Travelling England (2)

Friday, July 16, 2010:

Chester, Queen Hotel, room 1103.

Very luxurious even for a four star hotel. My room is large, very large, and named after king Duncan I of Scotland. It's well furnished, equipped with a desk, a CD player and LCD television set, but surprisingly it hasn't got a minibar. The airco was on 17º Celsius, which I immediately turned up to 22º. It's windy, chilly and cloudy. It looks like rain, like in Harwich, but up to now it's dry. My window overlooks the garden where a wedding party is going on.

First of all I took the train to London this morning. I could have done myself a favour sailing from Rotterdam to Hull, from where it's a relatively short train ride to Chester, but I wanted to repeat the traditional voyage we used to make when I was a child: Dordrecht - Hoek van Holland - Harwich - London - Chester. Though in the old days it wasn't Chester, but Manchester, and from there to Newton-le-Willows. On the train I met Pete, an American from English descend, who's touring the world on his motorbike and thinking of writing a book about it. He visited relatives in England, while his bike is on its way to the States from Rotterdam by boat. We talked for a while, mostly about the Great War, until the train got crammed with commuters.

Once in London a had a dreadful trip on the underground. I had to change at Moregate which meant no elevators and negotiating an endless number of stairs during the rush hour while carrying a heavy suitcase. Never again! Next time I'll take a cab. Exhausted and covered in sweat I arrived at Euston station. I got on a direct train for Chester, but once on our way I found the airco wasn't working which made the ride rather tropical. The guard seemed unable to do something about it. I arrived in Chester just after twelve and was happy to find the hotel right across the road from the station. After a good shower and checking my e-mail on the computer near the bar (free of charge) I took a walk to the city centre. John H. sent a message that cousin Brian will be moved to Birmingham to be operated on his pelvis on Monday, which means I'll take a train to Earlestown tomorrow to visit him in the Newton-le-Willows Cottage Hospital. Depending on the weather I may take a trip to Llandudno on Sunday. A day trip to Llandudno by boat from Liverpool used to be one of the highlights of our summer holidays in England. Last time I went there was in 1995 together with Stella in the only summer we did not spent in Greece during the twenty years of our marriage. I'll probably feel sad walking the Great Orme on my own, but somehow I believe it will be a soothing experience as well.

Public transport is unbelievably expensive. I paid £ 90,= for a first class single ticket, the equivalent of € 120,= for a distance, more or less, from Dordrecht to Groningen. It would have been cheaper bringing the car along, but I didn't want to drive without company and certainly not drive through London.

I walked the Roman walls and noticed that the small cafe where I once had lunch with Stella, is still there. We were surprised it didn't have any toilets. I wonder if that's still the case. I sat down at a place called The Cheshire Farm, run by two lovely looking young ladies, for a sandwich and a beer and later on smoked a pipe sitting outside The Staffordshire Arms, near the cathedral and the town hall. A very friendly publican but a few too boisterous fellows around. After a while they moved on. I heard them saying they were off to The Cheshire Hangman. A place to avoid tonight.

Travelling England (1)

Thursday, July 15, 2010:

On board m.v. Stena Brittannica, cabin 8238.

When entering I became somewhat worried, seeing two bunks, while I had booked for a single cabin. No way I would share with someone else. In the end nobody showed up so they seemed to have upgraded me in some way or other. I arrived on board around six in the afternoon. After settling in I went to one of the bars to finish reading Het geheim van Paros (The Secret of Paros) by André Oerlemans. Quite a well written thriller. I'm not too keen on thrillers, but I'd given this book a chance since the writer is from my hometown. As usual there are a few coincidences too many, but on the whole it's enjoyable enough when travelling. Sadly there's a bad ending for the stunning beloved of the hero, but I find that rather refreshing. After finishing the book I had an agreeable dinner: poached salmon, fried potatoes with chicory and carrots, preceded by cream of tomatoes, followed by French cheeses and fruit and accompanied by a fairly good red wine.

