Scotland, the beautiful 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿

Collection of scenes of Scotland 

I have never not enjoyed being in Scotland, and this most recent trip was no exception. The weather was wonderful and the sights were beautiful (see below!). In this tumultuous Brexit climate, an escape to the Highlands was in order. Scotland is a fascinating place for many reasons: it feels more wild and rugged and generally less crowded than its southern neighbour; it has an incredibly interesting history; and, lastly, is the home of my favourite biscuit: shortbread. While I've been to Scotland many times, I've only been to the Highlands once. It was lovely to go back again this summer and see it again. I've since read and seen all of the Outlander series, which made it even more fun! 

What was particularly interesting this visit was the stark contrast I felt between Scotland and England. For example, the quality of the roads in Scotland were markedly better practically the moment we crossed the border. Things seemed in better nick, generally. With the Brexit debates raging on and with the UK, at that time, set to leave Oct 31st, there was a certain atmosphere helped along by news on the radio, telly and newspaper headlines. It felt rather ominous, if I'm honest.

In order to ignore the cloud of debate, I put my head in the past, visiting historic places and the odd film location (e.g. Glenfinnan Viaduct which we see in Harry Potter [the Hogwarts Express scene]). It was wonderful to visit Culloden Moor, for example, and understand the sheer impossible odds the Scottish faced. I had a bit of an Outlander moment, too, when I found the remembrance stone for Clan Fraser.

The last time I was in Inverness I stayed at a small B&B where the owner made her own homemade shortbread for the guests. I enjoyed seeing 'the gateway to the Highlands' again this year (though I had to buy my own shortbread). It felt much bigger this time around - not quite the small town I remembered! It was great seeing Fort William again too. The trip between these two places is just stunning. Looked for Nessie again, but still no luck. ;-)

As it was summertime, there were loads of tourists everywhere, but it wasn't at all crowded like it can be in other places. It was
wonderfully relaxing to get away from it all, though there was not enough time as usual. I cannot wait to get back to Scotland for another visit with hopefully more time to take in all in.

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!

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.

The End of Vacation Time

You know it is the end of the vacation period when you've at last returned home, thrown absolutely everything in the wash, bought in rations to last you more than a week, and dusted off your work bag. It's been years since I've had a proper summer vacation, and I've enjoyed this one immensely. Not only did I have the chance to race around Europe, reads heaps, watch entire television series, play music and write - I've just spent a wonderful week at the one other place in this world I can think of as 'home'. A little island in the middle of the North sea: Terschelling.

Cranberry cheesecake

I think of it as home for a few reasons, not least because our family has lived there for the last few hundred years. It was a place I always vaguely remembered from childhood, and since we lived on the other side of the world, have no memories of growing up there like all the rest of the family. I first properly got to know the island when I was in my early twenties, which is another sort of growing up altogether. I came to love it and now know it like the back of my own hand. I can wander through the dunes or go along the paths with my bike and I don't have to think at all. I can let my mind wander and feel a freedom one only seems to experience when the sky is open and far stretching.

Having vacation at home with family is great. Not only because it's seeing family which is lovely, but they always seem to think I need fatting up. Which means three square meals and the ice cream rule still applies (ie: ice cream, any time). It means long sleeps, hot baths, copious amounts of tea and cake, and naps. When I'm on the road, travelling around Europe or wherever, I tend to race about because it's all jolly exciting and there is so much to see. I catch a meal when I can, fall asleep all over the place to restore my energy (on trains and buses especially), and climb into bed most nights to sleep like a log. Which is brilliant, of course, but sometimes it is actually nice to do nothing on holiday.

Heather in bloom

'Do nothing' sorts of things like sit on the beach in the sun and just watch the waves and the world go by. This trip it was more like watching screaming children and their harried parents go by, but there we are. It is great to temper a busy holiday with a bit of peace and quiet too. To visit museums and learn about other cultures as well as to walk through the dunes and admire the heather in bloom or catch sight of rabbits in the evening. To go to bed exhausted from fresh air and long bike rides.

Yes, the vast beauties of Europe are wonderful to behold, but I wager that the long white strand beaches at sunset are just as priceless.

Now to return to work and real life, which luckily enough for me, is often just as enjoyable. I try to live my life like I'm on holiday: to encapsulate that zest for things into the everyday. True I don't live by the ice cream rule all year round (one must try to be sensible), but I like to believe life is meant to be enjoyed.

Europe Tour: Two Weeks of Heedless Exploration

On my flight ticket stands "World Traveller" and I have to smile, thinking they've summed it up rather well. I have had great opportunities to travel and live the life of a wanderer, and each time I embark on a new adventure I realise just how precious these moments of exploration really are. When else is ice cream totally acceptable at 11am?! With the newspapers and nightly news full of death and destruction, some seemingly on Europe's doorstep, and a plane with my countrymen being shot out of the sky in all its horrible reality, it was high time to do some living while there was the chance. You might say this is pessimistic, but I like to think of it as optimistically practical. Semantics. Either way: I was off!

(I've included some snippets from my day journal - things I wrote down as I thought of them, to bring some immediacy to these rememberings. This is rather a long post - you have been forewarned!)

I began in Sweden, as each summer trip starts, seeing an old friend and catching up. I don't know why I haven't moved there yet, as I love it so much; the towns centred around waterways, the full, lush green forests, ice cream, excellent food and friendly people, Ikea furniture everywhere...fantastic! Though I will concede that I've only ever been in summertime, and perhaps I should die of the cold in winter... I fell in love with the town of Uppsala (so watch this space!) and thoroughly enjoyed seeing the sights of Stockholm. I would wager it is the most beautiful capital city in the world - certainly that I've seen.

Uppsala in summer

Stockholm in evening light

Next, I went to Berlin; I'd been before, but this time it was hot and busy (if one will go in the busiest period, what can one expect?). On my way through southern Berlin from Schönenfeld airport I wrote this:

"The coming dark is tinged with pink and red. A dirty, sprawling city, still half under construction - yet there is something about it; familiar almost. It feels almost American with its wide streets; yet the large blocks of flats that scar the horizon remind me I'm very much in Europe. This too, is at last beginning to feel familiar..."

