As we slowed the car, wondering out loud if we should stop and ask him about himself, the tall, slim soldier quick-stepped over to us, stiff in his full-length blue wool coat, the brass buttons polished to a shine, and a red paper poppy pinned over his heart. In his left, white-gloved hand, he carried a shiny bugle. It was November 11th.

The Dutch do not share the same commemoration day as the Commonwealth Remembrance Day; they set aside two days in May. On the 4th, they remember the victims of war, and then, on the 5th, celebrate liberation in 1945 from German occupation by Allied forces. But, with the close proximity to Flanders Fields, and the special relationship with countries that liberated the Netherlands, pop-up commemorations for the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month do happen with some regularity.

Pete quickly introduced himself, revealing a British accent to match the hat. Would you mind very much giving me a ride? Hardly waiting for an answer, he pulled off his hat, clambered into the back seat and spilled his story. I’m a bugler in a special military division that stays in the area for a few weeks every year - we have assignments every day in the surrounding countryside - we’re dropped off by volunteers to play The Last Post for Remembrance Day ceremonies. He had come to play for a very special ceremony in our neighbourhood at 11:00. …and I’ve been dropped off at the wrong cemetery! He finished. I glanced at my watch - it was 10:43. An AWOL trumpeter! 

We sped off toward the only other cemetery in town with a tidy row of matching white headstones. In record time, we pulled up at the curb where a group of well-dressed men and women carrying single red roses were looking up and down the street with equal anxiety – clearly in search of their bugler.

Quick introductions revealed some of the rose-holders were Dutch, and the others were from England. The visiting Brits were staying with the families who had housed their loved ones during the war. It was an intimate group—about 15 people —and they invited us to join the service. It was an honour we couldn’t refuse.

We’ve made it a practice to visit war graves as we travel around the region; the massive Tyne Cot cemetery at Passchendaele, Belgium, where more than 11,000 soldiers lay, most of them unknown; Groesbeek Canadian War Cemetery near Nijmegen in the Netherlands where over 2000 Canadian soldiers are buried; tiny walled plots in Belgian farmers’ fields with two or three or six headstones marking the fallen where they fell; and the Essex Farm Cemetery just outside of Ypres, next to the bunker where Canadian Lieutenant John McRae, in 1915, wrote In Flanders Fields.

I take my time to wander the rows, trying to fathom the unfathomable, paying particular attention to the short inscriptions at the bottom of some stones, because a family in deepest grief had to choose those few words that will forever be etched under the name of their beloved.

 ~ At the rising of the sun and the setting of the sun, we will remember them

~ He died so that we could live

~ Sometime somewhere we will understand

~ It is as if the sun had gone out

~ There is nothing more to give. May you enjoy the liberty for which he died

In most Commonwealth War Grave cemeteries, the stones are uniform white rectangles, lined up with military precision and, if possible, carved from Portland stone, ensuring that every casualty is commemorated equally. The rounded top is neutral, suitable for all faiths and none. Next of kin are invited to choose a faith symbol, and supply a short personal inscription. But, many stones lack epitaphs; New Zealand believed that, to ensure equality, it was best not to allow personal inscriptions; some families were unable to supply the information within the timeline; and, during World War I, while most countries, including Canada, covered the cost of the inscriptions, Brits were made to pay 3½ pence per letter, which meant many families couldn’t afford it.

As Arthur and I walked with our bugler toward the row of twenty war graves in the Sittard General Cemetery, we were each handed a single red rose to hold while the vicar, in full military regalia, gave a short sermon. Pete, waiting patiently for his moment, lifted his bugle and the notes of The Last Post rang out as clear as the frosty blue morning, long and pure, across the cemetery and beyond as the group fell silent. When the last tone had faded, I walked forward to place my rose at the grave of Lieutenant Bennet James Farquharson Remnant of Oxfordshire, England. Age 20.

He was known to his family as Ben.

Ben was fighting with the 1st Battalion, Rifle Brigade when he was killed on January 26th, 1945, the last day of Operation Blacklock, the British assault that cleared the Germans from an area just north of my Dutch home. His parents, Peter and Betty, and sister Dawn chose for his epitaph, a line from the poem The Soldier by Rupert Brooke:

Some Corner of a Foreign Field That Is Forever England.

We looked around for Pete after the service, but he’d already run back to the street to catch his ride to the next ceremony.   

Lest we forget.

Our friends David and Ruth are British Farmers, and the Dorset County Show just outside the city of Dorchester is a vital stop-off in their farming almanac, just as it has been for many Dorset farmers since 1840. Last year, the fair happened to be on route to our Dover ferry at the end of our holiday, so we parked in the visitor field and dashed blindly through the fair in search of the sheep tent for a quick hello/goodbye. At the entrance booth, we explained our errand, but the attendant wasn’t having any of it. Twenty-seven pounds luvs, she stated firmly. Clearly, she’d heard the “We’ll just be 10 minutes” story before. Uhm, what if I leave you my cell phone as ransom? I suggested, having learned a thing or two about creativity from Arthur over the years. She agreed.

This might have been a mistake. Not only because the grounds were vast, and I’m not much of a runner, but also because everything was so enticing. We ran past a food hall – the aroma of baked goods causing me to swerve in that direction, just a little. We slowed at the central ring to catch a glimpse of the show-jumping—a loudspeaker announced the status to the thousands, Charlotte Jenkins riding Willowbrook Mist, with a perfect circuit – give them a round of applause folks! We applauded and ran on between two rows of shiny green and red farm machinery with claw-like appendages, and under the Ferris wheel, finally finding the sheep, along with our surprised friends, just beyond the ice-cream queue. We couldn’t believe we’d overlooked the allure of such an event. Should we rebook our ferry? Could we? We couldn’t. Regrettably, we turned and headed off again, as quickly as we’d come. But not before promising ourselves to return for the full weekend the following year.

And we did! This time, we drove onto the grounds through the participants’ gate, with a VIP Pass swinging from our rear-view mirror. We carefully wound our way along a rutted track, keeping our eyes fixed on David’s sturdy white Land Rover, feeling a little like impostors in our polished black van. We passed heaps of hay-bales, steaming manure piles, and temporary toilet blocks along the backside of the livestock pavilions, each labelled for its inhabitants—CATTLE, GOATS, PIGS—eventually arriving behind an expansive three-sided tent labelled SHEEP. We rolled up our own tent between empty livestock trucks and trailers, reinvented for the weekend as camping shelters, and pulled on our boots before heading over to check our flock because, for this weekend, we’re sheep farmers!

I stepped between the tethering ropes and into the marquee, and found Ruth and her girls in their section, busy with chores. Temporary fencing was fashioned into a weekend home for their meticulously turned-out show flock—each member carefully chosen to represent the farm’s practices, and then washed, trimmed, and groomed. The sheep shuffled and bleated in their stalls. Unsure of their unfamiliar digs, they trampled the fresh hay underfoot, sending the smells of autumn farming into the air. Both little girls in flat tweed caps, Tattersall brushed cotton shirts, and blue overalls, with their miniature white show coats hanging at the ready, were in the stalls diligently checking their sheep, Marmite and Nutella. The seven-year-old filled and hoisted a water bucket while the four-year-old fiddled with Nutella’s lead rope, carefully attaching it to a fence with a perfect knot, testing the length, untying it, and attaching it again so the ewe couldn’t drop and roll, ensuring her pristine show-shape.

I wandered out to the competition rings that filled the void in the centre of the U-shaped pavilion, and hung over the rails to watch the parade of sheep; lambs, rams, and ram/ewe combinations, every configuration that might present the ideal Dorset-Down —medium-sized creamy white body with brown ears, and black nose protruding from a woolly face. Ruth joined me. That judge is most interested in a square bottom, she pointed at a tall serious fellow in his own Tattersall shirt dressed up with a tweed vest, and sure enough, the judge took a step back, cocked his head and held his chin between his thumb and fore-finger, gazing steadily at the hind-end of a ram before walking forward and digging his fingers deep into the dense wool of its back, feeling for meatiness, and good muscle form. Right, we’re up next, said Ruth, c’mon then. And with some trepidation, I followed her back to our stalls, donned a white cotton coat, took the rope attached to a ewe proffered by David, and paraded into the ring behind Ruth and the four-year-old.

Once my sheep was square, I stole a glance across the ring to find our other team - David handling two ewes, the seven-year-old efficiently managing one, and Arthur, holding tight to an agitated ram as the judge weighed its scrotum in his hand. Don’t make eye contact with the judge, whispered Ruth, drawing my attention back to my task. Keep your head down and stay out of the way - just follow what I do. Right – easier said than done. I knelt in front of my ewe while the judge felt around her hind quarter, scrabbled to the side so he could reach deep into her mouth to examine her incisors with his educated fingers, and then back to the front - I tried to make myself invisible as he poked and prodded my sheep. He finished his rounds and stepped to the centre, gazing back and forth across the ring, taking his time, sizing up the groups, and indicating with his shepherd’s crook that this group or that should step forward. He pointed to our group, and we shuffled our 22 feet forward, doing our best to keep form. He gazed around again, sent another group back with the flick of his hand, stepped forward, and handed us a large orange rosette - sixth place! As a rookie, any colour ribbon made my day.

We spent two days at the Dorset County Show pretending to be sheep farmers, but it was the discipline and devotion of the real farmers—young and old—that left a deep impression on me. Back at the farm, the show sheep were turned out into the field with the rest of the flock, and the little girls charged in behind them, equally happy to be free again from the constraints of the temporary fencing. Watch me! the seven-year-old called out as she threw herself head-first over a fence rail, landing with ease on her hands while clearing the rail with her feet. She galloped off for another round. There’s Arco! shouted the four-year-old, easily picking out one white sheep, named after our pup, from the hundred or so others in the field. She ran forward and gave it a little snuggle.

Behind every colourful rosette is a story of early mornings and endless nights, careful and difficult decisions, and constant learning.  Every sheep represents months and years of setbacks, victories, and unwavering perseverance. In the case of David, Ruth and their girls, that knowledge is being passed down from one generation to the next with care, dedication, and passion.

 Respect

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I yawned in the pre-dawn Dutch darkness as we climbed into the van and drove across Belgium. Three hours later, just over the border in France, I contemplated the sad and storied, strewn and soggy remnants of a refugee tent-city as we wound our way along fence-lined roads toward the ferry terminal. Just showing up in a van at the Calais crossing of the English Channel is considered a suspicious activity, and sure enough, we were called out of line by customs. 

A uniformed woman circumnavigated the van using a gigantic dental mirror to peer at the undercarriage while a man stepped up to the driver's door and gave Arthur stern orders, "Please step out of ze vehicle and open ze beck door." His voice was calm, controlled. Arthur, never one to take formalities very seriously, answered amicably. "Sure!" he said, "and you're going to see two things. I want you to guess which one is for my profession and which one is for my hobby." The agent suppressed a smile, doing his best to maintain his authoritarian composure. Arthur swung open the rear door to reveal a spinning wheel with a large spindly wheel set off to one side – an Ashford, wedged in beside his cello. The officer lost the guessing game, laughed openly, and waved us onto the ferry.

When you take away a musician’s work—shut down the theatres and lock down the audiences—something has to fill the creative void. My musician knits. This isn't new, the first year I met Arthur, he knitted me a scarf, a few years later, a sweater and then warm winter socks. Wherever we travel, he stops to talk to knitters—I never noticed there were so many! At craft fairs and country markets, airport lounges, and dinner parties. They talk stitches and style, needle size and wool source. And so, mid-pandemic, when he ran out of wool for a sweater he was knitting and couldn't find a match, he did what seemed like the obvious answer for him. He bought a spinning wheel. Be careful! Called the seller after him as he departed with his new tool, they come in flocks! She was right. Over the past few years, a small but diverse flock of spinning wheels has graced our living rooms: single and double treadle, compact, and full-size. Even an "e-spinner", a tabletop electric model that seems like a bit of a cheat to me.

If the spinning wheels constitute a small flock, the fleeces are a large herd. I thought wool was wool, but I've learned from my perch on the couch across from the whirring wheel that Merino is soft, Romney is hardy, and Blue Texel is a bit scratchy. But, you can mix the wools to get your own blend of colour and comfort. So, you need a lot of wool. Bags of it. After you fill up your closets and your sheds, you can fill the voids underneath your grand pianos with it. These days, wool seems to find us wherever we go. One day, we went for a cycle and came home with bike bags full of Alpaca. Last winter, a guy handed over the dog hair he'd saved for years, just waiting to meet a spinner.

We didn't have a plan for our English holiday except to keep to the small roads and head in the general direction of Cornwall until we ran out of time. Tucked away in the very back of the van were enough fleeces to keep the wheel spinning for the duration of the holiday. And so, we meandered, until somewhere in Dorset a random turn found us knocking at the door of a wool mill.

The proprietors, David and Ruth, graciously threw open the door and waved us in. Two small girls, clad in jodhpurs and hand-knit sweaters, glanced up from colouring books to watch us pass through reception and into the vast hall, humming with a fantastic array of state-of-the-art machinery. We take in small batch orders of raw fleece, David raised his voice over the din of the machines, and send back the desired finished product. Near the back of the mill, he pointed out colour-coded bins filled with raw wool sorted by owner and type, and on the far side of the elaborate machines (think Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, but for wool) round cartons of carded wool for self-spinners, bags of specialized rug wool for weaving mats, and spools of two-ply and three-ply yarn waiting to be wound into skeins, filled every space on the spotless concrete floor. I was fascinated by this modern twist on an age-old craft.

Arthur took his spinning wheel from the van (Ruth had a matching one), along with a fleece. Here, said David, let me show you how the carder works! He deftly fed wads of the tangled fleece into a machine, explaining the process enthusiastically as the fibre pulled and stretched its way around several spikey rollers and emerged from the other side as a sleek, ready-to-spin bag of wool, or roving. Arthur was speechless. I knew how long it would have taken him to hand-card it—most of our holiday.

The day passed easily - there was more in common than wool – Ruth plays trombone, and the girls, five and three years old, are already learning to play cornet. By late afternoon, David had toured us around the working sheep farm and found us a flat spot in a small field to roll up the tent. Arthur, meanwhile, was lost to the mill. While he helped to wind and weigh wool skeins, I helped with barn chores before retiring to the roof. Sometime late in the night, I heard the ladder creak as he climbed up to join me, smelling faintly of lanolin.

The morning sun had long since chased Arthur from the roof while I languished in the warmth, half awake, listening to the distant bleating of hungry sheep. The tent door flapping gently in the morning breeze, wafting in the smell of the freshly perked coffee, along with the chatter of the little girls in their British accents. Mummy, can we sit here with our breakfast? I peeked out to see Arthur behind his wheel in the field, spinning his new batch of wool. Easy-going Ruth wandered off to find some portable food, and by the time she returned, I was up and had laid out a picnic blanket in the long grass. The children balanced their cereal bowls on their laps, and we all sat around chatting amicably like old friends.

 When David came by on his semi-daily farm walk, I joined him. We're mostly a breeding farm, he explained as we traipsed through several hilly fields, peering into thickets for sheep in distress – none to be found on this round. This lot is for showing at the Dorset County Show next weekend. He motioned to a group of eight or ten sheep set aside in a small field near our camp. Sheep farmers will choose their breeding stock, and we'll be there, he said. The six-year-old climbed up the gate and pointed to the one black sheep in the group. That's Marmite! She said, she's mine.

