• Tom Banks
apr. – jun. 2015

Von Wigan nach Düsseldorf

Et 48-dags eventyr af Tom Læs mere
  • Start på rejsen
    16. april 2015
  • A very rainy day

    8. maj 2015, England ⋅ 🌧 10 °C

    8th May 2015 - pissing it down in Wigan. Absolutely pissing it down. How could it not be? Five more years of David Cameron and the Conservative party.

    There was a four percent swing to Lisa Nandy, the Labour incumbent, in Wigan, but elsewhere it was different. It was different in Scotland and it was different in socially conservative England.

    Scotland has been maturing as a nation for a long time, and the trend towards support for independence has been growing naturally and steadily for several decades. But it was events that unfolded during and immediately after the 2014 referendum that has led to the huge swing towards the SNP in this general election.

    David Cameron, the Prime Minster to have granted the referendum, should’ve been the man expected to run the pro-union campaign. Yet he couldn’t. He had no authority in Scotland, and so had to rely on Labour - in particular Gordon Brown and Alaistar Darling - to put in the hard yards for the Unionist, 'better together' campaign that he himself should have been leading.

    They won - but only just. 45% to 55% was a lot closer than they had predicted it was going to be. And, in the last few weeks running up to the referendum vote, they were forced on to the defensive and made a raft of devolution promises to the Scots.

    Scared and desperate, in the final week of the campaign, Cameron had finally got involved and resorted to a bit of faux, PR emotion. He sat on a stool and said, 'don't break up the UK just to give the effing Tories a kick. I love this country much more than I love my party.'

    Then, a few days later, just hours after the result had been announced, he went on to make the most partisan speech it was possible to make in such a situation. 'English votes for English laws . . . must take place in tandem with, and at the same pace as, the settlement for Scotland.'

    He had calculated that the referendum had been won, that the Scots had been dealt with, and therefore it would be as good a time as any to start the 2015 General Election campaign. Come up with a soundbite - 'English votes for English laws' - and force Labour to come up with a counter soundbite. It was perfectly possible (and Cameron knew it) to explain why English votes for English laws would be disastrous for the Union. But, critically, it wasn’t possible to explain why in a five second soundbite. And if you couldn't explain it in a soundbite, you lost the PR game, and you lost the argument. As such, David Cameron was able to win votes in socially conservative England by being the patron of English nationalism. In England, Labour had been painted in to a corner for defending the Union.

    Simultaneously, with the same EVEL message, Cameron was disenfranchising the Scots. If the Conservatives had had any real representation in Scotland this would’ve hurt then. But they didn’t. Labour did, and it was their proximity to the Conservative party during the Better Together campaign that was the start of their Scottish downfall.

    Meanwhile the rest of the General Election campaign had begun in earnest. Aside from driving a deliberate wedge between Scotland and England, Cameron campaigned – exclusively negatively – against the last Labour government’s economic record. 'Don't let them bankrupt the country again,' Cameron kept repeatedly saying in reference to the two men - the very two men, Gordon Brown and Alistair Darling – who had just saved the union on his behalf.

    It worked. Cameron not only won, but increased his vote share and secured a small majority. Labour held most of the seats that they had won in England in 2010, and made small gains elsewhere in England, but the huge wipe-out in Scotland could never be offset by winning the marginals. The gains that the Conservatives made came almost entirely from the collapse of the Liberal Democrat vote.

    The upshot of all of this is that a vote for left-of-centre 2010 Nick Clegg and his party has facilitated what will end up being a decade long spell of Tory rule. Clegg could justify his party being in coalition with the Tories on the basis that, ‘they added heart to the Tory brain’. But the capitulation of his party in 2015 has given the Tories their majority and the freedom to rule alone for the next five years. All of the contributions the Liberal Democrats made in the last parliament, in either pursuing Liberal policies or restraining reactionary Tory policies (say on the environment, or their opposition to the snoopers charter) will be legislated away in the next few months, and we might as well have had a Tory majority government from 2010-2015 for all it matters now.

