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.

Of headaches and other miseries

Sometimes preplanning is essential when going on a road trip abroad. But the delight of Czech ale has a way of dimming the senses and replacing them with wild euphoria. The next day is always the worst, and a lot more damn worse if you hadn't thought to pack headache pills into your luggage. But ever the intrepid and courageous traveller, one dismisses these things and moves on. And move on we did, destination - Slovakia. In particular; its capital, Bratislava! Sounds all very exotic and all that... but it ain't. But we'll get to that later, first the woeful tale of how everything went so horribly pear-shaped. We set off around 8am after a continental breakfast - the hotel gives the minutest plates to dish up on and mostly it's just cold meats, cheeses and breads on offer - there is also scrambled eggs and what appears to be bacon bits. The eggs are strangely runny and have the appearance of having being nuked in a microwave; the bacon is crispy, but cold and oily. Never mind though, the grub and a glass of orange juice reduces the headache from sledge-hammer painful to a dull throb that settles itself in behind the left eyeball. That aside, we were still in great spirit as we hit the road and Lilith again suggested we avoid the tolls and took us on a scenic route through Prague's suburbs, which was very nice. Prague drivers are lunatics though, but having experienced minibus taxi driving, I was well equipped in dealing with the renegades. Although it took some restraint to hold back the middle-finger, which wanted desperately to physically manifest the thoughts going through the alcohol-mangled brain that controlled it. It was rush hour, but patience prevailed and before nine it was open country roads again. By ten the dull throb was back to a blind ache. Fortunately there was A Tesco supermarket at one of the little villages we passed through and Paulo turned in, much to Lilith's chagrin and she expressed this with the usual "Make a U-turn as soon as possible" rebuke. This Tesco's was less a supermarket than it was a cafe. There were no headache pills in the toiletries aisle but there was a friendly, but extremely ugly, manager-type fellow near the entrance who looked as though he might helpful. "Do you sell headache pills," I asked, pointing to my forehead. He shook his head and said something unintelligible. Strange thing this language of theirs, it's all flowery when written down - the letters have all sorts of little decorations; like little circles, slanted dashes and little inverted 'v's on them, but it doesn't sound very pretty. Very hard on the ear it is. I tried a bit of charades: I pointed to my forehead, said a meek 'ouch' and then I motioned with my hand as if putting something in the my mouth then cupped my hand and made as if to drink. A light seemed to go on, and the man smiled - making him even uglier - and motioned for me to follow. I duly did, but was a little taken aback when we arrived in the liquor aisle. Just looking at those rows of wine and beer made me nauseous all over again. 'No, no,' I said and again pointed to my head, this time I gave a pained expression when I said 'ouch', then I made like I was pouring pills into my hand, which I then threw into my mouth. 'Tablets!' he exclaimed. I almost hugged him in relief, but simply nodded with a stupid grin on my face. He took me back to the toiletries section where he too came to the conclusion that there weren't any in stock. 'Moment...' he said, and scurried off. When he came back he pushed a solitary capsule - still in its plastic packaging - in my hand, making motions that suggested I could have it for free; that obscene smile on his face again. I thanked him and no sooner was I outside when I popped the pill, silently wishing he given me two. It eased the pain, but it would return an hour later. Only worse. It was after 11 when we crossed the border into Slovakia - all the border posts are vacant, this is sad because there's no one to stamp my passport to prove that I've visited all these places. There's pros and cons to have a European passport. I was very impressed