The Urban Hike: Den Briel

Good afternoon to you all.
I am writing to you looking out on a grey overhung sky, so I am certainly hoping that you are enjoying better Spring weather!

part of the Den Briel ramparts

The poppy was last Saturday, when it was sunny and lovely.
Anyway, I totally ignored the fact that it was grey and chilly and windy and threatening to rain yesterday, when I took another urban ramble. This time I walked around my old haunt, Den Briel (or Brielle as it is also known), to view a WWII event.

The "Americans" 

Den Briel is a famous town, and its fame is based on a long-ago battle. Well, battle...Opinions differ quite a bit, there are two versions, and the truth lies somewhere in the middle I suspect!

The official town council version: On April 1st, 1572, the Spanish enemy who had the Dutch Provinces in its Roman-Catholic claws were defeated in the battle of Den Briel. They were beaten and chased out of the town by the Watergeuzen (noble and courageous seafaring Dutchmen who came by ship), effectively starting the end of the 80 year (!) war against Spain. Encouraged by the example of noble Den Briel, other towns followed and threw out the Spanish enemy.

The historical version now adopted through new evidence: On April 1st, 1572, the Spanish enemy who had the Dutch Provinces in its Roman-Catholic claws saw the changing of the wind, knew they were in for a beating, and fled Den Briel, leaving the town gate wide open for the Watergeuzen (assorted rabble who came by ship)to march into the town, killing and/or maiming those unfortunate Spaniards who were not swift enough.

My version: On April 1st, 1572, Spain had a tough time hanging on to this soggy, wind-flogged piece of land, filled with a troublesome stubborn race of merchants, fishermen and farmers who wanted nothing to do with Roman-Catholics any longer and especially not Spanish ones. It came to blows when the Watergeuzen, tired of being on their ships and in search of food, water and women, decided to berth in Den Briel. The Spaniards lost.

And there you are; you can pick the version which appeals to you most.

Last weekend Den Briel celebrated another war remembrance day, namely the liberation by the American troops in 1945.
Even though I am all for remembering those days (if only to learn lessons from historical events - somehow most governments omit to do this), I suspect this is yet another ploy by Den Briel town council to draw as many tourists as possible. And who can blame them?

Quite a few wanna-be American soldiers, complete with tents, material, heavy rolling material and even anti-aircraft guns, pitched their camp on the town ramparts. I must say it always makes me smile, those earnest fanatical historical re-enacting folk. I mean sincerely smile, not condescendingly!
Piet Heine made a short documentary about the mock battle for Den Briel in 1945; this is the link: Mock Battle WWII 2016

South Gate and Bastion

the historical town within the ramparts; the route shown is not ours

The ramble:
We started at the South Gate (now less than a ruin), but the actual place where the Watergeuzen entered Den Briel in 1572, and walked along the ramparts, to the "German" camp. Due to the fact it was extremely chilly and there weren't many tourists about (we were their only visitors), they were breaking up camp. 
So we rambled on, stared at by sleepy sheep. 

View on Den Briel from the ramparts, with the Catharijne church

The American camp was next to the North Gate. It was pretty quiet too, but that quickly changed when a long snake of US army trucks and jeeps slowly rumbled in. They had just done a tour of the town. 
I must say this was an impressive sight! Too far away to photograph for me with my iPhone, sorry.

"American" soldier

On the Turfkade, one of the two harbours of Den Briel, there was a war memorabilia market, and that is where we met the re-enactment parade of the troops entering the town. The documentary shows you the aptly named Slagveld side of the harbour (Slagveld means slaughter field).

Personally I thought the Wisteria on the gable of one of the buildings prettier though.

But then I am a self-professed flower geek...
We ended our ramble in one of the oldest bars of Brielle, the Kont van 't Paard (The Horse's Arse), where a band of shockingly young guys played music from the 1940's.



All in all we walked for 1 hour.
If you would like to visit Den Briel, it is 35 km South of Rotterdam, but due to the always heavy traffic in this part of Holland it will take you an hour to get to it from Rotterdam. Getting there by pubic transport will take even longer.
The town is charming, has some nice restaurants and shops, and the town historical museum is worth a visit.