    The Queen granted Cameron the right to form a new Government, and minutes later he was stood outside Downing Street, saying, ‘we must ensure that we bring our country together. As I said in the small hours of this morning, we will govern as a party of one nation, one United Kingdom.’ As well as, ‘I have always believed in governing with respect.’ His bid to get re-elected was based on pitting Scotland against England, and a few choice slogans won’t affect much now. With 56 SNP MP’s of a possible 59 Scottish MPs (including the Shetland Islands, who are at heart Danish) it is almost certain that Scotland will secede from the Union. David Cameron can state as much as he likes that he is going to rule as a ‘one nation’ Conservative, but he has absolutely no mandate in Scotland. Not only does he not have a mandate, the platform he sought to get elected on was fundamentally rejected by the Scots with a huge majority. The SNP are about as explicitly anti Tory as you can get.

    But it wasn’t just the Scots that rejected the Conservatives. So, too, did the old, industrial northern towns and cities: Manchester, Liverpool, Sheffield, Huddersfield, Newcastle, Bolton, Wigan, Doncaster, Bradford, Blackburn, Huddersfield. It has always been the case that the north has opposed Tory rule, and as a result had to endure the brunt of it. Soon, though, without the solidarity of the like minded Scotland, the north of England will have a permanent Tory government that it didn’t vote for. And we know where that leads. The future doesn’t look remotely ‘one nation’, and I see nothing in the Tory manifesto that resembles the ‘good life’ they keep promising.

    The Tories will cut funding to primary and secondary schools.

    The Tories will cut 12bn from the welfare budget, most probably from Child Benefit - taking it away from all but the first two children (because big families are bad and made up of benefit scroungers).

    The Tories will repeal the hunting ban, and chasing after foxes on horseback and watching them get torn to pieces by a pack of dogs will once again become legal.

    The Tories will champion nepotism and inherited wealth by increasing the inheritance tax threshold to one million pounds. Meanwhile, middle class families with relatives suffering from alzheimer's or Dementia will have to sell their sub-million pound home in order to afford nursing home care – because the Tories don’t believe that the state should fund it.

    The Tories won't spend a penny on infrastructure, and things will get worse on what is already the most outdated and overpriced rail network in Europe.

    The Tories will do nothing about the overinflated price of housing, and young people will continue to struggle to get a foot on the ladder. Those who rent will be made to cough up evermore of their income and hand it over to buy to let landlords.

    The Tories will have a pointless referendum on Britain's membership of the European Union, and Britain will become ever more diminished on the world stage. Over the past five years, I can’t think of a single country that the UK has strengthened ties with; I can think of many which it has senselessly strained ties with.

    The Tories will get their ‘Bill of Rights,’ and the UK will withdraw from the European Court of Human Rights.

    The Tories will freeze all building of onshore wind turbines; instead we will get fracking.

    The Tories will introduce a Snoopers charter.

    Under the Tories both exports and productivity will continue to languish, and inequality will widen further still.

    You can get on a train at Glasgow, and five hours later be stepping off at London, Euston. Yet the average person in Glasgow has a life expectancy 13 years less than that of someone living in Chelsea. It is a small country, but clearly very, very unequal. Even in Germany – a country that has only been unified for 25 years – the inequality rates between the regions are nothing compared to what they are in Britian.

    Speaking of Germany, it is still a month before I start my new life there, but I already I feel vindicated in my decision to leave. It is so frustrating to live in a country that you know is underperforming on so many levels, and is doing so because of Conservative ideology. In the UK, there is a whole lot of unrealised potential, a lot what could so easily be right but isn’t. Alas, I don’t think things will get better in the next five years, I think things will get a lot worse.
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  • I'm going to miss the Cock

    26. maj 2015, England ⋅ ⛅ 10 °C

    My six month tenure at Pentair is coming to an end. On Friday I will say goodbye to Walkden, and a few hours later, the country too. As it happened, I didn’t spend the full six months in Walkden as planned; for three of those six months, I was living in a hotel down in Penkridge, Wolverhampton. Nevertheless, despite having not spent a lot of time in Walkden, there are things about the place that I will miss, and things that I won’t.

