Dreaming of Vacation

The first week back to work and teaching is under my belt, and it is hard not to let my thoughts stray back to the summer vacation. It's 26C (79F) most days, the sun is shining in a gorgeous blue sky, and my mind keeps saying, "Yes, but...it still feels like summer!"

Bateman's - Rudyard Kipling's former home

The vacation was much needed after a hectic semester, and being able to relax and put my mind to other things than comma rules, infinitives, or the continuous tense was, in a word, bliss. Not that the vacation was all sleeping in until 11 and long afternoons in the sun: there was moving into a new place, assembling Ikea furniture, and realising that I really do have more things that I had imagined. But once the move was made, it was off on the road!

Highclere Castle

 The first few weeks of the vacation were spent on the English south coast. I managed to fit in some research for a writing project in between sightseeing and getting my fill of pub lunches. There was camping involved, which, after nearly 15 years of avoiding, was a slight shock to the system. Getting in and out of a tent (and up and down off the ground, for that matter) seemed much simpler 15 years ago... The rain chased us out of that idea, and I was left with the thought, "Well, we did try at least." Seeing Bateman's, Rudyard Kipling's former home, and Greenway, Agatha Christie's former home, were probably the two highlights of the trip. I also really enjoyed seeing Highclere Castle, where Downton Abbey was filmed. Before I knew it, two weeks had passed, and it was goodbye pub grub and access to shortbread. I stocked up on the necessities like shortbread, tea, and Boots products before leaving. Can you believe that shortbread is nigh impossible to find in Groningen!?

Himmelbjerget, Denmark

The second half of the vacation was spent in Denmark. I retreat to Scandinavia most summers, though often to Sweden, so it was nice to see more of a country I'd only been to a few times. I stayed in Jutland (called the real Denmark by those there - "Copenhagen" is like a swear word and involves eye rolling when said...). Jutland is beautiful in many ways: rolling hills of wheat that move north to dark pine forests and long white sand beaches. Århus and Ålborg are wonderfully Scandinavian cities in which to lose oneself, with lots of cute cafes and trendy places to shop. I was astonished to learn that the entire population of Denmark is about a third of the Netherlands. In fact, I shouldn't be writing about how wonderful the country is; I should be saying it's awful so that it doesn't become overcrowded!

Skagen

While the cities were interesting, as were the bunkers from WWII and their history, it was the nature that captured my attention. The beaches of the north specifically caught my eye. It felt remote and wild in some ways, which I liked. The pine forests and white sand reminded me fondly of Terschelling, and it felt like coming home. Skagen (pronounced "Skain") was particularly beautiful, and I very much enjoyed standing at the top tip of Denmark where the two seas meet. Its wild landscape was once a haven for artists, and seeing the most famous paintings of that time (1890s) collected in a gallery there was such a delight. The paintings reminded me of the Cornish painters of the Newlyn school ilk. Some of my favourites were by P.S. Krøyer.

Viking site: Lindholm Høje

Den Tilsandede Kirke

Unlike in England, the weather was gorgeous everyday, and the trip became a glorious mix of museums and culture, such as visiting Viking sites like Lindholm Høje, Aggersborg or Fyrkat, eating good food, and soaking up the sunshine in pristine nature. Skagen was certainly a highlight, as was seeing Den Tilsandede Kirke (the Sanded Church). The north of Denmark really is a place to lose oneself in beautiful landscapes and history.

It was a wonderful holiday away, and now, I must do my best to focus on work. However, the memories of the holiday will keep me going until the next time I can hit the road!

Melting, Moving, and Making steps

Phew! Is it hot in here or what? That's right, folks, you have indeed read the thermometer correctly: Groningen experienced 36 degrees Celsius recently (96F), which, without trying to sound like I'm complaining, is a bit much. I have been teaching summer school (three days to go, not that I'm counting or anything), and am so grateful that we have been put in the new wing with Air Con. It keeps the students awake, too, which is always a plus.