The Urban Hike: Where Were We??

Good morning you all, everywhere (but mostly in The USA - nice to see you checking in!),

A friend suggested that it would be fun to let you guess at our destination of the latest ramble. So...sure!
Where were we?

It didn't take us overly long to get to this destination. Especially for you lot over there in the good old US of A, or Canada, you are used to driving long distances, so for you this would be like a visit to your local supermarket.
For us Dutchies though, this drive is...well, a proper drive, for which we have to steel ourselves and make sure we have enough provisions etcetera in the car. But one full tank would get us there and back from Rotterdam. (First clue)

This was our aim. It is a museum, and a very modern one at that. On the roof, the tenth floor, there is a Panorama, which gives you a wonderful view over this harbour city. (And there is your second clue!)

This museum has amassed the collections of several old museums in this city. So we saw the most eclectic collection possible, with old paintings, historical earthenware and chamberpots, religion, chocolate tins (third clue),photographs, and a load of boats.

This, (your fourth clue) is a beautiful painting of the quay, with the city in the background. I loved it, the artist has captured the expressions of all those people so well. For instance the woman on the right, in the severe black dress, she gazes into your face with great suspicion! I know that look, it is the exact same look my old neighbour gives me when I'm rolling out of my car with my musician friends!
And the young waiter (in the long white apron), he has the look of a hard working youngster who is used to being ignored unless the toffs need to order another beer. 
The guitar player is in the zone, and has captured the pretty lady's interest.

This was another exhibit which captured my heart. It is part of a pre-Colombian collection.

We went to the roof, obviously, but it was so cold and grey, and the photo has not turned out very well. (Still. It is your fifth clue)

Now, I am giving you a massive, massive hint here: you are looking at the river Schelde.
Well? Have you guessed already? No? Let's continue.

This city used to be part of my country. In fact, it was more important and powerful than Amsterdam at one point. 
They still speak a form of the same language as we; let's say we understand each other's language, but we are very different temperamentally.

The city centre streets are crooked, and so are the shops and buildings. To me, that is quaint. The weather was dismal, so hardly any folk on the pavements to enjoy their beers (sixth clue).
And there were many ancient buildings around, dating from the seventeenth century.

Like the one on the right, with the step gable. 1614, It said.

I like café staff with a sense of humour!(The beer brand is your seventh clue; oh, come on, you must know by now?!)

And here we are. The end of our ramble. This is on a market square. And no, I did not take a photograph of the world famous city hall with its many flags and gilt statues, as I thought it too garish. I prefer the other side, with the typical gables. Your last clue is staring you in the face, by the way.

Hope you enjoyed this different take on my usual ramble. Leave a comment if you want to check with me whether you've guessed my destination.

Awed in Edinburgh - Scotland with my son (4)

This post was originally written at 29 juni 2013 om 18:45

I had looked forward to the last leg of our train journey enormously, as I have read and seen so much about Scotland.  But...reality differs from screens, and stories can be romanticized. In this case the Scottish borderlands turned out to be...pretty boring, actually.

We left The Lake District with pain in our hearts, as we could easily have spent another week there. But Edinburgh beckoned. So we travelled back to Oxenholme and there boarded the train for Waverley Station, together with Philip and Mrs Nag, two Ozzies from Sydney, who were 'doing' Europe in three weeks. He was sweet, she found fault with everything. For example the lovely room at our Windermere B&B, which she pronounced "so tiny that you couldn't swing a cat in there". (No...but why on earth would you want to, I wonder?)

I watched the landscape from our window, and saw yellowed grassland, sheep, and neglected white-washed cottages. Not very romantic and certainly not exciting. But the entry into Waverley Station made up for the boring journey. Coming into Edinburgh past those Victorian and Georgian monumental buildings, and the Monument, and seeing Edinburgh Castle on that craggy rock simply took my breath away. I couldn't wait to start exploring, but first we had to find a bed for the night. Here we were in luck, as Mrs Nag had booked a room in The Travelodge, and they had one for us as well. We quickly threw our bag into our room, and rushed out into the city.