    It was mid-November when I went to Pentair for a job interview. And it probably says something about Pentair and Walkden that the most memorable part of the interview was the journey home. I was driving back through the town’s main housing estate, and a car was making its way towards me, swerving eccentrically from one side of the road to the other. It all seemed a bit ominous, so I pulled over and stopped behind a parked van. Meanwhile, the car continued to meander its way up the road, and as it got closer it was clear what was going on. Lying on the bonnet was a man in just his boxers. He had his arms out stretched, clutching on to the wind mirror, desperate to hold on. Conversely, the woman driving the car was doing her upmost to throw him off.

    ‘Get off my fucking car. . . I never want to see you again.’

    ‘I’m not going anywhere until we talk.’

    ‘There is nothing to talk about. Get off my fucking car.’

    A domestic Walkden-style.

    The guy displayed super-human strength in being able to hold on in the way that he did. Aside from veering left to right, right to left, the woman was piping her horn, shouting and swearing, but the guy was just not for budging. They passed me, got to the top of the road, turned left and carried on. God knows how it all ended.

    For a while afterwards I found the whole thing hilarious. I still do. But Walkden’s foremost predicament - of which semi-naked men clinging on to car bonnets is a behavioural symptom - isn’t funny. For Walkden suffers from an American level of urban decay and deprivation. Gone is the Britain which built the rows of terraced houses and their accompanying communal back yards that make up the bulk of Walkden’s housing stock. And in its place, is a meaner, more austere and individualist Britain.

    Just a mile up the road is Worsely, and Worsely is lovely. Big houses, big gardens, big cars – all very affluent. I suppose the people who live there are those who the Labour party are trying to appeal to when they talk about the ‘aspirational’ voters. There isn’t much wrong with that. Nor is there, principally, much wrong with the Thatcherite, anti-taxation mantra of, ‘letting people keep more of their own money.’ It’s just that there should be a greater balance. The other week, for example, as I was driving through Worsely I was trailing a white Range Rover with a private registration plate that read ‘PU55AY’. Let ‘hard working people’ buy fancy houses with plush gardens, and let them buy expensive white Range Rovers to park outside them, but surely challenge them (morally) over spending money on gimmicky, pointless, materialistic crap like private registration plates. Especially when, as is the case, there are hundreds of people languishing in the old, inadequate housing stock, unemployed and without hope just a mile down the road. I shan’t miss this about Walkden or the UK, not least because Germany has its own social and economic problems.

    But I will miss the humour, the self-depreciating humour. I don’t know whether naming the largest pub in the town ‘THE COCK’ exemplifies this, but I think in some way it must.

    I don’t think there is much in the way of self-depreciation in Germany – it just isn’t the done thing. There is that stereotype that implies the Germans have no humour, but it is neither true fair nor true. Germans can be funny; Germans can even be very funny. They can often be dry in the typically British way, too. But when it comes to self-deprecation, though, it seems to me like they just don’t get it.

    I won’t miss Walkden’s deprivation; I will miss its self-deprecation.
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  • Hull

    30. maj 2015, England ⋅ ⛅ 14 °C

    I’m sat on the Pride of Hull nursing a Leffe. All around is the sound of Dutch. There’s an empty stage in front of me with an electric drum kit and a sunburst Stratocaster. It all looks ominous. I really hope there isn’t a band on, at least not any time soon. No one has ever heard of a group that made it big after gigging on a ferry (especially not P&O’s Pride of Hull!). And for good reason; they are notoriously un-tuneful.

    It was just over three and a half hours ago when I left Wigan; which is really not bad going all things considered. All in all, it was a particularly uneventful journey. There was traffic on the M60 (is the Pope Catholic? Do bears shit in the woods?), but apart from that, it was plain sailing the whole way.

    I did, however, need a wee. And it was precisely at the point that I got stuck in the infamous M60 traffic that Nature started to make its voice heard. Sods law! I did, it must be said, drink two cups of tea in quick succession before leaving. But, on any other motorway at any other point, I could’ve pulled over and relieved myself. Not on M60 whilst sat in traffic! There was nothing I could do, I just had to grin and bear it. Torture, it was.