After a few sweltering days I went to Dresden for lunch and a wander around before hopping on an old fashioned train (with compartments!) to Prague. I was as giddy as a school girl and hastily scribbled this:

"We're winding our way down through thick forests, following the Elbe River out of Germany. It is wide and peaceful; everything is green and bright. We are in an old fashioned train compartment: six young people, strangers, all on their way to adventure! The buildings and low slung farm houses are delightful. To see the hills again and pine forests pleases me."

It was then I also said to myself: true happiness is having a destination. To move ever forwards and rejoice. I do not think I stopped smiling the entire way to Prague. I love the place unreservedly; it was difficult at first, trying to find my way, but I rather like a challenge. I'd studied the maps, poring over them for ages before I'd left, and for once I had a good sense of direction. Still dusty from travelling, I set out to see the city, losing myself amongst the architecture with delight. I was lucky enough to take in a sunset that I won't soon forget. It is a city with such old world charm.

Church of Our Lady before Týn, Prague

Sunset over Charles Bridge, Prague

On another train with compartments I raced across the Czech Republic; past fields and farms, industrial towns, places with intimidating fortresses and equally challenging names. I arrived in Vienna slightly travel weary, and wishing I could have stayed on that lovely old train forever. I wasn't much in the mood for buildings of splendour and grandour after Prague; in Vienna it seemed almost fake. And I had no patience for long queues to museums. So, Vienna was spent eating a great deal and making new friends; long evenings on the banks of the Donau and sitting back to watch the world go by. Rivers are good for that.

I was at last leaving the cities behind and going back to nature; always a mountain girl at heart, I felt such infinite peace as the Alps came into view on the outskirts of Salzburg. (It is now a toss up between Uppsala and Salzburg for 'most favourite place'). My hostel was on top of a hill, built into the fortress walls and overlooking the Old Town. Again my forward map planning came in handy, and I eventually found my way, perspiring in the hot sun and feeling so wonderfully alive. Nature trails; thick, shaded woods, beautiful architecture, good food, green and cultivated gardens, The Sound of Music, and best of all: mountain views. I wrote this while losing myself to the view:

Storm over Salzburg fortress

"Watching the dark clouds of a mountain storm gathering, wind whipping itself into a mild frenzy, I am happy. The smell of rain is on the air and the backdrop of the Alps is like balm to an unrealised scratch - I miss the mountains with an ache. There is an old fashioned beauty here that feels both real and ethereal."

 And the next morning, over a cup of tea with misty mountains keeping me company:

"The bells from many churches are pealing, echoing round the hills. I take it all in: the view of the hills, forests, churches and the imposing fortress. My eyes seek the far off horizon of Alps like one slaking a thirst. Drinking of such beauty deeply, as if to keep me going in the claustrophobic cities to come. I am in the heart of Europe this morning and I am glad. Give me a view and I soon find my peace and freedom. "

Before too long I was headed back to Germany, this time to Munich. I was impatient being in the city again when the mountains were so close. I enjoyed the many markets, however, and ate my way through one or two. I spent a sombre afternoon at the Dachau Memorial site; I needn't share those thoughts I had here - they have been put far more eloquently by plenty of other writers.

I was glad to soon be on my way again, and I spent the whole day in trains, winding my way up the breadth of Germany.

"Up through the Rhine valley, headed north to Cologne is like a carpet of castles and towers - every hillside and tiny town studded with fortresses. The rain came in, chasing us up the river, but it only made it all feel the more cosy. How I do love the hills and dark forests and even better if they have castles!"

Cologne was a great stop off to see a friend and drink our way through a brewery or two. The Dom, with its twin spires was magnificent, and I was fortunate enough to be caught in a terrific thunder storm while wandering through the cathedral. I sat and listened to the organ as the thunder clapped around us, shaking the foundations only slightly. Truly atmospheric!

An excellent trip, full of sights, new experiences and things to eat; new friends and getting luxuriously lost; climbing every hill (and fording every stream!), most certainly following my dreams.  

There and Back Again from Blighty

'Returning' is always a difficult thing for a globetrotter; at least it is for me. Being back in Blighty was a bit like seeing an old lover again: briefly awkward at first; both having changed and moved on, and yet there is something in the other that makes me wistful. There were good times had here. However, it was only a lightening trip, so there wasn't much time for being wistful.

Flying from Groningen

Flying into London on a sunny afternoon was most pleasant; it was fun to be on a small plane (it makes me feel rather intrepid...) and the journey only took a little over an hour. It never fails to amuse me how much England looks like a patchwork quilt from above.

Patchwork Blighty

 I hopped on the train to the deafening sounds of young lads discussing football at the absolute top of their lungs. Though their voices had not yet broken, their language would have shocked a sailor. Ah, today's youth... And so I was back in Blighty, in amongst it all again.


Stepping off the train at Liverpool Street station, the city was at my feet. A quick jaunt through the bustling financial district and dropping my bags at a friend's place, and I was ready to take on the joys of London for the evening. Meeting up with an old friend, we wandered down to the river, having a bite and a chat in the sun. London is at its best when it is sunny, I think. The bright lights aren't so bad either, and we enjoyed the West End, stopping off to see my favourite Constable, The Hay Wain at the National Gallery.

Pie and mash

The next day was mostly 'Hen Do' fun, but we also had a moment to experience a bit of the East End. With Pie and Mash. What a glorious dish - hearty, warm and filling. I opted to go without the "liquor" - a sort of gravy you're meant to have with it, and had mine plain. I felt very much the tourist when taking the photo, but nevermind. I also made sure to stock up on tea (Twining's Earl Grey) and shortbread. There are some things you just can't get on the continent...

It was also incredibly easy having everything in English again after nearly half a year. I don't mind in the slightest that I have to use Dutch daily, but it was nice for a change. I rushed out to WH Smiths to buy magazine's and stopped at every bookshop in Charing Cross (there are a lot...) just to browse. I was very good, however, and didn't buy any books...hand luggage and all that...