In addition to teaching, I am saying goodbye to the attic room (which in 36C is really not funny), as I have been fortunate enough to find a nice little place a bit further out from the city centre near to the park. It has been a slow and steady progression of boxes and sorting, moments of "when on earth did I get this?", and heaving stuff down two flights of the steepest stairs known to mankind (have I mentioned The Stairs of Death before?) only to haul them up another two flights of normal stairs. I somehow managed to get a small set of drawers up the stairs, and thought I might indeed melt onto my new hardwood floor from the heat. Needless to say, all other haulage has now been conducted after 7pm.

While I'm looking forward to the new place very much, I do feel slightly sad to be leaving this old attic room. It has character and a certain cosiness, and I have had a lot of nice memories here (if we forget about the mouse incident). I have written a lot here, both fiction and music, and when I look around the place it hits me that this was my first home in the Netherlands, and therefore will always be rather special.

I must say, however, that moving 1.3km (.8 of a mile) is by far the shortest distance I have ever moved in my life, and it is certainly massively easier than moving countries! I have moved countries multiple times, and would do so again, but being able to move just down the road is some kind of bliss. I have even stocked the new fridge with beer to help ease the process.

It is exciting to start on a new chapter in a new place. In the past, that has often involved me moving to another part of the world, across oceans, or finding myself in the midst of a new culture. Now, I merely have a new neighbourhood to explore, and Groningen's large park, the Noorderplantsoen, at my feet to stroll through on long summer evenings or enjoy a drink on a terrace by the fountain. A very exciting start to the summer holidays!

Moving day!

Market Meandering

Ahh, Saturdays! Time to sleep in (or in Dutch: "sleep out"- uitslapen); time to read quietly over a big cup of tea or attempt to do a crossword; time to do things around the house or in the kitchen; time, in fact, to do those small things that the rush of the day to day seem to make impossible. And here we come down to it: time. It has been a busy, hectic, and altogether manic spring with teaching five days a week at full steam, marking half incomprehensible essays, and generally going a bit cross eyed. At last the students are busy with their exams, and I've had a chance to recoup a bit and find pleasure in those small things.

My favourite thing about Saturdays besides the above is also putting the radio on and listening to both music and chat from the BBC (some days better than others), and going down to Groningen's Vismarkt to poke about the stalls a bit and buy fresh produce. Today was such a day, with the added bonus (danger?) of finding a second hand bookshop I'd never been to before. I managed to find three paperbacks (Robert Goddard, if you must know, and whom I highly recommend for a good summer read) for 4 euros, which felt extra nice because the chap stocking the books refused to sell me only two books when I could get three for the same price. Now that is my kind of book salesman! I should hate to disregard a good bargain. My bookshelves, however, are beginning to protest...

Vismarkt, Groningen

After this, and feeling rather pleased, I went to the market to wander around a bit and pick up my usual fresh produce. What I like about the market is that it offers not only fresh supplies, but the people working the stalls know their products well and can help you find just the right cheese to take home for a Saturday evening, or can explain just what went into the biscuits made from local honey and so on. I like the atmosphere: the press of people, from frazzled young mothers to old grannies with baskets on their arms; the young couple deliberating over just which fish they should buy in for their parent's visit the next day; the shouts of the stall owners "three avocados for an euro!" "Get your strawberries here!" "Who is next? Who can I help?" The bustle and buzz of the place is so gezellig (a wonderful Dutch word that has no equivalent in English, and the closest thing would be the word "cosy"). It is very alive and busy.

