Emporiums

Royal Pavilion, Brighton

I spent the weekend holidaying, and it was glorious. It was my first trip to visit my university chum (who I didn’t actually meet properly until the literal last day of uni – an improbably true story).

Whilst I have recently moved back in with my family, she has recently moved out, into a beautiful little flat behind a set of towering wrought iron gates. It is resplendently complete with two pots of plastic blue lavender, an array of anime memorabilia, and Mr Jinks, the neighbour’s cat – who welcomes petting.

A two hour trundle on the train down to Brighton, a little hopping between the smaller stations scattered beyond, and I arrived, laden. My small suitcase is currently home to three sarees, waiting for an occasion which my imagination does not stretch to encompass, so I travelled with a handbag, a larger, offensively mismatching handbag, and a flower basket (the second of its kind, following the first I attempted to buy tipping in a woeful flow of soil, root and bud, across the self service checkout).

I was met at my final station by the sight of a light blue beret bobbing between the cars, and the clip-clip-clop of brown heeled brogues. And there she was, after many, many months, queen of the cardigan, my fellow cackleberry – that is my own father’s most flattering description.

Friendship really is up there among the most marvellous things this world has to offer, is it not? And especially after a long parting, reunion is a joyous occasion.

I was a little worried, as the hyper-sensitive, rather juvenile side of me often is, that somehow it would not be as it was before, but after a flying dash to Tesco and a homemade cocktail, such concerns were assuaged.

I met Heather’s best friend and flatmate, with whom she frequently serenades her living room (all manner of musical reference, with a smattering of original material), and we ate the biggest glob-of-cheese pizza the supermarket had to offer. Better than Dominos? For a tenner, with the works, it’s a no-brainer.

And of course the chat ran long into the night, as chat always does.

Saturday morning and Heather was up, making tea from her ninety-variety strong cupboard, and I was death, because I’m still waiting for my sudden metamorphosis into a morning person to strike.

Leftover Japanese melon buns (from her trip to London a few days prior) for breakfast, and then we headed out across the downs, off to the eclectic mash that is Brighton.

My last visit to this city was my twentieth birthday, an incredibly fun but rather messy affair with stories still going strong in the friendship group three years later, so I was eager to make this trip classier.

And what classier thing to do than to explore the narrow twists and turns of The Lanes, where really, and I’m not exaggerating, you might find anything at all.

In amongst the squashed-faced rabbit bathbombs, the chocolate delights of Choccywoccydoodah (to those not familiar, I’m not making that name up), and the horrifying taxidermy tarantulas we found a photo booth. The results were horrendous and in the interest of public safety I have not uploaded them.

I don’t very often go shopping, because I feel guilty about the environment (and I’m usually broke – go figure), but shopping secondhand is one of the best ways to keep things out of landfill, and I love that you never know what you’re going to find.

One of my favourite shops was Snoopers Paradise, which is a sprawling mess of antiquities and vintage clothing. You won’t catch me sticking my toes in any boots fresh from the 80s disco scene, but I do love a shop that feels like a dangerous adventure.

Several snack stops (involving much fending off of seagulls), and our feet had reached that point of comfortable but soon to be uncomfortable numbness. We decided to call it a day, laden as we were with tea from the fantastic Bird & Blend, and more than a few items of clothing. Two trips to the changing room! It was bad.

As the afternoon drew in we took a lovely pigeon-scattering stroll down to the Pavilion, which yes, does look like it was shipped straight from India. Quick history lesson: building began in 1787, the style is Indo-Saracenic, and it was a military hospital during WWI for soldiers of the Indian Army.

With the sea air and the sun beginning its descent, it was a wonderful experience to close the day. Pitstop in M&S to collect our Thai-Japanese style feast for dinner, and we took the bus home, almost too tired to talk (but obviously not quite).

And then suddenly, Sunday. We mooched about the locality, exploring the charity shops and window shopping the wedding boutique, before settling for lunch in a wooden-floored cafe. Avocado smash on toast and American-style pancakes, with fruit smoothies on the side. Watching a dachshund puppy roll about outside and chatting through the last few topics we had yet to cover, it was a fine almost-finish to the trip.

The actual conclusion was cake and a cup of tea, tucked back in the flat with our feet on the sofa, just the way it has always been.

The Water Town

City of vice Amsterdam may be, but it is also a city of tulips, painters, boats and bicycles. It’s a place I was always curious to visit.

Amsterdam is smaller than Paris, and far quieter. There are only a handful of metro lines, and the inner city is connected by a series of trams. The expected bedtime is earlier than you would think, since both these forms of transport stop running at 00:30, but there are night buses which will get you home if you came to party hard.