    But, after about 20 minutes of crawling, I’d cleared the M60 and I had Yorkshire within my sights. For that reason, I didn’t stop. I kept going and going and going. 70 miles, 60 miles, 50. I still needed a wee -- really badly needed a wee -- but, inexplicably, I kept going. I passed countless service stations and just carried on, Hull bound. In fact, I nearly made it all the way. I was just seven miles off Hull and nine off the port, when,as if from nowhere, the Humber Bridge revealed itself upon the horizon. Well, I had to stop and take a picture. Why not kill two birds with one stone?

    I pulled off the carriageway and meandered about an industrial estate, searching for a place where I could stop for a minute and take a picture of the suspension bridge. Well, about half the mile up the road the industrial units gave way to a clearing of trees. Lo and behold, there was a car park too. I stopped, found a bush, did my thing, then made my way through the woods down to the shoreline.

    Wow, what an impressive bridge. Not quite the Forth Bridges, but impressive nonetheless. It’s a shame, though, they painted it brown. There is a lot to be said about being understated, but a bridge of that calibre deserves to be, at least, a deep red or something.

    Anyway, I got my picture and made my way back to the car. Thankfully, it was still there. Should it not have been, the thief would have got more than he bargained for - a car full of life's basic essentials plus a 50Kg bag of apples and a life's supply of toilet roll (thanks Mum!). Feeling lighter and significantly more nimble than I had done just two minutes earlier, I climbed back in the Up and travelled the last few miles to the port.

    I got to the port and the heavens opened. I wanted to get out and take a picture of the Pride of Hull, but the rain prevented me from doing so. And, besides, there was a burly looking man in high-vis directing me through the gates-of-no-return. Before I knew it, I was on board, the whole thing taking just 15 minutes.

    Now I’m on board and feeling a bit sea sick. So much in life is psychological: we haven’t even set sail. Just the act of sitting on a boat is enough to make me feel a bit dizzy. Then again, this Belgian beer is strong stuff. And that reminds me, I must got and buy another before this knock-off pub band turn up.
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  • Rotterdam

    30. maj 2015, Holland ⋅ ⛅ 14 °C

    The ferry was great. The sea was smooth, and I have to admit it, the band were good too. Really good, in fact. I think I may have witnessed the next Beatles. OK, not really, but they did know what they were doing.

    I went to bed around 12 and slept like a baby. That was, until, the captain (who liked the sound of his own voice, it must be said) came on the tanoi at about 6am to inform everyone that breakfast was now being served on level 8, should anyone be feeling hungry. Well I wasn’t feeling hungry, and so I went back to sleep. I slept from about another hour before rousing myself, and making my way out to the lounge.

    What a pleasant surprise to look out the window and see blue skies. Given that we had set off from Hull under a dark, black cloud, I was fully expecting it to be raining in the Netherlands too. Far from it. The sun was gleaning of the barely rippling sea. Rotterdam is a huge port - by the far the largest in Europe. Up until 2006 -- when China finally woke from a 600 year sleep -- it was the largest port in the world. And as we sailed along at a languid pace, the shoreline was nothing but miles of containers. There were hundreds of pristine white wind turbines, all in a perfectly straight line, like poplar trees lining a French road.

    I wanted to stand and watch for longer, but I had to go and change the last 30 quid I had in my pocket into Euros. Man did I get ripped off. 30 pounds, on a P&O ferry, gets you 27.30 Euros. That is called getting stung. Then (again!) the captain came on the tanoi; this time he was asking all car drivers to return to their vehicles. I did, and twenty minutes later I was driving the Up off the pride of Hull.

    I showed my passport to a security guard and hit the road. I didn’t know what to expect driving on the right hand side of the road, but everything seemed to be intuitive and natural. That was until I got to a roundabout. Roundabouts are squeaky bum time, very confusing. Anyway, I was soon on a motorway, heading towards to Rotterdam and all was well. The Dutch roads are silky-smooth, like a baby’s bum. It was easy.

