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

A Year of Oliebollen

One of the advantages of living in a new country is experiencing new foods. While I've had most traditional Dutch dishes (except herring because I can't stand the thought of it), there was one I had never had before: oliebollen. This treat is hugely popular during the Christmas and new year period. I had one for the first time just before Christmas last year and absolutely LOVED it.

Groningen's Oliebollen stall

Oliebollen are basically round balls of dough with raisins or cranberries fried in oil then covered with powdered sugar. In Groningen, on the Grote Markt, a wonderful oliebollen stall was set up at the end of November. Which meant, of course, that each time I went past on my way home from work or the shops that I indulged in one or two. Still warm from the oil and covered with powdered sugar...so good!

To make at home!

Unfortunately, I caught a rather horrible 'flu and missed out on oliebollen for most of the month of December. I couldn't believe it - of all times to catch an illness...right when oliebollen are readily available at the end of my street! I've recently regained my appetite, thank goodness, and went immediately to the baker's and stocked up on oliebollen, appelflappen (apple turnovers), and appelbeignets (like apple filled donuts). Some people make these at home, but you can also buy them from the shops. The baker on Terschelling has a special stall open on New Year's Eve, and the queue forms quickly as they are particularly yummy with the island's speciality of cranberries.  

Stocking up on oliebollen

Last year I was lamenting the fact that oliebollen were only available at this time of year. How could something so tasty only come round once a year!? However, I luckily discovered that whenever the kermis (carnival/fair) came to Groningen, there was also a stall with oliebollen. I was so overjoyed! So, throughout the year of 2014 I've been able to enjoy this tasty Dutch treat.

Oliebollen w/ powdered sugar

I suppose that because they aren't readily available whenever the fancy strikes makes them that more special. I've got an entire bag full to enjoy as we bring in the new year and I'm very much looking forward to it!

Happy New Year, everyone - I hope you enjoy your own tasty treats this evening! 

Remembrance Weekend

People often ask me, "don't you miss it?" And whether it be in reference to a previous country of residence, a job, or university, my answer is always inevitably, "no." There is no point, in this short life, to miss and pine. What has passed has passed, and there is only ever the future. However, (you knew that was coming, I expect...), there are brief moments during the year that I do miss being a part of larger body of commemoration; a sense of oneness and selfsame purpose with the nation around me.

November 11th, the end of World War I. Armistice. In the States it is called Veteran's Day; in England it is Remembrance Day. Each year this time is observed and remembered, not only marking the end of conflict in 1918, but all those that followed. It has always been for me a moment of great solemnity, of thankfulness, and of most fervent prayer that we should never find ourselves in the midst of such horrors again. We often think of those who fought during the first two World Wars when thinking about Remembrance Day, but of course, there has been numerous conflict since. In my own life time there have been two major conflicts in the Middle East.

This year marks the centenary of the First World War; the 70th anniversary of the landings at D-Day; and last month we saw the last British troops leave Helmund Province after a thirteen year campaign.  It has, in short, been quite the year for commemorations.

In reality it does not really matter where in the world I am, since I can remember the fallen anywhere. But I will admit it is at times like this that I miss being a part of it all. Sat watching the Festival of Remembrance at the Royal Albert Hall on BBC1 tonight, I was as ever moved and humbled. I'm rather hopeless when it comes to things like commemorations, because I usually begin to blub before the first ten minutes is through. It is meant to be emotional though, and as we saw, there were many people in the Albert Hall moved to tears as well. A wonderful, human expression that we all share.

I've been doing research for the last few months for a bit of writing that deals with both World Wars. Reading personal stories as well as the bare facts of military manoeuvres. I've also been reading fictional books that deal with WWII, and all across the BBC there have been nods to Remembrance. This immersion brings it home all the more. At the Festival a young German lad recited part of a poem, and although I've said this before in previous posts dealing with commemorations, it still gives me immense hope to see the reconciliation that comes about during these times of remembrance.

It also gives me hope to see how involved the younger generations have been; remembering is part of this reconciliation, no doubt. Some might say, all this remembering and parading...wouldn't it just be better to leave it in the past? I don't think it would: the example above of the young German lad being part of the Festival is case in point. We all suffered and lost and grieved. There is an old quote about being equal in death, but are we not equal in suffering too? A mother's son is a mother's son, English or German. Perhaps my generation, that much more far removed from both World Wars, can afford to be objective about it. For us, Germany means Oktoberfest; for them, Britain means Primark. I'm joking of course, but my point is this: our generation have explored the World Wars in staggering detail during the course of our schooling. From a young age we know and are told, and this, in one way or another, leaves its impression.

I remember the pancake breakfasts held in the Parish hall every Veteran's Day when I was young. Our school would go to help out; we would serve food and drinks, sing songs we had learned, and say the Pledge of Allegiance. Most of all what I remember besides the smell of bacon and coffee and mouldering hymnals stacked out of the way, is the old men in uniform, medals gleaming on their chests, who sat and told stories and shook our little hands with their old, gnarled ones. These were men from WWII and Vietnam mostly; many of the veteran's from WWII will have passed on by now.

Equally, I will never forget the Remembrance Sunday service in King's College Chapel, Cambridge. It was the wettest day outside and the place was packed to rafters. If you have ever been inside the chapel, you know it is a overwhelming place. When it is packed for services such as this, or Easter or Christmas, a mass of humanity all feeling especially reverent, the place lit up with candles, reverberating with the life pulse of the great organ piping out 'Abide With Me', and the voices of the innocent raised in boyish purity... well, my words cannot do it justice. It is magical and moving.    

I will miss it; but then again, my thoughts are there, and that's all that matters. I hope those who are close to London have gone to see the poppies at the Tower of London. Incredible. But, I should point out I'm now in a country that celebrates Liberation Day with as much solemnity and reverence as my two "home nations" do Remembrance Day, so nothing has been lost, but merely gained. 

In a way, it's perhaps best I'm not in church this Remembrance Sunday belting out 'Eternal Father' or 'Guide Me, O Thou Great Redeemer' ... I never make it through without welling up. The same goes for the Last Post: I cannot hear it without subsiding behind a hanky...

It only leaves me to say: We we will remember them.