with the country. Every little town I passed was beautifully manicured, the houses neat and well maintained - that horrid orange colour still well in prevalence, but there were also pastel shades of blue and yellow ochre. All very pretty indeed. The roads too were excellent. Obviously, I thought, Slovakia is a lot wealthier than the Czech Republic. Certainly, instead of Skodas (mostly a dark green colour) that were so evident on the other side of the border, the folk here seemed to prefer VWs, Mercs and Beamers. In fact, they seemed to have adopted a very German set of values. Even their writing was unadorned, and decidedly Germanic. One frustration though was the number, and close proximity, of all the little villages. No sooner had we left one and Paulo had revved up to 55 miles per hour, when we were upon yet another urban area and reduced to 30 miles per hour again. This went on for ages. Soon it became apparent from the sign boards that Wien is a major town en route to Bratislava and I was looking forward to passing it by with a thought of stopping in and taking some photos. About twenty miles from Wien I got to looking at the vehicle registration plates and saw that they all had the letter A on them. I wondered if maybe I had to pass through Albania before getting into Slovakia? If that was the case, then I was rather enjoying the Albanian countryside. Before reaching Wien, I stopped at a filling station and was pleased to note that they use Euros in Albania and I still had a wad of them in my wallet. I purchased a ham and cheese sandwich and a Red Bull. It was only when I was looking at the beers - I've been forced to buy samples from every country by my brother, that the realisation dawned - I was in flippin' Austria! Wien, I realised, is actually Vienna! I cursed Lilith, how could she have gotten us this far wrong Getting back into Paulo, I consulted the atlas and said sorry to Lilith. She didn't care, she just wanted me to make a U-turn again and follow the signs to some place called Bood-ah-Pest. I obliged. Wow, Vienna looks amazing and one wishes we could have stopped, but time was dragging on and we'd already booked ourselves into a hostel in Bratislava and we were expected by two. Amazing, the highway doesn't take you around Vienna, it takes you under it! It's like the Underground, only it's for cars. While being amazed and impressed by the ingeniousness of the tunnel under the city, an aching head could not help but think of the weight of all those high-rise buildings baring down and it all began to feel a bit claustrophobic. Soon enough we were threw it and Lilith said that Bratislava was only 20 miles away. Again the frustration of a vacant border post went past and the reality that is Slovakia came into view. It ain't pretty and it's a lot like East Germany. Bratislava might as well be Leipzig for all it's graffiti, except no one's making an effort to remodel the place. The hostel is in a back street and there's no parking anywhere nearby. Paulo will sleep two blocks away, and I probably won't sleep a wink out of concern for his safety. Lilith will sleep with me tonight; she hasn't made any comments about that because I've switched her off. On the plus side, Edo - who manages the hostel - has given me a map of the city and the best places to visit. There's also laundry facilities and that's good because I'm wearing my last pair of clean underwear. There's also free wi-fi which I've already used to book into proper lodgings in Budapest - it has free, secure parking; so tomorrow should be a better night altogether, if not me, then for poor Paulo. For now though; the sun has set, the clothes are almost finished in the drier and I'm keen to try out 'Halusky' washed down with 'Zlaty Bazant' (these words should come with fascinating adornments on, but I wouldn't know how to put them there, and frankly I couldn't be arsed to find out) at the local restaurant that Edo has pointed out on the map he gave me. I'll take my camera with me, because maybe this city looks better in the dark. We are better prepared for our travels tomorrow, and tonight, well, we won't quite indulge in the local brew regardless of how good it tastes.

