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A Day in Rome —Italy in August continued

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We caught the train to Rome. Thankfully there was air conditioning on the train. Although you are probably reading this in somewhat cooler temperatures, I can assure you that Italy, in August, is almost unbearably hot. It’s not the best time to visit, but it was the only week when the whole family could meet, hence we were there, and coping.

The train to Rome took about an hour. It was a double-decker train and a screen showed which stations we were visiting, which made it very easy. We bought tickets at the bar next to the platform, and they seemed to work, so all was good.

When we arrived in Rome we looked for toilets at the station. Toilets in Rome are difficult—there are very few of them, and they are expensive and dirty. The ones at the station were hard to find, but there were some at the end of a foodcourt. The foodcourt looked good, and easy, so we ate lunch before setting off. My family always seems to do tourism at midday, which combined with the weather in August, is the absolute worst time to attempt tourism in Italy. But this is just how it works. It is impossible to motivate anyone to get up early when they are on holiday, and it always takes ages to leave the house, and after several decades, I have learned that coping with the midday sun is easier than trying to change my family.

Places to eat, and washrooms, at the main station.

We set off for the colosseum . This can be reached by the Metro, which is relatively easy to use once you have found it.  It seems that my family are not the only ones who do tourism at midday, as the colosseum was very crowded. There were people everywhere! Tourists from every continent—some in designer clothes, leathery skin and musical accents, some with umbrellas for sunshades, some with baseball caps and white sneakers and loud voices—some following guides with worried expressions, some looking lost, some striding confidently and ignoring the queues. The whole world was here, and everyone was hot. But when you paused, and for a moment actually looked then the heat didn’t matter. The colosseum rose next to us, timelessly strong and dominant, ignoring mere humanity as it loomed against the sky. You could almost hear the crowds as they thronged to watch the Roman games, you realised that the same hot sun had seared their heads, and whilst the noise of cars would be replaced with chariots and shouts and horses, it would not, I think, have been so very different.

Rome does this. History in Rome forces itself into the present day. You cannot avoid it. Wherever you look, whichever path you take, you are constantly confronted by another age, another civilisation, people from another era. There are steps, worn by feet that wore leather sandals two thousand years ago, and buildings that have witnessed the best, and the worst, that humans can achieve. Modern society may have built roads, and cars that speed through the city, but the ancient spires rise above them, the bridges guarded by angels are still the only routes over the river, the crumbling walls of  Caesars still emerge from the foundations.

We walked to the Trevi Fountain. Someone was playing opera, and the sound wafted through the remains of an ancient palace as we negotiated the traffic on narrow roads. The fountain was full of sunshine and tourists and traffic. We escaped for a while into the cool of McDonalds and drank bottles of water.

We  tried to catch a bus to the Vatican, failed, and hailed taxis. St. Peter’s Square was no less hot, no less crowded. The snake of visitors waiting to visit the cathedral wound round one side of the square. We have all visited before, so going inside seemed like more trouble than it was worth. There was a new sculpture though—a raft carrying immigrants—over to one side. I went to look at it. Some of the sculptured people were obviously Jewish, some looked like slaves from Africa, some were clearly poor. Something with wings was hidden in the middle, and I wondered if this was a Nazi raven, something representing the holocaust. Later, I read about it online:

The sculpture is called ‘Angels Unawares’ and it is based on the book of Hebrews in the Bible (Hebrews 13:2). Timothy Schmalz wanted to sculpt a raft carrying immigrants from every age, and the wings signify that amongst them is an angel—therefore we should care for them because we might be caring for an angels, whilst being unaware. It’s a lovely work (spoiled, I thought, by the people using it for Instagram photos). I walked round it, looking at the faces, hoping that perhaps, one day, the world (us) might be kinder to people who are forced to leave their homes.

We sat in the shade for a while, and then walked to Piazza Navona, which is near to where we stayed 10 years ago when we visited Rome. It is a lovely square, with amazing fountains, but unfortunately this time they were surrounded by scaffolding. Not as atmospheric as we had hoped. We then split up, those with energy staying for more tourism, the rest of us going back to the station. It was a quick trip, and there is more in Rome than we could hope to experience in a week, never mind a day. But even a short trip reminds you of the beauty of Rome. It is an exciting city, one that needs to be revisited many times. Preferably not always in August. I have put an October visit on my wish-list, we shall see…

Thank you for reading. I hope your week goes well.

Take care.

