Category Archives: Travel Stories

Holland: Sweet Dreams in Cheese Valley

‘And this is the Rockefeller Centre, and this is the Empire State Building,’  the lady in the next seat told me, as we trundled down the runway, ‘And this is the view from the Statue of Liberty, and this is the hotel, and this is the rubbish outside the hotel in the morning, and this… look!’ she exclaimed as she zoomed in on the clear plastic bin bags, shuffling back and forth on the screen, ‘That’s our rubbish, in there! That bag!’
I was, of course, enthralled.

I’m getting used to travelling alone. I am happy with my own company. I am happy talking to strangers. I feel pleased that I can drive–train–train–fly–train–train, to another city, in another country, and meet up with a bunch of other people who are equally as interested in all the things as I am.

In Gouda’s Unique restaurant I sat at the end of a long table, surrounded by fabulous Italians. I soon found myself speaking fluently, sharing knowledge and chatting about wine. That’s not true. I just kept saying ‘Tutti Biscotti’ and ‘Buono buono’ whilst smiling in between mouthfuls. Luckily, they all spoke great English and were willing to do so, for my sake (and theirs).

Gazpacho. Steak tartar. Risotto with Chicken of the Woods mushroom and Madeira jus. Dutch beef with asparagus. Apple tarte tatin with basil ice cream. Only five courses. Eyes bulging.

I’ve never eaten Chicken of the Woods, to be honest, I didn’t know it was edible. The texture of chicken, but it’s a mushroom – some sylvan trickery right there. It used to grow from a tree trunk in our garden, and when it looked ripe to spore I would walk past with my breath held, just in case. Had I known it would make a delicious dinner I would have gone at it with a knife and fork.

I realised that I really was living the dream when I reached my hotel room and found a wheel of cheese, a packet of stroop waffles, and an informative cheese factsheet on my bed.

We stayed at the Best Western Plus City Hotel Gouda, next to the former gas and light factory, with the river in front. Lining the corridors, outside each room, was a large photograph of a local scene. I thought mine was of a toilet. Turns out it was actually a basin from the 17th Century fish market. And those sedatives on my bed? Complimentary mints.

My peaceful slumber was interspersed with mushroom night sweats and dreams of yellow gold. Should have had those mints.

We walked through the city, taking in the grachts (not canals!) and making our way, via a small house with a panther-like cat called Freddie, to the Kamphuisen siroop wafel factory.

Through a hidden door in a room at the back of the shop, we discovered the factory.

Climbing the spiral staircase, we watched the conveyor belt from above. Double baked waffles with sticky caramel syrup clip-clopped their way past below. Downstairs we could collect a hot, fresh waffle. There was a slide to take you straight to them.

Throwing myself down a chute in a food factory has never seemed quite sensible to me, (I’ve seen Charlie and the Chocolate Factory) so I took the stairs.

The smell of warm waffle wafted.

In the centre of Gouda, opposite the magnificent Town Hall, is De Goudse Waag. What was once the Weigh House for all the cheese of Gouda, is now a centre for cheese tasting, cheese buying, and cheese museum-ing (You’re right, I didn’t think that one through).

We rummaged round the museum, marvelling at the frames full of fascinating (and often quite amusing) cheese labels, and ate cheeses of different ages – young cheeses just four weeks old, and old cheese that had been matured for two years or more. Good cheese. None of that springy rubbery supermarket stuff you might have been misled to believe was Dutch cheese.

Cheese Valley is a small region in an area known as the Green Heart of Holland, covering four towns and cities, each with its own cheese history and traditions. Bodegraven-Reeuwijk, Gouda, Krimpenerwaard, and Woerden.

They call their Gouda cheese ‘yellow gold’. For centuries these cheeses were made in the region and traded in Gouda city. Not made there, just traded there.

In and out of the courtyards of the hofjes, peering in windows at beautiful homes, finding cats and roses. Maybe this story should have been entitled ‘Cats and Cheese’? In fact, I’d be happy to dedicate an entire website to that, or my life.