I enjoy walking down towards the end of the market where the fishmongers are; they bring the smell of the sea with them, and I find it curious to see the slimy things with eyes or claws encased in ice. I don't particularly like eating fish, so I tend to observe these stalls with a polite curiosity and slight morbid fascination. It is haring (herring) season at the moment, so there were many stalls set up just for this purpose. It is a Dutch delicacy that I have not yet been brave enough to try. I don't much like fish anyway, and raw fish is certainly not my first choice off any menu. (Ok, actually the hering is salted, or "soused", but still...) It is a popular snack, however, and the herring is often served on a bit of bread with onions or pickles, or eaten by holding it by the tail and letting it slide down one's gullet. Appetising, eh? Well, apparently, as there were queues all over the place for fresh herring. It is the best moment of the season just now, so the vishandels are very busy.

Broodje haring

Yes, going to the market and buying produce from those who know all there is to know about potatoes or cheese or fish is a pleasant thing; it is nice to catch the stall owner's eye and share a smile or small chat over the counter, or to go with a pocketful of coins and walk home with having spent less than 10 euros on fresh food. I like the atmosphere and unique, almost old fashioned quality. It certainly beats standing in the queue in a supermarket. There is something to be said about that interaction and being able to see what it is we are eating up close, rather than packaged away behind plastic or cardboard.

I bought my usual appelflap pastry treat (it's Saturday after all!), and a whole grilled chicken, the carcass of which is currently boiling pleasantly in the kitchen to make stock from later, and lots of vegetables. The avocados were at a nearly crazy discounted price of four for 50 euro cents. Must have hit the market at just the right moment!

Whatever your Saturday schedule is, perhaps think about heading down to your local markets if you have one. The experience is more than just buying food; it is also about making a brief connection with those who provide us with what we choose to nourish ourselves with. Happy Saturday!

Groningen's Liberation: 70 Years Commemoration

Re-enactment in the Grote Markt

The last few weeks have marked and commemorated some memorable anniversaries. In April, Groningen saw a re-enactment of the Battle of Groningen, which took place in 1945 from April 13 - 16. I continue to find it fascinating to live in a country that was once occupied and which takes the commemoration of liberation quite seriously. What also strikes me, as I've mentioned in previous posts, is the openness in regard to reconciliation. It is truly inspiring and encouraging.

May 4th and 5th are also important days: Dodenherdenking or the Remembrance of the dead, and Bevrijdingsdag or Liberation Day. What is particularly striking this year, however, is that it is 70 years since the end of the war in Europe. Seventy years. (And remember last year was 100 years since the start of the Great War!) That is really no time at all. People still remember the Second World War - members of my own family, for instance. In the span of time, it is not so long ago, and the memories, painful ones as well as others, can still be felt and recognised. This is why reconciliation is so important; we must continue to come together in remembering so that such things may never happen again.

Allied tanks

WWII Memorabilia

The the re-enactment on April 12 in the Grote Markt was both interesting and moving. There was a vetran there from Canada who had fought in the Battle of Groningen, and also an older lady who was just a child at the time and remembers the liberation of the city of Groningen. In addition to the re-enactment (rather exciting with tanks and "explosions"!) there was also real footage being played out on a screen. Unbelievable to both hear and see the play-by-play of what happened in 1945. There was also a map we could follow - "De Sporen van de bevrijding" (trail of liberation) which took us to different points of interest around the city: they included four on my very street, one being where the SS interrogated people, and another where the officers lived! There was also a display with memorabilia at the library which was quite interesting to see.

Following the footsteps...

And now, as we move into the month of May, countries all across Europe are commemorating the end of the war. Today, May 4th, saw services of remembrance all across the city of Groningen: at church yards, memorials, and along the streets themselves. At the Martinikerkhof (Martini churchyard) there was a remembrance service this evening with music, the chiming of the Martini clock bells, the placing of wreaths and flowers at the foot of the St. Joris monument, and, of course, a two minute silence at 8pm. The Last Post was played, which always make me rather emotional, then we were silent for two minutes before the band played the national anthem, Wilhelmus. A quite old man beside me pulled off his flat cap in such a reverent, old fashioned way; it occurred to me only then that he had probably been old enough to remember when his country had been liberated seventy years before. Around me there was a mere murmur of words of the anthem (myself included), but as the song went on the voices grew, and the crescendo seemed to reach a peak at the line, "Een Prinse van Oranje". I began to blub, as per usual when it comes to national anthems and such. It was an incredibly moving moment: an entire churchyard of the very young to the very old; veterans, government ministers, religious and community leaders, and everyone in between, all singing together and remembering those who died.