London at my feet

 As much as I don't like returning to places, London is a bit of an exception; the moment you arrive you blend in with the crowd and become anonymous. I always feel like I'm on a film set whenever I take the tube or cross Picadilly Circus. There is so much culture around too, with each neighbourhood unique and lively. Additionally, it was London Pride this weekend, so the city was very colourful. Never a dull moment!

Which brings me to the football. (There is no escaping it, I'm afraid...) I made sure to arrive early at the airport a) because it was Sunday and British Rail is rather notorious and b) the Netherlands was playing against Mexico. I made a beeline for the nearest bar (which sounds like I was in need of drink, when in fact I was after a television with the match on...) and found my entire flight crammed in front of a telly. Typically, right as we were meant to board the match became exciting. The Netherlands were a point down, but they then scored in the 88th minute; half of us began to queue to board as we were told, while the other half remained in the bar. Luckily, the shouts let us know that the match was going in our favour. When the second goal happened, I think we raised the roof on that little airport. Needless to say, the flight back to Amsterdam was a jolly one, as was the train ride and walk through Groningen. The entire country was celebrating!

It was a lovely weekend with friends in London town, and as the summer gets well under way with football, tennis, BBQs and (hopefully) warmer weather, I will look to further enjoy this time. 

Greetings from the Continent

Each country has its own unwritten social 'rules', and some that I find quite interesting are greetings in Europe. While there is the usual run of the mill handshake, between friends there are also kisses on the cheek. Most places in Europe keep it simple at a kiss on either cheek. It varies in France as two, three, and even four (!) kisses depending on where you are in the country. In Britain, one can never be sure if it is just one kiss on the cheek, or if it is two. There this lingering doubt if two is being "rather Continental, what." In the Netherlands it is three kisses (which in my opinion is one more than necessary...after two there is a real danger of knocking noses...)

Having grown up in the States where hugging is more common, I find this cheek-kissing-as-a-greeting rather lovely. It's warm and friendly besides being quite social. It's something too that makes you feel properly on the Continent. Other things that invoke this feeling is ciao! which can be heard in many other countries besides Italy; the use of hands to illustrate a point (I'm not naming names, but the Spanish have this off to a fine art...); wearing leather and Ray-Bans; the art of drinking coffee; fashion and art just about everywhere; and really old buildings (I mean really old) that look perfectly normal next to a modern monstrosity.

Why is this all occurring to me now? Britain may be part of Europe, but they are quite separate in their own way. There is definitely a different atmosphere on mainland Europe. The last six months here in the Netherlands has shown me that while the Brits are lovely, they have a lot to learn (myself included) about living like a European. It's not all just beer, socialism, and sporty cars. It's a different mindset altogether.

Enjoying a cuppa on a terrace in Paris (2011)

Take coffee or tea for example: there is nothing more off putting than being served a hot beverage in cardboard. If I sit down to have a cup of tea in a café, I would like it, in fact, in a cup. Cafe's here serve coffee/tea with a flourish. It's as if it has become something of an art form....Animal shapes in the the coffee foam, intricate cups and saucers with witty poems...my loose leaf tea came served in a French press today. Maybe it's a slight hangover of my American life, but something inside me can't help but squeal, "How delightfully European!" Also, everyone sits outside on terraces drinking coffee at all times of the day. This too is delightfully European, because only they would endure the chill.

Or we can even look at fashion. I don't quite know how they do it, but everywhere I look on the streets of Groningen, it's like the people have stepped out of the pages of Vogue. The men with their leather and sun glasses and gelled hair; women with boots and skirts and scarves. It's all fantastically chic, full of colour and vigour, and it has made yours truly think twice about what to wear in the morning.

What I also noticed today while out and about was that it was Papa Day - when the father's look after the children too small yet to go to school, allowing mother to continue with her career as well. The Netherlands (much like the other Scandinavian countries) is quite tuned in when it comes to children and family life. I like this idea that the parents split both work and childcare down the middle. It is also incredibly endearing to see all these tall, blond hair, blued eyed, gorgeously (and fashionably) scruffy dads, walking around with babies strapped to their chests, holding the hands of toddlers, or pushing (also fashionable) baby carriages.

While it seems I spend my days loitering in cafés - I don't, honestly - it was nice to see dads coming in with their children to have a snack or go shopping with child in tow. I would hasten to add that it wasn't frazzled father's I was seeing either - these were dads that were enjoying their "Papa day" with the kids. How great that children get to spend equal time with the parents. I hope this idea will continue to grow and that we will see it more often.

Before someone pokes me and says, "well obviously you're on the Continent, they aren't speaking English!" I would like to say I love this about it too. It's a challenge! Western Europe may be joined through the Euro (for better or worse), but each country's language makes them unique. Whenever you get near the "borders", signs suddenly become chock full of different languages (usually about three). This too I like. If my French is hopeless, my German is at least slightly less so, and so on - again there is that exercising of what you know.

I could go on until next century about this subject of "Examples of Continental Europe as seen in The Netherlands" but let me come back to the greetings. It is something that one learns - some are quite shy about it, others fairly flamboyant with their greetings. It becomes a whole intricate dance, and if you wear glasses it can become slightly dangerous. But I do like it - there is something about it that is open and welcoming. Also, as I say, it does make you feel very much "on the Continent".

Thanks to films and books we like to think of Europe as this devastatingly romantic place. I would say that it is to a certain extent. Yes, it is expensive and crowded, and waiters have been trained to ignore you until the last possible moment, but it is also full of rich history that has trickled down the ages to make it this wonderful modern hub of creativity and energy.

I love it.

ANZAC Day

Five years ago today I was crawling out of bed at 4:30am in the hushed pre-dawn darkness in Newcastle, Australia. Joining my fellow International and Aussie students, we boarded a bus that drove us down to Nobby's beach. The day was just a mere hint of pink on the horizon.

2009, Nobby's Beach. ANZAC service

ANZAC stands for Australia and New Zealand Army Corps. There is day to remember these soldiers that is observed each year on April 25 - the day the ANZAC forces landed at Gallipoli. Thousands of men were slaughtered on the beaches there in 1915.