Leaving Gouda we drove alongside the green covered canal, a crow flew, same speed, beside my window for a while. It was magic. Gliding past neat houses and lush fields, Grandmaster Flash, it’s like a jungle sometimes, playing quietly on the radio.

We squeezed through the narrow streets and arrived at De Munt, a restaurant located in an old bank in Bodegraven. We were welcomed with plates of local cheese, served traditionally with mustard, and trays of drinks. At first, I thought we would need to choose a drink each, but no, all five glasses were for me. Sauvignon Blanc, Chardonnay, a couple of different Leffe beers and a very grapefruity double beer from the local brewery, de Molen.

Then came the fondue. I’ve never had fondue before, ever.

Everything was local, top quality, easy to source, and delicious to eat. Goose with strawberries and raspberry vinegar. Crayfish with local beef. Beef with tomato and herbs. Chips with truffle mayo. Cheese fondue and bread. I repeat, cheese fondue and bread!

Gratefully clutching cones of award-winning full-fat vanilla ice cream in hand, we continued on to the brewery (what kind of dream world is this that I am living in?)

Brouwerij de Molen is one of the top 100 breweries in the world (and number one in The Netherlands) making 20 regular craft beers, and over 1000 variations – they like to experiment, and they’re good at it!

Back on the road, and a short trip down narrow lanes with steep banks dropping away, down to the dykes and the fields, goats and cows, we arrived at De Twee Hoeven.

Milking 180 cows each day, this fourth-generation farm produces 150,000 kilos of cheese every year. We toured the farm, saw the cheese making facilities, the big salt water baths that the cheeses are dropped into, the stores and then, the cows. It was coming up to 5pm and the ladies were wandering in from the fields for milking time. Everything was immaculately clean, spacious and genuinely top-notch, but I couldn’t help but think it was like a cattle work camp, with the best conditions though, and how horrible some dairy farming methods are in other parts of the world.

A cow licked my elbow and I thought my day was made, until I discovered a pile of cats, and had my second fondue of the day. Second fondue of my life. The dream!

Making room for more food, which is not so hard to do when it’s delicious (and I do think all the good cheese acted as a digestif) we spent the evening at De Florijn in Nieuwerbrug, on the Rhine.

The restaurant has been awarded the Michelin Bib Gourmand for nine years in a row. Chef Brenda de Graaf greeted us with a delicious, and in many ways, rather unusual, menu.

Broad beans with egg yolk and courgette. Local beef with caper berry and sunflower seeds. Asparagus panna cotta with tarragon meringue, apple and watercress. Turnip top soup with tomato. Lamb with white asparagus and peas. And a dessert of rhubarb – sorbet, ice cream, mousse, macaron.

I don’t think I’ve had a savoury panna cotta before, certainly not with asparagus and meringue. On the first mouthful I was disturbed – my brain knew the consistency and said it should be sweet, not savoury. I persisted, my brain learnt something new.

Everything was great, but the dessert was greatest.

When I woke up it was Grass Cheese Day.

Excited, I rushed down to meet the others. After a short walk around Woerden, taking in the Mill de Windhond (windhond means greyhound) with it’s paper bags of pancake flour for sale, and the 100 year old Reypenaer cheese warehouse, on our way, we arrived at the Cheese Experience Centre.

We were greeted by the mayor of Woerden and watched a film about cheese. Grass Cheese Day is all about celebrating the start of a new cheese season. In the spring the cows are let out into the lush green meadows to feed on the fresh grass, the first cheese made with this milk is the Grass Cheese.

Woerden’s first farmers market was held in 1410 and is famous for its regional products. The cheeses arrive on tractors, and on Grass Cheese Day, the dignitaries and visitors arrive in horse drawn carriages.

Climbing up into a traditional carriage, drawn by two horses, we became cheese guests on parade. Through the streets, behind the band, waving at passers-by and cheering children, a line of carriages behind us, and somewhere, a massive 150 kilo cheese to be auctioned off for charity.

Four men wrestled the cheese beast onto the stage, the crowd went wild, press camera-flashes firing, the band playing on. There was even a special cheese song. Someone told me the lyrics said ‘on your breast, cheese tastes best on your breast’. I’ve google translated it. Bread not breast.