Dodenherdenking

May 5th is the commemoration of Liberation Day; this year it is a national holiday, and there will be events all throughout the day, including a music festival. I think back to all the family stories about the liberation (which for my family on the island of Terschelling came quite a few days later than on the mainland) and marvel still at the hardships and sacrifices that were made. I find it fascinating, of course, as it is my own family history, but I also find it inspiring to think about the strength and determination shown by the allied troops within Holland, as well as the Dutch people. We live in a world that continues to see its fair share of horrors, and I only hope that we will still come together in these times to combat issues and show a similar determination to overcome things that are unacceptable.

Flag at half mast

In my travels around the world, I have yet to come across a place that has been untouched by either of the world wars, and for some, the conflicts that came after. The memories still linger in some of these places in an almost surprising way, and again I am overwhelmed by the fact that is is merely seventy years ago that the war ended in Europe. I am glad to have been a part of remembering, and am, as ever, hopeful about the reconciliation that continues.

Wreaths and flowers

Here is a link that has some details about the liberation in the Netherlands, including some interesting photos.

   

Places of Song: Groningen and Cambridge

The bells in the Martinitoren are ringing quite gustily this morning; more so than usual. There are 62 bells connected to the carillon, and as I live not 200 metres away, it means that when the wind is in the right direction, the bells are very loud. It is Palm Sunday today, of course, which is why the bells are more vigorous than usual. The tower of the Martinikerk is iconic here in Groningen, as well it should be. It is a beautiful and impressive structure. Groningen's other well known church is Der Aa Kerk, which has a rather magnificent organ. There are quite a few beautiful churches here, actually.

Martinikerk

My thoughts tend to run towards churches and cathedrals at this time of year. As Holy Week begins, it is a busy (if not hectic) time for these places. Last year, Groningen played host to the Easter musical spectacle, The Passion. While Groningen will be a bit quieter this year, there will still be many concerts in the churches, namely Bach's famous oratorio, "St Matthew's Passion", and "The Crucifixion" by John Stainer. Both are beautiful, and Bach's music is especially pleasant (though my attention does tend to wander as all the singing is in German).

Inside the Martinikerk

Easter is a particularly important time for religious institutions and their parishioners. It is also a time of hope with the arrival of spring and warmer weather; in some places it means a long weekend; in other quarters, the holiday is merely an inconvenience, with public transport or openings hours pared down to bare minimum. And for others still, it is just a time to break into the chocolate.

King's College Chapel from the River Cam

When I lived in Cambridge, this time of year was lovely. The flowers blooming, the promise of warm, lazy days by the River Cam...and Easter. The Easter service at King's College Chapel (iconic for Cambridge) is nearly as famous as the Christmas Eve Carol service. The crowds are huge, and the queues begin early as it is so popular. In fact, during Holy Week, the concerts and services all across the Cambridge colleges and churches are magnificent. Religious significance aside, the music is truly wonderful to listen to. The music is so steeped in history, and there is nothing quite like listening to such powerful pieces in spaces they were designed to be heard. The great organ in King's College Chapel, for instance, is quite breathtaking in accordance with the boys' choir.

Top of the organ and the fan vault

This is perhaps one of the few things I miss about my old city; I often enjoyed going to listen to the choir at King's. It always felt such a privilege, which of course it was, really. To hear those young boys' voices rise up to the fan vaulted ceiling (the largest in the world) was quite humbling; a reminder of the beauty of innocence.

I know little about these iconic structures; I couldn't explain the hows and whys of the naves or transepts or chancels. But they are beautiful and acoustically perfect for the music of this time of year. In our world, in these troubled times, perhaps acknowledging the beauty of voices raised in song in places of fellowship is worth something.