When we arrived, Nobby's beach in Newcastle was already busy. By the time the sun began inching up, the Military band was welcoming the day. Flags were raised, and men in uniform both young and old marched in. There were speeches, someone read a poem (The Ode of Remembrance, I believe), and there was also a prayer; commemorative wreaths were laid out and the Military band played 'Waltzing Matilda' as well as other patriotic songs. 500 metres up the hill, four canon shots were fired from Fort Scratchley. The service ended, of course, with the Last Post.

This particular piece of bugle music never fails to get me choked up. In the minute of silence afterwards you can not help but feel grateful to those who fought and those who continue to fight to this day. That I had the opportunity to stand there on the sand, free and young and full of life - how could I not shed a tear for the brave and the few?

Military band on Nobby's Beach, 2009

I am not Australian, so why should ANZAC day feature in my calendar, you might ask? Well, I did live there; the Australians and New Zealanders also fought in two World Wars in both the European and Asian theatres. In conflicts on such a global scale as these, we are united.

Australia holds a very special place in my heart, and my remembrances on ANZAC day extend beyond the heartfelt thanks to past and present soldiers. It is also a day where I can think back to my time there, the experiences I had, the people I met. You see, Australia played a huge role in shaping me into the person I am today.

Sun just up over Nobby's Beach, Australia, 2009

It started before I left: growing up I watched The Man from Snowy River and programmes like Skippy and The Crocodile Hunter somewhat religiously. Steve Irwin was, and remains, my hero. Some Aussies may scoff at this as he was quite a wild character. However, to a twelve year old a world away, learning about new animals and understanding the importance of wildlife conservation was eye opening. There was a world out there that needed saving, and I spent months climbing trees with an old video camera filming all sorts of animals in the back forty. (A rather lovely American idiom that means a section of land, usually quite large.) I was determined to go to Australia, pitch up at Australia Zoo outside of Brisbane, and offer Steve Irwin my knowledge of wild animals. Sadly, I never got the chance as he died in September of 2006. I learned of his death while sitting in my 8am Anthropology lecture.

Two years later I spent weeks planning out how I could get to Australia. Come hell or high water, I was going. After welcoming in 2009, I hopped on a plane in LA in January. I spent a few weeks with my college room mate exploring New Zealand before arriving in Australia in February. I jumped on a train from Sydney's Central station and began a journey from which I have never ceased. I was beginning the rest of my life in that moment. I have never looked back.

One of the many commemorations of a True Blue Aussie

I did go to Australia Zoo; I had nothing to offer but my tears. Silly, perhaps to grieve a childhood hero that one has never met, but there we are. I'd made it at last, and it was one dream I had fulfilled. How wonderful it is that Steve's legacy and his life's work continues to live on through his family and colleagues.

The things I miss most about Oz are naturally the friends I made there, but also the food (Arnott's biscuits in particular!), the bizarre (and often dangerous) wildlife, the fact that one can get away with saying "mate" in every sentence, and making each thing you say into a question. I miss feeling entirely at home in a culture that often seemed like an odd mix of American and British. I miss the scorching heat and the hospitality I experienced. I could go on for days, really. It is a wonderful country - if only it wasn't quite so far away. I often think that if I go back, I will go back for good.

ANZAC day has come and gone in Oz, a day ahead of the rest of us. But now, in the Netherlands, on the eve of a national holiday here, I am dreaming of a sunburnt country.
Let's crack open a tinny, mates...

Travelling Solo: A Retreat from all but Yourself

It's sunny here in Groningen. Sunny, warm, and expected to stay that way all the way through next week. I think we can safely say, "Spring is here!" The city seems to take on a new buzz as the weather changes towards spring - happy faces and bright outfits - which only makes me the happier and brighter too.

It was on this slight euphoria of sunshine! that I have been sat contemplating the solo lifestyle. Not just travel, but living alone and generally being alone. I. Love. It. I know it isn't for everyone, but I seem to thrive being on my own. I'm never bored and I get to do what I want to do all the time. It's like having every childhood dream come true: I can eat peanut butter from the jar, run up and down the stairs as I please, and go to bed past a 'decent' hour. For the most part being an adult is overwhelming (there is that word, responsibility, that keeps coming up), but it can also be really, jolly good fun. Travelling on my own, for example...

The reason I'm going off on this slight tangent is that I read an blog article last night about No Guilt Solo Travel. I had never even thought about this concept that others might see your decision to travel alone as a negative thing. It quite obviously started me thinking. The blog outlines six points which I'd like to share:
1) Travel solo to free others from guilt, 2) Travel solo for more happiness, 3) Travel solo to rejuvenate, 4) Travel solo to avoid frustrating others, 5) Travel solo as a gift to others, and finally 6) Travel solo because the guilt is unnecessary.

You might be thinking, "yes, but I've got a partner and two kids, I can't just hop on a plane to Bora Bora..." and I would agree - family is important and must be a priority. However, what I think the point really is is that we shouldn't feel guilty for wanting to run off to Bora Bora for a week on our own.
I especially like point number five: Travel solo as a gift to others. I had never considered this before. The joy that I get from travelling solo and the exciting experiences I have is something I can bring home to share. How can brimming over with happiness and feeling rejuvenated not be good for those around you?

Solo travel has become much easier since travel in general has become less of a hassle (security at airports aside...). It is fair to say that if you are in a group of friends or with family you won't all want to do the same things; some people (though I can't fathom why) hate museums, so there will have to be some give and take (point 4). Others might not even want to travel, and would rather you did, in fact, go on your own (point 1).

For me, travelling is a way to rejuvenate and find an inner peace (points 2 and 3). I am always happy to be travelling because of the sheer beauty of it. I don't mean scenery; I mean the beauty of travel as an action. Is it not lovely to take trains, buses, tuk tuks, boats, or camels to your destination - isn't that part of the fun? Travel has become easy, but thank goodness it hasn't lost its beauty and magic in doing so.

The Netherlands, as we know, is a small country - by train you can get across it in three hours. The last few weekends I've been to-ing and fro-ing back and forth across the country on trains and boats, and I realised how much I love the serenity of watching the world go by. For a few hours I can sit and watch the scenery change or see people getting on and off at platforms (people watching is a splendid past time of The Traveller), or even just read my book in peace. We are so busy in our day to day lives and often distracted by computers, that to just have a few hours to oneself to think or to read is a blessing.

