Discovering contours and causing crashes

Geography is important. Take the Slovak Republic as an example, there isn't a contour line anywhere to be seen. It's flat. From end-to-end, just flat. Flat is boring. It's straight roads. It's bland horizons. It's not at all conducive towards anything remotely creative. And it is, perhaps why Slovakia is so utterly crap. All the buildings, including the little houses in the villages in the countryside and square blocks, have not an angle in them except at the square corners. A splash of paint wouldn't go amiss either and graffiti doesn't count in this regard. In fact, even the graffiti is dull; it's neither creative nor colourful. Just meaningless words (admittedly, they often carried those strange adornments mentioned before), but they all in the same black paint. For heaven's sake, you just wish someone would make an effort. Then there's the main city, Bratislava, which is also crap. Call it the capital of bland if you will. Just tall, square, grey buildings. There's nothing that can remotely be described as architecture - except, of course, the Castle, which can be seen for miles before you enter the city, but just didn't seem worth the effort. Dumplings; that's the staple diet of the country. And they're dull too. Properly dull it was. Then there's the countryside; even the trees look as if they've given up trying. Not that there are many trees; just ones planted next to the road, others to partition fields. The fields appear equally demoralised by their own existence. It's not as if Slovakia is incredibly huge; it's probably about 100 miles across - but that's just too much space for so much blandness. Immediately driving into Hungary, you notice a difference. The first are the hills, right there on the horizon, not that far away at all. Then there's the houses, someone's making an effort - they aren't all the same and there is definitely an attempt at gardening going on. You can see it in there language too, they don't have to dress it up as much as the Slavs (is that what one calls folk from the Slovak Republic?) do. Sure, there's a the odd dot on top of some letters, but there are no obscure v's above every vowel. Then there's the road that heads up into the hills; it gets all curly-wurly. Suddenly there's just forest - because you can't plant fields on slopes like these. There's contours everywhere. Paulo was in his element; all that revving and braking. Lilith, who at the best of times can be described as melancholy, had been positively morose in Slovakia but didn't say much in the early part of Hungary. She might have been upset with the sudden excitement; or, admittedly, it might have been that there were no turns that she is programmed to mention as this was simply, one long - delightfully windy and hilly - road to all the way to Bood-a-Pest, as she likes to pronounce it.

Arrgh, let's not go to Prague

Don't trust a weatherman, even if she is pretty... Oh, and don't trust your own instinct either. That's what we were faced with this morning. The previous night, the delightful young lady on BBC World News said that the weather in the Czech Republic would be shite today, well, not quite in those worlds, but she suggested the rain would be severe. Having survived the horrors of Leipzig, and really it was awful, the prospect of going further east was not one that inspire whoops of joy nor wild outbreaks of ecstasy. The option of heading south was enticing, but Switzerland and Austria - to my mind anyway - are best enjoyed in the dead of winter. So booking out, I headed to Paulo, got in and with a heavy heart, asked Lilith to direct us to Prague. She was having none of it... she said she couldn't access her heavenly guides. At a loss, we pulled away and, maybe it was the overhead tramlines that were upsetting her, or it was the act of moving again that got her inspired, but not only did Lilith come up with all sorts of routes to take, but she also said that the most direct one was plagued by tollroads and might she take us around those. Well, there's no arguing with that and thus we had a very rural and scenic tour of East Germany and large tracts of undiscovered Czech Republic. Except, that is, by many, many truck drivers who drive ruthlessly down the narrow country lanes. Paulo wasn't awfully enamoured with the route and, with fond memories of the freedom of the Autobahn, went about the task of getting to the border sluggishly. Can't say as I blame him; the roads are full of potholes - although nothing as compared to those in the eastern Free State and various parts of Mpumalanga in South Africa. If east Germany was industrial and bland, then large tracts of the Czech countryside are worse. It's obscene really; all those glorious green fields interrupted frequently by large chimney stacks, huge square industrial buildings and more of those dreadful block-type apartment buildings. But then they disappeared... Hills formed and trees grew, the roads became curly-wurly, up and down. This inspired Paulo, who rev around corners and charge up the uphills with gusto. The usually taciturn Lilith was positively vocal in announcing every twist and turn, and the fact that the speed limit changed frequently had her ringing bells too. Then we arrived and since the currency changes (Czech, like the British are a member of the EU, but they're not Eurozone... dunno what that means exactly, but it does mean they have different money) Lilith directed us towards a hole-in-the-wall. Getting there was largely unsuccessful because roads were closed down and each time Paulo drove down another possible access route, Lilith kept screeching: 'Make a U-turn as soon as is possible'. Sure, Lilith doesn't screech, but after hearing that for the umpteenth time, it sounded a lot like it - heck, you'd swear we were married the way she goes on sometimes. Suffice to say that eventually we stopped as close as we could - because parking is impossible to find in this city - and I headed out on foot to find that the bank machine was bust. Resigned to failure, it was back to Paulo to ask Lilith for the nearest Hotel. Up came a 'Golden Tulip - Savoy' and memories of Gouda returned - we spent the evening of the 'Rotten-dam' episode in a Golden Tulip hotel and it wasn't totally dreadful, particularly since the service staff spoke English, even if the television didn't. And the wi-fi was free (or as free as can be considering the price of the room). Paulo drove us, under Lilith's direction, to the hotel and... Wow! The room is 25 metres long, true's Bob; I did giant John Cleese-like steps across it and they definitely come to twenty-five. In between these steps is a desk - at which I am penning this, a double bed that looks king-sized, a television cabinet with a telly in it that shows Sky News (I haven't bothered channel searching any further, it's just good to hear proper English again and can scarcely wait for to wake up to Eamonn and Charlotte for Sunrise), a conference table with eight chairs around it, two wardrobes and two bathrooms (the one has the the bathing facilities in it and the other the toilet-type facilities in it). All of which is very nice. Then it was off to town. It's exactly like Leipzig in the same way that chalk is to a cherub. If Hamburg was romantic, then this place is indubitably hanky-panky, and not just because of the obscure museum to sex machines exists in one of its back alleys. It's because of all of its back alleys. The place is a labyrinth of narrow streets inter-linking larger thoroughfares, and at every turn is another significant feature - invariably a church; because there's lots of them, each with a higher and more ornate steeple than the former. The cherub mention was not for sake of wit, but rather that there are many, many cherubs around this city... truly, they abound. Iconic cities, by my reckoning, can be identified by the number of 'tourist' shops they have - you know, those little places in which teaspoons, plates and saucers with landmarks imprinted upon them, and cuddly-toys stitched in the shape of local icons, are sold. Prague has many of these, more than Edinburgh for sure and almost as many as exist around London's most iconic centres (interestingly, there were none, absolutely zero, that were obvious around Hamburg). But the shops here are a little different; instead of British flags and Union Jack underwear, these shops have marionettes. You've never seen so many marionettes in your life and they take the form of everyone you've ever imagined - here there's Hitler, there there's Charlie Caplin; and here there's whatsitsname who currently runs Russia... I didn't see Boris Johnson though. And yeah, that's it. Prague is gorgeous. You'll love it, make a booking soon. Me, I'm going to hit the sack - in that gloriously-large king-sized bed. Tomorrow it's Serbia. Oh heck, didn't they have a war there recently? I'll have to wait to hear what the weather-girl predicts, lest we find another way to get around and into Romania!