 When we drove away midday, the herd of fleece in the back of our van had expanded with a couple of Jacobs, a Shetland and a white Romney. To be continued! We called out as the family stood on the steps of their antique stone farmhouse and waved us off.

 A week later, somewhere deep in Dartmoor National Park, we awoke to the patter of rain and booked our Dover ferry for the evening crossing. Just outside Dorchester, we pulled into a field packed with hundreds of vehicles and dashed through a crowd of thousands at the Dorset County Show, searching for the sheep tent. We found David and Ruth each hanging over a sheep—David plucked off bits of straw from a ram while Ruth smoothed small puffs of unruly wool into place on a matching ewe to ensure a perfect show-pair. The children sat nearby on a hay bale in matching blue corduroy overalls, munching on cookies, Marmite tethered in a stall just behind them. The whole family was outfitted in Tattersall brushed cotton button-down shirts, the standard uniform of British farmers. We were greeted with familiar, contagious enthusiasm.  Look at all our rosettes! The three-year-old motioned to a colourful row of ribbons hanging at the front of the tent. She jumped off the bale and gave us a quick and concise history of the winnings. I suddenly regretted our ambitious ferry booking, but it wouldn't wait - we said our goodbyes and dashed back to the van, vowing to return for the full County Show next year.

And we did. 

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Apparently, I am not the only person who must stop and photograph every manor house along the route; another woman stepped up beside me. Creech Grange, she said in a broad British accent, motioning toward the mansion, saving me a google. Owned by the same folks what owned the Manor at Tyneham. She snapped a few pictures. Are you going to Tyneham? She asked. Clearly, she thought I knew what Tyneham was. No, we’ll be camping around here, on Steeple Leaze Farm, I replied. Well, you should, she said, it’s just along this track. Military road is open. It’s not always open. You should go. She jumped into her car and drove off.

As we entered the farm gate at Steeple Leaze a few minutes later, I spotted a small white-painted board in the shape of an arrow, nailed to a tree and pointing onward along the one-track road. The black lettering read Tyneham. I made a mental note to follow it in the morning. At the farm, we learned we were on the edge of a sizeable military zone, the Lulworth Ranges, and occasionally, when the military was on hiatus, you could venture in, carefully keeping to the roadways and marked trails to avoid stepping on unexploded shells. Rightio.

In 1943, the allied forces laid out the plans for Operation Overlord, or, what we remember as D-Day, and they needed a place for training exercises. The wide-open spaces and beaches of south Dorset, just across the channel from Normandy, were ideal, except for one thing – Tyneham. This small village, which dates back more than a thousand years, even mentioned in The Domesday Book – the Great Survey of England in 1086, was in the way.

The following day we drove past a heavy steel gate, open, but not welcoming, sporting a sign warning us of the dangers of straying from the marked route. We kept carefully to the barbed wire lanes while our GPS insisted we turn around - these routes didn’t exist on our maps. The grassy hills rolled to the sea, void of anything but a few shrubs and a scattering of rusty army tanks. And then, in a lush green valley, the road ended at a stone village - a few cottages, a schoolhouse, and a church.

Tyneham had belonged to the Bonds. Back in 1683, Nicholas Bond bought it and became Lord of the Manor. He and his Bond offspring lived in Tyneham House while collecting rents from the tenant farmers and fishermen. The whole package, village, farms and manor, passed down from generation to generation for more than 250 years, and in 1935 Ralph inherited it. In 1941, Ralph and his wife Evelyn loaned the mansion to the war effort as a residence for the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force, and moved into the old gardener’s house nearby with their daughter Elizabeth. Mark, their 18-year-old son had enlisted in 1940.

On November 16, 1943 every mail-box in Tyneham received a letter from Churchill’s War office:

In order to give our troops the fullest opportunity to perfect their training in the use of modern weapons of war, the army must have an area of land particularly suited to their special needs and in which they can use live shells. For this reason you will realize the chosen area must be cleared of all civilians. […]

It is regretted that, in the National Interest, it is necessary to move you from your homes, and everything possible will be done to help you, both by payment of compensation and by finding other accommodation for you if you are unable to do so yourself.

The date on which the military will take over this area is the 19th December next, and all civilians must be out of the area by that date. […]

The Government appreciate that this is no small sacrifice which you are asked to make, but they are sure that you will give this further help towards winning the war with a good heart.

No reason was given because of the secrecy surrounding D-Day. They were to be out the week before Christmas.

December 19th was a particularly melancholy day for Evelyn Bond - on that very day she received news that Mark had been taken prisoner by the Germans. Coming home again was evidently on her mind as she made one last stop before leaving the village - to post a note to the church door:

Please treat the church and houses with care. We have given up our homes where many of us have lived for generations to help win the war to keep men free. We will return one day and thank you for treating the village kindly.

Initially, the 225 residents of Tyneham were assured this was a temporary measure and they could return after the war. But, post-war, with the demands of the Cold War upon them, the government reneged on their original proposal and kept the land for military use. Mark survived the war, and lived until 2017, but not as the next Bond of Tyneham.

We began to explore the crumbling ruins. Roofless walls with empty eyes where once were windows. Placards with “before” photos and resident stories to help with perspective. We followed a trail from the main village road into the surrounding wooded acreage, where a few larger houses stood in equal decay. One thing was conspicuously missing - Tyneham House, with its 16th-century architecture and 14th-century Medieval Great Hall. Maybe down this trail? I dragged Arthur deeper into the woods. Surely it wouldn’t be that far from the village? I expected it around every bend in the forest path but came up empty-handed. And then, sadly, a display in the church told me it had been left to rot into the ground in a forested area on the “other side” of the barbed wire. Inaccessible. Seriously! I couldn’t even hunt down the foundation and had to satisfy myself by finding the location via satellite. I stood at the edge of the abyss looking in the general direction, embellishing the landscape with my imagination.

The Bonds were bought out for £30,000. The other residents were tenants; they had no ownership. They were compensated for the value of the vegetables in their gardens. It was December – what was chard worth in 1943? But the villagers had liked living there, that is clear from the interviews I read, and although they enjoyed the running water and electric lights in their replacement houses, they fought for years, without success, to come back to Tyneham. As the 1943 residents passed away over the decades, many were laid to rest in the church graveyard, a homecoming of sorts?

Was Tyneham treated kindly, as requested by the note on the door? The church is intact, as is the little schoolhouse. Some homes were ruined by artillery fire, others by the elements. But the barbed wire did save it from the infringing tourism industry so evident in the surrounding areas. It’s a place frozen in time. The past preserved by cutting off the future.

On June 6, 1944, more than 156,115 Canadian, American and British troops, fortified by 6,939 ships and landing vessels, 2,395 aircraft and 867 gliders, stormed Normandy’s beaches, an operation that proved to be a critical turning point in World War II. D-day is largely considered the beginning of the end of World War II, and much of the success is attributed to preparation. 4,414 Allied troops lost their lives that day.

Lest we forget.

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The 14th-century medieval hall, protected by a metal roof, refuses to bow to the elements.

The army has worked to preserve the church and the schoolhouse from falling into decay.

This is the house Ralph and Evelyn moved into, to make Tyneham House available to the war effort.

I didn’t know when I stepped out to take a pic of this mansion that it would start me on the adventure of Tyneham!

That special place is the Begijnhof. Hof, meaning courtyard, and Begijnen, the community of single Catholic women who have lived there for 600 years. If you've asked me what to do in Amsterdam, I've sent you there. But, what I've discovered since, is that there are many more hidden sites in the city, just waiting to be explored by curious history buffs like me. Most of the hidden infrastructure dates back to the Golden Age when wealthy merchants poured their extra guilders into church and charity. Catholics, forbidden to worship in plain sight after the Reformation, built churches hidden away in regular-looking houses or behind facades resembling other buildings, adhering to the out-of-sight-out-of-mind principle. I've visited the three churches that are open to the public. One is smack in the middle of the red-light district, built in 1661; it literally hangs from the rafters of a tall canal house. Another is in the Begijnhof! I totally missed it on my first visit; that's how hidden it is. The third is on a popular shopping street, the narrow door easily passed by while searching for bargains. Sir Wealthy Merchant was also committed to providing homes for the underprivileged, in the form of the hof, or hofje (hofyuh) - a diminutive version of the hof. 

Amsterdam city blocks are lined with stately houses that face outward, standing shoulder-to-shoulder, creating an impenetrable rectangular form. Typically, the centre is just a mash of back-yards, but sometimes, hidden inside that blocky shape is a left-over hof, originally designated to a group important to the merchant who founded it; Corvershof – 1723, older Dutch Reformed couples; Concordiahofje – 1864, working-class families; Deutzenhofje – 1695, elderly servants and poor relatives. By the middle of the 1700s, there were 28 hofjes in Amsterdam, and by the early 1900s, there were 58. Inhabitants were expected to follow rules, such as "to be honest and of good conduct, and have a peaceful temper."  

In 1755, Gerrit ten Sande and his wife Maria de Groot built the Nieuwe Suykerhofje to house 54 elderly Catholic women in 27 rooms. They were a family of sugar-refiners, therefore the name, New Sugar Courtyard. It was a lovely little place, modern for the day. The rooms were stacked in six tall houses with big bright windows. Each room had a built-in double box bed, a display cabinet and a fireplace. At the back of the property was a bleaching field, common at the time to lay out linens in the sunshine. 22 years later, in 1777, Gerrit and Maria took their charity a step further and built what looked like a garden house on the field - it was, in fact, a clandestine chapel.

The hofje was operated by the family and heirs for over 150 years. But, in 1936, the last residents left when the health authorities designated it a slum complex. There was no running water and just one outhouse to serve all 27 rooms. 

I only learned about the Nieuwe Suykerhofje because a couple of years ago, Arthur programmed a piece of music for violin, cello and piano that Jewish composer Bob Hanf composed, while in hiding from the Nazis. The music score did not name Bob Hanf as composer, but rather C.P. Sp. was scrawled across the title page, short for Christiaan Philippus Spinhoven, the name on his fake identity card. While I did enjoy his music, I found myself drawn to the story of his hiding place. I looked at a satellite image of the area and pinpointed the row of accordion-like orange roofs tucked deep behind a house facing the Prinsengracht, noting that Mr. Hanf was hiding just a few hundred metres from Anne Frank.

Curious about what now lay under the row of roofs, I snooped around and found an advertisement in an archived newspaper, the Volkskrant, October 29, 1938:

But, history told me that it had not been demolished because Bob had lived there. The new owner, it turns out, opted not to tear the place down but instead, rent the rooms out to students for cheap – 3 guilders per room per month – about $2. After all, what can you get for a decrepit housing complex with one loo? 

One of the students, Henk Pelser, wrote about living there in his book, Henk's War.  I ordered it from his daughter, and since then, we've become digital pen-pals. They called it "Het Prinsenklooster" (The Prince's Monastery) she wrote to me, where Herman Maillette de Buy Wenniger [Henk's life-long friend] was the Abbot, and my father was Canon of Impractical Matters. Just as in the past, residents had to possess appropriate qualities, this time, "kindness, reliability, a sense of humour and a sense of community". And here, the story gets even more interesting. Many of these students, not on purpose, per se, but in an effort to help those around them, became part of the Dutch resistance during the war, each in his or her own way. From this hidden courtyard, Henk developed the escape route known as The Swiss Road, a line of farms and village houses with contacts willing to help Jews and others sought by the Nazis to safety in Switzerland. He checked the route regularly, re-routing as necessary as contacts became insecure, or worse, they were arrested. He, and others, distributed illegal magazines, including De Waarheid (The Truth), and Het Parool (The Password, which is still a mainstream newspaper today). They forged identity cards and passports and hid people at the Hofje before escorting them out of the country.

In April 1943, Henk came home to the Suykerhofje and found the gate open. Fuming, he ran through to the old bleaching field to find out who made such a mistake and was arrested on the spot by a plain-clothed S.D. (German Security) officer. He was sent to a prison on the Dutch coast and then to a POW camp in Germany, where he remained until the end of the war. Bram Kuipers, a 21-year-old biology student, moved into Henk's room but was arrested shortly afterward while checking certain points of an escape route for reliability. He was imprisoned and then executed, just a few days after his 19-year-old brother Sape, who was also in the resistance. 

This is where Bob Hanf comes in. In June 1943, Bob moved into Henk's former room after Bram was arrested. He was not known as Bob, but rather Christiaan Philippus Spinhoven, or, Spin to his roomies. Spin was older than the rest, nearly 50. No one knew he had been awarded a music prize in 1941 from the city of Amsterdam or that he was an accomplished painter, sculptor, and writer because no one knew he was Bob. 

In a post-war interview, Herman the Prior describes Spin's arrival to the community:

In the monastic seclusion of our courtyard, where the time is indicated by the carillon of the Westertoren [the same bell that Anne Frank used to count time], we lived rather primitively, with seven or eight, very close together, and yet each doing activities that were hardly mentioned. Activities, which had never become entirely clear, even later. We were separated from the city of Amsterdam by a heavy front door on the canal, accessed by a paved corridor of a few metres and by a large wooden gate. The gate fell with a reassuring click in the lock behind whoever went in or out. Behind the fence, topped by a large lantern to illuminate the street in front and behind it, we lived in a world of our own for many years. One evening, just after the third year of our occupation, someone ushered in Spinhoven, a somewhat peculiar older man: Would you be okay with him coming to live with us for a while? He can get Henk's former room, where Bram lived until recently. 

He was a quiet man, and they hardly noticed he was there. After a while, he began to join the group meals and lively evening discussions around the woodstove in the chapel. We had endless reflections on 'what it was like' and about 'how it should be' when finally, 'all this' would be over, Herman reflected during the interview. We had only just grown up, and we clung to each other, sometimes a bit cramped, in order to keep it up, to stay cheerful. The gentle man listened to their political debates, chiming in here and there with a bit of wisdom. We soon got to know him a little more. We grew fond of his company, said Herman.

In the chapel stood an old piano, and one day Spin arrived in a bulky suit, carrying a briefcase. From the suit-jacket, he pulled a violin, and from the briefcase, sheet music. He knew that Herman played piano, and he had asked a friend to drop by with his cello. I only brought a few pieces of music with me. Do you want to play some of that? It's for advanced players, and I think with some practice, it will go well. Spin had announced, then we can play together from time to time to clear our minds. And then they played, doing their very best to keep up with Spin, who, with a raised voice, yelled directions or courage. Near the end of Herman's interview, he muses - that memorable afternoon, I could have guessed spontaneously that Spin really was a musician and not just musical, like us. But that insight passed me by. 

 I'll let Herman finish his story about Spin:

There were many moments afterwards where we made music with him in the quiet seclusion of our unforgettable courtyard. "It doesn't sound bad here at all, and I didn't expect anything else." Spin had said with satisfaction. He read Shakespeare and translated Anatole France poems. It made us truly grateful that the long nightmare had brought us together. On April 23, 1944, the S.D. raid came to disrupt the peaceful tranquillity of the Hofje. Early in the morning, five men with and without uniforms stormed down the alley, yelling for entry. What they were looking for was never made clear, but they found Spin. What we had never wanted to know exactly, during all those months, they had sorted out in no time. Much later, someone was able to tell me who Christiaan Philippus Spinhoven actually was.

Bob Hanf was deported to Auschwitz where he was murdered on September 30, 1944. 