Travelling on your own is a wonderful experience: you become self reliant, you learn so much about yourself in the process, you get to be your own person, you become a wizard at taking 'selfies', and generally you have an enjoyable time. You get to do all those things you want to do. I can't say enough positive things about it. I would implore you to try it at least once, even if it is just taking a train to another city or driving to see a rock formation in the desert. You can retreat from the world and finally be with yourself. And I hope you will find, as I do, how fantastic an experience it truly is.

A Visit to Flanders Fields

When one hears "Flanders" one often makes the immediate association with the Great War. A young doctor by the name of John McCrae wrote a famous poem called, "In Flanders Fields", which every school child is tasked with reading, and thus poppies, mud, trenches, and Flanders are things that bring to mind the Great War. One hundred years ago, on July 28, 1914, the First World War officially began. One hundred years ago - it really isn't that long ago, is it? I will not pretend that this blog post will not be a sombre one. I found the time I spent around Ieper incredibly moving and very interesting, and would like to share it with you.

One hundred years ago...When these sorts of anniversary's come about lots of commemorative events are set in motion. Currently the BBC is awash with programming about the Great War. I've always been curious about seeing Flanders, wondering what it must look like now after 99 years of rebuilding and modernity have occurred. On my sojourn to Belgium I decided a visit to Ieper (Ypres) was a must. The Front Lines.

I had to change trains twice to get to Ieper, even though by a car it's only an hour on a main road from Brugge. My second train was late by about five minutes, so I missed my connection and had to wait in a dismal train station in Kortrijk. The rain, mere drizzle when I left Brugge, was now bucketing down, and I had a sudden vision of what our men might have experienced back in 1914. The cold, driving Belgian rain. It was not hard to imagine a poor Tommy (British soldier) standing in the rain in a Greatcoat, waiting to be shipped off to the Front Lines. As it was, I waited an hour for the next train, missing my chance to visit the "In Flanders Field Great War Museum".

This is the Cathedral the town of Ieper rebuilt

By the time I arrived in Ieper, the rain had stopped and the sun had come out. (I always have been lucky with the weather...). I had booked a tour through a small local company, and I was joined by a Swedish family of three who seemed impervious to the cold. Our guide, Jacques, was extremely knowledgeable about the history of the Great War, the battles around Ieper specifically, and had a fantastic stock of stories from veterans that he had met through his work. Having met up at the Grote Markt in Ieper, Jacques said that even though the centre of town looked old, it was in fact only 80-90 years old. It had all been rebuilt after the war because all that had been left was rubble and mud. He showed us a picture of the Cathedral as it had been in 1919 - the town rebuilt it in 8 years. Incredible!

We started at an ADS (Advanced Dressing Station) near an important canal, called "Essex Farm," where Dr John McCrae wrote the aforementioned poem. Our guide pulled out maps and photos, showing us just how close the trenches of the Allies and the Germans were in this particular area (they converged at one point, leaving only 18 metres of No Man's Land (about 60 feet)! Can you believe it? Being an ADS, there was a cemetery attached with about 1200 men, one grave being a boy of 15. He'd lied about his age to join up.

A Flander's field - look at that mud!

We discussed the use of gas; when it was first used, how it was used and so on. Awful. We were in a minivan, driving down country lanes "behind German lines". What is incredible is how flat the area really is. Of course it is now full of farms, fields, small villages and the rest, but one can still see how it might have been. (And the mud is still as sticky!)

Jacques stopped the car and pointed - there in front of us, looming in such a flat landscape, was Passschendaele Ridge. We approached from the "German side" and began to understand the advantage of high ground - even a few metres is enough. We drove along the death trap that had been the Menin Road and through "Hell Fire Corner". Near the top of the ridge is the vast Tyne-Cot cemetery - it is built around German bunkers on the land that the Australian and New Zealand troops captured in 1917 at a terrible cost of lives. Below lies the Ieper Salient (a salient is a term that, in this case, is used to describe the bulge that juts out from the Front Line trenches) which is also vast. Over 35,000 men are buried there, the majority unknown.

Tyne-Cot Cemetery

Jacques, our guide, was very keen to stress the importance of the work that is done to keep up the graves and cemeteries (in which there are hundreds in the area of Ieper alone). 'It means so much to the families when they visit, to know their loved ones are being looked after,' he said. During our tour, listening to him relate the history, the battles, hearing him reel of the numbers, the cemeteries and dugouts and scars of trenches spoke for themselves.

We visited a museum on Hill 62 (as in 62 meters above sea level and therefore a strategic point). They had tons of memorabilia found in the fields by farmers, and things donated by families of soldiers. They also had photos, seen by peering into wooden boxes, of the most ghastly things. Pictures that were not published in any newspaper at the time. The death and destruction was immense. All mud and rubble and boys with gaping holes that left you thinking, "where's the rest of them...?"

Trenches at Hill 62

It was not an easy thing to see; I focused on the facts and figures, putting aside emotion until I could fathom it later. I spent the afternoon with a lump in my throat, freezing, and more than a little overwhelmed. The vastness of it...the massive loss of life...numbers that cannot fully be understood until you see the white stones, row on row on row, going on until the horizon. I made a point to wander through the headstones, reading names and wondering where they were from and who they had been. Boys, 19 and 20 many of them; mother's sons every one.

Perhaps you may be asking is this really "taking a holiday"... but, I find it important to see: history comes alive when one visits places like this, and one can see how it is so much a part of the local people's lives - even still today. The care and respect that is taken in looking after the area is truly remarkable. And even though I went home covered in mud, still freezing, and feeling a bit overwhelmed, I had enjoyed myself immensely because I had learnt a great deal. And not just about history. About ourselves as well. History shapes us, whether we like it or not, and it is only by gaining understanding about our past can we even hope to succeed in the future.

Wandering in Belgium

I say "wandering" in Belgium because there were quite a few moments of well, I think this it the right train...my gut says I should go with this train, and hell - if it isn't, I'm in no hurry.

