Sunday 30 July 1995
The campsite shop sold some freshly warmed baguettes and I duly nipped in and bought a couple which went very nicely with the veggie sausages that Lorraine had fried up over the camping stove. Being Sunday morning I noticed that most of the weekend campers were leaving the site but we left our tent where it was and made our way back to Centraal Station. Even though it was still quite early, it was obvious it was going to be another hot day.

Having packed our swimming togs, we thought we'd join the rest of the locals by catching a train to the nearby seaside resort of Zandvoort aan Zee, a name eerily reminiscent of Southend-on-Sea! The train was packed and there were all sorts of weirdoes on board including a rather wasted looking woman with a fine array of home-made tattoos gracing her needle-marked arms. Within half an hour we were in Zandvoort and we walked the short distance to the seashore. The sandy beach was reasonably pleasant if somewhat congested but the water was rather murky, something that was referred to in my Rough Guide which pointed out the worrying proximity of the industrial works at Ijmuiden further up the coast. It was however nice to cool down in the water for a while and afterwards we went to a beach bar for one of those frothy miniature glasses of beer that the Dutch seem to specialise in.

The resort itself, like its near namesake in England, wasn't the epitome of sophistication and the heat reflecting off the numerous grey concrete holiday apartments that lined the shoreline was starting to become quite oppressive. We therefore left the throng behind and caught a train to the more rarefied surroundings of Haarlem. We must have been mad walking around in the mid-afternoon heat like this but Haarlem did seem worth persevering with. We walked down to the Grotemarkte with its 14th century gabled Stadhuis and at the opposite end of the square, the Grote Kerke of St Bavo. This scene could have come straight out of countless paintings by the Dutch Masters. There was some low key activity around the square, mainly centred around the cafés and bars where affluent looking people sipped on coffee and spooned elaborate constructions of ice cream. We joined them for a quick beer but it was too hot to sit outside comfortably so we instead wandered around the network of streets surrounding the square. As in Bruges and Amsterdam, Haarlem sported its own selection of hofjes, the almshouses where elderly widows still lived.

As in the other cities we had visited, these hofjes were oases of calm although in this case there didn't seem to be too much activity around town as I assumed that most of the locals had already made their way to the beach. We followed a canal out of the town centre towards the hundred year old catholic cathedral of St Bavo (obviously a popular saint in these parts). This building was a curious melange of oriental and byzantinium influences totally out of keeping with the rest of the city but still looked effective in its waterside setting. We then walked along the canal towpath back around the perimeter of the city centre passing a couple of picture book Dutch drawbridges along the way.

By the time we got back to Haarlem Station we were pretty shattered so when we arrived back in Amsterdam we grabbed a few drinks and snacks at a Centraal Station kiosk and caught the Metro back to the campsite. Once there we noticed that most of the campers from the previous night had headed off although occupying a space near to us was an articulated lorry whose trailer consisted of a three-high capsule type accommodation unit which probably slept about thirty people. Although it didn't look particularly comfortable, it appeared to be an efficient use of space. The teenage Japanese students who occupied it didn't seem too bothered about their accommodation as they filed good-naturedly towards their mess-tent for a meal of stir-fried noodles and tinned ham. The smell of sesame oil wafted over as Lorraine cooked up a bolognese flavoured beanfeast which we enjoyed with a hunk of bread and some red wine. Despite our new neighbours, the campsite was quieter tonight and it wasn't long after the sun had set behind the trees that we dozed off.

Monday 31 July 1995
Browsing through the Rough Guide we planned out another day trip, this time heading south to the Kinderdijk with its 18 windmills all strung out in a row, the stereotypical Dutch scene if ever there was one but one worth seeing nonetheless. We had a fair distance to go today but at least our Euro-domino passes gave us the freedom to travel anywhere in the country. We boarded an empty double-decker train at Centraal Station and journeyed south along the mainline. Our destination was Dordrecht which was situated on the other side of Rotterdam. Unfortunately we boarded a stopping train service and it took us quite a while to get there but when we did we found a VVV, the Dutch tourist office, whose friendly staff provided us with directions to get to the Kinderdijk. This involved catching a rather provincial looking bus service which wound its way through every village along the way, each with its own set of 1960's low-rise housing estates. In one of these places we had to change onto another bus desperately trying to work out how far our strippenkaarts (the complicated system of Dutch travel tokens) would take us in the process.

It was a while before we got to the Kinderdijk but when the long line of windmills finally appeared over the horizon, we knew that the journey had been worth making. The bus dropped us off at the entrance to the site and we followed a path along the polders walking past each well spaced out windmill in turn. One of them was operating and we had the opportunity to go inside, it creaking wooden innards just about converting the light breeze from outside into rotational energy. There was not really that much to see here apart from the windmills and these were spread out over a quite a distance but it was still an impressive sight by any standards.

Back at the bus stop, I noticed that there was alternative route back to Amsterdam that we could take. The bus stopped at one of the stations on the Rotterdam Metro system so I assumed it would be easy enough to connect back onto the main line from there. We had to wait a while for the bus to arrive though but as we sat in the heat, a bunch of young lads were diving off a pier into the murky waters of the River Lek. A succession of low-profile barges cruised up and down the river which created a mini-swell for the boys to bob up and down in. It was so hot that I felt tempted to join them but the bus eventually arrived and it wasn't long before we were riding parallel to the tram-lines that ran down the middle of the boulevards on the outskirts of Rotterdam. Shortly afterwards, we got off at the first Metro station we came across and caught a train towards Rotterdam Centraal Station. This ride turned out to be more interesting than an average journey on a Metro system. The train trundled over the sprawling dock area where various strange and shifty looking people boarded the train, some of whom could have been extras out of Taxi Driver. This place certainly had an edge to it and I suspected that if you fancied half an hour of therapeutic massage or maybe just a spot of heroin then this was probably the place to come. Thankfully we soon reached the more salubrious surroundings of Rotterdam Centraal Station where we each had a cone of freshly fried frites met mayo before catching the express train back to Amsterdam.

