2009 the European year of Renovations

Apparently some of you were having trouble with my new images, I had it linked to the UK & Ireland album rather than the gallery as a whole. Apologies, fixed now however. Also there is one more album in there that may seem odd.

Dave and I have been encountering an abnormally large number of icons and monument under renovation. Even if they aren't an icon or monument they are a major feature in the landscape. Because of this I made a joke way back in London that 2009 was the 'European year of Renovations'.

Oh how I wish I hadn't. Fate may be fickle but her sister Irony is just plane mean.

The joke stopped being funny long ago when we noticed that a trend was forming. A large church in Bruges, the Law Courts in Brussels, a large statue out the front of Versailles as well as a host of lesser land marks. Most recently (and possibly the one I most bitterly resent) I can be quoted saying "if Charles Bridge is under reno i think i might cry a little."

If this were a letter there would be artful little tear stains right here.

picturesque

Just a note that I have up updated my gallery and it now has a somewhat more decent spread! It includes Bruges, Brussels, Amsterdamn, Copenhagen and Stockholm.

it scores a thirteen out of twenty

Copenhagen was an average city in my opinion. It was pretty but not stunning, large but not big and above all it was cool but not fun. I will admit, after a seventeen hour train ride that is delayed due to engine failure for two hours, one is always going to be underwhelmed but Copenhagen just didn't seem like it was trying.

Sweden on the other hand was a vastly different story. I bailed on my Danish experience that was as bland as their cheeses a day early and went to stay with Edward Browne, a friend from my old EC days. He showed me the sites of a pretty little university town in southern Sweden called Lund while we caught up on five missed years. This was all rounded off by a Mexican dinner with his friends and a movie called 'The Thing' (a dreadful 80's B-grade horror. I want those two hours of my life refunded.) The next day I was bound for my Cousins place in Örbyhus (Orbi-hoos), about an hour north of Stockholm. Matt showed me the sites of rural Sweden which was a fantastic change from all the cites I have been staying in. I was also immersed in the culinary culture of Sweden by means of a Kabab Pizza called 'Spezcial Viking' (pretty much a pizza base fashioned to resemble a boat... kinda, then filled with kabab goods) and a glass of Coco-Cola that had a distinct cinnamon character on the palate and a slight menthol bouquet. The match was fantastic but the beverage only scores a thirteen out of twenty due to lack of complexity and potential bottle development. After this Matt suggested I sample some of the Baltic sea and warily I obliged but was surprised to find it predominately fresh! When you think about it there is a perfectly good reason for that. Look at a map. Having sampled the coasts brackish fare we headed home.

It was good to think of somewhere as home, even if it was only for a couple of days.

With an initially heavy heart I headed down to Stockholm for a couple of days and checked out what the city had to offer. Compared to Copenhagen this place was a veritable orgy of entertainment. I went and saw a four hundred year old ship, the Royal Armory and Crown Jewels then stumbled into a multinational food market and finished the evening with two Canadians taking me out for a good time and failing, then two Germans taking me out and succeeding admirably. The next day I had breakfast with my old boss at a Stockholm cafe, lunch at about thirty five thousand feet and dinner with two friends in Paris.

I'm feeling very Global.

Angry the German

It has been quite some time since i have posted anything but in my defense there has been a lack of internet over the past two weeks. This will be he first in a short series of installments.

Leaving Amsterdam seemed straightforward enough on paper, I catch an over night train to Copenhagen that would take the best part of 14 hours and deposit me in the heart of Copenhagen. I left my companions for this intrepid solo leg of the journey an hour earlier than required, just to make sure i got off on the right foot and thank god for that because this is where the fun started. I get to the station and cast around for the nearest ticket information desk to present myself to and find one without any trouble. When I finally get to the head off the cue I am told that my booking number is not sufficient and that I have to print everything off. Now at this point I can only assume that the gentleman behind the counter with the thick German accent, was having a very bad day indeed because when I inquired as the where I can print off my email he fired back an angry "how should i know". A bit disillusioned with my transport company I look around the station a little bit desperately for an internet cafe with printing facilities. I don't find a cafe but what i do happen to find is an ice cream shop with printing and over 36 flavours. The nice young girl behind the counter with the happy dutch accent says I need to sample the wares in order to be able to use the net and print and so I proceed to gleefully tuck into my 'Chunky Monkey' while scouring my inbox.