On the train from Rotterdam to Hoek van Holland I had quite a conversation with the guard who's trying to grow the largest walnut of the Netherlands. He asked what I did for a living, so I gave him the usual mix of reading and writing history and literature, commenting on Dutch radio and translating poetry. He spoke with a rather heavy southern accent, I guess he came from the deep south, somewhere near Maastricht, which made him hard to understand every now and again.

The cabin is on the port side which means I'll have a good view of the town when we put in at Harwich tomorrow morning. It's an outside cabin overlooking the sea. There's hardly any wind so I expect a quiet crossing. I remember one or two very rough crossings on the Duke of York when I was a young child, with my mother seasick and my dad hardly knowing what to do. I believe I got some of my granddad's sailorsblood, as I never get seasick. Poor Stella did, which is why we did not do much sailing when in Greece. I remember us once crossing over to Paxos from Parga with a rather strong wind in a small kaïk. She felt so miserable while I quite enjoyed the ride. I can hear the engines start which means we're about to depart. Time for the bar.

Friday, July 16:

Stena Brittannica-Harwich.

It's raining. The sky is unwelcoming. I slept well and had no problem getting up early in the morning. Last night I drank moderately and went to sleep at around eleven, English time. I had a light breakfast and took a few buns with me for on the train. It's quiet on board. As most tourists travel on weekends I purposely sailed on a Thursday. It's still quite difficult without Stella. No doubt travelling alone gives you optimal freedom, but I'd rather do with less if that would bring her back. It's over three years now since she died and the pain hasn't lessened. We're waiting for the signal to disembark. There's an island right in front of me to travel.

Montaillou

February 1982. I was staying for a week or so in France with friends, somewhere near Carcasonne. I'd recently taken my BA in History. One of the more popular books at the School of Language and Literature (now named The Hague University) was Montaillou by Le Roy Ladurie. On our way to Andorra we passed the famous settlement, where this photograph was taken. It was still freezing in the Pyrenees. Most of the mountain passes were still closed because of snow, so in the end we would not make it to Andorra. Montaillou was deserted, but it seems a handful of people from Paris is holidaying there in summer. No trace of the mother-in-law of the priest who had the poor woman's tongue teared out. No old women in black gossiping about the latest events in the village. Not even a lost goat. Maybe just a brown bear hibernating somewhere in the nearby mountains. We decided not to go and look for it.

Deceptive beauty

Farewell Rijmenam. The title, in translation, of a poem I wrote the day after this photograph was taken. We visited Fa (middle) and Agnès Claes who lived in a farmhouse at Rijmenam. Shortly after they moved to Bruges. Chief editor of the literary magazine Kruispunt, John Heuzel (second left) and his wife Marie-Thérèse van Dycke (far right) came from Bruges that day. For years Fa and I contributed to Kruispunt which has since gone out of circulation. It was the first literary magazine in the Dutch language that published poems by my late wife Stella Timonidou (second right). It was a reunion of good friends. Something to do more often. We did, but Stella wasn't present at the Kruispunt farewell party in 2009, when the final edition was published. There's no fighting against the cruelty of nature. Nature which looked so beautiful that day in Rijmenam. Beauty which is too often deceptive.

Her Guide

She would play the piano

whenever someone hinted

at national anthems.

For years she practised the French

the Dutch, the Greek, hesitantly the Russian

though they never seemed to differ much.

It was Bill, she said, Bill taught her

and sent her the musical notes from beyond

evening after evening or after months of silence.

It was then she tried her own songs

national anthems in their own way

melodies from countries still to be discovered.

In times of happy communication

Bill being back on the air

she would predict the future

for a few pennies more.

©C.A. Klok

Where the country ends

The guest room of the estate in Drenthe where I am staying looks upon a green world surrounded by high hedges which makes you think of England. You'd love to enter it as naked as Adam and Eve, but it's fifteen degrees so for the time being I'm wearing a pullover. A plane is drawing a white line across the sky. It comes out of Germany, right round the corner. Just the peat bog separates us from the border. The peat bog. A desolate plain without trees, where sex killers prey on girls cycling through the loneliness. The hair-raising name of Tweede Exloërmond is still on everyone's mind.