    Five minutes down the road, halfway across a bridge, there was a traffic light on red, instructing me to stop. I stopped, and down came a barrier. Then the middle section of the large, four-laned bridge started to rise, vertically. The whole of it, even the lampposts. It crawled up vertically, and a huge cargo ship -- stacked high with crates -- passed through the gap. What an impressive sight - it was the first time I’d been glad to get stuck at a red light for as long as I can remember. The whole thing took about 15 minutes, then I was off again.

    Just as I was getting the hang of driving on the right hand side of the road, I came to a barrier with a ticket machine on, of course, the left hand side of the car. Normally, you’d simply wind the window down, press a button and be on your way. Obviously I couldn’t; I had to get out the car, walk round to the machine and start faffing about with it. For whatever, reason it wasn’t working. It wanted 4 Euros off me, but didn’t like my card. An elderly Dutch couple stopped their car and came over to help me (the Dutch are super friendly). After a minute or two, the three of us had figured out, and the barrier raised. I had to run, through, quickly round to the other side of the car, climb in and head on before the barrier came back down.

    Why was there a barrier in the first place? My sat-nav showed a river ahead, and I presumed it was for a toll bridge. However, when I got to the shore, it was obvious that there wasn’t a bridge. This was a river crossing by boat (another ferry!). There was myself, a tractor with a trailer full of hay and a few other cars. We sat waiting for the ferry to return. And, as we were doing so, I noticed we were parked next to a cafe. As soon as I saw the cafe, I felt a pang of hunger. It was breakfast time. I decided that once I’d crossed the river, I’d find a place to stop and eat.

    Lucky for me, then, that on the other side of a river was the beautiful little town of Maassluis. As soon as I drove off the boat I was greeted with a picture of utter Dutchness: canals, bikes, windmills, bridges, boats and men with moustaches. I parked up and went in search of a cafe or a pub or anywhere where I could sit down, drink a coffee and eat a bit of food.

    The first place I found was a pub alongside a canal on what I think was called the Havenstraat (harbour street?). I entered and everything, suddenly, went dark. Outside was bright, inside wasn’t, and my eyes found it hard to adjust. I could just about make out a snooker table in the far corner and a bar to my left.

    ‘Hello, sorry, spreekt u Engels?’ I asked what I thought looked like a human figure.

    ‘A little,’ came the response.

    My eyes came round, and in front of me (behind the bar) was a middle aged woman. I ordered a cheese and ham toastie and a cappuccino. The bar was lined with brown, green and clear liquor bottles, and the decor of the rest of the pub was a dark, varnished wood; wood decor in the quintessentially Dutch style. This town -- this whole town -- was Dutcher than a Dutch place. The toastie came and I wolfed it down. The woman asked me where I was from. Manchester, I told her.

    ‘Oh yeah,’ she said. ‘I’ve been to the UK before, to Middlesbrough.’

    ‘Oh really,’ I said, ‘have you been anywhere else in the UK? London, for example?’

    ‘London? Oh no, I’ve never been to London. Just to Middlesbrough.’

    Fair enough I guess.

    I finished my cappuccino and felt a million dollars. I was in tune with the place. I left the pub and wondered about the canals, taking pictures of the boats, the wooden sail boats, the windmills. There is no such thing as Europe, I thought to myself, if, as is the case, people wander languidly alongside the canals of Maassluis while at the same time Putin shells the streets of Donetsk.

    I couldn’t believe a town so quaint could be just 12 miles from Rotterdam, but it was. After exploring it for about two hours, I made my way back to my car and left. Maassluis, what a beautiful town.

    I was in tourist mood now. I hadn’t been on the road for more than another 15 minutes, when I saw a cluster of red eye symbols on my sat-nav (red eye’s mean there is something of interesting to see). I couldn’t let the opportunity pass me by, so I took the next turn off and head towards, what I came to find out, a town called ..dam.

    ..dam is larger than Maassluis, so not as quaint, but equally as beautiful. It’s windmill galore - I think I counted six or seven of them. The canals were wider than Maassluis’, but architecturally the buildings were of the same 17th century style. I spent another wandering them, until I felt canaled-out. What a beautiful place small town Holland is.