I return to Angry the German and present him the requested paperwork and a grin. Neither work it seemed because he then tells me in his own delightful fashion "this train does not exist." Restraining a number of tart replies I press the matter to find out how it is possible to purchase a ticket for a train that doesn't exist and his only response is to try and sell me a ticket for a train that is leaving at the exact same time to the same destination. This time, I do not restrain the sarcasm and we are sliding towards an altercation when his superior intercedes. As it turns out, it is my train, I do own a ticket, I didn't need to print it and Angry the German is in fact a twat. Medical fact. I leave the transit lounge looking like a cat thats been into the cream, followed by the sound of Angry coping a Dutch lashing.

I go back to the ice cream shop for some 'Coffee Coffee BuzzBuzzBuzz'...because I deserve it.

we're on a boat...

Post-Brussels, we arrived in the original city of sin, the scandalous capital of the Netherlands, where they dare not to obsess over moral integrity and dispense with good old conservative values. Well, at least in a few neighborhoods. Amsterdam was amazingly diverse, and as far as I'm concerned, the most interesting bits were a few streets removed from the red lit windows and suspicious smelling smoke. If you can dodge the bikes (and there are MANY of these silent, fast-moving death machines) you can find some picturesque canals, worse-for-wear old houses with high-design interiors, and tiny markets dotted all around.

That said, one cannot visit this city without taking a walk around the Red Light District. Our first venture in this area was in search of Chinese food, of all things. On arrival to our hostel (which I will shortly address) we were given a map and shown a number of important locations in the city. These were all helpfully circled, though not labeled. Thus we were unprepared for the 'food' area to be an offshoot of the 'sex and drugs' area. Possibly not the height of urban planning, unless it's a move of unprecedented consideration. All the sex and drugs might cause one to become peckish, after all.

Now, the hostel. It must be said... the hostel was a boat. The prospect was incredibly exciting, especially given the lyrical genius of the Lonely Island Planet fresh in our minds (apologies to all those to whom this obscure reference makes absolutely no sense. To everyone else... we were on a boat!! The reality was not nearly so exciting as the prospect had been, but it was still a pretty good place to stay. The fact that it was a boat somehow completely excused the fact that the room was like two shoe boxes stacked one atop the other, and having breakfast on a boat felt strangely more relaxing than any other breakfast we'd had up to this point. We attribute much of this to the presence of the ships parrot (well,budgie) who chirped quietly all through the meal.

For one of our days in Amsterdam, I decided to live like a local, and hire a bike. The hunted had become the hunter, as I mounted my silent instrument of doom and prepared to clean up some of my ex-kin, the hapless pedestrians. I ended up using the bike to ride well out of the city centre, on a trip to visit some buildings that you'd no doubt find dreadfully uninteresting to read about. To look at, they were quite fantastic, but I'll gloss over the detail, and move on to my ride back. The ride out had been such a pleasant experience, with the wind at my back I just cruised along effortlessly. Why would anybody ever WALK, I thought, when riding was so blissfully easy and efficient? Well, I found out why, and it's all about wind resistance. On the way back into the city, all that lovely wind which I'd barely noticed was propelling me along was now turned against me, and this was very evident. I'd describe it as trying to jog through treacle, and at many points it seemed more sensible to jump off and push than to try and pedal into this ridiculous gale. If I hadn't been alone, I'd have whinged something shocking, but I was alone, and thus I've caught up on missed whinging here.

forgive me, brussels

The capital of the European Union, built on top of a river so vile-smelling that they paved it over, and home to a tiny statue that perpetually urinates. This is the dischordant mess that is Brussels. The locals 'take pride' in the city's ugliness. I would hazard a guess that it's the sort of pride one takes in unfortunate adversity. Like the time I fell off my bike and tore up all the skin on my legs. For a bit I felt like an idiot, but soon I channeled my suffering into a pride that I'd now call 'Brussellian'.

I will be honest with you, I wasn't that impressed by Brussels. No matter how dapper the weeing statue looked in the tiny clothes the locals dress him in, I couldn't really find it in my heart to admire the place. There was lots of nice ornate...stuff...in the main square, but honestly I was more impressed by the enormous Tintin comic panel that was on display there, probably bigger than a couple of tennis courts. The city had none of the charm of a smaller town, nor did it impress as other large cities had. It was not particularly old, nor was it really very modern. Apologies to any patriotic residents of the Belgian capital. All I can say is... hey, you can always go to Bruges.