Love Anne x

anneethompson.com
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Visiting Sermoneta —- Italy in August Continued

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After our lovely afternoon in Anzio, we decided to explore a different town. Son 1 had lots of enthusiasm, but I had less energy, so we compromised on a short trip into the hills to Sermoneta. Husband had found the town in his guide book—a paper book, from many years ago—and Son informed him that no one uses those any more, and the town was probably long gone. But it wasn’t. I doubt it ever will be. This town is older than anyone living in it, and that has a certain permanence.

We saw the town before we reached it, perched high on the peak of a hill. The road was steep, and there were several parking places, and we were keen that Husband should drive to one as near as possible to the town, and he was keen to not end up having to drive through the narrow streets of an ancient town. In the end it was fine, there was a car park very near to the town that did not involve one-way traffic or cobbles.

We climbed the stone steps that led into town, and instantly we were transported into a fairytale of narrow paths winding past ancient stone buildings covered in bougainvillea, arched doorways, cobbled roads, towers draped in ivy. So beautiful.  We forgot about the sun searing down on us, and wandered happily past shops crammed with local honey and wooden puppets and fresh figs—all about to close for the afternoon. We explored the church, and the viewpoint, and watched a band of musicians who were setting up for an evening concert. Then we returned to the main square, and looked for a restaurant.

The main restaurant had a rather predatory man who tried to entice us inside with platters of cheese and meat, all at a bargain price. We have listened to similar patter before in Italy, and rarely does the price remain unchanged once we are actually sitting. We smiled, and continued down the road. Then, just as I was about to wilt and suggest we returned to the pushy man in the square, we saw a small restaurant with tables set alongside the road, and an old Italian man hunched over a glass of red wine and a plate of sausage and bread, and I was hooked. This was Italy. This is where I wanted to eat.

They pushed together the tiny tables so we could sit together, and they allowed me to buy a glass of wine even though the menu only listed it by the bottle. We shared platters of local cheese, which arrived with walnuts and a tiny wooden bowl of honey, and a brown paper bag of bread. Really, this is perfection. We were sitting right on the street, and occasionally a car drove past, and I wondered whether it would bump into the table, but after a large glass of red wine, I didn’t even care if it did. We finished our lunch with small cups of bitter espresso (the less grown up members—which includes Husband—spoiled theirs with milk) and I felt a surge of contentment.

Italy is littered with these walled cities, and they seem timeless. There is something magical about them, something that beckons to you, telling you to leave the real world, and set up home in one of the stone houses with shutters. Maybe, after I have finished my PhD, when I am very old, I will move here. I will serve scones and tea to tourists, and drive a Vespa with my dog in the side car, while the sun turns my skin to leather. I can think of worse places to grow old, and perhaps, living in place that has watched people for centuries, it would be impossible to ever feel properly old, because compared to the city, human life is just a flash.

Thank you for sharing my afternoon. I will tell you about Rome—the city that breathes history—in another blog.

Italy in August

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August in Italy

We went to Anzio for the afternoon. Parking was a challenge—the public car park was easy enough to find, but the cars had were only approximately in spaces, and any available road between them had been parked on, and although there were spaces that fit our cars, getting into them was an art. But we (not me) managed to manoeuvre into them. We left them, sitting in the blaring sunshine absorbing heat, and hoped no one would park any closer before we returned. Driving in Italy takes guts. I am happy to remain a passenger.

Anzio is our nearest town. We are about an hour from Rome by train, and we have rented a villa for a week, on the edge of the town. The edge is rather smelly, with fast roads and narrow walkways and lots of litter, bins stuffed with dirty nappies and paths strewn with dog mess. The villa is lovely, with a pretty garden and a pool and air conditioner. I decided, after an early walk along the stinky path to the beach, that I would mostly stay at the villa. But the offer of a port, and an ice-cream, tempted me to join the family. Anzio town centre is much nicer than its edges. There is less stink, and more pretty cobbled streets, and old buildings with balconies full of plants. 

We walked to the port. There was a little harbour with boats. I like boats (as long as I don’t have to go on them—then I am less keen). We found a cafe, selling ice creams and espressos, and sat in the shade. An exciting tray of treats arrived, the sun was shining (but not on us) and we sat, watching people walk past. This is one of my favourite things. Coffee, ice-cream, family. Perfect. I also, weirdly, wished that I smoked—not to actually inhale the nicotine, but just the action, the having something to fiddle with; I am of the generation when smoking was something daring, that the naughty kids at school did, a grown-up thing. We discussed the possibility of sending a son to buy a packet—just to light one and hold it and look like a grown-up (I like looking like a grown-up occasionally) but then decided it was daft, and probably something I should have outgrown by now. I settled for coffee, and felt very happy.