Such is the luxury of time. I began by leaving a very sunny Groningen on the train, sitting opposite two seven year olds taking over the world on their iPads. As we sped west, it became cloudier and darker. I reached Roosendaal, on the border with Belgium about one o'clock. The train that would take us across into Belgium was a great lumbering beast left over from about 1970 if the bright orange interior was anything to go by. The conductors' wear rather jaunty caps that kept reminding me of an episode of Poirot. These days, the only satisfaction one receives when crossing a border in Europe is when one's mobile phone pings with a text message that reads, "Welcome to such and such country, texts and calls will now be 10 cents more expensive...Enjoy your travels." At least my telephone company is polite.

We arrived in the bowels of Antwerp station half an hour later - it has about five levels, the local trains leaving from the top platforms. It was rather a mad dash, and the signs were slightly confusing. There is a beautiful façade to the station on the upper level - part architectural delight, part pure art. Needless to say, I made it to Brugge (Bruges) - by the way,  henceforth I will be using the Dutch spelling rather than the English or French, because hey, it's Flanders (Vlaanders) and they speak Dutch. 

Having studied the map before leaving home, I knew where I needed to go to find my hostel (famous last words); on crossing the canal into the old town the streets became narrow and cobbled, so that I feared for my ankles. My hostel was near to the centre of the old town, easy to find, and in the midst of renovation. In fact, the whole North Belgium seemed to be under reconstruction...time of year I expect. The great thing about this time of year, ie: the Off Season, is that there are less crowds of annoying tourists. Nevertheless, Brugge seemed full of disgruntled Brits and moody, cigarette smoking French. (Honestly, I'm not just doing my usual stereotyping - there were actually these kinds of people there!) I don't know why people are so grumpy when they go on holiday - I mean, really - you are on holiday!?

Brugge by night

Brugge is best seen by night, when all the old buildings are lit up. It looks very picturesque, and what I imagine many Hollywood directors would go weak at the knees for when they need to shoot in a "typical" European city. The main market square looked very impressive all in lights. They say it's a "Romantic Destination" city, but I think that is a load of marketing bosh.  It is pretty, and I love the architecture and atmosphere of the place.

I sat in a pub the guidebooks rave about; the guidebook also warns you won't meet any locals because of all the tourists. Perhaps the writers went in the busy season, because it was happy mix of both locals and tourists. It was a cosy place, just around the corner from the cathedral, and I sat next to an older, local man, born and bred in Brugge, who was delighted to tell me all about his wonderful city. We had a nice chat in Dutch over the course of one beer, and I left the pub with a bit more history of the place in mind.

Madonna and Child in centre

The next day dawned bright and sunny, and while I strolled along the canal towards the Begijnhof I stuffed myself with pastries (I'm on holiday!), enjoying the sun on my shoulders. Admiring the supposedly famous geese at the Begijnhof, I basked in the quiet and peace of the early morning - nuns from the Order of St Benedict have lived there for yonks, which probably leads to some of this serenity. Next stop: to see 'The Madonna and Child' sculpture. As I mentioned in my previous post, I was coming to see this because of the interest inspired by the new film The Monuments Men (if you still haven't seen it, get yourself to a cinema tout suite!). It is the only work of Michelangelo's to have left Italy during his lifetime. Well, it was a lot smaller than the film made it seem, but incredibly beautiful. It resides in Onze Lieve Vrouwkerk (Our Sacred Lady Church), which is also undergoing reconstruction. So, basically, there was nothing much to see except the sculpture as the rest of the church was covered in drop-clothes.

Wandering towards the main market square, my next aim was to climb the belfry. Would you believe it cost me 8 Euros (EIGHT!?) to climb up and then back down again 366 steps, be nearly deafened by the ringing of the bells once I did reach the top, and if one wants a guide with any information, it is most certainly not included. I tried getting through as a student with a student card (6 Euros), but the lady looked at my card, then at me severely and said, "But you are over 25." This being an adult malarkey is a costly thing. The view over Brugge was spectacular, however.

View from Brugge Bell Tower

Hopping on a train I went next to Gent (Ghent) for the afternoon, intending to see the famous Gent Altarpiece (also in the film, The Monuments Men.) Gent is sometimes called "Belgium's hidden gem" - I don't know who calls it that, because it most certainly isn't. Maybe I was there at the wrong time of year, but it felt dirty, noisy, busy and just rather rubbish all round. Maybe coming from Brugge, which is unique, left me a little jaded. Anyway, I saw the Altarpiece, which was interesting; then I had a wander round the Cathedral, and even had a look at the crypts, which I'm ashamed to say I found more interesting than the Altarpiece. I know, I know...but they were full of treasures and stuff...

I enjoyed being in Flanders - good beer, friendly locals, beautiful architecture, chocolate, lace, did I mention Belgian brewed beer?, and they speak the same lingo (Dutch), albeit with a different accent. It's a cute accent (I don't think the Flemish would like me saying that...) but it really is. Hearing them speak Dutch with the Belgian accent makes me want to giggle a bit. Belgium actually has three official languages: French, Dutch, and German. The signs are immense, accommodating them all. I had fun speaking Dutch with some of the local people I met - I think they found my accent bizarre, and I was usually asked to repeat myself.

One thing that is nice now that I live "on the continent" is that little trips like this are so easy. In Belgium I was able to speak the same lingo, use the same money (Euro), stay in the same timezone, and I can just hop on a train and be there in about five hours. 

In some ways, Belgium reminded me a lot of Germany - the cities are dirty and noisy, covered in graffiti, but the amount of money that people fling about is crazy: VW and Mercedes and BMW dealers on most corners, perfume shops with 400 Euro bottles of scent, all the top designer brand shops on the streets. It's an odd thing, and I don't know nearly enough about economics or Europe in general to begin to explain it. It is a country with a fascinating and long history, and today is the home of the EU headquarters (Brussels) and NATO (also in Brussels). An enjoyable holiday, and a place I very much hope to visit again. My favourite place was Ieper (Ypres), which I will talk more about in my next post. Until then...