Stain glass inside the Chapel

King's College Chapel from
inside the college

Taking in the Present Moment

There are times when I sit down at the end of the day and think "I really should write on the blog"... and yet I feel I have nothing to say. Which, of course, isn't at all true! This is a benefit of living as an expat: there is always something that comes up. There are new adventures to be had everyday. But even so, between work, social commitments, coming down with colds passed on from my students, visiting family, and trying to stick to some sort of writing schedule...well, it's easy to see how the blog can simply be forgotten.

It is quite easy to be caught up in the daily hectic rush; finding time (or making time) for things can be a challenge. Not too long ago, I was riding my bicycle to a friend's place just north of the city centre; it was a beautiful evening and the bicycle path ran right along the canal. I was struck by the peacefulness of that brief moment when day slips away into evening: long shadows rushing in to capture the remnants of the day. I always find that moment rather wistful. It's the end of another day, and I tend to look back a bit on what has been accomplished (or what hasn't been, as the case may be). It's when I start making lists for the next day. But on this bicycle ride, I put all that away and thought just about that moment. I felt the cold air of February nipping at my exposed skin on my face; felt it sneaking in over my collar. The sky was awash with pink and red, and along the canal you could hear the lapping of the water, and birds singing somewhere. Although still in the city, that moment was truly peaceful. The dying of the day... there is something rather magical, yet sad about it.

Evening in Groningen

It was nice to be reminded that sometimes we just need to take in the present moment. I wonder if we do it enough?

It's now the end of another day, and I find myself looking back to last year. Is it really only a year since I began one of the greatest adventures? I was taking a course, experiencing an early spring "heatwave" (certainly not the case at this moment!), and making ready to start my dream job. The time has flown by in the most wonderful way, and I have learnt and experienced so much. But even after a year or more here, I am glad there are still new things thrown my way that I can appreciate. For example, this week I had to do my Dutch taxes. I was lucky that mine weren't overly complicated; however, it wasn't the most fun I've had of an evening (taxes in a foreign language is not high on my list of invigorating activities...), but it was definitely a new experience.

I suppose it is good that there are new challenges to keep me on my toes! Having been here a year also means that there are things to look forward to again, such as boekenweek. I can hardly wait to nip down to the bookshop to choose a new Dutch book and receive a free one with it; this free book will also allow me to travel for no cost on the following Sunday. (And let's be honest, anything free in the Netherlands is something to celebrate. That it has to do with books, well, even better!). Then there's King's Day and Liberation Day... and the spring and summer to follow. Quite exciting, when you stop to think about it. Warm days, beers on cafe terraces with friends, reading in the park, evenings that stay light for ages... whizzing about Europe on long weekends... I can't wait. 

There is something quite satisfying in looking back and seeing how far one has come. For myself, I just can't believe how lucky I am: I get to wake up every day and do what I love (though some mornings I really wouldn't mind staying in bed for another hour...).

At the risk of sounding like a motivational poster, please go live your dreams, folks. Get out there and make your dreams come true. I couldn't imagine living any other way.

A Year in Groningen

On the first of February last year I moved to Groningen, hauling all my bits and pieces from the island of Terschelling, and thankfully being helped by my landlord and his son to hump it up the two flights of ridiculously steep stairs (ie: the stairs of death). It has been an interesting year - a fantastic year in many ways, and always an adventure. I've met many nice people, somehow landed my dream job, which was both exhilarating and terrifying, and have been able to properly experience city living.

Groningen is a wonderful city in that it is the capital of the north, yet still has the ability to feel like a market town. It is vibrant, terrifically international, full of culture, music, and lazy terraces for those warm summer days. Personally, it suits me well because it isn't too huge, as I'm a country girl at heart, and while it has everything you could possible want (besides an airport with more than three destinations), it doesn't have the mad rush of true metropolitan places. It has character and style.