It had been raining off and on whilst we were on the train, but the sun now peeked through the clouds, resulting in that typically British custom of pretending it is high Summer even though it is only 8 C, and all those pretty girls throwing off their winter clothes and parading through Princes Street in bare arms and legs. I kept on my Dutch winter coat, thanks.

Within 10 minutes we met our first kilted Scottish piper. And then the second. And the third. No question about it, this was Scotland!

We decided to visit the castle first, though the admission was a shock. We bought two tickets anyway, and spent hours walking through the history of the British army. (Why would a pacifist walk through halls and halls full of army memorabilia, you may wonder? To tell you the truth, I don't have a good answer to that...But I did sign the condolence register for some poor 19 year old who had stepped on a bomb in Afghanistan the day before.) The cellars were the best bit. Here they had kept their prisoners of war, amongst whom many Dutch sailors, some as young as 8 years old. 

Outside, in one of he courtyards, there was a youth orchestra playing their little hearts out. The funny thing was that they had decked themselves out in orange boas, orange wigs, red-white-blue bunting and paper crowns. How very insightful, as this day was the Dutch coronation of prince Willem-Alexander.  But a bit weird, as well. And, as I remarked to my son, looking as ridiculous as (normally) only our fellow countrymen can look. As I said this, a woman in front of me, with an orange Heidi-wig-with-orange-wooden-clog, turned around and gave us a flyer. Ah...the orchestra turned out to be from Haarlem (a town not far from Amsterdam). She invited us to Reid Concert Hall for that evening, where they would perform a free concert. We went, and had a smashing time.
The Noord-Hollands Youth Orchestra

The next day we wanted to visit the Botanical Gardens (always a favourite). But we couldn't take the bus, as we didn't have any 50 pence pieces, and the bus driver couldn't make change from twenty pounds. Shops and pubs being closed still, this meant having to walk there, and getting lost, and sopping wet. But it was worth it. 

Afterwards we spent two hours in the Scottish Museum, where there was an exhibition about the Vikings In Scotland. Two hours was ample for the exhibition, but not enough for the rest of this wonderful museum. We ran through the Egyptian hall, and then were politely but firmly evicted.

Time for a bite to eat, and a wee dram (I had promised myself this. When in Scotland...) We ended up in a pub named The Huxley, and I got some advice about an independent brewer who brewed a beer called Caesar Augustus. With hints of oak and flowers...gorgeous! The Huxley became our home away from home. We were never going to leave it again! After hours and hours in the company of Caesar Augustus, I decided that the dram wouldn't be needed anymore, and that frankly it would be a good idea to try to find a bed. And I was sharing mine with my son...
When we reached The Travelodge, the Polish construction crew underneath our window just fired up their concrete drills. Ah...that's why the street had been closed for all traffic. Ah...and they worked all night, in Edinburgh...I spared a drunken thought for Mrs Nag. Imagine having a room large enough to swing a cat in, but having to share it with a bunch of Polish concrete layers.

Somehow it seemed poetic, our first night in Norwich without a wink, and now our last night in Edinburgh sleepless as well.

When we put down on Schiphol the next morning, it rained.

This concludes our rambles around England and Scotland some years ago - way before Scottish Independence reared its head and Brexit. I have a firm wish to go back to Scotland and explore The Highlands. I'll keep you posted.

Hikers Rule #1: Wear the Right Shoes! - England/Scotland with my son (3)

The original post was published on 26 juni 2013 om 18:40

There are hikers, and there are hikers. You can recognise the real ones by their sturdy boots. And that's where we went wrong. We were wearing the wrong shoes...

Our gracious hostess Paula took a good look at our flimsy shoes and pronounced them totally unfit for hiking in The Lake District. So sorry!

But we are stubborn people (us Dutchies usually are), and asked her if there really wasn't any route we could try? Perhaps one for foolish Dutchmen?