We then used the facilities. This is an important point if you are female (it seems to trouble males less). When you are a tourist, finding suitable loos can be a challenge, and a full bladder takes the edge off the day. I have a friend who told me to always use a toilet when one is available, because you never know when you will next have the opportunity, and I feel this is good advice. You never know. Especially in Italy, which seems to have a scarcity of public conveniences and charges you a euro to use them.  (Plus, they are often dirty, which makes me wonder whether I can ask for a refund, but I don’t have enough Italian to ask.)

We then walked across town, to see the villa where Nero (of the Rome burning fame) was born. I was probably the most enthusiastic one for this (I think the rest of the family wanted to go shopping—not my genes) and I led the way. It was a hot walk. Italy, in August, saps your strength, and even the promise of a Roman villa is barely enough motivation for walking too far. There were mutterings from behind, so I walked slightly ahead, and pretended I couldn’t hear. (This has proved an excellent parenting strategy over the years.)

The guidebook had promised the clear remains of a huge villa, with no information signs but also no restrictions. Therefore visitors could wander freely through the remains, imagining how it had been in past times, enjoying the same view that the boy Nero would have seen, recreating rooms in our minds. In the event, it was all behind a fence. It seems that the cliff is falling down, and no one is paying to preserve it, therefore the villa has become unsafe. We could peer at it from the road, and  be impressed by its size, but it was not as enthralling as I had hoped. The family were polite.

Never mind, we will spend a day in Rome while we’re here, and that never disappoints. We returned to the cars, and were able to prise them from their spaces, and opened the windows so we didn’t cook. Our own villa, and pool, beckoned, and it had been a lovely excursion. 

Thanks for reading. I will share more of our Italy holiday in another blog. Hopefully you will be reading it in more comfortable temperatures.

Hope you have a good week. Take care.

Love, Anne x

Life is a Journey

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Life is a journey. As I grow older, I realise that the things I have achieved, my accomplishments, are less important than the route to achieving them. This is hard to see when you’re young, when every hurdle seems to matter, and you feel as if failing that exam or driving test or first date with someone you fancy, will destroy your future happiness. But it doesn’t. Not really. Jumping hurdles, meeting those targets, often makes life easier but in the end, it’s rare to not be given a second chance. If you mess up the first time, there is usually another route to that goal, and frankly, the goal is probably less important than you think.

I have been reminded of this as I read Genesis 12:1-3. Abraham—the religious father of Christians and Jews and Muslims—is told to leave his land and family and home, and set out for a new land. He is promised certain things, like that he will sire a great nation, and be a blessing to all nations, but really, as far as I can see, it is the journey that matters. Abraham never saw the great nation, he only had two sons. Nor did he personally seem to be much of a blessing to other nations, as he mostly seemed to bring war or trouble to those he encountered. But Genesis talks a lot about his journey, about times he paused to worship God, about the mistakes/lies that happened along the way, and the challenges he faced. It was the journey, and how he travelled, that mattered.

For me, this is very pertinent. I have just been accepted by Edinburgh University to study for a PhD in Old Testament and Hebrew Studies. It has been a journey to get here, and I realise that it is the journey that matters going forward. I don’t know if I will manage to achieve a PhD, I certainly do not feel as clever as all the hugely intellectual academics that I meet. But probably, that doesn’t matter as much as how I live the next few years—what I will learn, and how I share that knowledge, and the people I will meet and how we affect each other.

The journey to get here has not always been smooth, and I certainly never saw a final goal. When I was younger, different aims seemed very important—I needed to find a boyfriend, or a husband, or to have children, or to get that job, to buy that house—and whenever things didn’t go to plan, it felt huge. Then when I had the brain tumour, I learned to live one day at a time, to focus on the present, to live today really well (because there might not be a tomorrow). This was a good lesson. It doesn’t mean not planning, because a journey needs preparation, but it means realising that how  I travel is more important than whether I get there—because if I don’t manage to reach the place I am aiming for, I will be in a different place, and it might be better.

As we get older, our hopes and dreams perhaps become more focussed on other people. The future might begin to look a bit darker, there may not be as many things we are hoping to achieve. But the journey is still important. Even when you suspect there might not be a tomorrow, today still matters.

I don’t know whether Abraham would have been pleased with the journey he travelled, and whether he would have lived some days differently if he could go back in time. But he still set out on the journey, trusting that his God would lead him to where he was meant to be going. And I think that maybe, that is the best way for us to live too. It’s fun to have goals, and maybe we need them to motivate ourselves through the obstacle course that is life. Bit in the end, it is the way we travel that is important, not the targets that we reach.

Thank you for reading. Travel well today.