I didn’t visit for the drugs, or for the prostitutes in any carnal sense. I took the trip with a friend, and considered it something of an intellectual venture (albeit with drinks). I wanted to see, and to learn, and to fill my head up with something new before going home for the summer.

One of the many canals, at midnight

We stayed in a hotel at Bullewijk, which is about twenty minutes from Centraal Station by metro. A word to the wise: don’t try to find decent accommodation in Amsterdam on a budget. Unless you’re willing to share a room with ten teenagers who stink of weed, you’re not going to get anything cheap.

Financially, we were pretty much ruined before we even arrived in the city, but after eight grueling hours on the coach we scraped together enough to buy our 72 hour passes. Transport here is charged by the hour, rather than by distance, or destination. (The price is more expensive than Paris, but still a slashed reduction compared with London).

Our first night out was spent at Leidseplein, a picturesque square which houses an assortment of bars and restaurants, as well as the ever-present Irish pub and McDonald’s which no city I have ever visited seems to be without. Food in Amsterdam can be quite pricey, but there are good deals, including unlimited spare ribs for less than €10, which appeared to be something of a local favourite.

Bullewijk Station

Another note on food is that bakeries, which are situated on just about every street, make a good port of call. There are a variety of European and specifically Dutch fancies, like walnut pretzels, goat’s cheese pizzas, and tartlets in every flavour.

On our first morning we navigated our way to the Van Gogh Museum with a pastry sitting in just the right spot to see us through to lunchtime.

It started to rain. We’re talking a torrential downpour, for which I, sans umbrella, was woefully unprepared. Our plans to visit several museums during the day were quickly scuppered when we realised that there are no admission concessions for young people and students in The Netherlands. In fact, after reluctantly parting with €17 each, we resolved that some serious accommodations would have to be made.

Expensive as it was, however, the Van Gogh Museum is an impressive place, featuring not only a selection of the artist’s masterpieces, but those of his contemporaries, his inspirations, and those who have followed his artistic legacy. There is also a large collection of Van Gogh’s letters, and the museum provides deep insight into him as a person, as well as his growth as an artist over the years of his short, brilliant career.

Section from Van Gogh’s The Courtesan (after Eisen)

It was also our first introduction to Amsterdam’s sexual side, since Van Gogh was himself a frequent purveyor of ladies of the night, and they are featured in several of his paintings, including the Japanese-inspired picture above. Van Gogh’s infamous ear even wound up in the hands of a prostitute, when he gave it to her.

Somehow I doubt she appreciated it.

We decided to make a better attempt at having a night out on the Friday, and after traipsing about a variety of clubs we settled in Escape, at Rembrandtplein, and danced the night away, together with a multitude of international tourists and a handful of the elusive local youth.

It’s quite sad to admit, but I think at the mere age of 22, the discotheque has lost its intrigue for me. It was fun, and I won’t deny that I love to dance, but I find it hard to understand how I once thought nightclubs could be gateways to romance. I think as you get older you start to realise what a gulf there is between sex and love. Nightclubs are a good place to go with friends, to dance and let loose, but they are full of bad behaviour, and in Amsterdam most people you find out after dark are, unsurprisingly, stoned.

Amsterdam at dusk

After a late start on the Saturday we took a boat tour around the city’s picturesque canals (A UNESCO World Heritage site) with a jolly South African captain, and then made our way to the famous Red Light District to see what there was to be seen.

It is a strange place. Really that’s the only way I can describe it. The openness of it is in such sharp contrast to the conservative values of my native England that I found it quite shocking to see the women at their windows, dressed to the nines in their latex and seven inch heels. I can’t imagine what people in my grandparents’ generation must make of it.

There’s a small interactive museum, styled as the brothel it once was, which offers a frank, honest appraisal of Dutch prostitution, as well as an overview of the situation in different countries around the world. I came away not sure what I thought, but with a newfound respect for these women (male prostitution does not seem to be a matter of such open discussion).

They clearly take some pride in their work, and maybe legal prostitution isn’t the most morally upright thing in the world, but I don’t believe it’s that wrong, either. Certainly there is something extremely admirable about the Dutch and their commitment to eradicating trafficking and the other, often unspoken, horrors of the sex industry.

Confession wall at The Museum of Prostitution

Ruminating on the day’s experiences and unusual sights, we took the metro back to the hotel, freshened up, and decided to make the most of our last night in the city. We went out to a bar near Leidseplein, and discussed the weekend over an obligatory Heineken whilst other tourists danced around us.