“The cheese the cheese, everything is smooth
Nothing is better on your bread
He is keen on big people
Everyone praises the cheese on the cheese
Hooray, you are full fat”

There was also something about a magic wand taking care of the peasant women, but I forget. It was one of the most surreal experiences of my life, and I just went with it, embraced it, and thought about the cheese, and the waffles.

I was watching the auction (and managing to keep my arms from flailing high in biding motion), the show, the old-fashioned traditions, the heritage, costumes and community. Apart from a few signs of modernity (like the camera in my hand) this could have been any year, any era.

A familiarly sweet smell wafted in the air, I looked round, Joel appeared behind me, can of Red Bull in hand. ‘Supermarket,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders. Illusion broken, we wandered the market stalls, rows of cheeses and smiling faces. A bull having its bottom washed, a man making clogs. My cheese allowance didn’t quite reach to the €15,200 of the charity mega cheese, but Joel lent me five euros for some ginger cheese and I was content.

We ate a quick lunch in Van Rossum, a converted arsenaal, now a hotel with a welcoming and relaxed bar and restaurant – open kitchen, big oak beams and excellent decor. Salad with roasted carrots and Blue de Grave cheese. Perfect entrecote. Gutted I had to leave before the strawberry madeleines came out.

I rushed to my train, and it seemed like it was no time at all before I was sitting  on the flight home, the woman next to me chatting away, drinking her own bottle of pink wine and talking me through her bag-full of sweet smelling roses from the Amsterdam flower markets.

All I could wonder was, when the alarm goes off in the morning, will it be Grass Cheese Day all over again?

With the greatest thanks to Visit Holland and Cheese Valley for making this trip possible. As always, my opinions are my own (and my ability to eat cheese is unsurpassed).

France: From the City to the Hills – Grenoble & Vienne

I’d never really thought of Grenoble as a spring/summer destination. To me Grenoble, the capital of the Alps, meant ski, ski, ski. Apparently to Adam’s friend Nigel it meant the risk of nuclear irradiation. Chernobyl mate, that’s Chernobyl.

One, two, three… minutes – the approximate time it took to get off the plane, through passport control, and pick my bag up off the carousel. The airport was empty. Empty.

During the winter 350,000 passengers make their way through Grenoble airport, I’m guessing it will get somewhat busier with the new summer flights offer (Ryanair £9.99 each way, 3 times per week – and the reason we were there) but I was totally surprised by it all (and slightly worried I was in a re-make of The Langoliers).

After dropping our things at the hotel we headed out for dinner, walking between the modern apartment buildings and down through Victor Hugo Square with its renaissance facades, palms, orange and chestnut trees.

 We were off to Restaurant Chez le Per’Gras, a 5th generation, 120 year old restaurant, situated in the Bastille, high above the city. There seemed to be three popular ways to get there – to drive, to run, or to take the cable car.

Grenoble’s cable car was one of the first in the world, built in 1934 it’s a real must-see for the experience as well as the view.

263 metres high, hanging in the air in a 1976 Plexiglas and aluminium bauble, I wondered if I really did need a dinner after all.

Turns out fate had the same idea about my dinner needs – the restaurant really struggled to cater for my allergies. Still, I could have been content with just the incredible views. As the sky turned pink over the mountains, I savoured my leaves of Little Gem.

Darkness fell and we took the cable car ride down into the city, gliding towards the sparkling lights, and headed towards a cocktail bar for a Chartreuse Mule (made from Chartreuse, lime and ginger beer). Chartreuse is the famous ‘green liqueur of health’ created by monks of the region, the recipe dating back to 1605 and made from more than 130 plants.

In the morning we took a street art tour. For the past few years Grenoble has held a Street Art Festival in the summer. Artists from around the world volunteer their time to create the works of art and help put the city on the cultural map. We walked the streets, turning each corner to see something new, from basic tags to massive murals: Antony Lister’s Mime, the amazing Nevercrew’s Ordering Machine, RNST’s la Fille du Printemps, and a 70 metre long mural showing the history of graffiti font on the wall of la Piscine Jean Bron.