Which brings me to my next point: the attic room. I can distinctly remember (and my journal entries back me up on this) sitting down after unpacking and thinking, "Well, it's only for a year." I don't mean to complain, as it is a charming place to live and is only a stone's throw from the heart of the city, and came furnished with the wonders of Ikea. It has also allowed me to have a creative sort of bubble, high up under the rafters, playing music and writing. I've written more here than ever before, which is immensely satisfying.

However. The attic room, at the top of the stairs of death, is sweltering in summer and freezing in winter. As I type this, my fingers are veritable blocks of ice from the rather impressive draught that is whooshing through the room. There is still a rather odd smell coming from the drain of the washbasin that no one has been able to figure out. When it rains hard (as it is doing now), the sound is almost deafening, as is the noise from the street below and the occasional helicopter speeding towards the hospital at the end of the road. I've begun wearing earplugs. During the winter months I've been battling the presence of mice in the walls - pest control in a foreign language is certainly an experience, let me tell you.

This now brings me to my next little tid bit: I celebrated yesterday's "One Year in Groningen Anniversary" with a chocolate muffin, a bout of writing, and searching casually for a new place to live. I went to bed in a positive mood, and was enjoying my book (third instalment of Stephen Fry's memoirs) when I heard a scuffling sort of sound. This is not by any means unusual - just mice moving from one part of the wall to another. I've never seen them, just heard them. Well, there I was, minding my own business reading my book, when from the corner of my eye I saw a movement above me: there is a small gap between the beam of the rafter and the wall, and a little mouse was peeking out. This was right above my bed, and had the dear little terrifying creature missed a step, it would have fallen right into my lap.

It saw me and was gone with a flick of its tail, but not before I leapt from my bed, saying something very unladylike at the top of my lungs. Not quite the excitement I would like at quarter past twelve on a Sunday, to be honest. After a bit more scuffling and stream of further unladylike oaths, it was gone. Or so I hoped. Trying to be practical and calm my heart rate, I sat on the edge of my bed, reasoning that it was highly unlikely Mr Mouse was going to return in the dead of night and abseil down, Mission Impossible style, to see if I was good to eat. Though having read Mrs Frisby and the Rats of NIMH as a child, anything seems possible in the middle of the night.

Needless to say, I didn't sleep very well. My students suggested tinfoil to stop up any gaps, as the mice can't chew it. I think they would know, as the state of most student houses would be paradise to vermin. I shall buy reams of the stuff today and perhaps some duct tape. No more gaps means no more mice...right?

Throughout this first year in Groningen, whenever I've begun grumbling about my place, I try to remind myself that it has character: the house is from 1896; it's by the canal; I can walk wherever I need to go. It's much more interesting than some modern flat that has been churned out for some housing estate.

To be quite frank, I think my nerves have had rather enough of character for the time being... 

Snow in Groningen

At last! It has snowed here in Groningen! Only a few inches and most traces are already gone after 24 hours, but still. Waking up on Saturday morning to see snow outside was just magical. I'm not sure why seeing freshly fallen snow turns me into a five year old, but there we are. After spending years in Colorado where the snow can be on the ground for five months or more, I might be asking myself why I even still find fascination with the white stuff. I think I still find the transformative aspect of it appealing. I didn't have to go anywhere, which certainly helped in finding it delightful. Here are some photos from Saturday morning in the city centre:

Grote Markt

Look out, these fruits are frosty!

Vismarkt

Martinikerkhof

Provinciehuis

Foyle's Finale: The End of an Era

Some eighteen months ago I wrote about the end of another television crime drama, that of Agatha Christie's Poirot. And now, today, is another culmination of a beloved detective series. I stumbled across Foyle's War, a crime drama series set in England during WWII, while on the hunt for films or shows the talented British actor Michael Kitchen had been in. I saw an episode from the second series and was immediately hooked. Nigh on seven years later, I am still as hooked as I was then.

