Illuminating Hugh

Travelling together for months puts us closer, for longer, than does daily life at home. Rarely, when one or all are tired, sick or reeling with traveller's ennui, it can be trying. More often, since I am fond of my travelling companions, it is a delight.

Over this long trip, I have watched Hugh pursue ships and soccer with passion. Hugh goes deep into his chosen subject. Only when you are with him all day, every day, can you share the richness, the full experience. It is like a solar eclipse.

Playing soccer is, for Hugh, more important than eating. I know this because he routinely skips school lunch to hit the pitch. When we excavate the bottom of his bag, we find fossilised layers of lunches passed over for a pass.

On this trip, we have bought two balls and borrowed more to give Hugh something to kick. He is never happier than when he is playing soccer. He runs himself into a red-faced, sweaty, panting zealot. Hugh does not stop playing once started - darkness, school bells and parents must intervene.

But here's the thing. That single-minded pursuit of the ball has repeatedly seen Hugh overcome shyness and language to play with kids in London, at Statenschool and in Dubbeldam. In each place, he has become part of a team. He knows the names of his team mates, their strengths and weaknesses, shares the excitement of each goal. As we walk the squares, shops and markets of Dordrecht, kids approach to say hello to Hugh, or shout 'engels' across the square. Soccer is social.

'Hugh' is not an easy name for the Dutch to pronounce - it becomes 'Kew' - close enough for Hughie. To see him racing around to cries of Kew! Kew! and high-fiving his brand new team mates has been a revelation.  

His new and growing passion for cruise ships is more solitary, but equally absorbing. He knows the dimensions and capabilities of the world's largest liners and their ranking. He understands the impediments to their design as global roamers - a New York Bridge, the Panama Canal, an English harbour. He is across plans for new liners and those under construction.

He has begun to design his own ships, sketching them during quiet moments and stuffing the dog-eared drawings into my bag. He knows that there is a profession called naval architect. He plans to become one. He has lightly joined the dots between education and career. He talks incessantly, excitedly about all of these things. To me. He assumes that this passion is shared. I try not to disillusion him.

Last night, he asked me what I would dream about. It was his polite prelude to telling me that he was planning to dream about cruise liners. Sweet dreams!

A cheese by any other name....

I really like cheese. Admittedly, as a child my contact with the stuff was limited to bland Kraft slices. Like sliced soap. Over time, I've developed a broader appreciation and taste for cheese at large. The rich, creamy bries, musty camemberts, crumbly old cheddars, redolent blues and pungent washed rinds - I love them all. 

But compared with the Dutch and their passion for this stuff they call kaas, I am, I confess, a cheese virgin.

I had early clues that the relationship between the Dutch and cheese is special. I remember Mark and Ellen - my beloved dutch expatriate in-laws - talking over the table about how they wanted to lose weight, discussing which foods they might cut back on. Bread, bacon and potatoes were mentioned. Desserts were out. As they talked over lunch, they casually sliced and ate cheese from a block the size of a bread bin. It did not enter the conversation. Slicing and eating that cheese was like breathing. The unspoken message was - we can diet, yes - but cheese is not negotiable. 

Although we have a well-equipped kitchen in our apartment in Dordrecht, it does not have an egg flip. The proprietor must hold the view we can do without one of those. There is, however, a cheese slice - clearly indispensible. When I pointed this out to a nederlander, she said, without irony, that I could turn over the egg with that.

I mention these things only to demonstrate that cheese is important here. 

As newcomers to Dordrecht, immersing ourselves in all things Dutch, we have been delighted to find a magnificent kaasboer (cheese shop) in the Vriesestraat, five minutes walk from our apartment. And what a shop it is!

This shop stinks, in the most organic, rich, earthy, wonderful, cheesy way. It is alive. There is cheese everywhere, from everywhere. Chunks of it are thoughtfully cut from massive wheels, ready to buy. Small pieces are set on wooden platters to sample. 

There are soft cheeses,oozing, running off the boards, restrained gently by timber cylinders. Whoofy blue cheeses, daring you to try them. Dutch farm cheeses, from the soft, springy, mild, very young, to increasingly mature cheeses, yellowing and crumbling with the years. And there are amazing spiced cheeses, challenging for the purist, with cloves, carraway and truffle.