When Arthur and I were next in Amsterdam, we searched for the Nieuwe Suykerhofje. Arthur pulled out his phone, and we explored maps, looking for those tell-tale orange roofs. I recognized them right away. We stopped in front of a canal house with two front doors, one sporting several addresses - this must be it! But it was locked up tight. I shrugged in defeat as a woman walked up, jingling a key. Excuse me! said Arthur, and he quickly summarized the Bob Hanf story. Well, this is a remarkable story, said the woman, but we are forbidden to let people enter. She must have seen our disappointment because she continued, Hmm, I am moving out tomorrow – so, perhaps no harm can come to me by letting you in. A resident breaking the sacred rules! She unlocked the door and motioned us into the low stone corridor. We walked through the darkness, into a narrow alley flanked by tall houses, and under a gate topped by a lantern large enough to illuminate the street in front and behind it. A man stepped aside to let us pass, but the woman stopped and began to tell him the story, and then turned to Arthur. You finish, she said, and then disappeared up a steep stairway. There was a chapel then, said Arthur, glancing around but not seeing what he was looking for. There still is, said the man, I live in it. I'd be happy to show you around.

The Nieuwe Suykerhofje remained a rental complex for more than 50 years after the war. Several renowned Dutch artists and writers called it home at one time or another. When Henk and his daughter went back in 1996, a well-known musician-composer-actor-author (you name it, he did it, wrote my pen-pal) lived in the chapel. In 1999 it was again near ruin when a developer purchased it and carefully restored and preserved whatever he could while making just five apartments out of the 27 rooms plus chapel. The original floor and wall tiles are still there. Ancient fireplace mantels grace the bright rooms, and the structure of the box-beds can be seen in the architectural details. In the chapel, now a living room, large windows shed light into the lofty room where the old piano once stood. French doors open onto a small terrace, part of the original bleaching field, creating the ambiance of a regal garden house, albeit with altar. The whole complex is a national monument now, to be preserved and protected, and there are restrictions; no removal of the alter! Our guide led us up steep stairs to the chapel attic, where a hatch is hidden in the floor. We descended through it to a room not much bigger than a closet. This was a hiding place, he said, motioning around to the four walls. I imagined the Jewish people hiding here before heading out on The Swiss Road.

After an hour of exchanging stories and comparing histories, we thanked the current Abbot for his hospitality and walked out through the tunnel returning to the city, closing and locking heavy the door behind us. 

Here are some photos of this hidden gem. (Use landscape mode on mobile for photo descriptions.)

Looking back down the alleyway, into the tunnel that leads out onto the street.

Being escorted into the inner sanctum.

Our escort disappeared up these steep stairs

The gate with latern atop, beside the original loo.

The clandestine chapel, from the old bleaching field, gives the feeling of a regal garden house. The stone over the window is inscribed: New Suykerhofje founded by ~ Gerrit ten Sande and Maria de Groot ~ Maried Couple ~ In the year 1755

Descending the steep stairs to the secret room above the chapel.

Peering out the window in the secret room.

In 1999 the Nieuwe Suikerhofje was again in a state of disrepair.

One of the original rooms with fireplace, display cabinet and built-in box-bed frame. Photo credit: Amsterdam Monuments.

Inside the chapel, getting ready for its next chapter as a living room. Photo credit: Amsterdam Monuments.

Original stairs. Imagine descending these each time you needed that one loo! Photo credit: Amsterdam Monuments.

When the rooms were redesigned into 5 apartments, the developer saved many original architectural details.

Look carefully and you can still see the original stairs in behind the more sensible new set of stairs.

The original entrance house on the Prinsengracht in 1775 was replaced by a “newer" residence in 1885.

The Bob Hanf music score from Arthur’s concert, showing C.P Sp. as the composer.

We have eaten our way across large swaths of France - the Pyrenees, the Alps, Burgundy and Champagne, Dordogne, and Provence, to name a few regions. Every day we make the traditional stop for our daily bread in the first village we come through, and every day, without fail, we exit with an armload of brown paper packages far too numerous for one day of consumption. And then, the tasting starts -  Oooh, this croissant goes on my top ten list! Or – Nah, this baguette doesn't match the chewy one we found yesterday. Or, You've got to try this quiche, it's still warm! We rank our finds, imagining we might return one day for our favourites, but of course, there is always another village and another boulangerie.

When we reminisce about our French road trips, one such stop in a grey-stone village in the French Ardennes stands out. We'd left home late one afternoon on route to Normandy and Brittany. We drove south, out of the Netherlands and down through Belgium, stopping just over the border in France, after dark, to roll up the roof-tent in a small meadow beside the Meuse River. In the morning, we were hungry! 

Boulangerie-Patisserie Lopes Clément in the centre of Vireux-Molhain was the first bakery we came across in the early morning. I don't love early mornings. Arthur, on the other hand, had already taken a plunge into the Meuse and was feeling fresh. I was tempted to wait in the van, but if anything can pry me out of my comfy place, it's a bakery. Inside, I took stock of the daily loaves, stacked according to shape on the racks behind the counter. Buttery croissants and soft, pillow-shaped pain au chocolat were heaped in a bin ready to be doled out in numbers, and off to one side, something different. Qu'est-ce que c'est? (What is this?) asked Arthur as he pointed to the pastry. Pain au viande. Pastry with meat. I'm a sweet tooth, I would never choose pastry with meat, but Arthur will choose savoury every time. We exited with pain au viande AND pain au chocolat along with croissants, a baguette traditionelle, and a little tart with fresh berries.

The meat pastry won the day - flakey crisp, buttery pastry surrounded a rich meat mixture seasoned with the regional flavours - was that anise I tasted? The juices had caramelized and baked into the bottom of the crust leaving behind a salty, rich deep flavour. Throughout the remainder of our road trip, although we tried, we never did find a match.

Flash forward to Christmas Eve 2021. What shall we do to make tomorrow special? I asked Arthur, Let's drive to France! He said. Now, I have to say, whenever I ask Arthur what we should do with a spare day, his answer is often, let's drive to France. Usually, I dismiss it as impractical, but this time I thought, why not - it's only a couple of hours to the border – we can drive through some pretty villages and walk along the winding Meuse. But he had another idea - Let's go back to the bakery! He said, which I interpreted as something akin to, Santa Claus is real. Sweety, I said in my best patronizing tone – it's Christmas day. Not deterred, he brought up google maps, zoomed into the centre of Vireux-Molhain and clicked on the bakery marker. Without hesitation, he dialled the number, waiting for an answering machine that might give a clue as to opening times. Instead, the baker picked up. Arthur's eyebrows shot up with surprise. A quick conversation ensued, starting with an apology for calling on Christmas Eve, a declaration that he was the best baker we'd found in all of France, and ending with, à demain! (See you tomorrow!). Those French! They do love their daily bread, and apparently, Christmas is no exception.

The alarm went off at 6:00am - we weren't taking any chances of arriving to empty shelves. Armed with coffee, we drove off toward France, chattering together and wondering aloud if it was dream to think we could go back and have the same experience twice. The sun was rising as we crossed the border a couple of hours later.

The centre of Vireux-Molhain was silent and still, except for a socially-distanced line-up outside the glowing bakery window. We joined the queue, and in a few minutes, it was our turn to step inside. Bonjour! Bon Noël! Greetings rang back and forth, and we began to choose our goodies. Quatre! said Arthur, pointing immediately to a tray of the familiar pain au viande. Four small pastries were popped into a paper sack. Six croissant et six pain au chocolat, s’il vous plait. The small counter filled up with our packages – two baguette traditionelle, a round boule of crusty white bread. Last time we had berry tarts, commented Arthur to the shopkeeper. Not in season! She answered, but this three-chocolate cake will make a good dessert. We took it. We left with our basket overflowing. 

Back in the van, in an out-of-character move, I left the pain au chocolat wrapped up and chose instead, a savoury pain au viande. I knew in an instant that my 6:00am Christmas alarm was not in vain. Oh, you have got to try this! I exclaimed to Arthur as I pushed one in his direction, It SO good. Before we could drive away, the floor was scattered with crisp pastry flakes from the best pain au viande in the land.

Hover your mouse over the images below for a description of our Christmas excursion to France pics (or choose landscape on mobile).

Anxiously awaiting my turn to enter the bakery on Christmas morning

Just as I remember it!

These croissants alone were worth the drive. Pain au chocolat on the right.

Nearby Fumay is surrounded by a curve in the Meuse and the perfect place for a walk after too many pastries.

Back in the Netherlands, and unable to make a daily bakery stop, we rewarmed our goods. Pain au viande bottom left. Pain au chocolate centre.

Our timing was good, Belgian shops stay open until noon on Sunday, so I politely joined the queue at the butcher counter, ready to wait my turn. But Arthur, in the more direct Dutch style, took the floor and waved the photo.  Excuse me! He announced, do any of you know an Anita?  I do! said a man, her auntie lives on this very street – ask at the pub. A few doors down, the bartender took the picture from me. Her auntie lives just next door, knock there and she’ll tell you where to go. Auntie didn’t answer her door, but the neighbour gave instructions and in a few minutes we were ringing a doorbell labelled Anita and Michel. Michel opened the door.

Goede morgen, said my translator, and he handed over the photo. We’re looking for this girl. The man’s eyes widened, Anita! come here, he called, not taking his eyes from the image. A petit woman looking young for her years, with wild short blond hair arrived at the door. She took the photo, confusion clouding her bright blue eyes. This is Kim Stokes, Arthur pointed to me, and this, he pointed to the soldier, is Art Stokes, Kim’s grandfather. We think he stayed with your family in 1945. How is this possible? She asked, and paused for a moment, staring at the photo. This was taken more than 60 years ago. You must come in.  

Michel settled us on the sunny patio, while Anita poured us a late Sunday morning beer in the true Belgian style, and started to tell us about Ledegem during the war. 

When the Canadians arrived at the beginning of March, every villager with a spare bed had to offer it up. My interpreter did a stellar job keeping up with the story. We lived over our shop on the main street. My father filled the attic with mattresses, and at least 20 soldiers stayed with us. I had such fun! I was like the little sister – they tossed me around, throwing me from one soldier to the next - I think I never touched the ground! There was that sparkle again. After a couple of hour of regaling and reminiscing she asked, Can you come back tomorrow? I’d like you to meet my Auntie, she’ll remember. 

My grandfather, or rather, my Pop, survived the war. Upon his return to Canada, he moved his family of three to Quesnel, British Columbia where he opened a garage with another soldier from his squadron, Robbie. Early in the 1970’s my grandparents followed our family to Powell River, where Pop worked as a mechanic for the city. He loved the outdoors - fishing and camping - and he loved me, his only granddaughter. These are the things a girl knows about her grandfather. He died when I was 16. I knew he had been a soldier. But he didn’t talk about it, so neither did we. The small photo was the only evidence I had of Pop’s war years.

When we returned to Ledegem the following day, the house was full of villagers buzzing with stories of the Canadians. Auntie was there too! She remembered Art, and his friend Robbie. Oh, they were a handsome lot! She blushed. She had been 17 at the time. I asked many questions and learned that the Canadians spent three weeks in the area, preparing to join the liberation push through the Netherlands. On March 24th, they packed up and departed.

Let me show you where your grandfather stayed! Offered Michel. It was near the butcher shop. It’s being renovated, he said, so it doesn’t look quite the same, but now you can look right into the attic. See, up there, that’s where they all slept. I stood still for a few minutes, knowing Pop had been exactly here, and then I picked up a piece of broken brick and tucked it away in my pocket.

Last year, Dutch liberation commemorations flowed through the Netherlands like the tide coming in. Each evening, the Dutch news reported the Allied front position as if it was the day’s news, giving life to the 75-year-old timeline. Maastricht, in the south, was the first city to be liberated, September 14th, 1944. Our village, 20 kilometres to the north, took another four days, and so it flowed northward. The ongoing commemorations reminded me that I still didn’t know very much about what my grandfather actually did during the war.

What do you know? I asked my dad, who had been too young to remember his father leaving for the war, and 6 years old when he returned. He was a mechanic, said Dad, with the Royal Canadian Engineers, The 4th Field Park Squadron attached to the 5th Canadian Army. He handed me four loose-leaf pages—rough handwritten notes, with some dates, places and events. 

September 1941 - Petawawa

November 8th, 1941 – Halifax – boarded Orensay, 13th sail for England

November 23rd, 1941, - Aldershot, Salamanca barracks

February 6th, 1942 – promoted to Corporal

October 26th, 1943 – board US troopship John Ericson at Liverpool

November 6th, 1943 – air raid by torpedo bombers, 2 ships sunk, 2 bombers shot down

November 8th, 1943 – dock at Naples

November 30th, 1943 – arrive at front to support 8th Army

February 5th, 1944 – caught in artillery barrage

May 21st, 1944 – Gustav Line

May 24th, 1944 - Hitler Line

September 15th, 1944 – Ernie killed (Ernie was his childhood friend)

February 14th, 1945 - Florence

March 1st, 1945 – Ledegem

The pages then track him through a few Dutch cities - Nijmegen, Arnhem, Barneveld, Heerenveen and finally to Groningen on April 23rd, 1945. The last entry: July 28th, 1945 - left Groningen for home. 

It takes less than four hours to drive from our home in the south of the Netherlands to Groningen in the north. We called our friends who live in the city centre. Come! They said, we’ll show you around. Late that evening, we all walked through the ancient city speaking in hushed tones as we wound our way along pretty canals and narrow stone streets toward the Grote Markt, the main market square where the battle of Groningen had taken place on April 14 – 18, 1945. According to my pages Pop had arrived a couple of days after the battle. I imagined him getting to work fixing broken tanks and trucks. I wonder if I am walking in my grandfather’s footsteps? I whispered, struck with the sense that I was the first member of the family to be here in 75 years. 

We visited the quirky Victory Museum in a nearby village, a bizarre private collection of memorabilia dedicated to the Canadian Liberation of the Netherlands. An attendant unlocked the glass display cases and let me rummage through the shelves. I flipped through books and scanned the crowded shelves looking for – what? I wasn’t really sure. And then I spotted a framed crest with the title 4th Canadian Field Park Squadron 1940-1945. The crest was surrounded by the names of the places I found in my pages of notes - Hitler Line, Gustav Line, Arnhem, Barneveld. Another confirmation of Pop’s presence here.

Back home, I joined Mark Zuehlke’s Canadian Battle Series Group on facebook. It’s really hard to find information! I wrote. They put me in touch with Tony at the Royal Canadian Engineer Museum. Tony graciously forgave my ignorance with all things military and gave me a few leads, even describing for me what Pop would have been doing during the war. I suspect he maintained the heavy vehicles such as bridge layers and heavy transport that the Royal Canadian Engineers would have utilized [...] while on the advance with the rest of the formation. He sent me to the Canadian Library Archives, where I found microfilm of war diaries and links to service records. But, because my grandfather survived the war, his records are not available.  

And then, one morning a few days later my facebook notification was blinking. No message, just a website address from someone who’d seen my post. And there it was –War Diary 4th Field Park Squadron RCE, Major LG MacDonald. 

The first Entry is this: March 2nd, 1945: Left CAMBRAI at 0900 hrs and arrived at our final destination for the entire journey, LEDEGEM, at 1520 hrs. Distance, 60 miles. Nearly the whole Sqn is now in excellent billets, and there’s no escape from the hospitality of Ledegem. Oppressive supplementary suppers of milk soup, potatoes and sausage, coffee and bread must be eaten by all. Every second house is a model beer parlour so there is beer in plenty. 

I smiled - I knew that hospitality! I read all 92 entries in one sitting. By the last entry, I knew I had found what I had been searching for - a little bit of insight into my grandfather’s life as a soldier - a small window that I could peek through that would take me back in time. Would he ever have thought that what he did was important enough that his family would want to know about the details 75 years later? That I would search for, and find his footsteps to honour his memory? I hope so.

