Travelling to Holland

We wake at half past seven to another cool day, I feed Norman the last of the current box of Bakers and then make whole meal pitta bread with marmite for breakfast, having successfully run down the food in my refrigerator before my holiday. I just have time to shower and dress, before it is time to walk with Nellie and Betty, at a quarter to nine. She has a neighbour's spaniel with her, while they visit the Great Yorkshire Show. It is a lovely pedigree dog in mottled black and silver and moves with a graceful undulation. We have decided to take Normy all the way round the fields, as he is unlikely to get further than Seven Corners Lane with Sarah. The cooler weather suits the dogs and we chat as we walk, I tell Betty that Hanne Hamilton can't remember her and she says she isn't surprised, as it was thirty years ago, when they worked in different hospitals but for the same boss. We return home for ten and Betty gives Norman a biscuit and says she will see him in a week's time. She will look after him well and walk him with Nellie until I get back. I have an hour to complete my last minute jobs, putting my pots of herbs outside and throwing away the ageing house plants from the stand in the garden room. I also throw the milk away and then donate the remains of the remaining fresh salad to my next door neighbour, Kath, before loading Normy into the car, along with his bed. I have to call in at Tesco, in order to buy dog food for two weeks and leave the windows open for Norman while I shop and return within five minutes and then drop him off with Alice at North Bar. I leave Beverley at 11:30, on schedule, and follow the usual route through Howden to the M62 and on to Jackie's house in Birkenshaw. I settle into my energy saving driving routine, put the Test Match on long wave and settle down to listen to the commentary. Australia are batting and the English bowlers are on top, Anderson making the ball reverse swing and by eleven o'clock, Australia are 117 for 9 wickets and bring on their last batsman, a nineteen year old called Aggers. It looks like being all over before noon, but, by the time I arrive in Birkenshaw at one, the kid has scored forty runs and made it to the break for lunch. Gino is in the garden with Rebecca, she is off work with illness, and I join them sitting on the swing seat in the sunshine. I passed from cloud to sunshine at Howden. Jackie arrives home a few minutes later for lunch and we sit and chat for a while and then on impulse, I check the weight of my cabin baggage, I packed last night, when I was tired, so may have taken too much. It is 11.5 kilos, my allowance is 10 kilos, so I lose a couple of unnecesary sweaters, a tee shirt and a pair of casual shoes. The case now weighs exactly 10 kilos. The airline, jet2 is a low cost specialist and it could cost me an extra £50 if I am checked. Gino is driving me to the airport and then driving my car back to his house, where he will park it for me until I return. We decide to have lunch at the Mermaid fish restaurant in Morley, probably the best fish and chips in the world. The food is up to its usual exceptional standard and we leave happy and full at half past two, alowing an hour to drive to the airport, which is fifteen miles away. Gino drives, his father was Irish and is mother Italian, so he is only half Italian but he drives like a full blood, putting my Chrysler through its paces and rapidly destroying my frugality. The traffic is heavy, so we switch on the cricket, young Aggers has scored 92 and in conjunction with Hughes, has broken all the records for a tenth wicket stand, so from being seventy runs behind England, they are now fifty runs ahead. It is a fairy tale innings for the Australian teenager, and I suspect everyone watching and listening around the world, whether they support Australia or not, is willing him to reach one hundred runs. He gets to 98 and then is caught in the slips, before he can reach his century. Because of the heavy traffic, it takes almost an hour to drive to the airport, the latest scam is that you can't drop people off without paying a £2 parking fee, so I thank Gino for the lift and then pull my cabin bag on its wheels to the terminal. It is scorchingly hot, but mercifully I only have a few yards to cover before I am in the air conditioned terminal. Now that I know the ropes, security is a breeze, and I am through in less than two minutes, and soon sitting in the departure lounge waiting for my flight to be called. We take off at four twenty five, five minutes early and will be on the ground in Schiphol airport within the hour. For most of it we are bombarded with adverts and product promotions, by the poor Jet2 staff, but I still manage to strike up a conversation with the passenger in the next seat. She is a Slovakian, who works at Harvey Nick's in Leeds and is flying for two weeks holiday with her boyfriend in Holland, who is from her village and had to leave England when his job fell through. Young people are bearing the brunt of the economic crisis and many are worse off than Veronica and her boyfriend, at least they have jobs. We land five minutes early, Schiphol is my favourite large airport, and although there is a longish walk to customs and passport control, everything else runs smoothly and I am in the adjoining railway station, buying my ticket to Rotterdam, by five to seven. Despite the instructions in English, I still manage to buy a high speed supplement card instead of a ticket, but when I am suspicious as to the low cost, a friendly passing Dutch guy tells me where I have gone wrong. Fortunately I have time to buy a proper ticket before the FYRA, high speed train, arrives for Rotterdam, unfortunately there are no seats, due to the holiday tourists and I have to stand. The journey is not long at this speed, slightly over twenty minutes. I must be starting to look my age, because two young women offer me their seats, which I decline, as I have been sat in a car or aeroplane most of the day. I was advised by my daughter to switch off data roaming on my phone, before leaving England and now I can't ring my brother, Graham, to let him know I will be in Rotterdam Central for half past seven. We have arranged to meet in Starbuck's, where we met last time, so I will just head for there and wait. As it happens, he and his wife, Liliane are waiting for me when I arrive and after a cool drink, we make our way to Graham's car, which is parked nearby, and drive the short distance to Kralingseveer, where he lives. In the cafe he tells me that a colleague was murdered on Monday, whilst helping a client suffering from an acute paranoid attack. He died almost instantly, after being stabbed in the heart, his funeral is on Monday. Graham is a social worker, dealing with some of the most desperate cases, often addicts and many with psychiatric disorders. Graham's dog, Frankie, goes bonkers when he sees me, so after unpacking, we take him for his evening walk, past Graham's allotment, where he proudly shows me a impressive array of produce, broad beans, lettuce, pears, raspberries, potatoes and fresh coriander. Graham and Liliane have bought the best apple pie in Holland for me, so we eat half of it and chat over several pots of tea and then turn in around half past ten, as Graham, understandably, hasn't been sleeping too well and looks shattered.