My thinly veiled animosity towards Brussels may have something to do with the fact that it claimed a number of my belongings, including a power adapter and a very nifty travel clothesline. Leaving hotel rooms in a hurry is never a good idea. The fact that James also inadvertently abandoned his adapter in the very same room meant that at our next stop, we'd be without the electronic luxury we'd come to take for granted. We were running on dwindling batteries.

I shouldn't be so harsh on this city, after all we only spent two nights there, and a vast amount of time was spent not on sightseeing or appreciating the city, but on lugging backpacks between accommodation, an activity which James will tell you makes me exceptionally prone to bouts of crankiness. Though I will tell you, completely objectively, if you ever find yourself in Brussels, in a park looking up an extraordinary vista towards a church, don't go any closer. It won't bite or anything, but unless you relish disappointment, you'll admire this one from a distance.

So again, apologies to the good people of Brussels. To the rest of you, I'll confide that really, I wish I'd stayed in Bruges.

(in) Bruges

Some of you will know of the film 'In Bruges', and it was to Bruges we travelled from London. This marked the continuation of a trend in our itinerary, with destinations informed not by a guidebook, but instead by some other media. York and Lancaster (for the latter we visited Windermere, which is near enough) were online pseudonyms of ours, and thus made it onto our list of places we must visit. I apologise profusely to James for any negative impact such a revelation has on his street-cred (for the record, he's York). Bruges was a place that we may indeed have discovered in a guidebook, but instead were exposed via film. Declared to be the 'best preserved medieval village in Belgium', it makes a gorgeous film set. Now, if you've not seen the film, I'd highly recommend it. It's no family flick, and has its share of all the bad things that make a film climb the ratings ladders, but it's a clever bit of work and is worth it if only for the scenery. You'll get to see the best bits of Bruges... without the tourists. Which of course, we were, joining the rest of the horde. Bruges is a very busy little place, and mostly due to the masses who come to marvel at this picturesque town.

Bruge is showing the signs of a town being overwhelmed by tourism, yet still manages to utterly captivate. Walking into the town was a rollercoaster of appreciation, starting with the definite trough of crossing a busy dual-carriageway, amidst the cranes (mechanical, not avian) developing the station precinct. Beyond this, however, one has to walk through a cobbled laneway, seemingly unaltered for centuries. Looking along this stretch of road, a cathedral rises up above the rooftops. At this point one feels very guilty for doubting Bruges. Until of course a bend is rounded, revealing a main strip of the latest fashion outlets, complete with a portable carousel sporting an acrylic menagerie, and a fairground waffle stand. Once more, that hypocritical disgruntlement crosses my mind. Bloody tourists, ruin everything.

Now, Bruge is almost entirely cobbled. This is our first experience with proper cobbled streets. Of course, here and there in every city we've visited, there have been bits and pieces, particularly in the old areas. However, Bruges in its entirety falls into the category of 'old', and thus it's difficult to find a smooth bit of pavement. At this point, I make the grand claim that walking on cobbles is 'good for you'. I make this statement with the ironclad case that 'I've seen it on TV.' That I certainly had, in an infomercial-esque situation where some clever soul was selling strips of molded rubber flooring, replicating the inconsistency of a cobbled road. Walking on such a surface would cause the whole foot to be exercised, not like the foolishly smooth pavement to which we are accustomed. It took about 30 minutes for James to denounce me as an idiot of the highest order for believing and repeating such nonsense, and for me to curse infomercials for their lies. Indeed, our feet had been exercised, in there entirety, perhaps a little too thoroughly.

Bruges boasts not only wonderful sights, but wonderful scents. Ninety percent of the time, the air is filled with the delicious aroma of chocolate and waffles. It is hard to feel anything but blissful, walking through ancient streets, smelling waffles. The payoff for such indulgence is that the remaining 10 percent of the time, you'll catch the unfortunate whiff of sewerage, drifting up from somewhere below the streets. In the event of such an encounter the best course of action was to calmly cease breathing, and power-walk until more oxygen was required. With any luck, you'll get a lungful of choc-waffle air. Then again, you might not. Keep walking!