    So: after 18 miles, four hours, one boat trip, and two excursions later, I’ve finally made it to Rotterdam. Check in is at 2pm, and here it is currently 20 past one, so I’m sat in the lobby. And what a posh lobby it is, too. Far too posh for me. I have a suspicion that I smell like cheese. And given that I’m wearing yesterday’s clothes, I don’t think that’s an altogether unjustified suspicion.

    Now, I’m just writing a quick blog, waiting for 2pm to come around. And when it does, I’ll check in, shower, and head off out to Rotterdam zentrum.

    P.S. My sat-nav and I haven’t always seen eye-to-eye, but so far it has been more than impressive. A nice touch was that, after turning it on, it proceeded to tell me all about the quirks of Dutch motoring; what the drink drive limit is, the various speed limits, etc. Top marks VW.
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  • Euromast

    31. maj 2015, Holland ⋅ ⛅ 10 °C

    From the viewing deck of the Euromast tower you can see all of Rotterdam and more. It's quite something. The Erasmus bridge, the Nieuwe Maas, Rem Koolhaas' new skyscraper (which, I admit, I actually like now I've seen it in person). Because the Netherlands is so flat, the horizon seemed to be infinite. I could, for example, easily see the skyscrapers of the Hauge. Looking the other way, I could see the Hook of Holland and the port I had come from in the morning.Læs mere

  • Rotterdam Overview

    31. maj 2015, Holland ⋅ ⛅ 10 °C

    After Guernica, Rotterdam was the first city to suffer an aerial bombing. Infamously, Warsaw, Coventry and Dresden would all follow. The bombing of Guernica -- carried out by Hitler’s Luftwaffe at Franco’s request during the Spanish Civil War -- has been forever immortalised in the consciousness of humanity, thanks to Picasso’s painting. Indeed, the painting is now better known than the town itself. Joe and I have been fortunate to see it in the the Museo Nacional Centro de Arte Reina Sofía in Madrid. In my opinion, is it worthy of its reputation as the greatest painting ever produced. For one thing, its size alone is breathtaking.

    There is no such painting to commemorate the bombing of Rotterdam, but there is a sculpture in the centre of the city. Its a sculpture of a perished looked figure, staring upwards in disbelief. The metal work is black and deliberately wrinkled to try and capture further to the gloom and desperation.

    Today, the center of Rotterdam (the outskirts and suburbs survived) is a city built entirely from the ruins of WWII. It is, in other words, a modern metropolis. In that regard, it is unlike anywhere else I’ve visited in the Netherlands. Like the figure in the statue, you can’t help but look up. But for a different reason: you look up in awe at the skyscrapers of Rotterdam. Its reinvention, its ability to come back from nothing and be the city it is today, is perhaps the best tribute there can be to the Rotterdam of history.
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  • Delft

    31. maj 2015, Holland ⋅ 🌧 13 °C

    Delft is historic due to its connection to the House of Orange. Given that I was in Rotterdam and but a few miles away, I simply had to visit. I set off for Delft at half 8, hungry and in search of some breakfast.

    It took me all of 15 minutes to reach Delft. Strange, I thought, how you can go from a bustling metropolis like Rotterdam, drive for 15 minutes through green farmland, and end up in the perfectly whimsical town like Delft. Distances in the Netherlands are different. For it to work, they must have incredible green belt laws. Although the Netherlands vies with Bangladesh for the title of the most densely populated country in the world, to me it actually feels open and spacious.

    Anyway, back to Delft: what a lovely town. Full of the normal Dutch charms of canals (and here there are many!), boats, bikes and houses that are more violin shaped than house shaped. On a drizzly Sunday, it was quiet and languid, with not many people out and about. Those that were tended to be in no particular rush.

    Most shops and cafes were shut, posing me a bit of a problem given that I was in need of some breakfast. It took me 15 minutes of wandering around to find somewhere open. It was a smoothie bar, and looked a bit hipster, but I couldn't afford to be choosy. I escaped the rain and headed on inside.