We ended our trail at le chat of Christian Guemy, then rushed to the Fromagerie Les Alpages to meet Bernard Mure-Ravaud, Guinness World Record holder and chief cheese geezer.

So much cheese. So many eyes bulging with delight. I can’t eat the squishy cheese, but I was very happy to take double helpings of sweet and nutty tasting Comte, made from the summer milk of cows who spend the season eating sweet herbs in the mountains. Apparently, in October there’s a week-long festival in the street where they bring the cows down from the mountains and parade them, now that’s got to be worth seeing!

We ate an amazing lunch at L’Epicurien: local sausage salad with onion confit, perfectly cooked entrecote with pepper sauce and dauphinoise potatoes, macarons and sorbet. Proper traditional French cuisine in a friendly and welcoming restaurant. It was Lucy’s birthday and this felt like a really joyful celebration.

There are 23 museums in the city. With only a couple of hours to spare we legged-it round Grenoble’s top-notch Museum of Art, getting a whistle stop tour of some of the best art from 13th Century to the modern day. Rubens, Canaletto, Gainsborough, Renoir, Gauguin, Pissarro, Modigliani, Picasso, Monet, Miro, Caulder, Klee, Arp, Matisse… the list goes on. I was particularly taken by Thomas Couture’s portrait of Madamoiselle Florentine de l’Opera.

Although the museum was founded in 1798, the current building was built 1994 and has some amazing spaces, some left empty-walled, giving the sense of immense and valuable space.

There was a huge amount I missed, most disappointingly the Caro (I tried to sell one of those at auction once) and George Rickery Conversation mobile – I’ve been mesmerised by his work before at the Kroller Muller Museum in the Netherlands.

Onwards, from the city into the hills, to the beautiful vineyard of Domaine Corps de Loup (body of the wolf!), in the hillsides of Cote-Rotie and Condrieu.

I’ve never been to a vineyard before, but this was exactly what I’d imagined it would be, apart from the big ol’ dog, I’d not accounted for him.

In the cellars we tasted wine. I tried to describe the flavours. I’ve not mastered my vocabulary yet, but when ‘it’s like a papery leathery Indian emporium, all rich and dusty,’ becomes an acceptable description, I’ll be totally ready for my new wine swigging pastime.

Our next stop was the city of Vienne, and dinner at Muse. The restaurant doesn’t have a website, you might struggle to find them online, but if you’re going to Vienne please don’t miss out.

I could have eaten several more bowls of the amazing green asparagus and smoked duck vichyssoise. It’s not often I eat something so delicious that it stays in my thoughts for days after. There was that rice pudding in Neemrana, and that chai latte in Copenhagen, and now this soup, all added to my ‘when I get a teleportation device’ list. The rabbit risotto was also really good – really French, really local.

After a drink outside the roman temple we headed back to the hotel. Lynsey instructed John on the shoe buffing machine, (he seemed hesitant, but in the morning he was very pleased with his shiny shoes) and we all headed off to bed.

Next morning, we took our lives in our hands and boarded the frantic jazz tram for a trip to the chapel on the hilltop and through the city streets.

As the recorded commentary told us ‘Vienne is nicknamed little Rome’ (at volume level eight, the driver told us, he was training his friend to be in charge of the volume controls) we wound our way up the narrow road, grabbing a glimpse of a cemetery, to the top, for the view.

From Mont Pipit we had a panoramic view over the city – the red tiled roofs, bridges and towers, the weird long boats that bring cruises of American and German tourists, and the Roman amphitheatre which had been rebuilt in 1930s and has hosted the famous jazz festival since 1981.

All of a sudden, the tram started to pull off. We looked at each other with concern, ‘Get on!’ We charged, every man for himself, leaping and clambering through the open doors. We gasped and sighed with relief, glad we’d not been abandoned on the top of a mountain and left to find our own way down. Then the driver walked by, he was training his friend to turn the tram around. We weren’t going anywhere.