Lest we forget.

The story of 1945 Ledegem unfolds with Anita and Auntie over Belgian beer, of course!

Michel explaining that the soldiers came down this alley and entered through a door here to get to the attic.

Making our way through the village on the Sunday morning is unforgettable - the whole village helping us to find Anita! And finally, coming together around the table to tell stories.

The weird and wonderful Victory Museum - a tribute to the Canadian Liberation of the Netherlands.

Scanning the glass cases, I spotted this framed crest.

Canadian friends Deb and Ken who helped me ask all the right questions in Ledegem, and Dutch friends Antonie and Hugo who welcomed us to Groningen and showed us around. And of course, it wouldn’t have happened without the encouragement and support of this guy, my translator and photographer.

The art of painting was never on my radar, but one day Arthur arrived home on an artsy whim with paints and brushes, and our Dutch household took to slopping brightly coloured acrylic onto canvas. I was mystified by the activities taking place in what used to be the kitchen and sat back watching. Not a chance! I declared when encouraged to join the mess, I had not read the guidebook to painting, and my last art lesson was in kindergarten. To understand my escapades with creativity, it would help to know that I work in accounting, and much of my life revolves around staying within the lines and keeping to tidy, uncompromising conclusions. I tried to shun the chaos and feigned disinterest. But, I had to admit, it did look like fun.

So, I signed myself up for a two-day, seven-step painting course, the final step something like, walk away and let it bother you. This was a whole new frontier for me. When I arrived at the community hall with a large blank canvas under my arm I was nervous, but a formulated approach seemed like something I could trust. I had no idea what to expect, but I guessed I’d be heading home with something Mondrianesque, a few brightly coloured shapes carefully defined by straight black lines, something loosely resembling a spreadsheet. But, what resulted, still hangs in my kitchen 11 years later. My painting is a colourful depiction of my favourite village in Italy and creating it was the closest thing to magic that I have experienced. I was delighted and fascinated by the creative process. And I had fun!

I wish I could tell you I’ve become a prolific painter, but while I’ve gone on to finish a few paintings over the years, I have far more half-finished canvases lodged in the closets of my world. Control creeps in with his side-kick, Frustration, and the magic falls away. It’s only a painting for goodness sake! Walk away! My instructor’s words ring persistently in my ears.

Still, everything about the art continues to fascinate me, mainly because I find it so hard, and the masters make it look so easy. I visit the galleries, searching out the works of my favourite painters; Vermeer, Van Gogh, Monet. You may have seen me at the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam setting off the alarm bells as I lean in a little too close to examine the brush-strokes, and inadvertently cross the invisible red line. Bronk! Bronk! Bronk! The attendants come running. Me again, I say sheepishly, whoops! I stare at the little things. How did the artist make that silver candlestick shimmer? Ohhhh, he used yellow and blue. How perfect are the folds in that white dress, yet look, there is no white paint on the canvas. So, when I had the opportunity to visit Monet’s home and his famous gardens, I wasn’t going to miss it.

I walked through the front door and went straight to his studio. Warm sunlight streamed through the huge windows. So much light! I stood in the warmth, breathing in any remnant of painterly energy, and then meandered through the rest of the rooms at my own pace. No invisible barriers here, no alarm bells, just a welcoming home. All of the contents belonged to Claude and Alice; the beds and bureaus, the clocks and kitchen-wares. Replica paintings line the walls just as the originals had during his lifetime. Degas, Pissarro, Renoir. His Impressionist buddies. It was more a visit to the Monet’s than a museum.

I left the house through the kitchen door and sauntered through the front gardens, noticing that while the flower-beds appeared to be whimsical and unconstrained, they were laid out with a strong sense of order. Small rectangular flower-beds contained blocks of colours; varied reds here; yellows over there; purples across the path. Everything fit onto a larger grid, comprising what looked suspiciously like a spreadsheet. Order amidst the creativity! I could appreciate this.

Feeling even more akin to Mr. Monet, it was time to find his ponds. More than a hundred years ago, he convinced the town-council to divert a stream onto his property, and then he dammed it to create a small lake. I pushed through some folliage, rounded a bend in the path and walked smack into Lily-Pad central. Whoa! I knew this place. We all know this place; the Japanese bridge arching over dark water; willows weeping down, framing every view with soft, leafy edges; a narrow row-boat drawn up on the shore, and lily-pads floating in perfect picturesque. A pale green palette blocked the world from view, filling every periphery, and there I was, transported into the middle of his canvas. Perhaps, I thought, it’s time to dust off my canvases and try again.

I have just signed myself up for a one-day painting course.

Hover your mouse over the images below (or choose landscape on mobile) to see some pictures of my escapades with creativity.

Doing my best to keep back from the invisible line

The house passed directly from the family to the Fondation Claude Monet, with no other occupants to disrupt the timeline from artist-residence to museum.

the carefully disguised gardens of order

letting in the natural light

Standing in his studio. Imagine the value of the paintings on the walls! (oh yes, there’s the pragmatic creeping in).

I can’t help but to notice the way he hangs his pics in an orderly grid…

Travelling through Normandy I tracked down some of Monet’s subjects. Here, the Rouen Cathedral facade that he painted more than 30 times in different lights.

We stayed in this picturesque harbour town, a subject of many Impressionist paintings.

Samuel de Champlain sailed out of this much painted small harbour in 1608.

I call this Nobody likes Rosé. I may be projecting. Cheers!

This is my largest painting to date, 30” x 30”

Look carefully, no white!

To my surprise this is not a spreadsheet!

I don’t like crowded tourist destinations and often opt out with some regret, and some relief, and a lot of justification to myself for my actions; oh, you’ll be back another time. But, I knew if I bypassed this iconic place, there was no defence. Arthur took some convincing, but as soon as we drove over the hill above Mont Saint Michel Bay and saw the distinctive outline of the abbey spire on the distant horizon, we were both drawn in.

The sun was low in the sky by the time we reached the bay, and I was hungry, so when I spotted a farmer grilling sausages in front of his house we pulled over and order two. He gave us three and invited us to spend the night in his field. But first, he announced, you must go to the Mont! (Of course, he said this in French, but lucky for me, I have a sidekick who understands this language and translates for me.) We told him we’d go in the morning so we could also visit the abbey which was now closed, and he went on to explain that there was an extraordinary high tide tonight, and one of the rare occasions when the rock becomes an island.

With my nonchalant attitude for tourist attractions, I’d been remiss in my research of the area. It turns out, not only is Mont Saint Michel a UNESCO heritage site but so is the entire bay, where there are tides up to 16 metres (52 feet)! I come from a part of Canada where we have 16-foot tides, and I thought they were big. He went on to explain that the tide goes out for 15 kilometres. Fifteen! And when the big tides rise, they are speedy, like, galloping-horse speedy. All right, I had to see this.

We drove to the parking lot, planning to take the shuttle bus along the new $200,000,000 bridge built a couple of years ago to replace a 135-year-old land-based walkway that was messing up the ecology of the bay. I was speed-reading my guide book, trying to play catch-up. Hey! After 6:00 pm they allow bikes on the bridge, I read aloud. Great, we could skip the tourist busses, things were looking up. As we cycled into the sunset, full bus-loads passed by, heading toward shore. People were clearing out for the day. Maybe I wouldn’t have to share my experience with 10,000 others?

The coast-guard arrived alongside us in a blocky red vehicle with bulldozer-style tracks. Two wetsuit-clad folks jumped out, clearly ready to save the lives of tourists who might not understand that they can’t outrun a galloping horse. How high will the tide be tonight? Arthur asked in French to the guard, who used hand gestures to show a height of about 12 inches and said something by way of explanation. My interpreter turned to me, the tide will leave a walkway height of about 30 centimetres, and right there, my interpreter got it wrong. The coast-guard headed off to make a sweep of the beach.

We parked the bikes and wandered down the shore to watch the sunset. Soon there was a hum in the air that grew into a soft roar. And there it was, the tidal bore; a powerful wave that raced toward shore. Water poured onto the surrounding beach like a river in reverse, swirling and dancing, and filling the area around the Mont with incredible speed. The west basin was quickly full. Let’s go up there, I pointed to a tower overlooking the east side, we can watch the water come in on the other side.

There are two entrances into the fortress. We ducked through the closest one and ran through the darkening village, weaving our way eastward, until we popped out on top of the ramparts. As we watched the water erase the sand, I questioned my interpreter. Uhm, do you think it’s possible that when the farmer said the rock becomes an island, he meant no way on or off? And, maybe the coast guard’s hand gestures meant water would cover the causeway by 30 centimetres, rather than leaving it bare? Understanding dawned, and we backtracked hastily through the now dark and empty streets to check the bikes. At the first entrance, the lower of the two, the sea was spilling into an inner courtyard. Exit was out of the question. We mounted a set of stairs and exited through door number two to find our bikes at the water’s edge. We moved them to the highest ground possible and raised an eyebrow to the coast-guard. He nodded his approval.

Back inside, about 15 people joined us to watch the ocean continue its trespass, rising to cover stairs and benches and splashing in through an ancient arrow slit built into the thick stone wall. We stood riveted with the group, waiting for it to stop. To turn. And then Arthur gave me a nudge, hey, let’s go. We’ve got the place to ourselves! He was right. People were either here watching the flood or sitting in a restaurant munching moules-frites, oblivious to their stranded status. We turned and slipped silently back into the maze of elaborate medieval architecture, and made our way twisting and turning up to the base of the abbey. A cobbled alley hugging the towering walls led us to a small courtyard overlooking our watery surroundings. The coast-guard, directly below us stood on a dry patch of high ground beside our bicycles. Waves rolled up from both sides of the bay and splashed together in the middle, creating treacherous white-caps and burying the exit ramp. Mont Saint Michel was an island.

We stayed there until nearly midnight, kings of our own castle, watching with a drone’s view as a small group gathered at the receding waterline. Eventually, the guard stepped aside, people removed their shoes, and pools of light began to move through the ankle-deep water between the island and the bridge. Squeals pierced the darkness as the stranded reached the other side. When we could see that the waves no longer met in the middle, we wandered down through the village, relishing every quiet step, and emerged at the base.

We cycled away into the dark, sticking to the narrow swath of dry in the parted sea, and stopped after a while to look back at the glowing mound. That really happened! I whispered, not daring to raise my voice and erase the magic.

Will I regret that I missed the abbey? Nah, I’ll be back another time.

Click here for a short video of the galloping tide, and hover your mouse over the images below (or choose landscape on mobile) to see some pictures of our magical night.

When we saw this, there was no question, we had to go.

My interpreter is also my photographer.

This wave is the tide racing in.

A wonderful tangle of medieval buildings.

Peering up through the houses at the abbey.

The ocean floods into the inner courtyard. Has this really happened for 1,000 years? It felt like the very first time.

Watching and waiting. The group is held back by the coast-guard.

small groups start to make their way off the island.

As we drove off, we took a hike down to the polders for one last view, while we recapped our special night.

Arthur is not one for lying about, and a beach holiday is the last thing on his “how to spend my spare time” list. But, during our past forays into Croatia, we brought along paddle-boards, and he’d purchased a mask and snorkel, and suddenly the beach became tolerable. So, I pleaded my case for discovering more of Croatia. I used words like hike, and bike, things that we both love to do, then I threw in the idea of paddle-boarding and snorkeling. Okay, let’s do it! He said. I noticed when we packed the van that there was a bin of conducting scores tucked in beside the paddle-boards. I can’t just do nothing, he said. I’ll find a shady corner to study. Well, I couldn’t argue with that logic. This was compromise in action.

And then, lunch in Milan took longer than expected, cutting our Croatia time in half. Let’s just go to Istria, I suggested thinking of the peninsula at the top of the Adriatic next to Italy, It’s not that far! I’m guessing now, that most Europeans have a fridge-magnet exclaiming, Just go to Istria, it’s not that far! Part way there I starting calling campsites. Full, full and full. Finally, I had a breakthrough, Camp Mon Paradis, noted in my camping book as a family-run 42-pitch campsite by the sea. It sounded perfect. Do you have a spot on the shore? I asked. Tomorrow. What was one more day, we had a spot! I booked it. We wild-camped for the night hidden from view on the edge of a high cliff, the water far below us. We could just stay here for our holidays, Arthur winked. I rolled my eyes and started to pack up. We pulled into the campsite before noon.

It was a strange plot. A 10-foot high, thick rock-wall clearly marked the edge of the campsite. The ocean view was partially blocked by overgrown shrubs, but there were shade trees, and we were indeed just a few feet from the shoreline. We rolled up the tent and pulled out the kitchen. I grabbed my book and headed for the beach.

The bay was crowded. Mon Paradis was hemmed in on all sides. I suspect at one time it was the only establishment on the bay, but now, to the north, one of those “professional” campsites buzzed with 3000 campers and sported a water park, and a pizza parlour. But that wasn’t the biggest problem.

As I lay on a lounger beside the shore reading my book, dipping my big toe distractedly in and out of the sea, the subtle thump, thump, thump of a techno beat somewhere in the neighbourhood filtered into my senses, and I had a sinking feeling. Studying scores does not mix well with an incessant bass thrum, and Arthur’s ability to study was my ticket to relaxing. I snuck back to the site, and sure enough, he was pacing, and grumpy.

I suggested a paddle. We pumped up the boards and launched into the bay. From there, I could see what lay on the other side of our 10-foot high wall. A public beach, with restaurant, and massive sound system. As we paddled away, the water magnified both the sound of the beat and the tension between us. If I didn’t look to the left, or right, the place was picture perfect. But even I had to admit, this isn’t what I’d been dreaming of.

The next morning, I called our favourite old campsite on Krk. Tomorrow, we’ll have a place, they confirmed. The promised plot wasn’t our usual one next to the sea, but at least we knew what we were in for. We packed up and drove across Istria. I was disappointed and thumbed through my guide book to hide my sulking. Hey! I said looking up, There’s a ferry from the east shore of Istria, to the Island of Cres, and from Cres to Krk. Let’s do that! Krk has a bridge, so getting there from the mainland is easy for Europe. Cres, on the other hand, requires the money and time commitment of ferries, something I am quite used to from growing up on Canada’s west coast, but maybe, just maybe, this extra effort has kept Europe away.

Ancient grey villages, drystone walls and olive groves dotted Cres’s landscape as we drove south on a narrow road. In front of a rocky pasture a small table was loaded with amber rounds of sheep cheese, and of course we had to stop. Okay, I eat a lot of good cheese, but this? This was remarkable. Subtly smoky and dry in just the right cheesy way, with the taste of the farm lingering on the tongue. I paid the villager our few Kuna, and he placed a large smooth round in my hands. The holiday atmosphere was returning!

Soon, we stopped again, this time to wander around the small harbour city of Cres. Narrow streets and harbour piers milled with mostly Croatian folks enjoying the warm evening. Had we done it? Had we left busy Europe behind? We drove on, to the island of Losinj, separated from Cres by a small canal, and found a seaside campsite just after dark. It was snuggled between an ancient monastery to the north, and the cozy town of Nerezine to the south. As we wandered around in the silent darkness to choose our plot, spacious, and open to the sea, I was giddy. We had arrived.