Well, we could always take the bus to Keswick, which is a charming little town, and perhaps we could walk for a bit along Derwent Water, if it wasn't too muddy, that is.

We took Paula's advice, and sat on top of a steamy bus, awed by the landscape we passed through. We saw numerous sheep, and countless daffodils. As we passed Dove Cottage, I thought about William Wordsworth's line: ' A host of golden daffodils'. I had tried to convey the beauty of his poem to my pupils last year, and now I was living it!

Keswick was lovely indeed, and the rain stopped, which was great. We took a public footpath along the edge of Derwent Water, but Paula knew her stuff: it proved to be too muddy for our shoes. Walking back amongst frolicking lambs and indifferent sheep, we decided to walk along the road to the next village, but after an hour saw another footpath leading away from Grasmere Lake, up to the hills. Surely that wouldn't be so muddy? Encouraged by the sunshine, and not at all hindered by the fact that we didn't have a map, we took off. Public footpath, how hard could it be?

Pretty soon we had to look carefully where to put our feet, and we had to cross burns by balancing from one stepping stone to the next. The wind, already blowing quite hard, picked up. On the ridge between Grasmere Lake and Rydal Lake, Wibe wanted to go up even higher, to the top, to take a panorama photo of the eight peaks around us. I take my latent vertigo very seriously, so I declined. Very undignified to be up there and not dare to come down..So I sat on a wooden seat, put down especially for scaredy cats like me. 'In Loving Memory of William Soye Backhouse 1891-1953'. 'Here's to you, Bill,' I mumbled. 'Hope you didn't take a tumble here.'

The wind picked up even more, and I started to get worried about Wibe. Gosh, this hill was steep, hopefully he wouldn't slip whilst taking photos. In my mind's eye I saw the rescue helicopter approach, fool that I was, in my inappropriate shoes!

Just as I was ready to start climbing to his rescue, an ancient woman passed me, with a walking stick and one of those small typically English dogs. 'Hello, lovely view, isn't it?' A couple of minutes later woman number two passed, this time with an umbrella and a slightly larger dog. I peeked at her boots. Yes. Very sturdy.  'Lovely day, isn't it?' And then woman number three. She had a man with her, and special nylon waterproofs above her hiking boots. She didn't greet me, but her man did. 'Sunny enough for you?'. He looked furtively at my shoes.

Thankfully Wibe came down the mountain just then, safe and sound! We descended to Rydal Lake and loved it. It took us another hour of hiking along pebbled beaches and dirt tracks strewn with sheep droppings to reach the first pub, The Badger, where we had cold pints of Magners cider and I admired those super-fit English old folks who ran about these hills.

We took a bus to Ambleside, where we had an Italian meal and then walked back to Windermere, which took us another hour. What a wonderful day! And all this in the wrong shoes!
Experience Rydal yourself in this charming little video by Eric Worsely (who was wearing the correct footwear).
A walk around Rydal Lake

In the Footsteps of Wordsworth and Beatrix Potter - England/Scotland with my Son (2)

Hi there!

Part 2 of the ramble I took some years ago around the North of England/Scotland. Enjoy!

23 juni 2013 om 16:11

Hiking in The Lake District has been our our 'to do list' for years. So when we finally came round to travelling to Windermere in May of 2013, my son Wibe and I were looking forward to it enormously.

We weren't sad to leave grubby Norwich, and the weather helped by being cold but dry. The train didn't run this Sunday, and we were herded into a bus to take us to Peterborough, which was soon filled to capacity by burly men having to travel up to Scotland.

Our destination was Windermere, which we would reach by train from Peterborough, via Leeds, Carlisle, and Oxenholme.

We only had to wait 10 minutes for the fast train to Leeds, and saw the landscape slowly but surely change. Green it was, and green it stayed, but it became more and more unkempt and rough at the edges.

In Leeds we nearly made a huge mistake by boarding the train to London, which arrived at the Carlisle platform only minutes before our train without anyone announcing anything. It was our sheer luck that we overheard two women talking, and quickly jumped out again.