Love, Anne x

Corrie ten Boom: Life in Vught Concentration Camp Revealed

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While we were in ‘s-Hertogenbosch, we realised there was a concentration camp a short walk away. It was used by the Germans in the war, and Corrie ten Boom was sent there. You may not have heard of Corrie ten Boom, but when I was young, I read all her books and she feels like a distant relative. Corrie and her family hid Jews in their house in Haarlem, near Amsterdam, during the war. They were betrayed by a visitor, and sent to prison. After a while, Corrie and her sister were sent to Vught.

The camp was about an hour’s fast walk from the town, so after my conference finished, we set off to find it. We followed Google maps, and the walk was very pretty, next to the river and then over the railway and through a wood. The wood was lovely, paths meandering through the trees, people walking their dogs, birds singing. Then we rounded a corner, and there was the camp.

Kamp Vught is now a memorial, with a prison (still used today) next to it. The memorial mainly shows a few rebuilt areas, with photos and information. It was okay, but not as effective as the Auschwitz camps—which changed your heart and soul slightly, simply because they were so vast and so cruel, and completely impossible to ignore. The remains of this camp were smaller, and it felt more like a museum than somewhere real—though for the inmates, it was very real. I will copy some extracts from Corrie’s book, so you can glimpse something of her experience, and add a few photos from my visit.

‘[…] We seemed to have stopped in the middle of a wood. Floodlights mounted in trees lit a broad rough-cleared path lined by soldiers with leveled guns.

‘Spurred by the shouts of the guards Betsie and I started up the path between the gun barrels. “Schneller! Close ranks! Keep up! Five abreast!” Betsie’s breath was coming short and hard and they yelled at us to go faster. It had rained hard here, for there were deep puddles in the path.’

‘[…] The nightmare march lasted a mile or more. At last we came to a barbed wire fence surrounding a row of wooden barracks. There were no beds in the one we entered, only long tables with backless benches pulled up to them. Betsie and I collapsed onto one of these. […] We fell into an exhausted sleep, our heads on the table[…]’

Days later, Corrie is processed into the main camp, and allocated to a room. During a roll call, she looks at the woods beyond the fence: ‘[…] The group of prisoners grew until there were forty or fifty of us standing in line beside a high anchor-chain fence topped with barbed wire. On the other side of the fence was a white birch wood, above our heads the blue Brabant sky. We too belonged to that wide free world. […]’

‘[…] The barracks appeared almost identical with the one we had left this morning, except this one was furnished with bunks as well as tables and benches. And still we were not allowed to sit: there was a last wait while the matron with maddening deliberateness checked off our documents against a list. […]’

‘[…] Part of the way [to her daily work detail] we walked beside a small wood, separated only by a roll of barbed wire from a glistening world of dew-drops. We were also marched past a section of the men’s camp, many of our group straining to identify a husband or a son among the ranks of shaved heads and striped overalls.

‘[… T]he discipline in the male section was much harsher than in the women’s; executions were frequent. Almost every day a salvo of shots would send the anguished whispers flying: How many this time? Who were they?

‘[…] The guards were noticeably tense. Roll call was an agony. The old and the ill who were slow reaching their places were beaten mercilessly. Even the “red light commando” came in for discipline. These young women were ordinarily a favored group of prisoners. Prostitutes, mostly from Amsterdam, they were in prison not for their profession—which was extolled as a patriotic duty—but for infecting German soldiers. […]’

‘[…] Then rifle fire split the air. Around us women began to weep. A second volley. A third. For two hours the executions went on. Someone counted. More than seven hundred male prisoners were killed that day. […]’

And then, as the camp was evacuated when the Allies drew nearer: ‘[…] At last the path ended and we lined up facing the single track, over a thousand women standing toe to heel. Farther along, the men’s section was also at the siding: it was impossible to identify individuals among the shaved heads glistening in the autumn sun.

‘At first I thought our train had not come; then I realized that these freight cars standing on the tracks were for us. Already the men were being prodded aboard, clambering over the high sides. We could not see the engine, just this row of small, high-wheeled European boxcars stretching out of sight in both directions, machine guns mounted at intervals on the roof. Soldiers were approaching along the track, pausing at each car to haul open the heavy sliding door. In front of us a gaping black interior appeared. Women began to press forward. […]’

Corrie ten Boom, The Hiding Place (London: Hodder and Stoughton, 1972)

The Hiding Place is available from Amazon, as either a paperback or on kindle. It gives real insight into what it was like during the war, the bravery of the Dutch Resistance, and the horror of the concentration camps. Throughout it all, Corrie is strengthened by her faith until finally she is released. It’s worth reading.