For the next few days we swam in the warm turquoise sea, sometimes together, snorkeling along the reefs, pointing out needle-fish and bright angel-fish to each other, and sometimes it was just me floating alone in the Adriatic while Arthur sat in the shade studying his scores to the sound of waves and seabirds. I sipped chilled white wine in the afternoon sunshine while I read my book and we walked to town for gelato every evening. We cycled along the shoreline, picked fresh sticky figs from the trees at the edge of the track, and paddled our boards to the tiny museum-like village of Osor, four kilometres away, and then sailed back to camp, unfurling the compact sails I’d secreted away in the van as a surprise.

Dare I say it was the perfect holiday? If we’d found the cheese-shepherd on the way back to the ferry, even Arthur might agree. But, I’m glad we didn’t, because I’m fairly sure that when I say, shall we go to Cres for our holidays? He’ll lead the way.

Hover your mouse over the images below (or choose landscape on mobile) to see some pics of our Adriatic adventures.

Technically, not allowed in Croatia, but we found this out-of-the-way spot to spend one night

This spot seemed perfect on first impression.

Don’t look to the left or right! From here, Mon Paradis does seem like Paradise.

Running away from the European crowds.

Worth going back for!

This place is perfect in spring and fall, but draws the European crowds with its easy bridge access during holiday times.

Arthur doesn’t spend a lot of time on the beach!

Whatever it takes to keep this guy busy and me relaxing!

Finally, a quiet spot by the sea!

The town of Nerezine on the left, and the monastery on the right. Our campsite in the trees just left of the monastery.

Nerezine in the distance.

Evening gelato walk

Looking to the south tip of Krk and beyond to other islands in the Adriatic Sea

The islands of the Adriatic are fun to explore, less touristy than the mainland, locals still going about business as usual.

Discovering the old harbour city of Losinj

I have to meet a colleague in Budapest next month, announced Arthur, one day out of the blue. I’m coming with you! I said and booked us an apartment in an old-world building. No hotels for me on this trip, I wanted Hungarian neighbours. I determined to be more local and less tourist as the city emerged to take shape from the hazy imaginings of an eight-year-old.

The first thing I did was sign up for a food tour, because, if you are going to be a local, you need to know what to eat. My tour started at ten in the morning at the iconic Great Market Hall, a cavernous brick building built in 1897, which happened to be right next door to my apartment.

We’ll start over here! Bellowed Eva, our thirty-something guide. Swaths of people queued at kiosks serving steaming platters of chicken paprikash, trays of cabbage rolls, and vats of goulash. Eva parked our group of seven around a tall table and disappeared into the crowd. She emerged a minute later with two large disks of golden deep-fried yeasty flatbread, one topped with butter and fresh garlic, the other with finely grated cheese. Lángos. A moment later a vendor plonked a green bottle labeled with a red-cross symbol onto our table along with some shot glasses. Unicum, we learned, is an herbal liquor particular to Hungary, and known to heal all ills. All of them. Everything. Well, if this is the way Hungarians start the day, count me in. I reached out and tore off a section of bread and washed it down with the brownish, bitter liqueur.

Feeling thoroughly warm, and completely healed, the tour continued. At one market stall, we ate poppy-seed strudel, at another, we were handed a sampler of charcuterie, where, in my endeavour to walk in the shoes of my neighbours who came before me, and possibly because of the Unicum, I ate horse.

After this, we branched out into the city. Lunch was at a butcher shop with a name that translates something like, The Bleeding Pig, where I tasted bean and pork knuckle soup, paprikas sausage and pickled baby watermelon. At Café Central, a grand Viennese style coffee house dating to 1887, we were served Esterhazy Torte; layers of crisp meringue, ground nuts, and buttercream, and Dobos Torte; chocolate sponge-cake, buttercream and caramel. Both were invented in the mid-nineteenth century by Hungarian chefs.

The day ended with a tasting of regional red, white and Tokaij wines, served with cheese, bread chunks, and toasted pumpkin seed oil. Okay, admittedly, the wine tasting bordered on touristy, but let’s just call it a crash course in the necessities of Hungarian life.

I was reading James Michener’s documentary book about the 1956 Hungarian Revolution, The Bridge at Andau, and using it as a historical guide to my city wanderings, connecting the dots of the uprising by visiting buildings, memorials, and museums.

One day I jumped aboard Tram #2, and rumbled along the Danube embankment to Parliament. I had booked a tour, hoping to learn more about the complicated politics that had driven this country for the last century. My guide was a dud. She focussed on the gilded ceilings and stained-glass windows, and steered clear of political history. Back outside on Kossuth Lajos Square, feeling defeated, I spotted a staircase and followed it underground to a small memorial for the massacre of October 25, 1956. I watched a film about a survivor of the revolution telling his story. As a boy, he and his father were caught behind the pillars of the Agriculture building as bullets whizzed past. I walked back to the surface, and over to the Agriculture building where I stood behind a pillar, looking out at the now empty square, and I had an idea. Back at home, I typed an email …I want to know more about your family… I wrote to my childhood neighbour. He wrote back, telling me the story of his mother, traveling back to Hungary in 1956 to visit her parents with her young son, his brother.

…the day they arrived in Budapest was the day the Revolution started. A group of students were protesting, and it grew to over 300,000 people. The people wanted out of the Warsaw pact and after a few days of protesting, started removing all the Russian symbols in Budapest. Instead of keeping order, the Hungarian army became part of the protests. The Russians were not going to put up with that and decided to send their tanks in to quell the uprising. They were very brutal and just massacred a lot of people. My Mom and Brother got caught up in that. The borders were closed, and nothing went in or out.

That was the last my Dad heard from them. It would be weeks later that he would finally hear anything.

My Dad was going crazy not knowing what was happening over there. He finally contacted Lester B. Pearson who was secretary of state at the time. Using his diplomatic pull, Pearson managed to get them out of Hungary.

Wow. Note to self: Next time someone is serving you sugary-sweet goodies in her kitchen, ask her about her life.

There was one more thing I had to do, and it was causing me no small amount of stress. If I was going to experience life in Budapest, public bathing could not be avoided. There are many public bath-houses to choose from, and I had narrowed it down to the three. Szechenyi, a few trams away, is the biggest and most popular complex with eighteen pools and all manner of water features. These co-ed baths date back a hundred years and are probably the least intimidating for me to don my bathing suit and splash around in relative obscurity for a few hours. But, I wasn’t going to let myself off the hook so easily. Would my neighbours take several trams to attend the baths? I’m guessing they would choose something more local. The Gellert Baths were closest to home, just 700 metres from my door, but they are more upscale than Szechenyi, and according to my guidebooks, more touristy. Not my baths. My 2005 guidebook announces the Rudas Baths, about a kilometer from home, as men only, but upon further research, I find that women have now been allotted Tuesdays.

Rudas is a 500-year-old bathing-suit optional Turkish bath-house on the Danube embankment. The historical chamber is the same today as it was in the 16th century; a dimly-lit steamy, squat octagonal dome over a main pool about 10 metres in diameter. Four smaller dipping pools of varying temperatures surround the main pool. No swirl-pools, or water features here. Like Unicum, the baths can give you a jump-start back to health. The hot-spring feeding Rudas is radio-active (no, that is not a spelling mistake), and thought to cure joint degeneration, herniated discs, calcium deficiency, and chronic arthritis.

Leading up to Tuesday, I spent far too much time wondering if I would wear my bathing suit or not. As a matter of fact, as I walked across the Liberty Bridge, and along the river bank in a chilly drizzle, toward what seemed more like a prison sentence than a trip to the spa, I still wasn’t sure. My two-piece suit was safely rolled up in my towel as I entered and paid for my wrist-band that would let me into my personal changing cabin.

An attendant handed me a flimsy white garment in the shape of a typical kitchen apron. I took it and kept in step with the group of women in front of me as we descended a winding staircase, and came to a room full of numbered wooden changing-cabins. Here, each woman disappeared all too quickly behind a door, and I found myself alone. I didn’t want to go in yet, mainly because, I wasn’t sure how to come out. I paced up and down until a cabin door opened and a white apron appeared.

The woman was about 60 years old. As she passed by, I crooked my neck and peered covertly around behind her. Right, undoubtedly no bathing suit there. A second woman passed by, maybe 40 years old, bathing bottoms only, and still a third, twentyish in a bikini. Looks like the choice was up to me, full bathing suit, half-clad, or birthday suit. I stepped into my cabin, made my choice, and stepped out a few minutes later, with my white apron tied neatly around my waist and neck, and loitered until I saw someone who clearly knew where she was going. The woman in question was grandmotherly, portly, and she carried her apron confidently in her left hand while marching stark naked through the change-room, the lounge area and into the octagonal bathing room where she descended into the main pool. Right. Here I go. I took off my apron and sunk into the steaming waters.

I floated around a while and watched the scene. There were about 30 women in this pool, and a few people in each of the surrounding pools. Every so often, someone would stand up, and move in a clockwise fashion to the next perimeter pool. Most women were in pairs, or small groups, chatting away in Hungarian. The sounds got caught up somewhere in the dome and became a murmur, with no distinct words. I’d hazard a guess that I was the only tourist in the room. Were they onto me? I wondered, or was I passing as a local?

I spent two hours at the baths, rotating through the pools. Back in my cabin, I changed into my clothes and looked at my face in the mirror – I did seem a bit more glowy, was it the radiation? I tossed my apron into the supplied bin and walked confidently out of the baths and into the fresh morning air.

On the way past the Market Hall, I popped in and ordered breakfast; langos and a shot of Unicum.

Hover your mouse over the images below (or choose landscape on mobile) to see some pics of my Budapest break.

Locals continue to shop at the Great Market Hall, because prices are very competitive, and everything is fresh.

Eva explains the benefits of Unicum to the group

I first experienced Langos at a market in the Carpathian Mountains in Transylvania, Romania, once a part of Hungary. I still dream about it.

I chose the paprikas sausage and left the blood sausage for others, because, becoming local is a process.

Dobos near the front, and at the back, my fave, Esterhazy.

One has to know about their region after all.

Tram #2 is recommended by National Geographic as one of the top 10 tram routes in the world, with vista’s over the wide Danube and the Buda Hills. For me, it was the most direct route to Parliament!

A beautiful building, but the tour left me flat

This massive star, that perched on top of the Parliament dome for four decades of communism, now dominates one corner of a small museum under the building.

Down the stairs and under the square I found this memorial to the 1956 Revolution

Here I stood, imagining the chaos. Metal plugs have been stamped into the pillars as a memorial of the bullets.

A memorial to the Jews who were shot during the Holocaust and pushed into the river

A quick shot from Tram #2 of the Rudas baths on the Buda embankment.

I lived on the third floor and exited through the courtyard to get to the street.

When I needed a break from wandering the city, I stopped in this peoples cafe dating to 1952, where I could test more Esterhazy, and pair it with a cappuccino for under $5.00.

From across the street from my apartment, the facade of the Great Market Hall is hard to miss.

I reached the top step as a wave of applause sounded, and the doors to the balcony seating swung open for intermission.  I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror; my faded jeans were splashed with muck, my sodden jacket hung limply on my shoulders, and my wet hair was stuck to my head. A sea of glittered gowns and spiffy black suits flowed around me filling the lobby. I took a step toward Arthur, who matched my state of disrepair. Let’s grab our seats now, I said. It will be heaven to just sit for a few minutes. It had been a long day...

You’d think the biggest problem when your car is stolen is that your car has been stolen. When our car went missing from the banks of the Vltava River in Prague on that cold and rainy November morning, along with our suitcases, and all the other gear we pack along on our European road trips, the big deal was the missing score. By the time Arthur shows up at a gig, he has spent untold hours studying and marking his orchestra scores so that, at a glance, he knows just where he is in a thick book that is the code to an hour-long symphony. Each of the hundreds of scores lining the walls of his studio is scrawled with red and blue, encrypted in a way that means absolutely nothing to me, but for him, represents just what he wants the orchestra to do at that very instant in time.

We were on route to Romania, where Arthur would conduct Anton Bruckner’s 3rd symphony. Now here’s the thing about Bruckner. He was super insecure. He would write a symphony, and then show it to his friends, and they’d say – oh, it’s pretty good, but you should change this bit or that bit. And he would. So, he’d end up with several versions of the same symphony. Bruckner 3 was written in 1873, and revised in 1874, 1876, again in 1877, and finally, one more time in 1889. Arthur was to conduct the 1889 version. And now, Bruckner was MIA, along with the car.

The local Policie were not a great help, other than to clear up our misconception that our car had been towed. It took them three hours of valuable time to determine, you are not towed, you are stolen! Your car is in Belarus by now. Never-mind to find it. Here – fill this papers out, and then you go.

So, we went dumpster diving. It was streaming rain. With my soaking wet clothes and dripping hair, nobody gave me a second look. I shooed away a stray dog, climbed atop a wobbly wooden crate, and stuck my head inside a smelly garbage container. It sure would be nice to find my rain-jacket! I shouted from inside the echoey, empty bin. We explored more seedy corners and dark alleys of the Malá Strana district, but as we reached the 15th century Charles Bridge, we had to concede, our stuff was long gone.

Not one to give up my amateur guiding so easily, as we crossed the bridge I went into tour mode. They used to tie people hand a foot and throw them off this bridge. I told Arthur. I’d read it yesterday in my now-missing guidebook. That guy there, I said, pointing at a statue of a man with golden stars encircling his head, St. John, the martyr. He was tossed off. Touching the statue is supposed to bring luck. We both walked over and gave it a little rub, and then Arthur called the Czech Philharmonic. We do have three scores, the librarian confirmed, but, hmm, they do not indicate version. I’ll leave them at the artist entrance.

A portly grey-haired guard buzzed open the door. He looked at us from top to bottom, glanced at the puddle forming at my feet, shrugged, and handed over the scores. After careful scrutiny, Arthur shook his head. So much for St. John. Enter St. Tomás, a cellist in the orchestra who happened to overhear our plight. Come with me! He waved us out the door and marched us a few blocks to the Prague library. He couldn’t stick around, he had to go and warm up for tonight’s concert. I’ll leave tickets for you at the hall! Tomás called over his shoulder as the librarian produced a small, worn book. It was the size of an Archie digest comic. It was, apparently, the only copy of Bruckner 3, 1889 in Prague.

No! The librarian said when Arthur asked to borrow the wee score. You copy! She steered him to an ancient machine. A behemoth that consumed only 20-korun pieces, about the equivalent of a penny.

Right! I’ll collect the coins, you run the copier, I said. It was going to take a small fortune to copy the 230-page score. I splashed through the dark streets of the Staré Mesto, cleaning out every souvenir shop and small grocer of their korun. Once I had a handful, I ran back to the library to unload. At 8:00 the library lights went off. The green light of the copier lit the centre of the room, casting long moving shadows on the walls as it scanned the pages. A guard shuffled around us uneasily, threatening to call the Policie. Oh, them again. Well, I knew they weren’t in a hurry. We’d be finished by the time they arrived.  At 8:10 we were ushered out, our well-won stack of paper in hand.  Are you up for a concert? Asked Arthur, Oh sure! I laughed, why not!

At the ticket kiosk, the women shrugged at our request for tickets. I looked at Arthur, maybe Tomás forgot? But suddenly, she knew us – the story had made the rounds of the orchestra. Ahhh! You! She picked up a blank envelope, peered inside, and handed it over. Nobody pick these up.  For you. We walked up the wide stairs to the main entrance. We must look like vagabonds! I said, are we really going to a concert! We burst out laughing and entered the grand lobby.