When we arrived back at the campsite, the Japanese students were once again munching away at their noodles in their mess tent. When they finished their meal, they decided to explore the campsite with a curious duckling-like innocence, occasionally poking their heads inside camper's tents to see what strange things were going on. When they eventually retired to their capsules, the noise subsided which just left the shimmering sound of badly-played acoustic guitar wafting through the still, hash-tinged night-time air.

Tuesday 1 August 1995
It was time to move on again and as we packed up our stuff, I noticed that our load had lightened quite considerably through the consumption of our food and gas supplies. Our Japanese neighbours were also on their way home but when they finished their breakfast their German lorry driver came over to me and kindly gave me about ten tins of chopped ham as he didn't need them any more. I tried to refuse the tins at first but he insisted I take them so that's what I did. My backpack was now heavier than when we first started but at least my meals were sorted out for the next few days! It was a shame that Lorraine couldn't share some of the tins although I suspected that the meat content of each tin was so low that they wouldn't have upset her veggie sensibilities too much!

We caught the Metro back to Centraal Station one more time and boarded a train bound for the north. Our destination was the Frisian Islands and it wasn't too long before we had cleared the Randstad and were travelling through open countryside. The countryside was monotonous but also strangely compelling. The sky was vast and the distant profiles of slender church towers could be seen shimmering in the heat haze. The land was mostly agricultural and as the train sped past, diary cattle gave us a cursory glance before returning to their grazing. It took about two and a half hours to reach Leeuwarden where we changed onto a local diesel train running to the fishing port of Harlingen on the North Sea coast. Emblazoned on the side of the bright yellow carriages of this train were huge beach-ball and parasol motifs. This was obviously supposed to be a holiday 'fun' train but as always the design was quite tastefully done. The rear part of one of the carriages was completely full of bikes and the train was packed with people who like us were mainly hauling tents and backpacks. It looked as though we'd stumbled across some local secret as we were the only none Dutch people on the train.

The train trundled along a single track towards the coast and half an hour later we reached Harlingen which looked like an attractive little town although like everyone else we headed straight through to the docks where we boarded a large ferry bound for the Frisian island of Terschelling. For some reason the Frisian Islands had always stuck in my mind when I looked at a map of Europe and I used to wonder what they were actually like. Once on board the boat we found a seat outside as the indoor bar area was already crowded. It was really hot out on deck but at least there was some breeze to freshen us up a little. Whilst I was checking out our destination in the Rough Guide the person next to me noticed what I was reading and introduced himself as a fellow Englishman which came as something of a shock although he was actually travelling with his Dutch girlfriend whom he'd met at college. They told me that they came to Terschelling every year as her parents owned a holiday home on the island. She did however warn me that even the campsites on the island were always fully booked at this time of year and that with such good weather we would be really struggling to find somewhere to stay. There was no turning back now though so we just had to see what the VVV had to offer once we arrived there.

Although the island wasn't situated too far off the coast, the journey took almost two hours. The boat had to weave its way through some treacherous looking sandbanks but as we approached the island we were accompanied by a flotilla of sleek yachts and even a couple of traditional wooden sailing barges all proudly flying the Dutch tricolour. When we finally docked at West Terschelling, the main town on the island, the quayside was crowded with people and there was a long line of yachts moored along the south-facing promenade. The VVV was situated opposite the ferry terminal and luckily they managed to find a place for us in a family campsite about three miles along the main road that ran the length of this cigar shaped island. Whilst everyone else was biking to their destinations we enjoyed a pleasant walk to our campsite which was really just an open green space tacked onto to the back of the owner's farmhouse. In fact the shower was situated in a stable building still being used by a horse whilst the owner's office was their kitchen. It was however very pleasant and there were a few kids playing around the climbing-frames and slides that were provided in the camping area.

After setting up our tent and enjoying a shower with the aroma of fresh horse manure drifting through the block, Lorraine cooked up a nice beanfeast and lentil curry. The pungent aroma of our meal caught the attention of our meat and two veg eating neighbours but they wished us "bon appetite" after they discovered exactly what we were eating. Feeling suitably energised after our meal we strolled back into West Terschelling for a quick drink. We visited a couple of bars which were pleasant if unspectacular but it seemed that most of the action was taking place on the yachts. I noticed that there were a few Germans around although the tiny beers served with half a glass of head reminded us that we were still in Holland. I was beginning to crave the kick of a strong Belgian brew but it now felt like we were a long way away from Brussels and Amsterdam. Like many remote island communities, a sense of austerity pervaded the air which was probably a relic of the times when the islanders relied upon fishing and farming to survive. It was easy enough to imagine how wild and exposed this land could feel on a stormy winter's day. After soaking up a little of the island ambience we once again walked back to the campsite and sat outside for a while although it was noticeably colder here than on the mainland. However, the sky was still clear and we went to sleep looking forward to a long hot sunny day tomorrow.

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