When the tram did get going again, we headed down the narrow roads and circled the Roman Pyramid, taking a double trip round the roundabout, past the temple and the Cathedral St Maurice. Children waved at us as we rode by in our caterpillar-like bus tram, an old lady asked if she could hitch a ride and I was tempted to drag her in, her shopping bags looked interesting.

Our final destination (luckily without the tram) was Phillipe Bruneton’s tea and pancake house, in the hills of Pilat Regional Natural Park.

In the kitchen the air was heavy with the scent of raspberry, intense and rewarding after the long and windy drive through the mountainous countryside.

I was more than ready for pancakes, but that wasn’t to be, my hunger was to be satiated by some taste testing and a bit of flavour guessing – peach and verbena, apricot and lavender, geranium and cherry, pomme tarte tatin. Sweet sticky spoonful’s of award winning confiture.

With a taste for jam and a particular desperation for fresh raspberries our journey was almost over.  Luckily there was a sunshiny caesar salad lunch stop at the Bar et Gourmet in Condrieu.

Remember when I said the airport was quiet? It was, and you know what that means? More time for security checks, frisking and generous prodding. This might be a selling point for some people!

After being patted down for the third time and prodded hard in the stomach (I’m not hiding anything round my middle, that’s just my body!) I was spun round. I felt the air on my back, my dress had been lifted up and then… no!… leggings pulled down, not all the way, but enough to provide a partial moon and white out. There’d be no chance people didn’t see, I’m pale and round, they’d be naturally drawn to the glowing bright whiteness of skin that’s not normally exposed. My eyes caught those of the girl queuing behind me, ‘I’m sorry’she mouthed, with a look of concern. ‘You’re next!’ I replied as I was spun back round and pointed back towards my bags. After packing my things away and finding my passport on the floor, it was time to join my travel buddies for the short flight home. Phew!

I had great time exploring Grenoble and Vienne, and I’m already planning a trip back for cheese, honey, markets and museums, but next time,  I think I’ll wear an all-in-one to travel home in!

With the greatest thanks to Grenoble Alpes Isere Airport, Grenoble Tourism, Vienne Condrieu Tourism and Heaven Publicity for making this trip possible. As always, my opinions are my own.

Holland: Adventures in Haarlem

The other week Polly and I took a trip to Haarlem, wandered the streets, saw blossom and cats and beautiful window displays. We ate croquettes and tapas and things we probably shouldn’t have eaten. We bought souvenirs from the second-hand market and postcards from everywhere we went, and a very kind man gave me a tea towel. What a dream.

I’m glad I make notes and take photos of everything, because really, some days when half of my face has swollen up and I’ve accidentally smashed my exhaust pipe off on a pot hole, it’s a joy to be reminded of how lucky I really am.

Everything looks lovely in the Spring. Blossom, sunshine, baby chicks, even the sight of the airport information screen showing a three hour delay, once your bleary early-morning eyes have managed to focus on it, of course.

The reason, the man in the queue said, was that there was ‘too much wind in Amsterdam’, and of course I sniggered, like the child I am, until I remembered that’s where I was heading. Somehow the wind issue was overcome, the flight was brought forward, and in no time at all I was clutching a bar of Tony’s Chocolonely and waiting for Polly at Schiphol airport.

A quick train ride from Schiphol to Amsterdam Slotterdijk, a change and on to Haarlem, and we were straight out of the station and across the square to our hotel – the Hotel Lion d’Or.

I’ve stayed in their sister hotel, the Nova in Amsterdam, it was the ideal city location for me when I was reviewing at Unseen last year, and when they invited me to visit their hotel in Haarlem I didn’t even take a breath before I said yes, yes please!

What’s the first thing you do when you arrive somewhere new? I usually check out the carpets and look for ginger drinks.

Polly and I ate apple and cinnamon pie (I drank ginger tea) in the bright and spacious bar with dark blue walls and green velvet sofas. Gold trimmed china in the reception desk, pictures and plants, big leafed and small. It was all very lovely.

We found our way to Teyler’s Museum. Purpose built in 1794, the building itself is incredibly beautiful both in its architecture and its interiors. The cabinetry and cases are stand-alone stunning, not to mention the actual artefacts.