    There are 6,500 languages in the world, and I must make a point of learning the word 'egg' in each and every one of them. Ordering the 'le plat du jour' in Lille and getting a plate of eggs was a terrible, unforgivable mistake. It wasn't a mistake I was going to repeat today. So I asked the waitress what it was I was actually ordering (the polite thing would be to order without having a clue what). I settled for another ham and cheese toastie and green ‘detox’ smoothie. They were great, the smoothie especially. Feeling detoxesd, I headed back out into the drizzle and wandered round Delft for three and a half hours. A beautiful town, absolutely beautiful.
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  • 's-Hertogenbosch

    31. maj 2015, Holland ⋅ 🌧 14 °C

    's-Hertogenbosch is precisely halfway between Rotterdam and Mönchengladbach, so why wouldn't I make a put stop there and break a two hour trip in to two one hour journeys? Well I did, and I'm glad of it too. 's-Hertogenbosch is a brilliant little city. It has a huge central square and an amazing Gothic cathedral. Although it has fewer canals than some of the other Dutch towns and cities I've visited over the weekend, the canals it does have are larger and more substantial. Indeed, substantial is the word: the city is essentially a fortress. Joe and I were discussing how strange it is that there are these weird, star shaped islands all over Europe. They are fortresses essentially.Læs mere

  • Mönchengladbach

    31. maj 2015, Tyskland ⋅ 🌧 16 °C

    At 8am this morning, grey clouds hung low over Rotterdam. Now, at 10pm in
    Mönchengladbach, it is dark and wet. Over the course of the day I've been in Delft, 's-Hertogenbosch and now Mönchengladbach. Yet no matter where I was, it was either grey, drizzly or torrential. Luckily, I experienced the worst of the rain whilst driving, but what has happened to the sun that was shinning so bright just yesterday? I'm beginning to think it was just a fluke, and that from now on I will experience nothing but bad weather. Why? Because I've long suspected that, just like Rob McKenna, I'm a Rain God:

    "Rob McKenna was a miserable bastard and he knew it because he'd had a lot of people point it out to him over the years and he saw no reason to disagree with them except the obvious one which was that he liked disagreeing with people, particularly people he disliked, which included, at the last count, everybody.

    He heaved a sigh and shoved down a gear.

    The hill was beginning to steepen and his lorry was heavy with Danish thermostatic radiator controls.

    It wasn't that he was naturally predisposed to be so surly, at least he hoped not. It was just the rain that got him down, always the rain.

    It was raining now, just for a change.

    It was a particular type of rain that he particularly disliked, particularly when he was driving. He had a number for it. It was rain type 17.

    He had read somewhere that the Eskimos had over two hundred different words for snow, without which their conversation would probably have got very monotonous. So they would distinguish between thin snow and thick snow, light snow and heavy snow, sludgy snow, brittle snow, snow that came in flurries, snow that came in drifts, snow that came in on the bottom of your neighbor's boots all over your nice clean igloo floor, the snows of winter, the snows of spring, the snows you remember from your childhood that were so much better than any of your modern snow, fine snow, feathery snow, hill snow, valley snow, snow that falls in the morning, snow that falls at night, snow that falls all of a sudden just when you were going out fishing, and snow that despite all your efforts to train them, the huskies have pissed on.

    Rob McKenna had two hundred and thirty-one different types of rain entered in his little book, and he didn't like any of them.

    He shifted down another gear and the lorry heaved its revs up. It grumbled in a comfortable sort of way about all the Danish thermostatic radiator controls it was carrying.

    Since he had left Denmark the previous afternoon, he had been through types 33 (light pricking drizzle which made the roads slippery), 39 (heavy spotting), 47 to 51 (vertical light drizzle through to sharply slanting light to moderate drizzle freshening), 87 and 88 (two finely distinguished varieties of vertical torrential downpour), 100 (postdownpour squalling, cold), all the sea-storm types between 192 and 213 at once, 123, 124, 126, 127 (mild and intermediate cold gusting, regular and syncopated cab-drumming), 11 (breezy droplets), and now his least favorite of all, 17.

    Rain type 17 was a dirty blatter battering against his windshield so hard that it didn't make much odds whether he had his wipers on or off.

    He tested this theory by turning them off briefly, but as it turned out the visibility did get quite a lot worse. It just failed to get better again when he turned them back on.