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!

Stark contrasts

You'd think that with a marijuana cafe next door, writing this blog would be easy. You'd be wrong though, it's closed, presumably Rastafarians also need a day off. Oh, and it is Sunday, so most of Germany is closed too. Which was a blessing on the road. Driving the Autobahn is a cathartic experience; there's no worry about being caught speeding because there are no speed limits. Why this brilliant idea hasn't caught on anywhere else in the world is mind-boggling. Paulo was in his element, Lilith was her usual dower self (but I'm warming to her), the music was on loud (although listening to the songs for a second time might not have been too bad, there is fear that those lovely tunes will soon become tiresome) and the miles simply peeled away. There were some suggestions that a tour of Germany should include the Black Forest. Which holds a problem - there's no 'Black Forest' on any of my maps and what's all the fuss about anyway? It seems to me that Germany is just one big forest with little blobs of civilisation in-between. I suppose I could have asked Lilith to find it, but it was nice to hear her being silent for a change. Which brings to mind something that everyone in South Africa used to say: "Speak Afrikaans when you're over there," they said knowledgeably, "It's almost like Dutch and German, and you'll be liked a lot more by the locals because they hate the English". Well bull to all of that. After speaking Afrikaans in Belgium, Holland and in Germany, I can honestly say no one had a clue as to what I was talking about. Speak English and everyone understands you. And you don't get those stupid stares either... But we digress... Leipzig was the destination for the day, and it seemed there would be more than enough time, so a way-point expedition was a distinct possibility. This was simply a matter of closing the eyes and plopping a finger down on the map somewhere between Hamburg and Leipzig. Gottingen was the result, and despite it being a Sunday and almost completely devoid of human life, it was beautiful; perfect even... Much like everything else in this country (This perfection is becoming a bit of an irritation really, just one upturned dustbin or something would be a welcome change to the norm.) In fact it is an example of what every medium sized-town should look like. And that's about as much as anyone can say for it. (It's a lot easier to write about stuff when it doesn't work than when it does; the journalists in Germany must be amongst the most bored and frustrated people in the world - which also, perhaps, explains the local population's penchant for media of the soft-porn variety). The real story begins where West Germany ends. It's almost as if there's a straight line drawn between East and West. Well actually there was, and there are sign posts depicting barb-wire fences and sentry towers to show where it was. But visibly the difference in the landscape is obvious... the forests, black of otherwise, disappeared and to be replaced by wind-farms in open fields. Miles and miles of them. The villages are visibly different too: those in the west are all very similar; there's a large church steeple in the middle with a bunch of houses placed snuggly and concentrically around it. These villages are always neatly tucked down in a valley - all dainty-like. The ones in the east are different; there's a huge chimney stack in the middle and you can't quite see what's under the stack because surrounding it are huge concrete blocks that, one assumes, are apartment buildings. They look a lot like prisons. Admittedly, I only saw one village that looked like this, but that was the only village I saw before getting to Leipzig. Other things I saw included a large power generating facility that looked decidedly nuclear and what might have been an oil-refinery. Whatever, it is all very depressing: One minute you're in a scene from a Christmas postcard and the next you're in the middle of a Dickens novel. George Orwell even. And then you arrive in Leipzig. Which somehow explains everything but leaves you clueless nonetheless. It gives you a headache. Truly it does. But someone has tried to make this miserable place look all perky and modern and vibrant and naff stuff like that. Coming into the town you cross two bridges; the first painted pink with yellow cross bars, the second painted purple with yellower-than-yellow crossbars. Then there's the road signs... Everywhere else the road signs are blue and white; here they're all black and yellow. It's glaring; like everything is a warning. But whatever the warning it doesn't prepare you for the city itself. It's weird. Decidedly weird. Initially it's so modern and lovely. All the way in, the roads are beautiful, the verges manicured, the traffic signals bright and new. Then you enter town and it's all these old buildings, but brand new. And there's something odd about them. Initially you don't see it, but your mind registers something wrong. But yeah, there it is... Everything has graffiti over it; they've tried to scrub some of it off the newer buildings but you can still the marks where it was. In some places they seem to have just given up trying to scrub it off, mostly around the train-station area. Walking around it gets even more strange. Here there's this magnificently refurbished building, bold and impressive; and next to it there something that might have been a building once, but now it's little more than a pile of rubble. Next to this there's a building in the throws of refurbishment. The new facade going up serving only as a new canvas for graffiti artists. It's like a major struggle between construction and destruction. The west is moving in and making everything new, but there's an anarchic east that is fighting relentlessly against progress. It's odd. Mind you, one can see why the German economy is so strong, they're building, and building, and building; all at a furious rate out here in the east. You see it in the new highways and the new buildings. Somehow everything feels plastic though. A city shouldn't be this new and try to look old. It just feels fake. Maybe that's the graffiti artists' point, maybe that's why they're protesting. But who knows, who can judge... I'm only here for a day; glad to have experienced it, but awfully glad to leave tomorrow too. Oh my, if this is what East Germany is like, what joys does the Czech Republic hold? Tomorrow... Prague... Gulp! And to think that the dagga joint next door is closed!