I collapsed into the soft velvet seat at the balcony’s edge. Arthur sat beside me and leaned in. Those people are speaking Dutch! He whispered. A well-dressed couple were taking their seats beside us. Goedenavond! Said Arthur. Good evening! They looked startled. I have to admit, I would have been a little taken aback too, if I was sitting next to me that evening. Arthur explained that our concert clothes were in Belarus. Ahhh! All of the Dutch community is here, the woman explained, there was a Dutch piece premiered in the first half. Please meet my husband, he’s the Dutch Ambassador. Of course, the ambassador. I shrunk down into my seat. And then she extended an invitation. You must come to the Ambassador’s reception down the hall after the concert!

I panicked. I’d just been invited to the Dutch party of the year in Prague, and I was a filthy mess. Of course I wasn’t going to the party. How could I possibly go to the party? It’s a good thing Tchaikovsky’s 6th symphony is 45 minutes long, because it gave me time to find perspective. Logic prevailed. There would be food. I went to the party.

Our new friends introduced us to the group, and our story made quick rounds. Come to the buffet! Here! Have a glass of wine! Judging by the amount of attention I received, the Prague Dutch community were ready for some fun. Everyone in the room came to chat with me and make me feel welcome, delighted that we’d somehow ended up here. I felt like a bit of a celebrity, and who really cares what a celebrity wears to the party.

At midnight Arthur and I laughed together as we sauntered hand-in-hand back across the Charles Bridge, not a soul in sight, recapping this remarkable day. The rain had stopped, stars were shining above the castle, and there was St. John, his ring of stars gleaming in the moonlight. Apparently, he brought us a little luck after all.

The camera disappeared along with Bruckner, so there are no pics of the day. Here are a couple of archive photos for context.

Here is the score all marked up with the secret code.

Here we are in Scotland just before our trip to Prague. The Czech policie asked us, was your car a black VW Passat? We nodded, and he rolled his eyes. Our electric blue van will not easily disappear into obscurity.

Finding the driving route to the centre of a European city is easy, you just follow the signs. Centrum. Zentrum. Centre Ville. Centro. The hard part is navigating the tangle of narrow, cobbled roads designed with a horse-drawn carriage in mind. The new-millennium edition of any thousand-year-old city is a maze of one-way signs, tram tracks, and bumper-to-bumper cars. Arthur takes this on as if it is a Sunday drive through the country-side. The guy deserves the zen-city driving award or at least a follow-me-to-the-centre bumper sticker. We’ve developed something of a ritual for the centre-drive-through; Arthur casually moves through traffic, while I twist and turn in my seat pointing out the landmarks to both of us.

We were following our typical pattern as we narrowed in on Milan’s Centro. There! That’s Santa Maria Delle Grazie! That’s where The Last Supper is! And, Oh! The Sforza Castle! We rounded a cobbled bend, and in the narrow view between two blocky buildings, I glimpsed the magnificent, immense pink marble Duomo. Look! I pointed it out for a concentrated Arthur who was no longer paying attention to my guided tour. Something’s wrong with the van. He said distractedly while pumping the unresponsive gas pedal. We rolled to a stop, miraculously managing to avoid blocking traffic.

Arthur called for road-side help (yes sir, numero-uno, Piazza Del Duomo). I went to find pizza. Take out, I stated sheepishly. We tore the pizza into pieces and ate it standing by the roadside while, the tow-truck driver made arrangements with a garage for our repairs. He spoke in animated Italian, supplemented with much hand-waving, and then did his best to confer the message to us, No tima. No tima! He fixa nexta-weeka.

Okee dokee. It’s time to talk about the dog. You may have noticed a five-pound Ewok showing up with some regularity in our photos. About a year and a half ago, we became a party of three. Why have I not mentioned this before? Perhaps I was in a state of denial. How can you live a bi-continental life, yet have a dog? Apparently, if it fits under the airplane seat, you can. Arco has crossed the Atlantic 14 times in her 18-month life-span. She is equally at home on the roof in Europe, or under the bow in Canada, as long as she can sleep on my head. The thing about dogs is that they get you out there, and meeting people happens spontaneously. Dogs have no qualms with sniffing other dogs, and other dogs are attached to other humans. Enter Tito.

We checked into a (pet-friendly) hotel and then headed out to find dinner. As we strolled along, discussing strategy for finding authentic Italian, rather than tourist food, Arco’s leash became entangled with Tito’s leash. And that’s how it works. Introductions were made, and Swa and George walked us a few blocks toward Trattoria Nerino Dieci, before waving goodbye.

I must admit, an Italian menu has always been a mystery to me. Do people really order something from every section? I’ve never had the courage to try. But, when in Rome... I ordered it all. Antipasti: fresh mozzarella stuffed with ripe peach and basil leaves. Primi: house-made al-dente tagliatelle with red shrimp, lime and pesto. Secondi: pistachio encrusted tuna steak. Contori: mixed Mediterranean vegetables from the grill. Dolci was rich dark-chocolate gelato from a roadside vendor, somewhere along the tangle of streets between the trattoria and the hotel.

The next morning, spurred on by having conquered my first full Milanese menu, I shook off the feeling of shock at having to spend a good chunk of my holiday here, left Arthur in the hotel studying scores (with dog), and ventured tentatively into the city. Within one block of walking, I discovered Peck! Peck, is the quintessential slow-food multi-floor Italian delicatessen. It’s like, The Source of Food. Each counter heaped with Italian delicacies; fresh ravioli stuffed with porcini and black truffle; locally sourced, hand massaged, cured meats; delicate pastries, and wheels of pecorino cheese. If I’d have known I was coming to Milan, I would have learned about Peck through my research, and it would have been at the very top of my list. I wanted to shout out, Ha! No guidebook – look at me now! This was indeed auspicious.

From here I branched out. I took the stairs to the grand expanse of the Duomo roof, and wandered the halls of the Galleria Vittoria Emanuele. I hung out in the back streets of the Cinque Vie neighbourhood, where I stumbled onto an impressive set of Roman ruins belonging to Mediolanum, the Roman city predating Milan, and I got myself into trouble with the black-tie waiters at Marchesi, a café dating from 1824. (Apparently, you must take your cappuccino standing at the bar if you have not paid the stipend to sit in the green velvet arm-chairs).

I visited as many ancient churches as I could. At the 16th century Chiesa di San Maurizio, an elderly gentleman-volunteer appointed himself as my private tour guide. Stand-here! He directed, and holding my shoulders, backed me into a clearly-off-limits, carved wooden choir stall.  Imagine the cloistered nuns standing here singing, and praying for hours! He emphasized, nearly shouted, the last word. Other visitors stopped to watch the scene. He took a step back, leaving me to stand on my own. Now, he asked slowly, what you feel? (other than a wee bit awkward?) My growing audience waited breathlessly, but he answered before I could. Lumbar support! He exclaimed, delighted to share this secret with me. And he was right, I was darn comfy as I stood there on display.  My volunteer then towed me over to a fresco depicting Noah’s Ark, painted by a student of Leonardo da Vinci. The audience followed. My next test, What you see? I looked frantically at the animals matched up in tidy couples, but thankfully, he couldn’t hold his enthusiasm. There! He pointed to a third dog. Apparently, the artist couldn’t resist slipping in an image of his own furry friend. He toured me around to other frescos; The Last Supper! And here you don’t have to pay! Haha! And then, Look! Again the dog! He was right, there was the familiar hound peering out at me from another scene. This was the original version of Where’s Waldo. I concluded my tour by telling my guide he had made my day and left him grinning ear to ear.

One morning, there was an email from Swa inviting us to join her for dinner in the Brera district, an area of cozy cobbled streets lined with palazzos, and patio cafe’s.  I recommend Trattoria Torre de Pisa, she wrote, they like having pups around! Tito and Arco hung out under the table while we had one of those unforgettable evenings that can happen when strangers realize they are friends. We ate slowly, by candlelight, drinking chianti and limoncello, and chatted easily and endlessly.

Near midnight we said good-night, and until we meet again, and parted ways. We walked back through the tangle of streets that had become our neighbourhood, and stopped for one more dark-chocolate gelato somewhere in the centre of one of Italy’s greatest cities.

Hover your mouse over the images below (or choose landscape on mobile) to see some pics of our week in Milan

Canals were built in to bring the marble by barge from the lakes district for the Duomo. A few canals remain in the artsy district of Naviglio

I’ll go back to Milan any day just to wander through Peck.

A forest of spires

There are about 3400 statues on the Milan Duomo - this is one of the last additions. Mussolini peering out from the marble foliage

This cathedral is the third largest in the world, and took six centuries to complete. The interior is, in the true sense of the word, awesome

Looking up the street from our hotel at one of the four yawning entrances to the Galleria framed by two blocky building from the Mussolini era. In the foreground, rental bikes await their next rider.

Sections of the Roman city Mediolanum could be found here and there.

Dating from 1824, still adhering to the rules of the day

This gorgeous old church was in our neighbourhood

Inside - check out the arch over the alter and then scroll to the next photo for the true story!

The choir of the church was only 90 cm deep, so the artist in 1472 created an illusion of depth using on fo the first examples of trompe-l'œil in history.

Here you can see the choir stalls where the cloistered nuns (and me) stood.

Where’s Waldo?

Behind La Scala, the pretty Brera district is a lovely neighbourhood for strolling.

The mechanics take a quick look for the problem

I have my license to sail. Some years ago, I signed myself up for a course with Captain Mac’s School of Seamanship. Along with three other students, I cruised the coastline of east Vancouver Island for a week.  Daily, we studied the theory of sailing, read the Tide and Current Tables, plotted our course and took turns at the helm. At the end of the week, to earn my stripes, I was put to the test of navigating Captain Mac’s 42’ sloop singlehandedly through several points of sail in a busy coastal harbour. Captain Mac yelled Man-Overboard!, as he tossed a beacon into the sea. The rest was up to me. The 457-foot BC Ferry Queen of Oak Bay was bearing down on my port-side, a  tug towing a large log-boom was pressing me on my starboard side, and several recreational boats were zinging in and out of the space I need to complete my drill.  I quickly dug through the 200 pages of theory in my head; …working vessel – I must give right-of-way, power vessel – must give me right-of-way – here we go! I called to my crew, Ready to jibe? (Ready Captain!) … Jibe Ho! They threw the sheets, ducked the boom, and winched the sails back in at my commands. A few more manoeuvres and we safely completed the triangle necessary to come alongside the bobbing decoy and pluck it out of the sea. Success!

So, armed with my sailing certificate, why does a little wind bother me? Well, a little wind doesn’t, say, 10-15 knots, but once it ramps up I know Arthur wants to be reefed and heeled and flying along at full hull speed, and this is way out of my comfort zone. While I like the idea that I know how to sail, my primary goal is to get out on the water, and a roomy sailing vessel that can motor through a choppy sea seemed like a safe way to do it. Bonus if I could sail the thing in a light breeze. Arthur, on the other hand, has a knack for understanding the wind, the ropes, and the sails as if he was born on a boat. Perhaps it has something to do with being Dutch; conquering the sea is built into his DNA. He loves the art of sailing and the challenges of trimming the rigging to get optimum performance. Seeing green water through the portholes makes me want to throw-up. When I recognized I was getting nervous every time a slight breeze moved the leaves in the back-yard, I conceded that I might not be cut out for sailing.

Our Canadian home sits at the gateway to Desolation Sound. Captain Vancouver must have been having a really bad day when he named this paradise of warm waters, remote islands and sheltered coves, because, it is the nemesis of desolate. Every summer, boats flock here from  California, Seattle, and Vancouver just to hang out for a few weeks of swimming, paddling, and anchorage-hopping. It’s just silly to live here, and not own something that floats. So, we compromised, sold the sailboat, and bought a little 18-foot (5.5 metre) powerboat dubbed “Rubato”, which is a musical term that translates to something like “steal a little time”. She is big enough to take us adventuring for a long weekend, and she tucks away nicely into the garage when we leave the continent.

But, as you can imagine, the safety of Desolation Sound is a little too easy for our Dutch mariner, and so, to keep everyone challenged, we make an annual journey 100 km's north to the Discovery Islands group.  Here, tides with a spread of 16 feet push the sea back and forth between narrow channels creating currents that can run to 27 km per hour with treacherous rapids, waterfalls, and whirlpools that suck open unexpectedly and disappear just as quickly. Not exactly my cup of tea. Why do I step out of my comfort zone for this? Friends, that’s why. Lovely friends who have been journeying to this area for over 40 years, and since we met them, each summer they invite us up to their cabin to share freshly caught crab over great conversation. Now, even in my books, that’s worth a few rapids. Enter the Tide and Current Tables of my Captain Mac lessons.

A few weeks ago, we embarked on our annual excursion. We opted to make the journey to Owen Bay over two days. Our tables told us we could make safe passage through the rapids at about 1:00 pm on day-two when the tide would be slack. Of course, it is possible to push the limits of both the ebb, and flood tides,  and pass through the rapids when the current is running, a little, especially with our speed-boat, but, slack was my preference.  I awoke to a calm morning. Arthur was already up and making coffee on our little butane stove. Ready! He called pouring me a steaming cup. I crawled out of the cuddy-cabin, and into my seat where I had a view of the whole cove. The water sparkled in the morning sunshine. I sipped my coffee and contemplated a morning swim. Bliss.

“Let’s go through Whiterock Passage, suggested Arthur out of the blue, and then Surge Narrows. I was jolted back to the moment. To make this trip each year, I had to steel my nerves, do my research, and read anything that resembled a “guidebook to the rapids”. Over the years, I’d made friends with Hole-in-the-Wall, one of the most treacherous tidal currents on the coast, and the most direct route to our destination. I knew, from experience, that as long as our timing was right, passing through at slack tide was easy and uneventful.

Uhm, okay... I said slowly processing this new idea and trying to keep an open mind. I like predictable, Arthur likes to switch things up. I tried to see things from his side, and quickly ran through the proposed course in my head; man-made Whiterock Passage lacks the tidal currents of the Hole, but still requires very careful navigation, lining up beacons fore and aft to keep the vessel in the dredged channel. Although we would avoid the rapids of Hole-in-the-Wall, there were still the currents of Surge Narrows to navigate. Surge Narrows! The name says enough. My red flags went up, and the familiar silent tug-of-war started. I pulled up the cushions of the V-birth under the bow where I keep my library of coastal guides and dug out everything I could find on Whiterock Passage. I read aloud from the Sailing Directions emphasizing the “needs careful planning” recommendation. Arthur appeared nonchalant. Let’s just head that way, and see how it goes. Fine. I said. We pulled up the anchor and putted out of the cove.

As we approached the entrance to Whiterock Passage, I was saved by a whale. We stopped the boat for a quick pee and as we bobbed silently in the water, engine off, Pschew!  The tell-tale sound of a whale blasting air through a blowhole. This got Arthur’s immediate attention. (Zip!) Sure enough, Mr. Humpback was floating nearby. A spectacular show ensued of breaching and leaping and whale-tale-wagging, the likes of which I have never seen in over 50 years on this coast. It was so dramatic, we stayed there for an hour – and missed our window for Surge Narrows. We’ll have to take the Hole, stated Arthur, the timing is perfect for slack. He was right, and we did, and we had calm waters all the way into Owen Bay, and it was a little bit boring.

Hover your mouse over the images below (or choose landscape on mobile) to see some pics of our trip to Owen Bay.

Aha! Follow the red line, and you will see that on the way home, we opted (with my well researched blessing) for the alternate routing of Surge Narrows, and Whiterock Passage between Maurelle and Read Islands. I can report, after all that, it was fun!