In the morning there was time only for one last pretzel before we arrived at Sloterdjik and boarded the coach for the long drive back to Paris.

I wish, I think, that I had visited Amsterdam when I was eighteen, instead of 22. It’s a delightful city, in which the old brushes up against the new in the most elegant fashion, but these days I’m not as wild as I used to be, and I no longer have an adolescent’s rent-free disposable income. Certainly there’s a lot to see in Amsterdam that I didn’t get chance to – the Anne Frank Museum and Rembrandt’s house to name but two.

I think one day I’ll go back to Amsterdam and investigate it further. Certainly it would be no challenge to spend a whole week there and explore the pretty little streets and the dark canals, but not yet.

For now, I have to get ready for my next adventure – after four months living in Paris, I’m going home next week. But that’s a topic for another post.

A Cheap Summer

I’m not the ideal travelling partner when it comes to going by car. For one thing, I can’t drive, and seeing as I’m partially sighted, I’m not exactly gifted as a navigator. I can, however, put up a tent, and I will exchange a bleached toilet for a secluded hedge without complaint.

My best friend, Georgina, is a much firmer believer in the principle that there is no decent life without hot running water, so I don’t deny it’s odd that we agreed to go on a camping roadtrip. The explanation is simple, however. We were both in dire financial straits.

We purchased a bright blue tent, online, for £20, which advertised itself as a festival kit, including polyester sleeping bags and the worst groundsheets of all time. For transport, we found a dubious car rental which overlooked the fact that Georgina had written off her first car. Our supplies were from Tesco, and we started our journey thoroughly impressed by our budgeting skills.

There are days when I truly wonder how we survived. I am no believer, but I’m certain that there must have been some higher power looking out for us as we rattled our way out of Glasgow. Armed with two sat navs and a large map – the sort that unfolds, and can never again be folded back into its original sleeve – we were unsure to say the least.

Hands white on the wheel, and in constant need of reassurance that we were not about to die, Georgina got us out of the city, and we set off towards our start point on the North Coast 500 route, which would take us in a circle around the Scottish Highlands.

Given how terrifying our experience of inner-city driving had been, we elected to skip Inverness, and instead spent our first night in the village of Contin, which can accurately be described as a place no one has ever heard of.

The campsite was actually a field by a river. Not exactly luxury, but a sight better than another mile on the road. We set up the tent, and spent the evening with a Chinese takeaway, pondering how far we were from anything, and anyone, we knew.

There’s something to be said for the wilderness. True, there is little comfort in the feeling of a rock pressing against your hip, or in the sound of insects scuttling along the tent walls, but there is a kind of freedom in being away from everything. With a friend for company, the dark night and its sublime mysteries hold little fear. All the world seems alive and waiting to be discovered, and the possibility of getting lost is an exciting one.

Complete with a starry sky and delicate breeze, it was perfect, at least after the rain stopped, and before Georgina started snoring.

We set off the next day with no fixed plans other than survival, and the road took us west to the coast. The sky was full of blanketing cloud, and it was grey. We listened to Frank Turner, and the radio when we could catch a signal.

Most of the time, we were alone on the road. There was something dystopian about it, the picture of us in our little silver car chugging through the empty landscape. The only sign of human presence was the winding ribbon of the road, but I remember we were happy, delighted by our own daring in being there, on the rugged west coast.

The harsh wind there was endured only by scattered flocks of hardy sheep, and the hills were peopled by grey rocks and gurgling streams. The handful of houses we saw were mostly abandoned cottages, defiantly begging their right to exist, even as the landscape threatened to swallow them whole.

It was elemental, and beautiful.

I will be honest and tell you that Georgina and I were not good campers. We spent our trip leapfrogging from one supermarket to the next, and lacked the expertise to keep the tent from dampening the back of the car. Thanks to a dodgy handbrake, we had more than one heart-stopping parking incident, and we were poor planners. The more vexing results were a twenty-three mile drive to find an ATM, and an extremely frustrating hunt for the most disappointing castle of all time.

We even argued, and it was awful, but the Highlands felt, in places, like being on the edge of the world. We saw the sea at dusk from John-O-Groats, drank ‘the best hot chocolate in the world’ (I beg to differ), and through rain and wind and wild places, we found our way.

I don’t think either of us will ever say that the Highlands roadtrip was our best holiday, but it was an adventure we undertook together, and I still smile, whenever I think of it.

Note: The route Georgina and I followed is the North Coast 500, which is described as ‘Scotland’s answer to Route 66’. If you’re interested, you can find more details about it on the official site here.