Thanks for reading. I hope your week is a good one.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

Amsterdam

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We caught the train to Amsterdam. It was an interesting day, but I don’t need to go again, I much prefer ‘s-Hertogenbosch. But in case you’re planning to visit—and because they have the best pancakes in the world (I think) you had better continue reading.

We arrived by train. When we exited the station we were faced with blue sky and a vast expanse of water, and it was instant beauty. Then I was told we had exited on the ‘wrong’ side so we went round the station, and instead saw canals, and boats, and pretty buildings—and lots and lots of people.

The station

We decided to start with a boat tour. Everyone who has visited Amsterdam (including Husband, in 1984–so clearly an expert) recommends a boat tour. In my experience, boat tours can be very mixed, though this one wasn’t too bad. The main problem (for me) is that you tend to be lower than all the things you are urged to look at, so you either miss sights or end the tour with a crick in your neck. But I am old and grumpy, so this might not be a problem for you.

We found a pier where the boats departed from, very near to the station. An assertive young man informed us we could pay at the end of the tour, the boat would be arriving in ‘about 5 minutes’ and we should wait in line. (My general impression of Dutch people is they are polite, quietly spoken, and assertive.) We obeyed him.

After 15 minutes, the queue was fairly long, and most people seemed to have bought tickets online. We realised there was a good chance that we would not actually get onto the next boat. [*Tip: Buy your boat tickets online, before visiting Amsterdam.] It was fine, we were seated on the boat, there was a sort of bar in the middle, a young man (tall and slim—which seems to be another Dutch trait, if I may continue the unsubstantiated stereotypes) and an older man driving. We set off.

We were given bar menus, but there was no obligation to buy, which was good. The family opposite ate their packed lunch, and this seemed okay. The young man told us interesting trivia as we sailed along the canals.

Interesting facts are:

The houses were built on marsh land, so the foundations were built on wooden posts, which have started to sink, so some of the houses lean to the side.

The stairs were like ladders, which made carrying things to the higher storeys difficult, so all the buildings have a beam at the top, and a chain, for pulling things up. Due to this, they built houses that lean forwards slightly, so the stuff being hauled up doesn’t break the windows of the lower levels.

Amsterdam imported lots of spices.

There was once a tax on the width of the house and the number of windows, so people who wanted to display their wealth built very wide houses with windows made of lots of panes of glass (each pane counted as a ‘window’).

Many of the men went to sea for long periods. Therefore, to avoid accusations of inappropriate behaviour, the wives never closed the window blinds. This tradition continues today, and Dutch people (apparently) do not close their curtains. They have a saying that ‘Everyone has a naked neighbour, and if you do not, then you ARE the naked neighbour.’

(I have no idea if any of these ‘facts’ are true.)

As the boat left the harbour, the sun was shining, and I wondered whether it would be too hot. We were in an open boat, flowers (plastic ones) arranged around the edge. But then we rounded a corner in the canal, and black clouds loomed. It began to rain, quite heavily, and they distributed orange umbrellas, and headed for a bridge. For a while we stayed under the bridge, sheltering from the rain. This was less exciting than hoped—we had spent half an hour in a queue, and then half an hour under a bridge—quite a large proportion of our day in Amsterdam. But it couldn’t be helped. I’m not so sure about the quality of driving, as at one point we smashed into the edge of the bridge. The driver had enjoyed a beer during the hot morning, and I wonder how many he had enjoyed before we arrived, and whether ‘drink-driving’ laws apply to boats in Amsterdam.

In the rain.

After the boat trip, we walked (in the drizzle) to a restaurant. We had a quick lunch, then walked through the city, looking for a pancake shop that had been recommended. It was in a carousel—as in a fairground ride—and they served poffertjes—the tiny Dutch pancakes. I  ordered some with sugar, butter and whipped cream. When they arrived, they were hot, the butter melting over them, the cream was perfect for dipping. Delicious. I think it is worth coming to Amsterdam just for the pancakes. (Maybe don’t bother with the boat trip.)

Unusual setting, but delicious food.

We walked back to the station, in sunshine, passing canals and squares and pretty buildings, and lots and lots of tourists. It is a pretty city, but I never felt that I found the heart of it. There are lots of cafes selling sweet waffles, and lots of coffee shops that exude the sweet smell of cannabis—and I wonder how many people came for the novelty of legalised drugs. There was something missing in what I saw, but I can’t quite define what it was. Perhaps I was just in the wrong mood. We caught the train back to the ancient town where we are staying, and I wasn’t sorry to leave.  I really like the Netherlands, and there are plenty of beautiful things to see. I’m just not too sure about Amsterdam.