Whilst Wibe dozed (he always falls asleep on trains) and the cheerful hubbub of the British voices around me faded to a background buzz, I was glued to the window. The hills became higher and wilder, and the only living things I saw were thousands of weathered sheep and one large bird of prey. 

The train passed small grey slated villages, and there was snow on the highest peaks. And dozens of waterfalls splashed down into brooks and burns. Sometimes we went into a tunnel, only to speed out of it into thick mist, and then going into the next tunnel and coming out of it into bright daylight again.

It was absolutely gorgeous. We travelled over brick arched bridges, spanning deep valleys, and I expected Voldemort to attack any minute.

At Carlisle we barely had time for a wee and a cup of much needed coffee in the quaint restaurant before we needed to be on the train to Oxenholme. And there we had to change trains yet again, this making it the 9th hour of our rail journey. By the time we reached Windermere, we were terribly tired. 

We walked downhill from Windermere Station, and entered the first hotel we saw, The Queen's Hotel, hoping they had B&B facilities. The bar was hopping with animated punters, and the barman burst out laughing when I asked him for a room.

'We don't do rooms, love'. But...it says 'hotel' on your front?

'Yeah, funny that, I can't understand why that sign is up there. Try a bit further down the road, there's B&Bs there.'

We saw a B&B in a tiny Victorian House which appealed to us, Lingmoor Guest House, and were welcomed by Paula, who turned out to be a wonderful hostess.

The next day we took a bus to Derwent Water, and walked for hours and hours along that lake, and Grasmere Lake, and Rydal Lake back to Windermere Lake, meeting lambs and sheep and old ladies who rushed up hills with their walking sticks and small pooches. 

But that's another story. I have provided you with a link to The Lake District from Above

Never Trust a Man with a Nappy on his Head! - England/Scotland with my son (1)

I've decided to re-post my very first hiking saga for you, since most of you will have missed this, due to the fact I didn't have that many readers back in the day...it comes in installments, so keep your eyes peeled.

Enjoy!

I've wanted to take a sentimental journey to Norwich for years. 

But you know how it is: no time, or no money, or no time and money.

Finally, this April, time, money, opportunity and my son all happened to coincide.

 I booked a ferry trip to Harwich, a train ticket to everywhere (I'll explain 

about this later) and packed lightly.

We arrived in Harwich after an uneventful night, and found a delighted ticket 

seller at Harwich station. He was only too happy to stamp our BritRail passes 

and told us to swop trains and platforms at Manningtree.

Norwich used to be a haunt of mine when I was in my teens and early twenties, 

and I hadn't been back there since. My memories of this Norfolk city are pleasant. 

The Close, the ancient Cathedral grounds, is rated amongst the most beautiful 

and un-spoilt of England. So I felt a happy anticipation when we left the station 

and walked along the river walk to the Cathedral.

Some hours, and a visit to the Keep and Sheringham Beach later, 

we needed to find ourselves a bed for the night. The first four B&B's had 

no vacancies. We walked uphill and found a hotel which did B&B. It looked a 

bit shabby, but clean, and (quite important) it had two single rooms for us for 

the price of a double, and they even threw in breakfast for free.

We decided to walk back to the station to get ourselves some sandwiches for 

dinner, and when we had almost reached our hotel, we passed a group of young

men coming from that direction. When they had passed us, we looked back. 

Did one of them really wear a Pamper on his head? Yes.

I tried to explain the quaint practice of 'Stag Night' to my son. We had a laugh 

about it. Silly Englishmen.

Our day had started at 5 am, so we were ready for bed at 10 pm. We had only 

just wished each other a good night when an almighty banging and shouting 

started up next door. Our two single rooms were the bookends to the Stag Boy's 

room, you could say. He needed a lot of Dutch courage. The shouting, screaming,

 singing, counting 'one, two, three, bottoms up', and eventually the howling fights 

and violent throwing up lasted until 4 am. We got 10 minutes sleep, then a fight 

started under our window.