apologies most sincere

It has been brought to my attention that my blogging efforts have slipped somewhat, and that certain elements of the readership are, as my sources put it, 'disgruntled'. This simply will not do, and given my current fortunate circumstances, I have the time and means to make amends. The following posts will give an insight into our adventures since we departed London.

photographs

I have added my own photo gallery as well now. It contains photos from across the UK and Ireland. There may be some double ups with Mr. Young's pictures, but let me assure you his attempted plagiarism hasn't caused any lasting damage to our friendship. I'll continue to keep updating pictures periodically, probably in bundles of countries because its easier for me. Also, this is only a small fraction of the actual number of pictures I have so there will be heaps of stuff that I miss.

interlude

In stark contrast to Dave's experience back in London, I was basking in comparative luxury. As I lay on my crisp fresh linen, sipping sparking mineral water I felt a little bad for Dave. The poor guy was going to hostel with what can only be discribed as a less than sterling reputaion. Knowing however that Dave wouldn't want me to fret over his circumstance, I swiftly crushed these rogue thoughts.

He's the noble sort you understand.

Having set my mind at ease, I lay back and put some Coldplay on my wall mounted entertainment system. Then lacking anything better to do I fiddled with my espresso machine and retired to the bathroom for a relaxing shower. Then I discovered the jets. Five small, high
pressure jets of water that rinse you off, similar to what the government employs in quarantine facilities. To say they caught me unawares would be an understatement.

The next morning having recovered from my shower malfunction and having deftly appropriating some choice toiletries, I ambled down to meet Dave at the foot of my building. Feeling refreshed in body and mind I felt ready to follow in the footsteps of Charlemange and
conquer the European continent.

generating

As we fleetingly pass through London again, bound for Belgium, events dictate that we're going separate ways for tonight's accommodation. Left to my own devices, I've selected 'The Generator', chosen for its price and proximity to our departure station. Having found the place, I'm greeted with a hostel which can only be described as... behemoth. This is the hostel business in full flight, catering to large numbers of young people. It has that scent to it. Of late nights and excess, of spilt this and that. Virtually everything is slightly...stained, with the exception thankfully being my bed linen, which looks quite sterile. A word so often associated with coldness and hospitals, sterile is something I'm quite happy with when it comes to my linens. The scent changes as you get deeper into the building. It smells like cleaning. Cleaning that has not quite managed to get that unmistakable scent of urine from the carpet. That's backpacking for you.

The place is decorated in accordance with its name, the result being an excessive amount of exposed cable ducting, stenciled industrial writing on dorm room doors, and a lot of wire mesh. They also subscribe to the 'colorful' school of hostel painting, which I'm coming to loathe. Call me a snob, but dark blue and yellow paint, in alternating bands, accented with black and red couches, makes this common room feel just a little bit kindergarten. The yellow fluorescents are the icing on the cake.

You'll recall my musings on the YHA style of accommodation, with its stern severity. In Scotland, the hostel was veritably decorated with tiny stickers and signs, instructing on the use of almost every item. 'Switch off!' (the lights) 'Recycle!' (the 18 different bins in the dining room), 'Save Water' 'Turn the knob to position 2 until the red light comes on, then flick the two switches and pull the lever. The green light will come on. Wait 2 minutes. Turn the dial back to 1. Now you can use the stove!'

You get the picture.

I think you can tell a lot about a hostel's clientèle from the signs it chooses to employ. Here, they choose to instruct guests in this manner: 'DO NOT climb out of the window into the courtyard'

Need I say more?

photographic update

Nothing major or exciting to report in this update, just a matter of keeping up with the blog and sorting out something I've been working to get up and running for a while now: Pictures! It has become apparent that we cannot include more than 1 image per post, in any easy fashion, so I've set up a Gallery that contains some of the photos that we've taken. This link will be to my select photos, and hopefully James will get something happening too.

Dave's Europe '09 Gallery

We've just returned to Manchester after a couple of fantastic days up in the Lakes District, staying in Windermere. The highlight of the trip was a day of mountain biking in the forest and countryside on the far bank of the lake. The scenery was like something out of a storybook, and in my opinion, has provided the best day of the trip so far. There's a few shots of the place in the gallery, so I hope you'll enjoy checking that out!

Just keep in mind that the photos may not necessarily be in chronological order! And I should probably note that a fair few of them are stolen from James' photo stock - as the man with the fancier camera, I've let him do a lot of the photography, but I see no reason not to reap the benefits of his hard work.