An Englishman In Brugge

This must be the most beautiful city in the world, not that I'm such an experienced traveller that I can say this with a great deal of authority, but certainly it is prettier than anything South Africa has to offer. Its narrow cobbled roads, medieval architecture (even the most recently constructed buildings emulate the style), rivers and canals; make for a charming setting. The sweet smell of marijuana that hangs around the youth hostel suggests that Brugge isn't too far from Holland and, as if to confirm this, there are a number of windmills dotted along the river bank. But this is a modern world and the new electricity-generating variety vastly outnumber the traditional type that Don Quixote made famous. Even early in October, with the autumn chill settling down on Europe, the city is overrun with tourists; one simply wonders what it must be like at the height of summer... perhaps, not the best place to be. The tourists make the city almost impossible to navigate by car, never mind the innumerable bicycles and horse-drawn carriages that dominate the streets. Not that the locals seem to mind, they zoom down the narrow streets regardless of the pedestrians and barely slow down in the face of oncoming traffic. How they miss each other is a wonder, but then they are in left-hand drive vehicles which are all the better for driving on the wrong side of the road with. Out in the country, near the campsite where my tent has been pitched, the local provides some clues as to the nature of the rural Belgium population. On the entrance door and stuck to a huge fly swatter (which hangs behind the bar and has the words TEXAS FLY SWATTER emblazoned upon it) are no-smoking signs; despite this, the old bar maid lights up a cigarette having just extinguished her previous one. Behind her, hanging over the bar are the words: "Niet zagen maar pinten bragen." I have no idea what it means, but it must have something to do with beer, so I immediately feel quite at home.

(The little pub where I met the local folk)

The pub is neat and clean, so the calendar hanging on the side of the bar which boasts a well endowed and decidedly topless blonde seems just a little out of place. Regulars, and they must be regulars because the barmaid greets them by their first names as they come in the door, are equally oblivious to the no-smoking signs and within minutes of opening (which doesn't happen on Mondays and Tuesdays) the establishment is filled with a blue smokey haze that would delight the youngsters hanging out at the youth hostel, but would have the politicians in the European Parliament in Brussels having hissy fits. Perhaps the rural Brugge folk feel the same way about Brussels, and its laws, as the British do. That may as be, but the traffic laws have certainly gone decimal, everything is in kilometres per hour, which plays havoc with the GPS and it insists on travelling in miles; and it being a new accessory; I've no idea how to adjust it. Driving here was simply a matter of going a little faster than the trucks, a little slower than any BMWs and keeping pace with anything that remotely resembles a family station wagon. Having said that, the Flemish must be perpetual law breakers because every single traffic light intersection boasts a red-light camera - South African taxis simply could not exist on these roads. On that note, it's probably a good idea to be heading off back to the campsite, the police here are as bad with drink-driving as Sergeant Rose was back in Newcastle... 'Til next time.