Almost a gunfight at the Hotel Zalm

Michael and I are up for seven and I have breakfasted and showered for eight, David and Irene arrive shortly after half past eight and by a quarter to nine we are on our way, having first said our goodbyes to Irene's brother. It is drizzling as we drive off and the weather gets progressively worse as we drive north, but mercifully the traffic is fairly light until we pass Frankfurt and head towards Cologne. Frequently we have to slow right down due to the ferocity of the downpours, but the forecast indicates that brighter weather is on its way from the west and that we should meet this soon after crossing the border into Holland. We stop for lunch about 100km south of Cologne and for the first time in Germany or Austria, there is no apfel strudel, so I order a Danish instead, David has gone to the toilet, so I help Irene at the self service counter, she orders chicken, chips and salad and then proceeds to demolish the lot. The diesel in Holland is about ten percent cheaper than in Germany, so David defers filling up until we cross the border, which we do about sixty miles past Cologne. Irene uses the toilet and we wait for her to return before driving off, we are now just over an hour from Graham's house, and although I have been there numerous times, I have only driven there once, I text him for directions and tell home to expect us around three and he responds immediately. Irene then declares that she can't find her handbag, and it becomes obvious that she has left it in the toilets at the filling station. We take the next exit and retrace our steps, it is further than we remember, about twenty kilometres towards the German border. Fortunately the staff have found it and return it to David, complete with cash and credit cards. He tells me that he keeps removing the cards, but wherever he hides them in the house, Irene always manages to find them. I text Graham, revising our ETA for four o'clock, we can still spend a couple of hours with him, as the last boarding for the ferry isn't until half past seven and it is only half an hour from Cappel an der Ijssel, where Graham and Liliane live. Graham's directions are clear and we arrive at their house just before four o'clock, they have coffee and a huge, deep dish, Dutch apple pie ready, especially for me. On balance I prefer Dutch apple pie, with its cinnamon and sultanas to German or Austrian strudel. The weather in Rotterdam is fine, so we sit in the garden and drink coffee with our pie and chat for a while, before Graham takes us to his allotment to show me the progress since last year. Frankie, his hyper active, border collie, accompanies us, bullying me to throw his ball, which I did during my last holiday and no doubt will do again in July, when I return. Too soon it is time to leave, I hand Graham my bag of extra clothes, which will allow me to travel by air with just hand baggage and also a set of Alan keys, that I borrowed two years ago on a cycling holiday with my sister, Jackie and her family. Graham thanks me and confesses he had given up hope of seeing them again. We leave around a quarter past six and then promptly get lost, taking a wrong turning before the ring road. Rotterdam is blessed with three rivers, the Ijsell, the Maas and the Rhine, as well as innumerable canals and the road network makes spaghetti junction seem like a rural cross roads. Eventually we find our way back on to the motorway and arrive at the ferry terminal shortly after seven, the clerk looks at our tickets and informs us that we are booked for tomorrow night, Monday, not tonight. David rechecks the ticket and realises he has made a mistake. We ask how much it will cost to change the booking, but the price is prohibitive, as much again as we have already paid. Being both Yorkshiremen, we hate being taken advantage of, so we turn around and drive off in search of accomodation. I am concerned that David has already been driving for almost eight hours and if he had a tachograph fitted, would be forced to rest, so we head for the nearest town, which is Breille, only six kilometres away. It is nothing short of amazing how quickly the industrial sprawl of Europort gives way to the idyllic Dutch coastal scenery. Breille is a medieval town, with a large church, constructed along a series of quays, that lead out onto the sea. We stop in the centre of town and I enquire in a cafe for the best place to stay, the young waiter recommends the Hotel Zalm, just round the corner, commenting that there are cheaper places, but that this one offers the best value. It is now almost eight o'clock and when we enquire at the hotel, the head waiter/bartender/general factotum asks us to wait while he checks, he returns after ten minutes and slides me a piece of paper with the price for a family room written on it. It is 104 euros for the three of us including breakfast, cheaper than the ferry rebooking and with the added benefit of an extra days holiday, so we accept gratefully. He also tells us that if we want dinner we need to order quickly, as last orders are at eight thirty, David goes back to the quay, where we have left the car and I order small beers for Irene and I. A group of men, who it turns out are ships officers, return indoors to the bar after a smoke, one is Irish, another German, a third Norwegian and the last either Danish or Swedish by his accent. They are all speaking English fairly quietly, except the Swede/Dane who's discourse is peppered with obscenities, I can see Irene is discomforted by this, but let it go as David has returned and we make our way into the restaurant for dinner. As this will almost certainly be my last chance for fresh white asparagus, I order the poached salmon accompanied by white asparagus. After all the Hotel Zalm, means salmon in Dutch. The meals arrive within fifteen minutes, but unfortunately the sailors arrive with it and take a table immediately behind us. The Swede/Dane, having had several more drinks is somewhat louder, and a lot more obscene in his use of language, so after a couple of dirty looks fail to suffice to quieten him and in the absence of correction from his colleagues, I leave the table, go to him and tell him there is an English woman sat behind him and that his language is causing offence, before resuming my seat. The language tones down for a while and then he starts to complain loudly that he didn't deserve speaking to in that way to his colleagues. The meal is ruined and my temper flares, it has been a long day, so I get up again and quietly suggest that if he doesn't like to be spoken to about his behaviour he had better change it and that failing that we can discuss the matter in the car park outside. He is about my size, about twenty years younger, but out of shape and like most windbags, quickly deflated. Fortunately for me his colleagues did not take collective offence, or I could have been in serious trouble. They leave shortly afterwards and make their way back to the bar. I send the chap a conciliatory brandy later, but he declines, so I suggest to the waiter that he tells the guy that we will be coming to the bar for after dinner drinks in ten minutes and he might consider whether he wishes to be there when I arrive.  It transpires later that they have been working a fairly brutal shift pattern and are close to exhaustion, alcohol providing some solace. In retrospect I should have handled the matter more tactfully and no doubt my tiredness and perhaps over protective attitude for Iren's vulnerability, played a part. One more thing to confess to Father Roy when I get home! We turn in around eleven, the sailor having taken my advice, they are all staying in another hotel, except for the German, who appeared older and more senior. The room is delightful, my single bed in an alcove round the corner and within minutes we are all sound asleep.