Thanks for reading. Have a good day and take care.
Love, Anne x

One of the ‘forward-leaning’ houses next to a river.

anneethompson.com
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Hieronymus Bosch

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Got up, went for a run. ‘s-Hertogenbosch is a pretty town, lots of rivers and trees and clean streets. The weather is hot and humid—it felt like New Jersey, so I’m glad we ran before the sun made it too hot.

I wondered whether people used drugs in the 1400’s, and whether perhaps this had influenced some of the art.

Walked round town, and found the Jheronimus Bosch Art Centre. There seem to be various ways to spell his name, which is not the name he had as a child. Apparently he changed his name to ‘Bosch’ so people who wanted to buy his work knew which town to visit.

The building was previously a church, now it’s a gallery, with his art, and paintings by other artists who were influenced by his art, plus sculptures and videos. It cost 10 euro to enter, but it was worth it. Very well done. His work is quite dark—not dissimilar to Dali—maybe even more twisted. I like it, Husband less keen. Lots of it was religious art, commissioned by other people, but he added his own strange twist. He was very unusual for a 15th century artist. There are various sculptures around the town, based on his paintings—so it’s not unusual to look at a beautiful canal, with trees and ivy on each side, and ancient brick bridges, and a brightly painted pig eating a naked person! I suspect he was quite an angry person, he seemed to want to show that evil is everywhere, and even kings and bishops have evil intentions. He did it very well. But they are not happy pictures. The gallery, however, is amazing.

It also has a tower, with a view over the city. I was surprised to see how near the countryside is—lots of flat green land, with rivers and dikes. The dikes have paths along the top, and often someone is cycling on them, which is so Dutch!

Bosch’s version of ‘The Last Supper’
He was a contemporary of da Vinci, so perhaps a bit cynical
St. John being told by an angel what to write in Revelation, while a devil tried to steal his ink.
A peaceful Christ surrounded by evil.
The Art Gallery

Before we left the gallery, we visited the shop. I was about to buy my mother a fridge magnet, but Husband pointed out the one of the tiny figures was having something inserted in an unfortunate place. I decided this was an inappropriate gift for my mother.

Lunch at the house. Then we went for another walk mid-afternoon. The weather was balmy, much nicer than the searing heat of yesterday. Lots of people were sitting outside cafes having coffee and cakes. We stopped at a nice little café near to St Catherine’s church. The menu was in Dutch, so we did our best, and ordered cakes and coffee. It turned out it was a vegan restaurant, which was unexpected. The cakes came on a plate with cream (a variation of cream) and slices of orange, dusted with icing sugar. Very pretty. I like when a café cares about what it’s serving.

Many of the coffee shops smell of weed/cannabis. We avoid those, and I worry we might eat some by mistake. (I don’t like the idea of being drugged, though I suppose it would be the same as being tipsy, and I don’t mind that occasionally.) I’m surprised how many coffee shops seem to sell it. (I was told that ‘coffee shops’ serve cakes with it in, and ‘cafes’ do not. But it’s not always as easy as that.) I have heard that if someone is prone to schizophrenia then eating/smoking cannabis can trigger it—but I don’t know if that’s true. Everyone here seems very normal.

I’ll tell you about our trip to Amsterdam another time. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

Visiting ‘s-Hertogenbosch

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We left home at 4am (not my planning) in a taxi to St. Pancras. We were there too early (what a surprise) so sat at a sticky table opposite a coffee shop and watched all the young people with heavy back-packs, and the hassled parents with fretful children. Then we joined the line of people snaking round the barriers, towards the check-in point. (Why do I always notice the people who  skip the queue, rudely pushing to near the front? It makes very little difference to me, but it irritates me intensely!)

Once we had scanned our tickets, we put our bags through the scanners. Liquids and computers were allowed in the bags, but we did have to lift them—which I wouldn’t have managed alone. Then we passed through the metal detector (which must be set quite high, because  usually I set them off—I assume due to the metal holding my skull together). We emerged into the ‘departure lounge’ which was every bit as unpleasant as at an airport. Everything felt overused and stale. But it was very easy — I didn’t find it as stressful as flying.

When our train platform was announced, we followed the crowd, up a moving walkway, to the platform. There was a high step up into the train—which again, would have been too high for me to lift my suitcase. Catching the train with a suitcase involves a strong back, so take a man.

We found our seats, and settled down for the ride to Amsterdam. Very smooth. There was a buffet car (not bad) and toilets (not too horrid) and it was much nicer than flying (in my opinion). I tried to read, and Husband tried to chat, and we managed to arrive without killing each other. As we entered the Netherlands, there was a windmill, exactly like the kind in picture books. (It probably had a mouse wearing clogs, but we passed too quickly to see.)