Coming into our ancorage we encountered a deer swimming from island to island

Waking up in a calm anchorage to fresh coffee!

Humpbacks grow to 16 metres (52 feet) and up to 30 metric tons. Respect.

When we arrive in Owen Bay, we have to wait for the tide to rise before we can moor at our friend’s dock. A favourite tradition is to anchor here, just off the local wharf, and walk the few kilometres to watch the rapids pick up speed at Hole-in-the-Wall.

Watching the rapids, waterfalls and whirlpools intensify as the current picks up speed.

The Dutch make sightseeing by bike super easy. All over the Netherlands, maps and markers called Fietsknooppunten, (translated, bicycle junctions), route cyclists through the most scenic landscapes that an area can offer, but beware! It’s easy to be lured far afield by the beauty. Just yesterday afternoon Arthur looked up from his scores and called in my direction. Hey! Is it time for a glass of chilled chardonnay at Kasteel Schaloen? Twist my arm. Castle Schaloen is about 10 kilometres away as the bird flies, perfect for a short break by battery-bike. We peddled through pretty villages and forested laneways to arrive in the lush Geul Valley where several castles and manor-farms still stand after hundreds of years. We followed the meandering river, to a courtyard terrace where we sat sipping in the shadow of the fairy-tale fortress.  Motivated by the sunshine (and the wine), we chose a different path back home, and arrived at sunset, some 40 kilometres and five hours after opting for our "short break".

Our European home is in Zuid-Limburg, that little tail of the Netherlands that sticks down between Belgium and Germany. The landscape here is so different from the rest of the country that even the Dutch come down here in full holiday mode to walk, cycle, and sit on sunny terraces. South Limburg has an international feel, and there’s good reason; the borders here, formed just 180 years ago, are a new development compared to the castles, farmhouses and half-timbered villages flanking fields and filling valleys. Cycling through the rolling hills, it’s easy to flow across borders, and hardly know you’ve left one country for another.

When we moved into this neighbourhood over a decade ago, Arthur’s son loved to play this game with our Canadian company; Will you go for a little bike ride with me? He’d ask innocently enough. Who wouldn’t say yes to a 12-year-old Dutch boy using his best English? Off they’d peddle through our village, past the Janssenmolen, a windmill built in 1870, around stately Kasteel Doenrade, the oldest castle sight in Limburg dating from 1117, and down a country-lane to the village of Hillensberg, where a few minutes after leaving home he would stop, turn to them and announce with delight. Haha! We are in Germany!!

I’m a history buff. It’s not that I know so much about history, but rather, that I am astounded by it. The concept that the castle in my village (yes, I do have a castle in my village) has foundations from 1310, a tower from 1609, and has been owned by the same family since 1779 has me peddling past the front gate several times a week. At the edge of the driveway, I get off my bike and gawk at the setting, doing my best to imagine the golden-age of grand houses. I ponder who has peered out those stately windows over the hundreds of years past. I never tire of the idea that this chateau has stood as the centre pillar to village life for generations. Okay, I’ll even admit to something of an obsession with my local castle. I’m reasonably sure I could recite to you the lineage of the counts and countesses who have called Kasteel Amstenrade home for 700 years. The 11-hectare English gardens are open daily for the public to enjoy, but the castle is privately owned, and I’ve never been inside.

More than 100 castles from a bygone era remain in Limburg. Some are open to the public as boutique hotels, restaurants, or museums, but most are still privately owned. So, it will come as no surprise, that my favourite day of the year is Open Monumentendag. In order to keep the interest of the people whose tax dollars go to the upkeep of thousands of Dutch historical monuments, once a year a select few castles, and manor-farmhouses throw open their doors for the public. When I’m in residence in Limburg during Open Monument Day, I’ll be peddling along in search of open doors where I can take my gawking inside, and for a few short minutes, be the face looking out.

(Dear Countess de Marchant et d'Ansembourg of Kasteel Amstenrade, I live just up the road and I would be available for tea at your convenience.)

Hover your mouse over the images below (or choose landscape on mobile) to see some pics of our cycles through Limburg.

This village has been protected as a heritage monument since 1969 because of the well preserved farm-houses dating to the 1700’s.

Here is a fietsknoopunt, bike junction, where we can choose the next leg of our journey.

Cycling to the nearby city of Sittard, we pass this chapel in the woods, built in the 1670’s. Limburg has a rich Catholic history. There are many small chapels and monuments throughout the villages and along the trails.

The castle view from the drive where I regularly stand to ponder. Kasteel Amstenrade has been owned by the same family since 1779.

Photo Credit: Rijksdienst voor het Cultureel Erfgoed (National Office for Cultural Heritage)

A view on the back of the castle. The square tower dates from 1609

This castle, originating in 1275, was bought a few years ago by our friend. After a garden party we slept in our roof tent on the grounds.

The Maas River forms the 1829 border between Limburg, the Netherlands, and Limburg, Belgium. This free ferry takes cyclists from one side of the river to the other.

If I blink, I might miss the border crossing from the Netherlands to Belgium.

This manor farm was built in 1615. Most farmhouses in Limburg are courtyard farms, with the buildings forming a square around a small courtyard. The buildings are usually the home, the stable, storage sheds, and an arched gateway.

A favourite picnic spot of mine, the Geul Valley has several castles, cafe’s and terraces, and a swimmable river in summer.

Here, farms dating back 500 years form a small village that once served the castles in the valley.

Look carefully at the gables of this stately home in nearby Nuth, and you’ll see that the year of the home is indicated in the wall anchors.

The Mother of all Limburg castles, Kasteel Hoensbroek, in a neighbouring village, is now a museum with year-round exhibitions. Kids can dress up in period clothing, and knights joust in the castle grounds.

August temperatures in the central flatlands of France average about 30 degrees, too warm, even for me, so I was not entirely opposed to finding somewhat cooler climes. I had been reading up on the Pyrenees. The Pyrenees! Just the name of these mountains exudes exoticism. It is here that France meets Spain; a mountain range with a Mediterranean climate. Now we’re talking! I’d read that this area is one of the least inhabited places in Europe. That would appeal to Arthur,  and, that it is dotted with off-the-beaten-track villages full of friendly folks; right up my alley.

About an hour south of Toulouse we began our ascent. I remarked at the palm trees, don’t see those in the Alps! I chipped. We turned west and began to traverse high mountain passes. I read aloud about our surroundings, and our usual issue arose; we wanted to see it all.

Arthur and I have put on over 300,000 kilometres crisscrossing Europe, sometimes passing through a dozen countries in the space of two weeks. We usually have a strict timetable, and while we do our best to plan different routes to our destinations, or take a side-trip between commitments, I can think of only three times in 13 years when we have stopped, rolled up the tent, and stayed put for more than two nights. Once, on an island in Croatia, once in Snowdonia National Park in Wales, and once at Lac d'Aiguebelette in the foothills of the Alps.

As I read, I realized our trip through the Pyrenees was threatening to be a driving marathon instead of a holiday. Arthur had his sights set on several mountain passes. I was drawn to every side road that took us through an ancient village. Progress was slow.  On the third night, we found ourselves high on the Col d’Abisque, Haute-Pyrenees. We had read that this was, a must-see, an unforgettable view. We had driven three days to reach it, and there we were at the top! The view was five metres at best. Clouds descended all around us, hugging the ground. A light rain commenced, and the driving became treacherous. We pulled off to the side, and I walked in front of the van as we drove through a meadow in search of a flat spot to roll up the tent for the night. I was cold and damp. A lonely Pyrenees Mountain Dog herded his sheep onto our small plateau and sat howling into the fog, clearly perturbed with our presence. I felt defeated. This was not the holiday I had in mind.

Arthur, who doesn’t mind being cold and damp, suggested over coffee the following morning, that we stop here for a couple of days. Ha! Oh, I wanted to stop, but this was downright depressing. I was motivated to find a solution to our misty dilemma, so I pulled out my books. I read that we had indeed reached a most beautiful spot. We’d have to trust the book on that one, but what got me excited was the mention of two wild valleys that cut down into Spain, just a short distance away. Look! I said, pulling out the map. I pointed to the Aspe Valley, and read aloud a promising review on a small campsite in the area. There was a village, hiking, and, yes, gorgeous views. We agreed we would drive a little further.

Too often, French campsites resemble an amusement park sporting pizzerias, water slides, and even discos, rather than a wilderness spot. I was quite content to see just two stars hanging on the wall of the stone office building of Camping du Lauzart. Two-stars indicated warm showers and flush toilets (not necessarily with toilet seats) and a quiet, unstructured atmosphere. Find a spot! Encouraged the front desk monitor, waving us out the door with a friendly smile. High clouds shrouded any mountain view, but the ground was unhindered by fog. We found our grassy plot, rolled up the tent, and hung our wet tarps over a nearby fence.

Camp pitched, it was time to replenish, both my attitude and our supplies. A small wooden sign pointed out the quickest route to the village: Lescun, 1 km. A little exercise and a grocery basket filled with mountain-sheep cheese, local sausage, fresh milk, and a few bottles of cider had me back on track.

Outside the shop, I grabbed Arthur’s hand and pulled him toward a sturdy steeple rising above the rooftops. Time to explore! As expected, the door of the village church was unlocked. We stepped over the sill into the cool interior. Arthur spotted an antique and dilapidated harmonium and sat down. He pumped the bellows a few times and suddenly the wee space was full with the music of organ-chords bouncing from the thick stone walls. I chuckled at his brazenness. He smiled back. We had found our holiday stride. We returned to camp as the clouds blew away revealing Le Cirque de Lescun. Shards of towering mountain-tops drew a circle around our little field, It was nothing short of stunning. 

The next morning, the rising sun shone full on the walls of the roof-tent creating the oven-effect inside. I threw up the door flap to let in a blast of fresh mountain air, and pulled on my woolies. Arthur , who had been up for some time, handed me a cup of fresh coffee as I descended the ladder. I was warm and happy.

The GR10 is a hut-to-hut hiking trail that traverses the Pyrenees, and lucky for us, it cut though Lescun! We headed off for a day hike. following the code of white and red slashes painted on rocks and trees, indicating the direction at each intersection. High up in the hills we unpacked our cheese and sausage in the shade of a farmer’s tree, lingering for some time to let our legs recover from the climb before circling back to the village. 

Back at camp, I traded in my light cotton hoody for my thicker merino and placed my chair in the last rays of sunshine. Arthur pulled out his cello and worked through a piece by Bach. A few people gathered on a grassy slope, listening, and chatting quietly. Hikers flowed into camp from the surrounding hills. Arthur stopped to point out to me that the sheet-music he has leaned up against a fence post is in the handwriting of Bach’s wife. I looked up from my book, took a sip of cider, and smiled.

We stayed three days.

Hover your mouse over the images below (or choose landscape on mobile) to see some pictures of our travels in the Pyrenees.

Every village church offers a new opportunity to try out the acoustics!

Daily we get out and hike a few kilometers 

A UNESCO site dating to 1117

There are so many of opportunities to set up camp in the wild Pyrenees.

Wild camping with wild horses.

Here the fog had lifted a little!

The little grocery store where we stocked up on local goodies.

I love to begin my explorations at the village church, usually rich with local history.

Just above Lescun.

A view from the trail

Returning to the village after the hike

We drove right down our gorgeous valley and into Spain where we had lunch in Jaca.

It was September, and we had some spare time to go exploring. Show me the sunshine, and I’ll show you the way, was my holiday mantra. Keeping an open mind to possibilities, I broadened my weather map to include a full European scan. No sun. None! Europe was a mass of swirling greyness. This wasn’t looking good. And then, it came to me. Uhm, I said to Arthur, not quite believing what was about to come out of my mouth, what do you say we head to Scotland for a couple of weeks?

I’d always steered clear of this suggestion. Why? Well, for one thing, it doesn’t fit my holiday ideal of sunshine. Scotland is known for damp, and drizzle. And another thing? Roaming on other peoples land in Scotland is a right, and when wild-camping is encouraged by the nation we are visiting, my argument for a campsite, sporting toilets and warm showers, disappears into the mist more quickly than Ben Nevis on a September morning. But, I had to concede, if one had to holiday in the rain, then one should go somewhere designed for rain. Scotland, here we come (sigh).

It would not be an understatement to say that, at that moment, my travel partner was the happiest man on earth. Arthur had spent childhood holidays in the Highlands, and as our holiday weeks approached, he was reminiscing about one-track roads, camping wild among the blooming heather, and hiking through the rugged highland terrain. I had done my best to ignore these subtle hints and gone ahead with my Italian planning, but now, as we drove across Belgium toward the ferry that would take us across the Strait of Dover, I was reading the history section of my Scottish guidebook, and my interest was piqued.  I am after all something of a Scottish lassie thanks to my Inverness born great-grandfather, Duncan Cameron, and my great-grandmother Christina MacLaren.

On day one, we scootched through London for a blurred view of Big Ben and Buckingham Palace, raced up the M6 past Manchester and Liverpool, camped the night in the Lakes District, and on day two, we crossed into Scotland. Arthur was on a mission; Highlands or bust. We skirted Glasgow, drove north along the shores of Loch Lomond, and finally, near Fort William, the car slowed, Scotland came into focus, and my jaw dropped.

Scotland scenery, as it turns out, is remarkable. Oh yes, it’s grey, and it’s damp, but it’s also purple, orange and rugged and rocky, and mossy, and oh so fascinating with wide-open glens, rushing rivers, and tumbling ruins. The tumbling ruins had my immediate attention. Who were these people that eked out a living here in this harsh landscape? Whoever they were, they left their chimneys behind when they departed.

Cottage ruins dotted the countryside, each one the same, but different; two grey stone end-walls facing each other a few metres apart with a heap of stones in between where other walls once stood. The cottages stood in rocky fields, on rocky shores, in small groups on windblown cliffs, and sometimes alone, and remote. I had to make my way across the uneven and hilly ground, into every ruin I saw, to stop in stillness and ask the emptiness, who were you?

At Inverlochy we veered west toward Arisaig. We stopped the car and followed a small trail a few hundred yards to the shore of Loch Nan Uamh to look for a camping spot.  The shoreline here was inhospitable. Sharp and uneven stones (surprise!) left no spot for our tent.  We turned to go back when I tripped over a pillar on the shore, mounted with a brass plaque. We had stumbled, really, stumbled, onto a cairn erected to commemorate the place where Charles Edward Stuart (aka Bonnie Prince Charlie), after losing the Battle of Culloden, “…embarked for France 20th September, 1746”. I didn’t have to look for history in Scotland, history was finding me.

High in the northwest of the country, in the village of Stoer, we found the farm where Arthur’s family had set up camp when he was a child. We knocked on the door of the farmhouse, and a small reunion ensued. I took the opportunity to ask my gazillion questions. The farmer told me that professional stone builders had traveled throughout the highlands, building the end pieces of the cottages with local stone, leaving the remaining walls and the roof to be built by the farmers. That explained the everlasting chimneys! Sometimes, families grouped their cottages, working together to support one another, others were solitary. In the mid-seventeen hundreds, the Highland Clearances began. Farmers were forced from the land they occupied, when wealthy landlords set up sheep farming as big business. Many people had to walk away from a lifetime of work, and they sailed for the new worlds of Canada, the United States, and Australia.

