

This open day was a great chance to get to know my new city. Not only was it great being nosy, but I learned a lot as well. I feel a lot closer to Groningen now, having seen it from all different aspects. Now when I hear the Martinitoren sound out the hours  I will think of the man up in the tower, stomping out the tunes for the city below to enjoy.

A Day for Pie

Today called for pie. After a long and heavy week of classes full of eighteen year olds, my Friday afternoon called out desperately for something restorative. My solution: a slice of Apple pie. Sometimes it really is the little things.

I've realized that the problem with living in a university town is that it is full of students - ones that carry on in the streets (or perhaps just the one below my window) until all hours, leave rubbish everywhere, and inconsiderately ram you with their bicycles as they over take even after you've signalled a turn. After nights of broken sleep and near death experiences behind the handlebars, desperate measures were needed. The sort that comes in sweetness and calories. 

What this city really could do with is an American diner that serves breakfast all day and unhealthily large pieces of chocolate cake. Since this isn't an option, I opted for a cafe that has an expat feel and apple pie on the menu. It is the sort of place that has lazily turning ceiling fans, vast potted plants, sunny terraces, and wooden blinds that create cosy corners. Where they play jazzy, upbeat music that allows them to charge extortionate prices. And also typical to Holland, it's the sort of place the waiters leave you to die of thirst, avoiding your eye and frantic waving at all costs. It always amazes me these places stay open at all! 

Gosh, this sounds all rather negative, when it should really read as "frustratedly affectionate". The apple pie will never be quite right (served cold, with chocolate??), the peace and quiet of my youth was apparently my quota in life, and I must remember to never venture into a cafe in any state of hunger as it is likely I will starve first...but I do love it. 

This is what being an expat is all about: shrugging one's shoulders and accepting that if it was all the same, life would be awfully dull. (Though a decent night's sleep wouldn't go entirely amiss...) It's wonderful to wear red trousers and cycle about madly like the locals; to sit on terraces and quaff light beer, wear loads of gel in my hair, and have a calendar of birthdays in the downstairs loo.

I'm rather pleased with myself actually in regards to the cycling. I've been to-ing and fro-ing to the university for the past three weeks and I've lived to tell the tale! I took my mother's advice about walking in New York City (elbows out and look like you mean it) and applied it to my cycling. In addition, I've been jumping in front of traffic and inching my way past others on the cycle lanes. Everyone else seems to throw themselves into the gaping mouth of death quite happily on a daily basis, so why not me too? (How the Dutch don't all have ulcers from the stress of getting to and fro in one piece is remarkable...) Perhaps it is just us buitenlanders who have all the stress? Anyway, I'm beginning to find the cycling enjoyable, and I'm arriving everywhere in half the time, so hurrah! 

Remembering a True Blue Hero

Tiredness does strange things to the mind: for instance, I was sat staring into space after a shattering day and suddenly I did what can only be described as a triple take. The sun was trickling through, making a dappled sort of pattern on bright green ferns, and just in front of it, on a iron gate, ringed tail hanging down from a brown body, was what I thought was a monkey. It was, in fact, a rather odd looking cat, but I did begin to wonder. It was certainly time for a cup of tea! But thinking about animals in odd places reminded me of a time when animals were everything. 

Today, September 4th, is not a day I easily forget. It's a bit like someone's birthday - you know it's coming up. Eight years ago today, the world lost an incredible man: a wildlife warrior of the highest calibre, Steve Irwin.

It feels almost childlike to say it, but he was my hero. I couldn't get enough of his wildlife programmes as a youngster. He was a man who was passionate about conservation and preservation - crucial things if we are to sustain any sort of existence, really. He was crazy and wild, running about in khaki and jumping on crocodiles - I suspect the Aussie's groaned at this national export. Crocodile Dundee and Fosters was bad enough, but now this? For me, it endeared me to a nation that I have since fallen in love with.

Family tribute at Australia Zoo

I was in my first week of college, brand new to life away from home and learning responsibility, when I heard the news. We had an 8am Anthropology lecture, and my professor said far too casually that Steve Irwin had died. I didn't want to believe it, but with a sinking heart, I knew it had to be true. After class I ran home and switched on the news; and there, sure enough, was the headline. He had been killed by a sting ray, of all animals. I rang my mum of course, for what else do you do when you are unreasonably sad? I had never met him; didn't know him personally; and yet I cried such tears and felt such loss. Still do, in fact. Why should such a good man, doing so much for animals and our earth be taken away?

And why was he my hero? Well, it was not simply because he was a wildlife warrior, championing for animal's protection at every breath, but he was also a teacher, explaining the how and why. A world away, these magnificent animals existed - the dangerous, the cuddly, the beautiful ones, all in a mind boggling harmony. It was utterly fascinating, and whenever a new episode came out, I was sat glued to the television.

He was also a man who showed his emotions, not afraid to cry or show fear, or to be off the wall enthusiastic. He bled real blood and broke real bones in front of the camera; he took real risks. He was a man who lived. I suppose it all captured my imagination. He had a rather wonderful message to the world that reads: "If we can teach people about wildlife, they will be touched. Share my wildlife with me. Because humans want to save things that they love." What a terrific role model.

Steve Irwin was a huge part of the lives of my generation; I think he took the world by storm - and surprise! He was just a true blue Aussie bloke that believed passionately in wildlife conservation, and he touched so many people through the work that he did. Sure, he was over the top, but his message was clear: we need to look after our world.

Only a small example of the tributes to Steve at Australia Zoo

I went to Oz like I always dreamt; made my way to what had once been a small flora and fauna park in southern Queensland, now a major site called Australia Zoo; I spent an entire day admiring my hero's life's work and crying at the sheer amount of tributes to him that had been left outside the zoo upon the news of his death. He was not just my hero; no, he was the animal's hero, the world's hero.

One that is, by crikey, sorely missed.