I try to find Radio 1 on the small set in the room, but all I receive is a local pirate blaring out rubbish. The voices of the hosts, two guys who obviously very much love their boring witticisms, sound like those of men who stayed somewhat too long in the local. While I turn off the device my eye catches a field mouse running across the patio. An act of bravery considering the many birds of prey around.

I arrived at Emmen, four miles away, by train at the beginning of the evening. Emmen means the end of the railway, almost the end of the Netherlands. Every half hour a train from Zwolle will take you to this beginning of nowhere. They used to be real Third World these trains, even in the first class you got the idea that any moment a farmer would guide his goat into the compartment or a woman would enter carrying a score of chickens by the legs. They have new trains now and modern farmers usually endanger the roads in pickup trucks, but still the line goes dead at Emmen. The guard who checked my ticked seemed a friendly man but hard to understand. At the station I was met by a driver from the estate. There's no public transport in that direction. Only private carriages. Today the carriage was called Peugeot.

That evening we drank home made cider. On the patio surrounded by pots full of herbs. It was very quiet, though occasionally we heard one of the sheep, hired from a farmer friend to mow the lawns. I was told that the local pub went bankrupt, that such and such killed themselves by drunken driving and that my friend has entered local politics as becomes a village squire. People are worried about a possible pyromaniac, maybe a member of the volunteer fire brigade. As the evening proceeded preparations were made for supper. Far away I saw a lonely girl on a bike. I prayed she wasn't heading for Tweede Exloërmond.

©C.A. Klok

Out of all proportion

Former mayor of Thessaloníki, Vassilis Papayorgopoulos has received a life sentence from a court of appeal in Greece's second largest city. Was he a junta leader? Was he at the head of a terrorist organization? Is he a serial murderer? None of it. He was sentenced because of the embezzlement of eighteen million euro's from the municipality. Two key officials were also found guilty, but they received considerably lower prison terms. Papayorgopoulos denies all charges and declares he's the victim of a political trial. Stealing eighteen million euro's from public funds is not a petty crime, but that it should be punished with a life sentence is absurd and out of all proportion. The sentence could give one the idea that someone had to be victimized in order to somewhat stem the growing anger amongst a people facing another round of wages and pension cuts. In that case the former mayor of Thessaloníki and former Minister of Sports who fairly recently retired from politics would be a useful pawn. I don't know whether it's the case, but this excessive punishment does raise questions.

I've known Thessaloníki for more than twenty five years now, but only recently I discovered a new footpath for my walks. Almost on my doorstep. It runs along the stream just fifty yards further down the hill and one can follow it all the way to the end of Charilaou, a walk that takes about one hour and a half. It's a green trail through the outskirts of the city on which you are not hampered by lethal drivers in cars or on motorbikes. When I walk down to the city centre I have to be continuously on guard because of traffic rushing out of the side streets. Crossing over when a pedestrian light is green is taking quite a risk because drivers coming round the corner hardly ever bother about something poor as a fellow human on foot and there is always the possibility of the proverbial idiot driving through red because he or she is on a mobile telephone. Taking a bus is not very safe either. A few days ago another driver of a packed bus of OASTH, the company in charge of public transport, was happily chatting in his mobile phone while driving on busy Egnatia Street. If I want a real quiet walk I go to Seïch-Sou forest, but following this path is quite a pleasure too and there's always a place nearby for your morning coffee.

Morning coffee at an outdoor cafe is something Vassilis Papayorgopoulos will have to miss for the time being. I hope he will take his case to the highest court in Greece and I hope he will be cleared of all charges. I've met him once or twice, I believe in his innocence and I love to be proved right. I've always doubted the purpose of sending people to prison. No one ever came out a better person, but that's another subject than today's. Should he be proved guilty after all the sentence ought be humane and proportional, not as barbaric as the one he received now.

©C.A. Klok