I was studying at the time in the middle of the mountains in Colorado, a veritable backwater (I say this with the deepest affection, by the way), and it was a huge relief (if not a surprise) that the local library had the Foyle's War dvds. I watched them out of order as, wouldn't you know it, other patrons kept checking them out as well. It didn't matter, as they are fairly stand alone 90 minute episodes. At home for Christmas we ordered all the sets and it became a bit of a tradition to watch them each holiday.

Why was I so hooked? Gosh, I could be here all day just on the subject of Michael Kitchen's brilliant and understated acting ability, but let me try to be brief. First off, the quality of the show was excellent. Not only interesting and historically accurate plot lines written by Anthony Horowitz (who also contributed to some of Poirot's screenplays), but the filming managed to capture a nostalgic feel. Set in Hastings on the south coast of England, the scenery itself evoked an earlier, simpler time.

The house used as Foyle's home in Hastings -
taken during my visit in 2010

 Having grown up with the Old Country always present in our house, and my use of knife and fork, odd words like 'chap' and 'pardon', and my lapses into Queen's English spelling constantly being commented on by friends, immersing myself in the world of Foyle felt wonderfully like coming home. I can't explain it eloquently, but it struck a deep chord. Perhaps it was evocative of Enid Blyton's stories (if we leave out the murders) in a way, when boys still wore short trousers, ginger beer was the beverage of choice, and good, old fashioned justice was meted out. My childhood dreams were filled with her stories, and to be honest, I'd still give my right arm to be George (short for Georgina), racing around the English countryside on bicycles and finding secret passageways. One of the main characters, Sam (short for Samantha), is Foyle's driver and reminds me very much of an Enid Blyton character: inquisitive, brave, loyal to a fault, likes a "jolly good murder", and is unendingly jolly. I'd give my right arm to be Sam too, really...

Near "Foyle's" house, looking back towards
the Old Town (2010)

Hasting's Fishing Net Huts (2010)

So, the acting, the quality of production, and of course, most importantly, the stories themselves are reasons why I fell for the series. Foyle's War is not merely a television detective series, but a deeper look at the history of Britain during the war years. We are given an idea of what life on the Homefront was like; it was tough to say the least, and when the world is going to hell, what you really want is a principled, unwavering, honest chap to keep things on a balance. And this is where Michael Kitchen's character of Detective Chief Superintendent Christopher Foyle comes in. Unlike some other TV detectives, he doesn't rush around like a headless chicken looking for clues or rough up suspects in dingy interrogation rooms. Foyle is methodical, polite, clever, and need only pierce a wayward suspect with a steely look (which Kitchen is a pro at) to get results. Horowitz is a champion at the murder mystery, and his writing for this particular series was brilliant.

Hasting's Pier (2010)

The backdrop of history is fascinating, and after a few episodes I was back at the library finding all the books I could about the Second World War and Britain's part in it. For in truth, it is my history as well. My family both in England and in Holland were directly affected and involved with the war, as I suppose most people's families were, but I certainly felt closer to my own history after reading all about it. Growing up in a country that was not my own and feeling essentially rootless, learning about what things might have been like for my family gave me a sense of where I come from.

And here we have arrived at just why this show about a provincial detective on the Homefront means so much to me. Not only did it strike a chord and give me a chance to investigate my background, but it gave me the interest in a time period that was so important - everything changed after the war, and the repercussions were felt for decades and decades afterwards. It is only now we are beginning to find the space for reconciliation, as I've discussed before. This interest in all things WWII led to further research, which in turn led to writing, which then led to meeting those with similar interests, and has left me far better off than before, richer in knowledge and ability. Would I have been inspired to write three novels and countless short stories all set around the time of the war if I hadn't been obsessed by this time period? Would I have even dared to pick up my pen? I don't know. Foyle's War was a starting point: from there I was able to discover my passions in regard to history and writing, leading to so many wonderful things. Is there anything better than knowing what it is you truly enjoy?