We needed to be on a bus to Peterborough at 9.40, so we needed to get up early 

anyway. 

Somehow, Norwich didn't live up to its memories.

Making my hiking plans for the summer holidays, folks!

Hi there, all you hikers, ramblers, amblers and speed-walkers.
Remember me?

Taken in the Derbyshire Hills, 2016  (©R.Grashoff)

I'm your friendly chubby outdoor enthusiast, making her rambling plans for this Summer. 

This sounds very straightforward, but it absolutely is anything but!

Where to go, when you have so many places on your list and little money?

Iceland is an option I have to forego, due to the high cost.

The West Coast of Canada - ditto.

New Zealand ...say no more...

Italy and Greece, gorgeous, but far too hot for me in Summer!

I have considered Austria, Germany, and Denmark, but have returned to my home-away-from-home...England.

Taken along the Dove, 2016 (© R. Grashoff)

First of all, due to their Brexit the Euro is giving me a few more Pounds. Always handy. And let's face it, I adore this country for its wonderful rambling mindset. Brits are natural ramblers! I'll never forget frail octogenarians cheerfully passing me at speed on the hills of The Lake District. And the thousands of miles of hilly footpaths are sheer heaven for a Dutchie used to flat land and barbed wire everywhere.

So, my plans.

I have already walked the coastal paths from Dover to Land's End, so that's not what I want to do this time, but whilst doing that, I took a quick detour by train to visit Bath, and this gave me a definite taste for more!

I have a taste for history, preferably ancient history, and so far have not visited Stonehenge or Glastonbury and this time I will. 

The Derbyshire hills, 2016 (© R. Grashoff)

We will make our way by car from Dover (our port of entry) taking the coastal road (A259) towards Brighton. This will be our first stop I think, as I am taking my daughter and she will love the Royal Pavilion.

From Brighton we will head inland towards Bath. But my aim is to walk and see things, so my little old car is simply a means of getting places and will have lots of deserved rest.

We will then take the A27/M27 to Salisbury, and from there on will concentrate on visiting a rough circle consisting of Stonehenge, Glastonbury, Bath, Bradford-on-Avon and Avebury, making the latter our departing port for taking the M4 back towards London and hence the M20 back to Dover.

Depending on finances, weather and roads (i.e. how long does the driving actually take to get places? I remember navigating those roads in the South very well - it seemed to take forever) we might take a detour up towards the Cotswolds.

And the main aim is to walk as much as possible.

I cannot wait! Oh...and it is only February 1st when you are reading this! Months and months of hard graft and motivating young men to get through first!

But the thought of the green English hills and the wonderful footpaths to ancient sites and gorgeous towns will sustain me.

obviously, this isn't mine, I plucked it out of cyberspace

Urban Hike: Delft.

It being the Christmas holiday, I decided to take a ramble around the old town of Delft, this time taking along my daughter.
Daylight is scarce this time of year, so if the photos will look a bit gloomy to you, that cannot be helped, sorry.

We entered Delft through the Oosterpoort (Eastern Gate), having parked the car in a tiny street of the neighbourhood close by instead of in the expensive multilayer carpark. I took a risk there; fines are steep and being towed away is a possibility. But I asked Providence for a break, as I'd rather spend my money on a nice lunch than on the carpark. And Providence smiled on me, I'm happy to say.

I always like walking into a town through a gate! It feels special, you are now entering a magical place, where everything is possible. Yeah, I know, I'm sort of strange.

This gate is very well preserved.

Delft used to be a far more important town than close-by Rotterdam. Its first recorded history dates from the 11th century, and in 1400 it was the third largest town of the country, with 6.500 inhabitants. Delft is very much integrated into our history, it being the town where William of Orange (the 1st) was assassinated in 1584. And it is world-famous for two other things: the painter Vermeer and Delftware. 

When we walked along the canals towards the Grote Markt, we could hardly miss this fact, as we were inundated by both: numerous shops selling Delftware, numerous shops featuring the paintings by Vermeer.

