Rotterdam to be precise, where we arrived after a solid, eleven hour, drive from Szczecin. I love the continent but bloody hell 'it's a long, long way from here to Clare...'
Another city and here we were with no map. Thankfully the signage was good and we managed to get to the car park at Erasmusbrug with no problem and from there it was a ten minute walk to the hostel. I'd like to say Hostel ROOM was a pleasant place to stay but it wasn't. We should've know by the jar on the reception counter labelled 'free earplugs'. It is the noisiest place I have ever stayed, not just the echoing floors and banging doors but also the screaming and shouting that went on on the Saturday night. Whoever it was, I hope you tripped and fell in the roadworks outside and hurt yourself.
Rotterdam itself is bright and flash and completely without character. Flattened between 1939-45 it rebuilt itself using concrete, steel and glass. Only one area, Delfshaven, has been rebuilt to look how it would've done a hundred years ago but where Amsterdam and other Dutch towns have charm, because ordinary people live in streets like this, this part of Rotterdam is filled with antique shops, sculptors, bronze workers. It looks manufactured and un-lived-in and, on a damp Sunday, that's exactly what it was.
The best bit of the stay, for me at least, was the hour's boat trip along the river and around the docks. The biggest port in Europe, third biggest in the world after Shanghai and Singapore, Rotterdam handles 420 million tons of goods a year. It's visited by 80,000 ocean-going ships and 120,000 inland vessels that chug up and down the rivers and canals of mainland Europe. I only remembered these few facts but there were plenty more as we glided past the various havens and docks, avoiding container ships, tugs, water taxis and cruisers. Not since Hong Kong have I seen so many ships and boats in such a small space.
On the Monday morning we decided to high-tail it out of town and, after consulting a map in a bookshop, decided to head from the beach. On the way we called in at Brielle, parking in the car park of an underground supermarket.
After a quick browse we headed into town for one of the nicest surprises of the holiday: an authentic Dutch town. We entered the town through a gap in an earth bank, crossed a small canal and there found a market in front of a line of shops.
A walk beyond this revealed some charming streets and, to Agnieszka's joy, plenty of people on those chunky, clunky, sturdy bikes without brakes that the Dutch are so fond of. Here we just wandered contentedly for an hour or so, looking in wondows and browsing in shops, before heading back to the market and a sit down with a coffee and one of the best apple cakes I have ever tasted.
For the rest of the afternoon we meandered through the countryside, calling in at several towns and villages that I can't remember the name of. For some reason all the garages we tried were without diesel and it became a bit of a panic as time ticked on, to get the tank filled up. Luckily we found one in the end but, with only a quarter tank left, I had visions of us returning to Hull and having to pay English prices. As it was, we got it for less than a pound a litre.
Chilling on the beach in the shadow of Europoort...
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