So, you see, I'm not just sad to see this series come to end, though after 28 episodes and over 13 years I can quite understand Horowitz saying it's enough, I'm also grateful. It's given me quite a lot over the years, and the 'fandom', while small, is unique. I'm often teased for my obsession, but there you have it. It's not just about the actors and their relationships, or figuring out 'whodunnit'; it opened up a world I might never have touched upon. I have never once thought all those hours of researching, or trips to every museum that dealt with the war, or countless books on the subject a waste of time or money. I was learning - not just about the war, but about myself too.

I'm both dreading and anticipating tonight's final episode of Foyle's War. Saying goodbye has never been a strong point, and this truly does feel like the end of an era. But it's been a wonderful ride, and my interest in the series and time period is for life, so it isn't really the end of it all. I'll still research and read and write. I'll re-watch the episodes and remember fondly that there was a time when I saw beyond a detective show and instead saw the boundless possibilities of interest in a subject and what it might bring. We live for our passions; our interests drive us like nothing else, and I shall strive to continue following mine.

Terschelling's Bunkers

It is a strange business to wander around derelict remains of a war. It is, however, a common occurrence for someone like me who relishes all things about history, particularly WWII. It's just so interesting. Towards the end of the holiday, just after new year, the weather was surprisingly mild so we took a little jaunt to enjoy the day. Having had a most interesting discussion the previous week with a man who is working on a project to restore Terschelling's war bunkers, we went to have a look at the work they've been doing.

A small bunker in the dune

 I've mentioned the bunkers briefly in a previous post, but I'd like to take a deeper look. I have spent long summer days exploring these bunkers - there are roughly 90 still remaining on the island. They have, over the years, been filled in or boarded up for safety, and the ever changing landscape of sand has reclaimed many. Underneath the sand, however, is an entire warren of bunkers. Many of the bits that do stick out up above the sand have been grafittied to an inch, and open bits of the old gun or light turrets have been filled with careless garbage, which is a real shame.

One of my favourite summer (or any season, if I'm entirely honest) activities is "bunker hunting". As I mentioned, the sand is always moving and after each big storm, sometimes a bit more can be seen. I wish I was twenty years younger at those moments: can you imagine!? Playing at Famous Five in real bunkers and possible secret passageways!

Tiger Complex

After the war was over and the occupying forces had left, people wanted to forget and rid themselves of the reminders. And quite naturally too. Five years of occupation, on a small island less than 20 miles long, was no picnic. Things were dismantled, mines removed, and so on. The bunkers and anti aircraft batteries were built by Terschellinger hands, so though we may call them the "German bunkers", they are in many ways a part of the island. I believe there is one man still living on the island who was a part of the building team.

Obviously, they are built high on top of the dunes to have the best vantage points. The largest of these bunkers is now in the midst of a wood that has grown up around it, but in the '40s, it had a clear view out to sea. This set of bunkers, called the Tiger complex, is the focal point of the project that is currently going on to restore and reopen the bunkers.

The work that has been done to push back the sand and make the bunkers safe is quite astounding. It was all under sand, and now look at it! Inside there are two floors; it was where they kept track of aircraft movements (vliegtuigbeweging). Nearby was a canteen and a commando bunker. Huge amounts of radar equipment were also housed here. It is truly quite remarkable when you see some of the old photos and blueprints.

Tiger

The complex is massive - all through the woods you stumble (at times, literally) over another bit of evidence. I am very much looking forward to when the project is complete and we can go inside. It is important that this history is not forgotten. Here is a link that has some old photos to give you an idea of what it was like.

On my quest to find out more about the island's war history, I've talked to people and asked at the local museum, but there is very little information to be had. My family's own stories are fascinating - full of enough intrigue to fill many pages no doubt.

But I think my generation is desperate to remember a time that older generations wish to forget...

Top part of a commando bunker