When you have done drooling and tasting, feel that to linger any longer over the smells and samples might be inappropriate, the gentle shopkeeper approaches. He helps you with your selection, weighs and wraps it carefully in  waxed paper. Without fail, he escorts you to the door, opens it and bids you good day.

I read in the paper yesterday, without surprise, that this shop, Gert Jan de Kaasboer, has just been awarded best specialty cheese shop in the Netherlands. Fancy that, our cheese shop! 

     

Malteser - a day in Malta is not enough!

I want to go back to Malta - now, to bloginisce - and later, for a longer visit.

Aboard the Splendida, we steam between ports overnight, spending each day somewhere new. Arriving and leaving port become important punctuation points in our journey.

Arriving is a time of anticipation, excitement and preparing for a day ashore.  There is a buzz as people rush to ready and disembark.  A flurry of trucks and boats gather round to resupply and refuel our ship. It is a logistical miracle. Don’t forget the prosecco, we shout!

Departure seems more about reflection and relaxation. Passengers lean over the ship’s side, watching the dockers at work, or, like us, take aperitivo of prosecco and cocktails in the lounge before dinner.

   

The crew is busy and focussed, bringing this floating city safely into ports designed centuries ago for smaller craft, tying up and casting off.

The Splendida has massive stern and bow thrusters that turn it on a euro. The throb of those engines,an turn it on a euro. The throb of those nturies ago for smaller craft, tying up and casting off. The Splendida has mass  as they finesse the monster up to a dock, is a sign to all aboard that we have arrived or departed.

 

On the fourth day of cruising, I wake at dawn as we enter Valletta, the stunning fortified port of Malta. Valletta has a narrow, walled mouth, tricky to navigate. It opens to a grand, ancient harbour, lined with forts and old buildings. At dawn, it is breathtaking.  It is love at first sight.

We have a day to explore. First, we take a bus that circumnavigates the island, taking us around its rocky coast, with small beaches, fishing villages cum tourist towns. Extravagant cars and boats move among retro, rickety, finned buses.

Inland, hilltop villages, forts and castles dot the landscape. It is a rural vista, a tapestry of small, walled fields. It is low-productivity, high-labour agriculture – the sort that is beautiful to see, but can’t survive the hot breath of international competition.  Bigger economies like France see ‘multi-functionality’ in their landscapes and pay subsidies to keep it. I doubt that Malta, with its postage-stamp economy, can afford the luxury.

A nation’s citizens must shudder when told their country has ‘strategic significance’. For Malta, it has meant occupation over millennia, by Phoenicians, Romans, Sicilians, the Knights of St John, France and finally the British, who handed it back in 1964. The last left some good transport and telecommunications infrastructure and countless expat sailors who couldn’t bear to leave.

Valletta looks the fort city it is. Perched high on a rocky headland, it is a rustic, rambling sandstone beauty. Many of the lanes are stepped, steep as you go down to the harbour. It has the weary charm of an old port town.

On the day we visit, the light is stunning. Salt haze in the air gives a misty shimmer to the afternoon that is unforgettable.

Already making plans to return, I stop at the Harbourside Hotel, perched over Valletta’s exquisite port to enquire. Yes, sir, double rooms with breakfast and a view, 47 euro. Splendid!

We wander back down to the boat and track down the kids, who have been swimming, playing and flopping on the bed.  We join them.    

Snuggling in for Dordrecht's winter

The forecast for the weekend says maximum minus 4, minimum minus 7, chance of snow 50%. When we were in England in October, the early arrival of Siberian geese was seen as a portent of a fierce european winter. Imagine flying south for the winter and the south is England! We hope they're right.

We are back in our cosy Dordrecht apartment, central heating apumping. The gloves, scarves, beanies, coats and thermals are on. Caity has a beanie that would make an excellent tea-cosy. I foolishly pointed this out to her. Naively, we think we are ready for anything. I have seen serious coats in the shops here that are unlike anything in Australia. They scare me.

While we were in Italy, where we were warm, winter was taking hold here. The trees are mostly leafless, the light is watery and the air has bite. The harbour and its old boats are settling in for the winter. 

The shops are ready for Sinterklaas and zwarte piet, Holland's version of father christmas, with his black helper, who have journeyed by steamship from Spain. I kid you not! There are fantastic marzipan sweets, facsimiles of fruit, pigs and other things that are absolutely beautiful. 

Mark and Ellen have arrived; Les and boys are in Paris for the rugby and will land here Sunday.