In the beginning... Word.
So about 6 months ago we were both gainfully employed, but redundancy reared it’s head in Lizzie’s life and then fate saw my job disappear. We looked at our situation, the economy, age, money in pockets and joked about being gypsies, travelling the world. So now, in true Dave Gorman fashion, welcome to our blog!
After many false starts, leaving my house in Oxford to move into Lizzie’s, our leaving Oxford to visit in Norfolk, our leaving Gt. Yarmouth and stopping off in Ipswich.... Finally my excitement could slip its leash. We were aboard the ferry, crossing from Harwich to the Hook of Holland. I could schmells the pancakesh in the air. Amsterdam beckoned. Yesh!
Thursday 21st to Sunday 24th April - Holland
Our first ever motor home camping stop was prettily situated between a lake and river at Durgerdam, the weather was glorious and thankfully our neighbours didn’t all have motor homes that could leave earth’s atmosphere! We fancied that we looked ‘ard enough not to mess with, with our rugged motorbike and trailer ensemble. Tomorrow we would bike to Amsterdam, but first we climbed into our coffin and gladly slept. Very well I might add! J
We parked the bike up, somewhat cavalierly, with loads of other scooters and said our goodbyes to the bike, with very real feeling, just in case. After a brief meander through the main square and the Easter fair, we sampled an Indonesian lunch at Sie Joe’s. Traffic, people, trams and loads of window shopping later we found Hans Brinken Hostel on Kerkstrade, checked in and went out to our first coffee shop, “Happy Feelings”..... 3hrs later I found myself tucking into the most delicious raclette [cheese fondue] and Lizzie told me about the fun bar we’d been in for the last 2 hours! J Ok, suitably fed and high, what’s next? “Hey, didn’t we see a fair earlier?” Over 100ft up, towering, spinning and me bouncing the car on it’s all too spindly looking cables, Lizzie shrieking with delight, we had a proper look at the towering skyline. Another ride, this time the House of Horrors and we trammed it back to our hostel to join the Welsh rugby team from Mumbling near Cardiff in the downstairs nightclub. At 2am, Lizzie called “top bunk” and we retired to our dorm. It was about 30+degC all night!
In the morning we woke and attached da Kulture! We visited the Rijksmuseum – yes, Kate, Lizzie does still despise Flemish and Dutch paintings – but I really enjoyed the solemn portraits, swans and musketeers. Lunch was taken under heavily shedding blossom trees in Leidesplein and then we headed for the Anne Frank museum. Unfortunately the queue was as numerous as the Nazis looking for Anne, so we avoided the stormtroopers, jumped to lightspeed and headed for the Erotic Museum. On the way, we discovered the World Press Photo 2010 exhibition, where we spent over an hour mulling over the incredible photography and I left feeling inspired to continue my photographic exploits. The Erotic Museum was... less than erotic... but it was interesting and extremely weird to see the Red Light District in the daytime. Fat prozzies in bikinis would sum it up. We bought some food, piled onto the bike and headed back to Durgerdam for some dinner, Lizzie’s description of the Anne Frank museum and bed. After the hostel slash sauna, our van was positively palatial.
176 miles
Sunday 24th to Tuesday 26th April – Easter to Belgium
After a leisurely morning on the Uiutdammerdijk in the sunshine, we headed south to Maasbree via Den Bos for lunch. The GPS and Lizzie conspired to find the expensive but amazing Campsing BreeBronne, complete with lake, swimming pool and bar! Easter in Europe means everything is closed, so we spent a couple of days lazing in the sun, going for walkies and playing in the children’s playground (see photos).
We left on Tuesday and drove to Maastricht, expecting many war museums and memorials. Instead, we found an enormous lunch and a rather odd outdoor exhibition, involving dead animals and a naked lady in heels... We then said “dank u wel” and “tot ziens” to Holland and headed over the border to Belgium. It was a long haul of 200km over to Bruges and our next campsite, Camping Memling, where we had a Barbie and played Yahtzee into the night (thanks, Terhi)!
349 miles
Wednesday 27th April – Bruges (all quotes in an Irish accent please)
“Maybe that’s what hell is. The entire rest of eternity spent in fecking Bruges!”
The day, for which we had both been waiting, dawned. For those of you who haven’t seen “In Bruges”, go directly to the next section and book in a politically incorrect movie night asap. To sum up, a local map/guide says:
“In 1892, Bruges wakes up. The popular book ‘Bruges la Morte’ describes the city as a dark, poor and ugly place. Locals are not too happy with this, but tourists see some romance in it, and start visiting Bruges more and more. In 2009, the movie ‘In Bruges’ wins an award for best scenario. Quote: ‘I grew up in Dublin. I love Dublin. If I grew up on a farm, and was retarded, Bruges might impress me. But I didn’t, so it doesn’t’. So, just like in 1892, somebody calls Bruges a shithole, which attracts more tourists”.
I was literally ecstatic on the bus into the city, mis-quoting all over the place and pointing at things. We visited the food market in Markt Square and bought noisette sausage and cheese, surrounded by a plethora of languages. We trekked up the 366 steps of the Belfry Tower and listened to the bells chime through an incredible musicbox system, whilst admiring the amazing view over the city.
“Ken: Coming up? Ray: What’s up there? Ken: The view.
Ray: The view of what? The view of down here? I can see that down here.”
Our journey up the tower didn’t quite match Colin Farrell’s attack on fat Americans, but D did spend the climb and descent trying to stop me from smacking very irritating wailing girl. We had lunch in Burg Square, surrounded by horses and carts, then hopped on a canal trip. We visited the Holy Vial of Christ’s blood, being polished by a crazy person, ahem, priest, at which point I threw a tantrum about the stupidity of Catholicism and was quickly whisked off for a calming stroll around the St Jans Hospital grounds.