Onboard Breakfast
An old-fashioned windmill
Comfy seats

At Amsterdam station, we followed the crowds to the exit. There was what I assumed was another moving walkway down from the platform—realised too late that it was an escalator, and nearly killed several people by almost dropping my suitcase on their heads. Managed to hold onto it, precariously perched, with worried Husband trying to help. Survived.

We were travelling to ‘s-Hertogenbosch (which people call ‘Den Bosch’) for an Old Testament conference. We had no idea how to get to ‘s-Hertogenbosch (and couldn’t even pronounce it!) so went in search of an Information Office. There was a very helpful person, who spoke excellent English, and was un-phased by our massacre of her language, who told us the train and platform number, and suggested we time the journey and looked for the station after about an hour. When the train arrived, it was a double-decker, so more lifting of cases onto the train, and then down a few steps so we could sit downstairs. It was very busy, but we found somewhere for our luggage, and seats together and it was fun to watch the countryside whiz past the window while Husband tried to teach me about reclaimed land and dikes. The water in the rivers we passed was higher than the railway, which was interesting.

We arrived. Found a lift to leave the platform. Put the Airbnb house into Google maps, and set off. It was very hot. The town is pretty, with rivers, and old buildings with their stepped roofs next to modern ones. The traffic stops at zebra crossings (you can never be sure when in a new country) and there were lots of bikes, and it was clean.

The house is okay. We have never actually been scammed by Airbnb houses—so they always exist when we arrive, but the quality and comfort varies hugely (because Airbnb don’t actually visit to check). This one was in a great position, but was slightly worn out, and not very well equipped. It also had a funny sign in the bathroom, telling us to only use the downstairs toilet!

Husband needed an emergency Big Mac, so we left bags and returned to McDonald’s. Then we shopped in a supermarket we had passed, and used Google translate to decipher that the Dutch for ‘orange juice’ looks like ‘apppel juice’ and ‘roombotercake’ means ‘butter cake’ and is actually Madeira cake. We paid, and then couldn’t leave because the barrier didn’t open—watched another customer scan her receipt to exit and copied. Good system.

We ate in an Italian restaurant because it was easy, then walked round the town. We saw sculptures commemorating the Dutch resistance in the war, and one to Jewish school children who were all expelled from schools in 1940, and lots of unusual sculptures which I believe are based on the paintings of Hieronymus Bosch (who was born here in the 1500s).

Went to bed very tired. Didn’t sleep.

I will tell you more in another post. Thanks for reading. Have a great day.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

Lindisfarne, The Holy Island

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22/6/2024
We decided to visit Lindisfarne (Holy Island) which has a causeway we could drive across at low tide. The island is home to a castle (lots of historic fighting of the Scots) and a monastery (where St. Cuthbert lived for a while). I sorely needed a break from Meg, so we checked the timings worked, gave her some exercise before we left and she had a morning in her crate in the house.

The island was lovely, a truly peaceful place. There were lots of dogs, all very well-behaved, and I was glad I had left my adolescent monster at home. We met a couple with a Malinois, and I stopped to speak to them. (Although a German Shepherd Dog, Meg looks very like a Malinois. But not as tall and slim.) Apparently this one had been a working dog, but was now a pet. The owners talked about her unending energy, and her active brain, and hyper personality—and assured me that in time, Meg would be easier. When I told them that Meg chases traffic, they suggested that I make her sit next to a road, until she loses the impulse. They said it would be hard, and at first she might only manage a few seconds, but gradually it should improve. I will try this when I get home (I could tell that they understood my battles, and knew about training a similar breed of dog).

The monastery was very peaceful. It was a forerunner to Durham cathedral (where St. Cuthbert was eventually buried) and it has a magnificent arch, high over the ruins. You could easily imagine the monks, hurrying to prayer, their gowns flapping in the wind, their bare legs and leather sandals, the beauty and harshness of the environment directing their thoughts to God.

There were also toilets (clean) and a shop selling ice cream (delicious). We bought salted-caramel waffle cones, and walked through the sunshine to the beach, looking at the castle in the distance. It was perfect. I was very glad we had left Meg at home. It’s easier to cope if I have breaks from her.

Lindisfarne, perfect with an ice-cream.

In the afternoon, we took Meg to Low Newton-by-the-Sea in the hope the beach would be less busy. It was, but only slightly. We found a coastal path that avoided going onto the busy sandy beach, and it dipped down in a few places so we could walk on the rocks. It was incredibly hot. When we reached Football Hole cove, we managed to persuade Meg to go into the sea to cool down a little. Then we returned to the car, without incident. I still have no confidence about controlling her, so she was often on the lead, which is a shame. I feel we have gone backwards quite a long way, but perhaps it will be better when some of her hormones have settled down.