Rocks and shells, fossils and bones. Scientific instruments made of brass and wood, coins and medals, and books – an incredible collection of historic volumes, and prints and sketches, and all the paintings too. (Like The Legend by Cornelis Kruseman – that little face).

A rather magnificent couple of hours enjoyed in the oldest museum in the Netherlands.

We wandered around the streets finding our way quite easily, saving a map in our minds, remembering where we’d seen nice shop windows and places to go back to. Canals and bicycles. Haarlem is like a more open, scaled down, less populated Amsterdam. I pulled faces at a baby in a tea shop. Polly rewarded me with an old 50¢ photograph of a stranger with nice hair in a charming bookshop, Antiquariaat Hovingh.

In the evening we ate a tapas dinner at El Pincho. Right on the corner of the Grote Markt. Bistec Salteado, Chorizo Asado and Patatas Bravas, followed by a weighty baked cheesecake. We watched the world go by as the bright sun went down behind the pointy roof tops.

I was relieved to sleep so well. I never know how I will fare on the first night in a new place. It was quiet, amazingly quiet. And, (without wanting to sound like a weirdo) I didn’t feel compelled to wedge a chair up against my door before dozing off. Result.

I ate a doughnut for breakfast. Polly had fruit, so it was pretty balanced.

We were heading up to the Grote Markt to meet a man called Walter, probably talking about cats that look like owls, when we heard the beeeeeeeeeep of a bus and then SMACK! It drove straight into a woman on her bike. ‘Oh shit!’ A little dog popped up out of the basket, the bike lying in the middle of the road, the woman lying still on it, a puddle of blood around her head, one leg moving in peddling motion, going nowhere. It was surreal. Poor Polly thought she was dead. ‘I am sorry I am English. Stop trying to move her!’ I commanded, apologetically.

The police came, then a paramedic, then an ambulance. The area was taped off. The woman was bandaged up and loaded onto a stretcher, rushed away. The little dog was looked after by a policeman who had the same hair style. I gave a statement and my card (which I normally think is fun, but in these circumstances ‘I’m Karen Harvey, I do good things’ seemed a bit stupid) and then we carried on, to Walter.

Walter has been leading guided tours since 1990. That’s proper vintage. Haarlem has around 1200 listed buildings, so I guess it takes a good few years to become an expert.

Speed walking after Walter, with his black beret and pointy umbrella, we looped through the streets and lanes, passed the ornate looking Meat Market, and the less decorated Fish Market, into a church and out passed the Hofjes, through pocket parks to look back up at the church tower and it’s crowning onion, and then, after a story about the miracle of Haarlem and ‘a nun bleeding wine from her tit’ (Walter’s words, not mine), we were delivered to the Corrie ten Boom House.

If it weren’t for Polly I wouldn’t have gone to the Corrie ten Boom House. It’s not that I don’t care about the holocaust, it’s just that sometimes I care too much and I don’t want to have to deal with those emotions if I don’t have to.

The story of Corrie ten Boom was horrifying, heartening and empowering. Corrie and her family sheltered around 800 people during the Nazi occupation of the Second World War.

One day the Gestapo stormed the house, they arrested the ten Boom’s and stayed for 47 hours. When they eventually left, those hidden behind the false wall in Corrie’s bedroom escaped to safety. In prison Corrie received a letter, written on the back of the stamp were the words, ‘All the watches in your closet are safe’.

She was released from prison after four months due to an administration error. A week later all the women of her age were killed in gas chambers, around 90 thousand of them.

Corrie returned home and opened her doors to the mentally disabled who were in hiding. After the war she created a rehabilitation centre for anyone who needed it, and then spent the rest of her life travelling the world preaching. She died aged 91, on her birthday.

You really need to discover the full story for yourself, I can’t even begin to explain it or express how it will make you feel.

In stark contrast, crashing back to the modern day, we sat amongst plants, MacBooks and almond milk lattes at Native Café and ate cheese toasties.

At the Frans Hals Museum fabulous floral arrangements in purpose made vessels dressed each room to celebrate the ‘Museum in Bloom’. During the Golden Age (17th Century) Haarlem was the centre of the tulip trade, and Frans Hals was one of the most innovative and famous painters of that time.