Oh! Did I mention canals? I did, didn't I? Let me tell you, these are not as grand as the ones of Amsterdam, but they are certainly worth the visit! And actual real people live along them, instead of the houses all being turned into offices and ridiculously priced boutique hotels as well.

We came upon the alley leading to the Grote Markt, having to cross one of the typical bow bridges with white iron railings that you see everywhere in Delft. The heavy granite post in the middle of the road is a very effective way of keeping out cars, whilst cyclists can still pass. And they do! Be warned that being crashed into by a student or granny belting along is a very real possibility, you need eyes in the back of your head.

This building is town hall (built 1618), one of the three huge buildings circling the Grote Markt (the other two being churches). Due to the weather the square was almost deserted, but come spring the square is full of terraces and people. 

When alone, I would have gone into the Nieuwe Kerk, with the pompous grave of William of Orange, but my daughter is more of the shopping persuasion.

Dark, isn't it? It was 11.30 am! I am used to it, but sometimes it gets me down, and I know my fellow countrymen suffer from the same sentiment.

Still, it has inspired many of our painters to specialize in painting our ever changing gloomy skies.

This particular sky was photographed near my home by my photographer son Wibe. He has his own website: www.wibekoopman.com

We had to warm up by this time, having walked for 45 minutes, so we took ourselves to the Coffee Company on the corner and had a wonderful espresso and carrot cake. I was interested to see what was on in Delft. It is a university town (TU Delft - Technical University), so there's always a lot to do and see.

Does something strike you about those posters? Look at the language? Right, you've spotted it! Dutch is being inundated with English words, and not slowly either! Contrary to the Belgians and French we do not have language police trying to make us speak our own lingo. So we eagerly convert to using English (badly - ouch! My TEFL ears smart a lot of the time). Quite interesting though, I think. Why does a nation fall over its own feet to use another language? My pupils are a good example: they shout OMG and wtf...instead of good old godsamme and krijg nou wat. A shame, really, language is what defines a people. 

This is on the corner of the Vismarkt (Fish market), where fish is still being sold in the very old fishmongers on the left hand side of the photo. You can just about spot another of those white iron bridge railings there, too, and another in the middle distance. I tell you, those canals are wonderful.

What you cannot get around when visiting old Delft, obviously, is Delftware. I happen to like it. But then I like Makkum ware, and Portugese and Spanish and Moroccan ware as well. I simply like pottery, full stop. Delftware was introduced to the town by immigrated Italian potters, by he way.

Aren't they gorgeous? Pricey, though!

We ambled along the canals, going into the little shops, and peering into the many restaurants. Bookshops galore, heaven! And vinyl record shops, heaven again! And original fashion. And not too expensive, as the many students of Delft structurally are on a tight budget.

After a few hours we were in desperate need of a toilet and a beer (in that order), and landed in one of the many bruine café's (brown bar), called thus because the interior is entirely made of weathered (thus turned brown) wood. This one had four special seasonal beers on tap, of which I tried this one.

It is called Gauloise, and yes, it was a French beer. Very nice! Unfortunately I could only try the one, as I had to drive home.

With this view, it was a very good way to end a very nice day in Delft. We've determined to return when the weather is warm enough to sit outside (when we're lucky in April, but typically not before June).

The nitty-gritty:

* Delft can be reached by car using the A4 or A13, or by train. Parking is a problem!! Nearest airport is Rotterdam-The Hague Airport; 15 minutes drive by car.

* AirBnB is populair, but beware, Dutch government is trying to put a halt to it due to many complaints from the regular inhabitants of our historic inner cities.

* It has an historic inner town, which you can "do" in a day if you skip the nice museums. I would spend two days there.

* There is enough to do and see during October-March, but I would go there in April-September, when you can sit outside on the many nice terraces and you have at least a fair chance of seeing a blue sky.

* It being very near Rotterdam and The Hague, make it a three-day deal!

* Wibe's photography website (he specializes in both weddings and documentaries)