50 Shades of Grey

It was just after seven-thirty in the morning, but for all the dark wetness, it might as well have been as early as five. It had rained all night and it was still pissing down - sunrise was a non-event. The prospect of travelling to Amsterdam and closer the North Sea was not appealing. So eastwards we went with less-than-trustworthy Sat Nav leading the way; her voice as drab and monotonous as the unforgiving deluge that poured from the heavens. It was like this all the way to the German border; rain changing from intermittent to relentless, and back to intermittent again. Everything ahead; just grey... sometimes darker, sometimes lighter, but always shades of grey... About 50 shades if I was to hazard a guess. Certainly, a lot more than anyone would care to shake a windscreen-wiper at. The trip to Hamburg, Sat Nav had carefully calculated, would be 389 miles. Since we were reduced to less than 40 miles an hour in places, this was going to be an awfully long trip and it seemed that the 87 songs on the iPod would run out before the miles did. Strangely, the trip through the Netherlands passed relatively quickly - about two hours - and it was onto the Autobahn... The little Polo, who has been baptised Paulo-the-Polo, was thrilled to be in the country of his origin and quickly revved himself up to over 100 miles and hour. For all of about two miles, then we hit traffic and Sat Nav, bright lass that she is, informed us of this fact after we'd been crawling along at 15 miles an hour for the past 20 minutes. This was followed by construction on the road. On-and-on the construction went, providing plenty of opportunity to take in the surrounds. Germans drive German cars, and most drive VWs. There are more makes of VW in Germany than anywhere else and they have makes that no one outside of Germany has probably ever heard of. None of the Germans drive a VW Go! or Lupo though; one suspects the Germans sell these to the British as some sort of joke. Golfs alone come in all sorts, there's a station wagon type and a peculiar Golf Plus that looks like a people-carrier. Others drive BMWs and Mercs; but whatever they drive, they only come in two colours: Black and grey - but admittedly, there's a lot of shades of grey. About 50 if I was to hazard a guess. Certainly more than you could rev your engine at. There is a lot of white too though. Frankly, there's way too much white. These take the form of motor-homes and caravans and it seems there's almost as many of them as there are normal passenger cars. And they slow the traffic. If there's any colour in this part of the world, then it is at the many roadside petrol stops, and it can be found in the uppermost shelves of the magazine racks. Truly, the folk in this part of the world have quite a thing for porn - there's rows and rows of it. I've always thought that if I bought Playboy then it would be for the insightful articles, sadly here, I don't know the language and would be reduced to looking at the pictures which aren't at all grey. I leave these little pit-stops with cups of caffeine-sans-Jameson's-because-we're-driving and wistful thoughts of warmer climes where clothing is less a necessity than it is a fashion option. We left Gouda at a cheesy seven-thirty; we pulled into Hamburg - the rain eventually dissipating - a little after three in the afternoon. Seven-and-a-half hours in all, and all there was to see along the way was 50 shades of grey and the odd seductive hint of colour. But the joy of arriving! The sun and blue sky burst out in welcome and Paulo purred in delight. Well, not really purred as such, but rather made generally happy engine sounds. Sat Nav, who really does need a name, struggled to get her tongue around the street names but got us to the motel without too much fuss. After checking in, it was out again and Sat Nav found us an actual shopping mall, which had actual automatic bank tellers. So, with brass in pocket, it was off to find the centre of town. And what a centre it was... To describe it here would be folly... View the photos and make your own judgment (although the Rough Guide To Europe On A Budget describes Hamburg as such: 'Germany's second city is infamous for the sleaze and hectic nightlife of the Reeperbahn strip...' - It's the primary reason I chose to visit it!). Save to say that I was impressed even if I didn't make it to the strip. It was the people who impressed me the most though. Like their cars they all wear black... and grey. Many shades of grey, perhaps as many as 50. Certainly more than you could shake a knitting needle (or soft-porn magazine) at. Oh, and I've concluded that Sat Nav's name is Lilith (those who have watched Frasier will understand), it just seems appropriate and, to be fair, grey (in any shade) suits her.