    In fact one of the wiper blades began to flap off.

    Swish swish swish flop swish swish flop swish swish flop swish flop swish flop flop flap scrape.

    He pounded his steering wheel, kicked the floor, thumped his cassette player until it suddenly started playing Barry Manilow, thumped it until it stopped again, and swore and swore and swore and swore and swore.

    It was at the very moment that his fury was peaking that there loomed swimmingly in his headlights, hardly visible through the blatter, a figure by the roadside.

    A poor bedraggled figure, strangely attired, wetter than an otter in a washing machine, and hitching.

    "Poor miserable sod," thought Rob McKenna to himself, realizing that here was somebody with a better right to feel hard done by than himself, "must be chilled to the bone. Stupid to be out hitching on a filthy night like this. All you get is cold, wet, and lorries driving through puddles at you."

    He shook his head grimly, heaved another sigh, gave the wheel a turn, and hit a large sheet of water square on.

    "See what I mean?" he thought to himself as he plowed swiftly through it; "you get some right bastards on the road."

    Splattered in his rearview mirror a couple of seconds later was the reflection of the hitchhiker, drenched by the roadside.

    For a moment he felt good about this. A moment or two later he felt bad about feeling good about it. Then he felt good about feeling bad about feeling good about it and, satisfied, drove on into the night.

    At least it made up for finally having been overtaken by that Porsche he had been diligently blocking for the last twenty miles.

    And as he drove on, the rain clouds dragged down the sky after him for, though he did not know it, Rob McKenna was a Rain God. All he knew was that his working days were miserable and he had a succession of lousy holidays. All the clouds knew was that they loved him and wanted to be near him, to cherish him and to water him."
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  • Great Expectations

    1. juni 2015, Tyskland ⋅ ⛅ 13 °C

    The holiday is over! Today was my first day at work, and I've been thrown in at the deep end. I was supposed to have a nice, slow induction, but the facts on the ground at the company mean I have to get involved straight away. There will be no easing me in. I've been tasked with redesigning the end of a shaft, changing the existing sealing method to one better suited for a product in the food industry (it has to be IP66 - in other words, completely protected from any ingress). This is easily doable and I relish the challenge. I wanted to hit the ground running, and now I've no choice but to. Early next week I have to travel to a company in Nuremberg, and a few days later I'm back in Holland. But not, this time, to visit lovely little towns, but to meet a man who has been doing all the FEA work for my company on a sub-contract basis. Basically, I will be taking over from him.

    It's 11pm and I'm drinking a Yorkshire tea. Normally I wouldn't touch tea or any other caffeinated beverage after about 5pm. But it won't make the slightest bit of difference tonight. I couldn't drink five double Espressos if I wanted, and I'd still be out cold as soon as my head hits the pillow.

    The apartment is nice, as is the neighbourhood Bilk. I shall write about it tomorrow, for now is time for some sleep.
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  • Bilk at a glance

    2. juni 2015, Tyskland ⋅ ⛅ 20 °C

    My apartment -- as seen in the first picture -- is pink. Not only that, but it is next to a nail salon and directly opposite a bakery called 'Kamps'. Make of that what you will.

    Bilk is the name of the neighbourhood itself, and its about five to ten minutes south of the 'stadtzentrum' by train. The buildings here are all five, six or seven residential apartments. And they tend to be either Baroque in style, or plainly rendered yet painted in the same Baroque pastelly colours - blue, pinks, greens. It's all very agreeable.

    The nearby park, about a five minute walk from my apartment, is full of red squirrels and some odd looking ducks.

    The neighbourhood has a Berlin-esque feel about it, which certainly isn't true of the other parts of Düsseldorf that I've seen so far. The buildings, the trams, the S-Bahn could all be straight out of Prenzlauer Berg. But also the street life seems to have something 'Berlin' about it. People just seem to be out and about for no particular reason. The cars seem to be parked irregularly and a bit haphazardly. Things down on the street are ever so slightly disheveled, which is in direct contradiction to backdrop of the Baroque style apartments. I think that is what gives it its charm, for charm it certainly has.
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    Slut på rejsen
    2. juni 2015