Walking through the seaside town of Ullapool a few days later, I let myself through a black iron gate into The Mill Street Old Burial Ground. I planted myself on a weather etched stone tablet, my back to a ruined stone chapel, and I looked out over Loch Broom.  Ancient gravestones surrounded me, each tilting to one side or another, some etched with the name Cameron. And sitting here, I had a rare moment of retrospect. I had to admit to myself that I had fallen for Scotland. How could this be? I was sleeping in a damp tent at night, bathing for the most part in cold creeks and lakes because most of the campsites were closed for the season. I hadn’t seen the sun in days. And yet, I felt at home. I sat for a while in thought, but not for a long while. If I had learned anything in the past few days it was that we Scots do not wallow in sentiment, we get on with the task at hand. Mine was to meet Arthur at the lively pub, Ceilidh, to drink a cider and listen to some fiddle music before heading out of town to set up our wet tent in a wet field beside the rushing river that would be my morning bath.

This trip took place pre-roof-tent, when we were camping out of a station wagon with our little orange MSR Mutha Hubba tent. We returned to Scotland a couple of years ago, to pick up some of our favourite people at the Glasgow airport and retrace many of these steps, this time with a focus on paddleboarding. (You can watch a great little award-winning video made for Hakai Magazine during our paddleboarding trip, here) Did it rain? Why yes, it did, and let me be the first to admit, there is no better place to be in the rain than the Scottish highlands. 

Not convinced? Hover your mouse over the images below (or choose landscape on mobile) to find out more about my Scottish adventures.

The leftover stone cottages tell the story of the Highland Clearances

Looking back along the shore at the cairn we stumbled upon representing the spot where Charles Edward Stuart left Scotland for ever.

Scotland's white sand beaches have great drainage in the rain!

And I thought heather was purple

Discovering that I don't melt in the rain

We kept as much as possible to the small white roads on the map.

This cow was unperturbed by me as I tried to take a closer look at the stone ruins behind him. 

Here, as I had my epiophany, the sun came out just for a moment as if to say, Congratulations, you get it!

I sat on the tablet, there in the middle, and looked out over the Loch

Morning, and I'm not really looking forward to the next step in the day, a leap into that river.  

To live up to my promise of something affordable, I had booked us a random beach hotel for a few days, about 100 kilometres up the coast from Barcelona. I wasn’t sure what the Costa Brava would provide for a beach holiday in October, but we were about to find out.

We arrived in Tamariu at dusk, dropped our bags in our room and made our way to the roof terrace of Hotel Hostalillo, where we ordered tapas and drinks in the warm evening air and sat murmuring our disbelief to each other that we had discovered paradise, quite by accident. Our little fishing village was a curve of whitewashed buildings, separated from the sea by a perfect crescent of sand. Our hotel was set off just to one side of the bay, and below us, at the shoreline, a signpost indicated that the coastal trail, GR92, marched right across our breakfast terrace.

We slept with our door open to the sea breeze and the sound of the waves lapping at the sand and in the morning we sat seaside and munched on warm pastries and tropical fruit while we chatted about our day. Shall we start with a swim at that wee beach just below our room? Explore our village? We opted for a one-way hike toward the south. We'd eat a leisurely lunch along the way, stop when we'd had enough hiking, and take the coastal bus back to our new home for a swim, or a siesta!

The path was rugged but easy to navigate once we learned the code; tell-tale red and white stripes painted onto rocks or trees. Two parallel stripes meant straight-on, a right-angle indicated a left, or right turn, and a slash through the stripes shouted wrong way, go back! We zig-zagged up and down cliff walls, scrambled across rocky outcroppings, and wandered across idyllic hidden beaches. We were giddy with our tropical find.

A couple of hours into the hike, we ran out of drinking water. Where there should have been an al fresca beach cafe, there was only an empty patio with a few drips of water coming from a tap. Ascending the winding trail from the beach, we met another party. Have you come from Llafranc? I asked, pointing south in the direction of the next town. Yes, only another hour or so, was the answer. Is there somewhere to find water? I held up my empty bottle. Uh – well, everything is closed due to the general strike. General strike? We’d missed that memo. No restaurants, no taxis, no busses. We had not planned a return hike into our day. I was dehydrated, and my legs were protesting another climb.

We powered on hoping a solution would find us, but we were, after all, in Catalonia. Yes, that Catalonia. The one that wants independence from Spain. The one throwing spontaneous general strikes and protests. When I booked my flight, I had no idea I’d be landing during the week of the independence vote that went wrong. Clearly, I needed to brush up on my Catalonian history.

We hiked onward, arrived in Llafranc worn-out and asked around in vain for public transport, not today, General Strike!, was the constant mantra. Finally, in a fit of desperation, we cornered a woman about our age innocently dropping off her recyclables, and made our plea. I’ll drive you, she offered with her prominent British accent, I'm Sophia, come with me. We walked a few hundred metres to a walled villa. As we approached, a gate swung open to reveal a palm-lined patio, an infinity pool tucked away into the hillside, and parked in the driveway, a very comfortable-looking Lexus sedan. Phew! Oasis complete. We sat around the pool with our new friend, rehydrating over stories and travel tips, before she drove us back to Timariu.  Note to self: Be a kind stranger to weary women.

We spent the next few days walking the coastline until we were happily exhausted. I swam in the warm sea, drank a fair amount of chilled vino blanco and read from my new book, What's up with Catalonia? Each evening we watched the sunset while choosing between Paella and Fresh Catch of the Day.

I would be naïve to think Tamariu is undiscovered. During my explorations of the town, I found a large campsite, about a dozen restaurants, a couple of small grocery stores, a bakery, and many signs clipped to shuttered windows announcing En Lloguer (For Rent). All of this infrastructure is there for a reason, and I’m guessing that during the summer it might be difficult to find a spot for my beach blanket. But in Autumn, it's my kind of place. The Costa Brava in October, it turns out, is the perfect beach holiday. 

Hover your mouse over the images below (or choose landscape on mobile) for more pictures of our adventure.

Watching the moon rise from our favourite perch on the roof terrace.

The view from our room

Looking back at our village from the GR92

Great news! Timariu's beach is not actually sand, but teensy, translucent pebbles that stay on the beach when you go home! 

Much of the trail is made up from existing infrastructure

The GR92 has very diverse terrain

Still on the right path!

Hmmm - this empty beach cafe should have been our first clue. 

A happy sight! Finally we see Llafranc in the distance.

More empty cafe's in Llafranc

The three different markings. Straight Ahead. Turn Left, and Go Back!

We rounded a corner to find this marvelous pool awaiting us.

We stayed a while, not quite believeing our eyes!

I’m not sure how I missed the Christmas Market phenomenon for the first 40 years of my life, but I assure you I have made up for lost time. It’s true, Christmas markets can be kitschy, expensive and predictable, but my growing list of favourites are cozy, and inviting. Each has a uniqueness and authenticity that keeps me coming back. I’ll admit it, the best place to find me each December is standing shoulder to shoulder around a candle-lit wooden table with other market-goers, drinking glühwein from a colourful ceramic mug and munching on chargrilled bratwurst.

My Dutch home might be Europe’s best location for maximizing visits to the markets. From here, I am in the enviable and dangerous position to be strolling Aachen’s German Weihnachtsmarkt, or Maastricht’s Dutch Kerstmarkt in twenty minutes, and the Village du Noël, Liège, Belgium, in about half an hour. The markets in Brussels, Antwerp, Dusseldorf, Cologne, and Bonn are just an hour away.

Shabby-chic Liège has the French attitude for sharing the joy of food, and the Village du Noël, which spreads across the city each December, filling streets and squares, lives up to the city’s gastronomic reputation. As I weave between the bungalows, I taste a little of everything. One marketeer calls out in his thick French accent, Dried boar sausage, 3 for the price of 2! Spécial pour Noël! Spit roasted pork roast is on offer around the next corner. Another vendor shouts, Chestnuts! Roasting on an open fire! (I kid you not). I settle on a plate heaped with golden fried potato chunks and sizzling smoked bacon smothered with a thick layer of melting brie cheese, served from a one-meter wide cast-iron pan, followed by a fresh, yeasty Belgian waffle with a crisp sugar coating. My biggest limitation in Liège is the size of my appetite.

The Germans have Christmas markets down to an art, and so they should. In this country, the tradition dates back to the Middle Ages. Aachen’s Weihnachtsmarkt is a perfect example of German Christmas market efficiency. The tiny jewel of a centre, dominated by the oldest cathedral in Northern Europe, squeezes a festive atmosphere into every corner. Rows of wooden huts decked with fresh greenery and twinkling lights line the ancient market squares, each with its own theme: brightly painted wooden toys, hand-crafted woollen mittens, perfectly stacked gingerbread, miniature Aachener Cathedrals with tiny glowing windows, tidy rows of snow-globes, perfect little worlds on this misty night. I am mesmerized as I meander through the narrow streets. Michael Bublé is dreaming of a white Christmas above the din of the joyful masses, and for a few hours, I’m blissfully lost here in my own utopian snow globe.

My favourite market is the closest to home - the oldest city in the Netherlands, Maastricht. When all dressed up for Christmas, this city is irresistible to me. Busy patio cafés surround thousand-year-old churches and candle-warmed chapels. With her cobbled lanes decorated with pretty lights, welcoming shop windows, and terrace heaters keeping the winter nights warm, the entire city is a living Kerstmarkt.  An evening stroll through Maastricht is like visiting an old friend.

When I am out of range for my favourite markets, I stir up a batch of my tried and tested glühwein, sit back in the glow of a candle-lit room and stream The Choir of King’s College, Cambridge Christmas carols quietly in the background. I close my eyes and breathe in the scents of cinnamon and citrus, and I can almost transport myself back to those cities of old.

*Glühwein literally translates as glow-wine, and it’s just that! During my first December in the Netherlands. I was exploring The Hague on a chilly afternoon when I stepped into a small café to warm up with a cup of tea. Clipped to the front of my menu was a small piece of paper stating Glühwein. I asked the server what it meant. Oh! She said, you don’t know! It is hot, spicy wine, she explained. It’s very good, especially here. She winked and whispered into my ear conspiratorially, star anise. Never mind tea. The mug of steaming red wine placed before me smelled like gingerbread and oranges with a hint of anise. It was slightly sweet, and I was hooked. I took on the arduous task of perfecting my own recipe, using, of course, the secret ingredient. Here, for you, is my recipe. Merry Christmas!

Hover over the pictures (or choose landscape on mobile) for more pictures of my favourite Christmas market memories.

Onze Lieve Vrouweplein all dressed up for Christmas

Warming up in the Maria chapel as pilgrims have done for centuries before us.

The aroma of oliebollen fills the streets around the Kerstmakt, drawing the likes of me to line up for my share. 

Lively, folksy Bratislava serves up rustic, wood-fired pizzas

Colourful jars of homemade preserves and braided herb wreaths fill the wooden huts.

Beautiful display of local wines

Huge pans of golden fried potatoes, smoked bacon and melted brie. Yes please!

Folks out enjoying the food culture at the Liege market

Lining up for my spit-roasted ham and warm camembert 

Cologne's quintessential market serves up an authentic German experience in the shadow of it's huge cathedral

Sweet little Aachen packs festivity into every nook and cranny.

The nougat hut

Stacked gingerbread is the perfect Christmas treat. 

Tiny half-timbered houses invite you into their perfect world.

Vin Fiert hut. The perfect meeting place

I won’t keep you in suspense, on December 31 at about 4:00pm, I did manage to reach my goal. It was exhilarating to have set this goal and to have achieved it, but what was even more memorable, are the things that I discovered during my year on foot.

Just behind my Dutch house, a gate opens to a few square kilometres of farmers fields scattered with historical villages, all linked together by a network of tractor-trails that traverse the rolling hills and valleys. I know, we’ve all been brought up to believe that the Netherlands is dead flat, but there is a little tail wedged between Belgium and Germany that is distinctly different from the rest of the Netherlands. It is hilly, and this is where I live, and this is where I do most of my walking.

The route I return to again and again connects my village to the farming village of Thull,  about two kilometres away. Once I pass through my gate, I follow a tractor-trail through a series of fields, and then down a short hill, where there is small clearing in the brush at the bottom on the left. The first few times I walked this way, I didn’t notice the clearing, but one day, something caught my eye; a burning candle. I stopped to take a closer look, and I saw a little lantern placed in front of a stone about the size of a bicycle wheel. The stone had a plaque fixed to the front which read:

Op 24 november 1944 kwamen hier door een oorlogsongeval om het leven. (On November 24, 1944, these people lost their lives at this place through an accident of war)

Leonard Lambrichs 27; Willem Vijgen 24; Willem Wijers 14; Karel Knarren 11;

Johan Thiessen 11; Philippus Roverts; 10 Maria Thiessen 9; Lambertus van Eck 9

As I read this, I was appalled. Academically I had known that the war was fought here, but now the idea struck me that World War II had taken place on this very soil, and that it had affected many of my neighbours directly. That it took their children. Family Knarren lived in my house before me. They now live just a few doors down the street. I began to talk to family and friends about the war, and I found that everyone has a story of survival or loss.

During the five years that the Nazis occupied the Netherlands, 234,000 Dutch men, women and children died of war-related causes, and there is a very small degree of separation between then, and now. The stories are about grandparents, uncles, cousins, mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers. Arthur’s father, Hans, when he was nine, was lined up with the rest of his class and made to watch the execution of some townspeople who had disobeyed the rules set out by their occupiers. Later, when Hans was overheard by an enemy soldier cursing the Nazis, he was struck on his back with the wooden butt of the soldier's rifle and knocked over.

Canadian troops led the fight to liberate the Netherlands from Nazi occupation. During the autumn of 1944, they made their way into the Netherlands via Belgium in the south and began fighting their way north. It would take another nine months and many bloody battles before the war came to an end for the Dutch in the north. 7,600 Canadians soldiers died during the liberation efforts. My grandfather, one of the Canadian troops, survived.

When the Nazis began to feel the pressure of the advancing Allies, they cut off food sources to the areas north of the Rhine River. The winter of 1944-45 is known as the Hongerwinter. 30,000 Dutch people died of starvation, disease, and exhaustion.  Arthur’s grandmother, Miep, was one of many women who set out in search of food for her family. Riding her bicycle fitted with wooden wheels in place of long-gone tires, she kept to the small and bumpy roads from Naarden to Zwolle, nearly 100 kilometres, to trade linens for food with farmers. The farmers usually allowed her to take a rest before making the return trip. It was essential to be alert; getting caught with the goods could prove fatal.

During my year of walking, I found other memories tucked away here and there. A monument to an allied plane shot down beside a castle near my home; a Canadian, an Australian and five British airmen lost their lives. A hilltop monument to paratroopers who risked the jump in the dark of night to press forward against the enemy lines.  And in every town, war graves. The tell-tale arched white granite stones lying row on row, each engraved with a maple leaf, the name of a soldier aged 18, or 21, or 25, and a short sentence such as “You died so that they might live” or “He did his duty” or “We will remember when others forget”.

It took me a few months to track down the story of the rock.

The villages in my region were liberated in October 1944. A few weeks later Leonard Lambrichs 27, and Willem Vijgen 24, two Dutch soldiers, were deployed to the tiny village of Thull to clean up discarded munitions left behind when the Nazis retreated. Friday, November 24 was overcast and gloomy. The young men were scouring the fields behind the village when they found a large munitions deposit just next to a tractor-trail. They walked back to Thull to get a wooden pushcart that would make it easier for them to remove all the weaponry in one load. As they turned back to the fields, many of the village children spotted them hauling the cart toward the fields, and followed along behind. Leonard and Willem loaded up the cart and began to push it up a short hill when it exploded.

Lest we forget