“Ray: What are they doing over there? They’re filming midgets! Ken: Let’s go.
Ray: My arse, let’s go! They’re filming midgets!”
D enjoyed his first true Belgian waffle, then we headed off to taste Belgian’s finest ‘gay’ beers in Bar De Republiek, Joey’s and then Rik’s Vino Vino. After some more beer, jevener (local spirit), wine and tortilla, we managed to find the nightbus back to the campsite and giggled our way to bed.
“Ken: We shall strike a balance between culture and fun.
Ray: Somehow I believe that the balance shall tip in the favour of culture, like a big fat retarded fecking black girl on a seesaw opposite... a dwarf.”
475 miles
Thursday 28th April to Saturday 30th April – Northern France
Started out late from Bruges and headed to Dunkerque, filled with the anticipation of finally seeing the beach of such renowned importance in our history – the evacuation of 340,000 men over the course of a week in 1941. As we entered France from Belgium, the weather closed in and clouds descended upon péage after péage. As we drove over the magnificent engineering feat of the Havre bridge, the rain started and our view of the coast became misty and grey. Arriving in Dunkerque, the town looked bleak and vacant. We wrapped up warm and trudged down the beach. Like all seaside towns out of season, it was deserted, seafront shops shuttered up, the wind gusting down an empty boulevard, with only seagulls for company and all in all it was fairly depressing. We headed to the Memorial du Souvenir (Memorial of Memory), an antiquated war museum set in an old German bunker, where we were greeted by a lovely little ancient French man. His face registered a look of pleasure, swiftly followed by a look of fear as a 30 strong group of mad old Belgians trooped in behind us. We snuck off and spent an hour pondering the WWII relics packed into a room the size of a local village hall. What Dunkerque town lacked in feeling, the museum compensated for, with moving accounts of the many soldiers evacuated and killed on this very site. Memories of the stories of our grandfathers and older friends drifted alongside the exhibitions and photos of the museum, and the overwhelming feeling upon leaving was the enormity of the sacrifice of those before us and the strong belief in freedom. We did indeed fight them on the beaches.
After a wonderful discussion with the curator, we headed back to the van for some pasta and reflection. We drove on to our France Passion camping ground, “La Gite du Chant des Oiseaux” (of the Song of Birds), where we settled in for the night without electricity in a beautiful farming town named Buigny-les-Gamaches, just the sort of place where our ‘boys’ once hid, were sheltered and fought for their lives.
We woke early and packed up, in time to meet our host, Robert, who forced us into some early morning cider and spirit-tasting! Shocking French behaviour! We purchased two bottles of cider and drove off merrily. Today was the day of the long drive, from the aptly named North of France to the tip of Normandy. After many an audio-book, puzzles and general insane chitter-chatter, we arrived at Ravenoville-Plage and our new campsite Camping-le-Cormoran, 3 clicks from the D-day beaches. This was the location of our fabulous awning’s first appearance and we’re pleased to say it did remarkably well in the tortuous winds blustering around! We polished off some of ol’ Robert’s cider and the delectable Dutch cheese and piled into our box... ahem... bed and slept like ‘du bois’. Apologies for the French.
The morning brought a search for ‘un garagiste’ to try and fix our currently defunct leisure battery. Christophe Auto turned out to be an amazing find. He had me at “I know these old vans like the back of my hand”. Having made our appointment for Tuesday am, we headed to Utah beach, the site of the American Forces D-Day landings. Although the monuments and sentiments were heart-felt and vitally important, I couldn’t help but notice the lack of ‘us’ in the whole thing and left feeling slightly British. It was a ridiculous sentiment in comparison with the real sense of loss of life and the enormity of the beaches captured by the Allied Forces. Stretch upon stretch of beach and German bunkers. After trying to take out a signpost with our bumper, we headed to Carrefour, the mecca of all supermarkets and I had to tear D from the wonderment of its various aisles. Over that night’s barbeque of porc and veggie kebabs, we entertained our next-door-Dutch-campees, Monique and Hans, with wine, cheese, continental politics and philosophy. As we tucked in late that night, my beloved man informed me, in all seriousness, that he had fallen in love with a supermarket and may have to leave me. How could I compete with a shop that sells food, motorbike equipment and gas?
727 miles
Sunday 1st to Tuesday 3rd May
The rest of the long weekend passed in a blur of chillin’, food and some sight-seeing. Highlights included an attempt at finding Jeanne D’Arc’s memorial in Montburgh and ending up at the 50 year anniversary bash of the local organ. In celebration, we heard a couple of moving organ pieces played by, as D described it, a “slightly adept organ player”. This episode obviously ended in giggles and me crying into my fist in a very hushed abbey. Of note, the memorial is in a completely different town anyway. Our other notable expedition included seeing the Bayeux Tapestry and Cathedral, which impressed on us both the French capacity for touristic organisation and a real sense of pride. On Tuesday, the motorhome was taken to see the doctor to fix the battery and we spent the day wandering St Mere-Eglise and Ravenoville in a daze, awaiting news of our Hippo’s operation. All went well and we picked her up at the end of the day and drove on down to Dinan Aire, which was beautifully situated under an up-lit Aquaduct. We dodged some mad old boot in the van opposite, who tried to tell us about his need for a good woman, and curled up to sleep after a long and emotional day, under the 120ft arch of the bridge.
905 miles
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