A delight to see was Sara’s Dollhouse. A scaled version of an 18th Century home, a miniature museum of life. It’s quite magnificent.

We hobbled over to Jopenkerk (okay, I hobbled, Polly skipped) the brewery and bar built in a historic church that came close to demolition before Jopen came along in 2010 and saved it.

Polly had been invited to try the High Beer (like High Tea, but with beer, obvs) and I was allowed to observe with a soft drink. #beerallergy

Three beers, six accompanying plates. I watched Polly wrestle with her steak tartare and sip her way through to the Koyt beer. Made to an original recipe from 1407 Jopen Koyt is brewed with herbs, specifically Bog Myrtle. I had to have a taste.

Legend has it that, to avoid its hallucinogenic properties, Bog Myrtle can only be picked at full moon by nude witches. You learn something new every day.

I was hungry and Polly had researched an award-winning hotdog for me, so we headed to Thrill Grill. Whilst hotdogs with shredded carrots and hard buns don’t win any prizes from me (I felt like I’d fallen into the remnants of a day-old summer barbecue buffet) on the way there we happened on a pile of books being given for free outside an old Hofje. I picked up a lovely old 1930s hymn book. It’s all in Dutch, but I’ll give it a go.

Gratitude for somewhere safe and comfortable to sleep at the end of the day. I thought about the lady on her bike, about Corrie ten Boom, about the power that each person has within them – if they only choose to use it. And then I went to sleep.

Another day, another doughnut.

We walked the long way, following the river and then winding through picturesque streets, to the Grote Markt, and St Bavokerk.

The 30 metre tall organ has 5068 pipes and the floors are made completely of grave stones, about 1500 of them, covered in famous and interesting names: Frans Hals, Pieter Teyler, Hofie van Noblet… hmmm, that’d be a good name for a cat.

Lunch at the Grand Cafe Brinkmann (which is apparently a bit of an institution and known for its impeccable service. Seems we went on a bad day) and then more of a wander through the streets of interesting independent shops, before arriving at the ice-cream parlour we’d been eyeing up since our arrival in the city.

Not far from the station, and our hotel, we discovered Het Dolhuys, an experimental museum of psychiatry with an emphasis on experiences.

The medieval building, once an institution for lepers and lunatics, is now a place of education and reflection. In terms of interaction, communication and display excellence, this has to be one of the best museums I’ve visited.

One of the first rooms we reached was full of old laundry cupboards, each door we opened revealed items relating to a person, and an audio recording of them telling their own mental health story. Even though we couldn’t understand the language we still picked up so much of the persons emotion in the tone of their voice (and then we read the information booklet).

It’s here that you can see some of the very few remaining  isolation chambers, ‘Dolcellen’, that were used in the 16th Century to lock up those who were seen as busy or aggressive lunatics. The interior of the cell was dark and cold with a thick outer door and a barred inner door. The only furnishings; a wooden crib and a poepdoos (poo box). The only light and air came from a small hatch at the top of the chamber, and the only warmth in the depths of winter was from heated stones that were placed inside. As if life wasn’t already hard enough for those poor people.

The museum is a brilliant reminder of how far studies in psychiatry have come, and how much we still need to do to support and understand mental health and wellbeing.

In the evening we ate with Marcel at Bij Tholen. White asparagus croquette with parsley sauce. Was this the best croquette I’ve ever eaten? It might well have been. Send more croquettes and I’ll tell you.

Bij Tholen has a seasonal menu serving mostly Mediterranean and Dutch food, but every few days they like to add in a special and the changing menu reflects what’s local and available. Indian lamb Korma with a coriander and garlic naan it was then!

I took a woman’s birthday photo and stroked a ginger dog before we headed off into the night, full of food and cheer.

Poor Polly was really ill in the night. Whilst I cancelled our plans for the day Polly managed a few sips of peppermint tea and some tiny crumbs of bread. The hotel team were lovely, they were genuinely concerned for her, and even though we were due to check out, they said she could just stay in the room as long as she needed to.