The Precarious Position of Travel Planning

It's been raining for nearly three days here. The type of rain that leaves you completely soaked within minutes, feeling rather stupid for not owning an efficient umbrella. That kind of rain. So, I've been holed up in my new attic room, listening to the rain pitter-patter and the wind howl, while being pleasantly warm and dry. Being stuck indoors doesn't make me stir crazy, in fact I rather enjoy it. The weather is a fantastic excuse to remain indoors where it's comfortable, and to catch up on reading, writing, guitar playing, episodes of NCIS, and exploring the many ways to enjoy Nutella. (Most recent insight: Nutella on shortbread fingers. You can thank me later...)

I sat back this afternoon, having very much enjoyed my weekend of cosiness, and my eye fell on my World Atlas. And thus began a very dangerous endeavour: armed with the atlas and a stack of new Lonely Planet guides (they would go and have a 50% off sale last month. It's like they know I can't help myself. And then the taunting "FREE shipping if you spend X"...), I got out my pencil and paper and began to think about the places I would like to see this year. This is why it is so precarious - I end up wanting to go nearly everywhere and the list gets very long. In the course of writing down my ideas, I flipped through the notebook and found a list I'd compiled three and a half years ago when I first moved to Cambridge. Surprisingly, or perhaps not so, the list was nearly identical, with only eight places marked off the first list.

Planning extravaganza!

Considering I've also been to lots of places that weren't on the list, I didn't feel too badly about this. Actually felt rather relieved I had achieved as much as I had, considering Egypt is not the easiest of places to visit any more. The world is constantly changing, making travel both easier and more tricky. So, it was with renewed fervour that I delved into my new Lonely Planet guides, drawing up ideas of things I want to see. Some ideas being: Ypres, as it is 100 years after the start of WWI and might be historically interesting to see; Russia (EasyJet flies there now for ridiculously cheap fares - brilliant!); Vienna ... and Salzburg - to investigate if the hills are, in fact, alive. The list goes on (and on).

Living on mainland Europe now has opened up a door to more access to these places. I think looking at the train timetable is even more dangerous than the atlas. Because The Netherlands is quite small, I can be practically anywhere else in Europe within a few hours. Berlin for the weekend; Bruges for a day out? Don't mind if I do! You wouldn't imagine a channel making much of difference, but I think it does. It feels much more tangible here in the north of the Netherlands. Europe's doorstep, perhaps. Time and real life are rather a factor, of course.  They keep getting in the way...

I've think I've decided to be rather irresponsible this year. (This year, I hear you say...). Why not use Groningen as a base to see more of Europe? Travel is something that makes me very happy, and I don't do nearly enough of it. I do travel a fair bit, but it is like a hunger never quite sated. It only ever grows, and my greediness for experiencing new cities and new cultures dances in the back of my mind most distractedly. So, perhaps rushing about Europe once the thermometer goes over 16C (60F), isn't such a bad idea? There is such a thrill of stepping on to a train with just a backpack slung over your shoulder, knowing that new things await you. Being able to wear the same clothes day in and day out, with no one minding; getting your fill of museums and art; trying new foods and attempting new languages; learning and experiencing.

Planning a trip is nearly as fun as setting off on the adventure itself. Figuring out how to get from one place to the next; what to see and do. What is the history behind the place, etc. It certainly kept me pleasantly occupied on a cold and rainy afternoon!

How do you plan for your travels? Do you often get itchy feet and the desire to visit new places?

Nautical Life

After spending a weekend rushing hither and thither from the continent by boat, I've come to realise something: travelling by boat is the way to do it! Second best after trains. In fact, I spent more time on boats than on dry land this weekend. I found it to be very relaxing and good fun. And why, you may ask? Boats take longer, there is the potential possibility for seasickness, and the ever present danger of icebergs....ok, only if you are crossing the Atlantic in 1912, but still. Well, here's why I think it's rather jolly:

Nautical terms! How much more fun is it to say things like, "I am going aft" (this sound slightly risque, I realise, but in context it makes sense...) or something like, "You will find me on the starboard side, on deck 10, amidship...", or "Come aboard". Things like sundecks at the stern, or stepping into cabins, and all the different knots. Also, good looking captains with white caps and crisp uniforms (hello, sailor!). Hearing horns, feeling the constant rumble of the engines, life rings with the ship name on it, large picture windows on every side, cabins with bunks and toilets that go whoosh. It's all a bit exotic and wonderful.

I've not been on a cruise before; this is mostly by choice, because although travelling by boat is my new favourite thing, being stuck on said boat for a week or more with the same people would be maddening. At least on land you can attempt to get away from the loud and/or obnoxious tourists. On a boat you can go forward or aft. (Or overboard, I suppose).

After living on the island of Terschelling for a few months, the only way to get anywhere is by ferryboat. Although trying to plan your life around a ferry schedule is at times frustrating, it does bring an exotic air to the place. It is exciting to hop on a boat for the mainland; for me it is still a novelty. The ferries to and from the island are wonderful; very clean, comfortable, and have wifi. You hardly feel the waves at all unless the Waddenzee is particularly choppy.

The Stenaline ferries from Hoek van Holland to Harwich are also very modern and luxurious. It makes travelling that much easier because you can take overnight ferries. Hop on the boat, have a drink in the bar on Deck 9, and then back to the cabin for a sleep. Easy, fairly afordable, no stress, and comfortable - what's not to like?

Outside Cabin aboard Stena Hollandica

My channel crossings have certainly been better than the crossing we had from Egypt to Jordan last spring. That was a nightmare, and luckily we arrived in one piece. It was meant to be a catamaran - a type of boat (or should I say ship?) that has two hulls, making it more stable and usually quicker (so often used for ferries).

Well, it wasn't the catamaran, but a huge, hulking beast of ship. It wasn't too bad - you could get a cup of tea and the seats were all right. But the waiting for hours (five or six hours!) before setting sail was a trial of patience to say the least. All the Egyptian families were setting up camp on the sundecks, bringing out large picnics and getting settled in. That was when I think my travel partner and I realised we were in for the long haul. The bathrooms had flooded and sloshed with each dip of the waves. People were sprawled out everywhere; it was hot. The crossing itself was quite smooth, and the lights of Israel and Jordan were a welcome sight after being stuck on a ship all day.