24/6/2024
We attempted the same walk again. Meg was super-hyper the moment she got out of the car, and walking the short walk to the footpath was very difficult. I voted for abandoning the walk and just going home, but we persevered and made it to the coastal path.

When we reached the cove, I walked along, throwing stones into the water for Meg to dive for. She was enjoying the game, and it was good to see her cooling off. But then I mis-timed it, and as I reached for a pebble, Meg tried to grab it at the same moment. She caught my finger in her teeth, tearing the skin and bruising the flesh. Ouch. I sucked it clean, and found a plaster in my bag—there was a lot of blood. It rather ruined the afternoon, so we went home. I feel cross with myself when things like this happen. Meg was not, in any way, being vicious, she was just full of impulse with no restraint, and wanted to grab the stone. I should have been more aware, I should have told her to sit while I selected the pebbles. But I didn’t, and I was hurt. Again. She is such a challenge. The finger will mend. I will try to learn from the experience.

Thanks for reading. Hope you have a good day and manage to avoid troubles.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

anneethompson.com
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Meg’s Diary: Travels with a Mad Dog

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21/6/2024
Given the success of our beach trip yesterday, we decided to repeat it. There’s a free car park near the beach, and we were lucky enough to find a space amongst all the families and dog walkers. There were lots of both. There is then a short walk to the beach, which hardly needs a lead, unless you own a mad dog like Meg.

The first part of the beach has lots of people. Families playing, children making sandcastles, the odd daring swimmer. This seems to continue along the whole of the sandy beach. But if you walk to the right, before long the sand gives way to black rocks and giant pebbles, and not many people venture that way, which makes it much better with Meg.

After reaching the beach, I found a stick (magic wand that keeps her focussed) and we strode over the sand, away from other people. Meg was very good, and we managed to avoid bouncing anyone or chasing balls belonging to other dogs. We made it to a relatively secluded area—which is good—but I must admit, it is exhausting. It takes a lot of mental energy, constantly looking ahead for potential dangers/distractions, guiding her across the beach, keeping her free but not too far away. I could have her on the lead, but she would pull my arm off, so that would be worse.

We had a happy time once we reached the rocks. There were pools of water, and I’m guessing some were fresh water because Meg drank from them (she tested all the water to see if it was salty, but only drank from a few pools). Plus, some pools had tadpoles, and I am pretty sure that no frog/toad can cope with salty water. It was an unusual thing to find on the beach, and a later online search suggested they might be lump fish, but I am pretty positive they were tadpoles (I collected buckets of the things when I was a child). The rocks are black, often covered with white lichen, and they were nice to walk across, mostly being large and flat, rough where the sea had worn their porous surface. There were occasional streams, but we were wearing wellies, so that was easy.

We walked for about a mile, then turned and retraced our steps. Meg was very happy, collecting sticks of driftwood and jumping over the rocks. She managed to pass some pretty big distractions—a Labrador chasing a frisbee, a small yappy dog being introduced to paddling, children playing a ball game. And then, just before we reached the entrance to the car park, it all went horribly wrong. There were two small black dogs, playing a game of chase, and a family group sitting near the dunes, and a man running towards the sea, and suddenly it was all too much for Meg, and she stopped concentrating on me and the stick, and charged across the beach towards the little dogs. I called her. She was deaf. I tried running away, madly waving the stick. She did not care in the slightest. The whole beach stopped and stared in disapproval at the inept woman and her out-of-control dog. I didn’t blame them. Terrible behaviour.

Seconds before it all went wrong!

Meg ran in circles for a while, and the owner of the two small dogs picked them up, and other people called their (obedient) children and dogs to them, and I felt a complete failure. Meg however, was having a great time, dashing between different families, splashing through water, leaping to try and catch other people’s balls, or dogs, or children. Her whole body was delighted, she was having such fun! We caught her eventually, and dragged her off to the car. She has a look, which I cannot describe, but I can see in her eyes that she doesn’t care a jot and will challenge anything I say.

We arrived at the car, opened the boot, and directed her to jump into it. She just stared through me. Husband suggested lifting her in, but I felt it was important to win this one, so we just stood there, staring at each other, offering a treat if she jumped in but not moving a muscle. We might have stood there all day. It was a lot like facing off a teenage boy. Eventually she jumped in, and received the treat, and we shut the door. I cling on to the hope that it will all get easier, and the effort will result in a pet I can love. But it’s a long journey.

Hope you manage to cope with whatever happens in your world this week (and hopefully all your problems are as minor as a naughty dog). Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

anneethompson.com
*****