Damn Rotten

The North Sea shed a good portion of itself over the coast of northern Europe last night and for much of today. Not terribly nice if you're living in a tent. Although, one learns during these times; the first is that waterproof tents really keep the water out... but the sides are as wet and chilly as an oil rig off the Scottish coast and anything that touches them becomes totally soaked. These include the thick winter jacket, the foot of the sleeping bag and the road atlas - although the latter getting wet may have more to do with the half empty bottle of water that was knocked over sometime during the early hours. It's also important to have change with you when you plan to camp. Or at least you need it at the campsite in Brugge where the shower operates from electricity which can only be kick-started with a One Euro coin. Having left all my change with a decidedly happy, but still old, bar maid, the only option was a cold wash-up over the basin. That dreadful affair, along with the evil weather outside led to the decision to spend the next night in a proper hotel with proper amenities. And so, with the rain lashing down, the wind pumping and a very distinct smell of deodorant abuse all around, it was off to a brief stop in Antwerp and on to discover the wonders of Rotterdam. Antwerp wasn't enthralling and is hardly worth a mention except to say that it exists.* Rotterdam was something else altogether and it is a wonder. As in: it's a wonder that it works. The traffic intersections are the worst and... well... what kind of insane mind designed them? Never mind three or four phase traffic lights; these are a several multi-confusing phases variety. This is necessary because not only do motorists, cyclists (they are numerous and impolite and not averse to using their little ringy-bell-things in disdain at anything that looks remotely like a foreigner) and pedestrians use them, but trams do too. Drive on the wrong side of the road, take weird turns at strange intersections, criss-cross these turns with tram lines and even the Sat Nav will do its head in. Which it probably did, considering the events of the rest of the day. Anyhow, if you think it might be a good idea to get out of the car and take a walk; forget it. There aren't any vacant parking spaces and the few that do exist are connected to horribly complicated parking meters that require a credit card to use and then cost an arm and a leg and the utterance of several expletives to get them to work.. So, figured I, just ask the Sat Nav thingy to find a shopping centre - they always have free parking and I needed to get to a hole-in-the-wall anyway and there weren't any openly visible on the streets (even if there were, there wouldn't be any way to park close enough not to go through the whole expletive thing again). The Sat Nav came up with several options, the most likely seemed 'The Promenade' and it was less than a mile away.. What could go wrong? Just bloody everything; the first being the complicated nature of those tram-lined crisscross intersections which led me to drive around the block where 'The Promenade' was located. It was during the second circling that it became apparent that there was no entrance to a parking area, except one that was private. Fortunately there was a vacant parking bay along the street and Two-Euros-via-credit-card later, the car was safely parked for half-an-hour and it was off to 'The Promenade'. As it happens, 'The Promenade' shopping mecca, as suggested by Sat Nav, is not any ordinary shopping centre and it has exactly three shops - all of them cafe-like. Sure it's in this big impressively modern building, but the vast majority of it is hidden from the public and the little bit around those cafe-type shops is frequented by people in long flowing black robes gracefully adorned with frilly white bibs strung around their necks. It's a freaking temple of lawyers... it's presumably the magistrates' court even if the bailiff's office looks more like a banking hall. And it had no hole-in-the-wall. Despondently, it was back to the car to ask Sat Nav for directions to a hotel; the Mariner Hotel was visible across the bay and it looked clean enough but not that clean that it would be as expensive as the parking facilities. Sat Nav got us there, terrifying though the journey was, but there was no parking for three blocks around the place. It was time to throw in the towel - the North Sea was still pissing down on the place and while there appeared to be some good photo opportunities around the harbour, it just didn't seem worth it. Finally, Sat Nav was told to find a hotel near Gouda, if nothing else, any town named after cheese, even if it isn't Cheddar, must be a bit of alright. Sadly, Sat Nav with it's usual inefficiency found the Tulip Inn, which just happens to be very far outside of Gouda, but very close to the highway. That's enough for me, and even if the room is expensive, the parking is free. So is the internet and that's why you are reading this. A long deep-soaking bath later and everything seems okay again - except that the hotel rooms don't have a kettle and the accompanying packets of coffee, long-life milk and packets of sugar or sweetner... But that's okay, because for just 50 cents, the machine in the road-side petrol station next door will give you a shot of expresso, and for just one Euro more, you can add into the expresso a dose of something that must be coffee because it looks like it to fill the paper cup. It might be colder than a witch's tit outside, but this stuff - along with a generous dash of Jameson's that someone was clever enough to buy at the duty-free at Folkestone - is enough to make a brass monkey not worry about freezing balls. Tomorrow? Well tomorrow's another day.

*Along the road to Antwerp there was a stop off at a road-side petrol station for some semblance of breakfast, amazingly the young lady at the counter was very good at English this despite working in a place that is on the border of several countries where people speak Dutch, German and whatever-it-is-that-Belgium-folk-speak (it doesn't sound French). This mystery was, perhaps, solved while driving along in Holland and listening to local radio stations - all the songs are English (well mostly American really... but that's just English spelt incorrectly, isn't it?)

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.