It's in my bones to enjoy the sea. I come from a long line of sailors, so it is only natural that I feel a pull towards the water. I've always admired it from a wary distance, but have rather enjoyed spending so much time around, and on it, recently. I would love to wear lots of stripes and a jauntily set cap, and sail about in warm climates, saying things like, "Hard to port," or "What's our heading, skipper?" - well, perhaps one day!

By the way, if you want to have a laugh looking up nautical terms, this website has a whole list. Some may be familiar, but others are quite peculiar!

Nordic Noir and Swooning over Sweden

"Nordic Noir" is not my term, but rather has been coined to encompass Scandinavian crime fiction and crime dramas. There is quite a following for all things Scandinavian (guilty party, right here!) and the guys over at Nordic Noir do a wonderful job bringing it closer to those of us outside Scandinavia. And who doesn't like a bit of gritty detective drama to keep you cosy on a wintery night?

I first experienced the wonder that is "Nordic Noir" after Stieg Larsson's Millennium Trilogy was published in English. I had actually just been in Sweden visiting a good friend and she mentioned it. Had I heard of the book about "men who hate women"? Naturally I hadn't, because (typical!) the Swedish title, Män som hatar kvinnor (literally, Men who hate women) had been changed to The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.

Can I just take a moment to interject just how much I love Sweden? I do, I really love the place. First, however, let me say the only negative things I have ever thought about it are a) asking 65 Kroner (about £6) for 568millileters of beer is really rather a cheek; b) the sun setting at 3pm, after only have risen at 9am in wintertime is just cruel; and finally c) it's bloody freezing come September until about May. 

So, I make a point only ever to go in July or August when the weather is perfect, the sun never sets, the fields are in bloom, and the men all walk about in nice trousers and boat shoes. In fact all the young men are strikingly gorgeous, looking as if they've just walked off a photoshoot for Björn Borg, and drive about in Volvos with their beautiful, blond girlfriends. Of course they are never single - that would be too easy...

I think this is why I love Sweden: it actually fits its sterotypes to a tee. And they are all delighful! Every house you walk into (likely painted red with white trimming) is like an Ikea showroom - classy, understated, and modern. The streets are clean, the buildings well maintained, the hospitals are to die for (erm...sorry...great health care is what I mean to say...), everyone under the age of 30 speaks perfect, accentless English, and the modern trains have better wifi than most homes.

The Swedes are crazy about ice cream and therefore it can found everywhere (how is this not amazing!?); actually, all their food is yummy; everyone could be models for H&M; over half the population either has a boat or a summer cabin - plumbing optional; lots of nature and water; families regularly jump into lakes naked; beer can be bought for 80pence per can in a government run liquor store (begging the question, why do bars even exist?), and public transport is so effortless. It is a beautiful country, with interesting history, fantastic people, and the style of living is enviable.

I could go on about Sweden for ever, and while this is all overgeneralising, my point is: how can a culture so full and bright produce such dark and, frankly, shocking crime fiction? And this isn't just Sweden - neighbouring countries of Norway and Denmark, with similar cultures, produce equally chilling stuff. Some may even call these stories disturbing. It is incredible to say the least. Some things that have come out of Scandinavia in the past twenty years are shocking good reads. The Millennium Trilogy, Henning Mankell's Wallander, Jo Nesbo's books - the list goes on an on. This is before we get to films and television series.

So, for me it began with The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. I stood reading it voraciously, elbow to elbow in a packed train at the end of summer travelling from Bristol to London. It was the beginning of the end. From there it was on to the Wallander series, then The Killing (Forbrydelsen), then Arne Dahl, Borgen, and The Bridge (Bron). I was even lucky to see Krister Henriksson, who plays Wallander in the Swedish series, in London at an event put on by Nordic Noir.

And many of these tv series have been remade in the English language. Normally this annoys me more than anything - why can't people just read subtitles, honestly? Why must Hollywood get their grubby fingers on it, or even the BBC? However, after some thought, I realised people loved the genre so much, they just had to give it a go themselves.

Wallander was remade with the lovely Kenneth Brannaugh, playing Police Inspector Kurt Wallander solving all sorts of insane crimes - filmed entirely in Ystad, Sweden. It was good... Then the Yanks played merry hell with Denmark's, The Killing (that one I boycotted, as you can't really out-do Sofie Gråbøl). This story follows a Copenhagen detective solving a complex, twenty episode, abduction and murder case. Incredible captivating and horribly gritty. And Sarah Lund's jumper is wonderful.

Hollywood also remade The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo - shooting on location in Sweden did help, as did the number of Swedish actors, but it actually felt like Daniel Craig was playing his character of Bond. If Bond had given up spying and become a chain smoking journalist...The original Swedish version of the film was terrifyingly well done, so Hollywood didn't stand much chance.

Then Americans remade The Bridge, in 2013. This time, instead of Malmö/Copenhagen, it was set between the US/Mexican border.  It was filled with cowboys, and pitiful shots of Juarez, and shock, horror - subtitles for about five minutes per show. It was like they were filling a quota...Awful. I gave up.

And then, would you believe, the Brits got hold of the idea, deciding to remake it, set between France and Britain on the Eurotunnel, renaming it The Tunnel (...aren't they clever...). This one, so far, I've actually been impressed with. It feels appropriately depressing...

I've just realised I've gone on quite a bit about this. The thing is, Scandinavian crime is in a league of its own - full of dark, gritty, often horrible stories. Yet the acting is understated, the filming superb and suitably bleak, and scripts often complex. The worst things in human nature usually pop up. The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo alone has all of humankind's depravity: murder, serial killers, rape, Anti-Semitism, torture, incest...yes, I know, sounds charming - but believe me, it's a bloody good read.

Why is all this gritty crime so compelling then? I'm not sure I know the answer, but what I can suggest is that you take a look as soon as you can. Get on to Netflix or down to your local bookstore immediately. You'll never look at crime drama the same again. And also go to Sweden if you haven't done so already. Even if you have been, go again. It's wonderful!