Polly took an earlier flight home, I headed into Amsterdam to look at a gallery for Shutter Hub, and just like that our Haarlem adventure was over, for now.

Check out my souvenirs!

Lucky postcard, 50¢ photo of woman with good hair, squirrel fork from the secondhand market, 1930s Dutch hymn book, Sara’s Dolls’ House book from Frans Hals museum, and a bottle of legendary Jopen Koyt!

With the greatest thanks to Visit Holland and Haarlem Marketing for supporting this trip, and to Hotel Lion d’Or for hosting Polly and I for three nights in their wonderful hotel. As always, my opinions are my own.

France: A Day in Paris (& A Night at The Hoxton Hotel)

I emerged from Gare du Nord, into the rain. The sky was grey. The pink blossom glow faded second by second as I walked to my hotel; umbrella resting on my shoulder, bounding over puddles, eyes on everything.

The Hoxton, Paris. Although not particularly welcoming in layout (you have to walk through the bar and sitting rooms to get to the reception area) it was, from all I could see, a most beautifully decorated hotel.

I didn’t see the restaurant. When I asked if I should book a table, the receptionist said, ‘You are on your own, you should eat in your room!’ At first I was slightly offended by this, but by the time I’d met my bed (which was super squishy and smelt like Play-Doh), I felt it was the right advice.

I put the tele on and ordered room service. I couldn’t work out why there was so much stabbing. It seems that in between me selecting La Vie en Rose and my cheese burger arriving, I accidently missed the bit where I started watching Zodiac.

In the morning I packed up my bag and readied myself for a day of exploring. No real plans, destination Eiffel Tower.

I must give a massive shout out to Sarah for lending me one of her amazing Riut Bags. It’s the most comfortable and versatile back pack I have ever carried. It’s a multi-pocketed genius thing. All the zips are hidden against your back for security, and in this new design the bag is convertible from an everyday bag to a full-on travel pack, with just a few clips and adjustments. No backache.  I didn’t even feel like I was carrying a bag.

I walked to Le Louvre, via the gardens of the Royal Palace where pigeons posed amongst pink magnolia trees. At Le  Louvre people queued to pose on small pillars and pretend to touch the pyramid top. It was fascinating to watch.

Through Tuileries Gardens where I found crows and starlings, and across the River Seine. Down passed Bourbon Palace (didn’t look like a biscuit, disappointed) and along Rue de l’Universite to the Eiffel Tower.

What a beautiful and remarkable feat of engineering. So many times you see a landmark in reality and it doesn’t match what you’ve seen in photos (Copenhagen’s Little Mermaid anyone?) but I really did like the Eiffel Tower.

I sat and watched people buying the little monkey-metal towers that men were jingling on big wire rings, like bunches of keys chiming together. Occasionally a tiny tower would drop off into the dirt and be pecked by a pigeon or hidden by someone’s shoe.

It was quite muddy at the Eiffel Tower, people short-cutting across what was once grass, multiple children falling face first whilst parents posed for selfies.

The weather had been forecast as light rain, there were a couple of light ‘mistings’ (not worthy of being called showers) but other than that it was a cool crisp day, perfect for exploring.

I took the long walk back along Rue Pierre Charron and the Champs Elysees, window shopping and car spotting.

22.2 Kilometres. Not one cat.

People kept asking me for directions in bad French. I’ve been mistaken for Indian, Pakistani, Latvian and Irish before, but never French.

One man even stopped to ask (in French) where my bag was from, and once I’d ascertained that he wasn’t a mugger (and remembered that I was carrying a bag!) I told him. He said it looked Parisian.

I spoke French to people. I ate a baguette.

I got the RER to Charles de Gaulle airport. There was a rainbow coming out of the rear of an Easyjet plane (maybe that explains the delays). I sat and drank Orangina next to a family who were eating beef crisps.

On the night flight home I tuned in to a conversation between the flight attendant and a French passenger. ‘Anything from the trolley?’ asked the attendant. ‘L’eau’ said the man. ‘Sorry, I don’t speak French,’ she said and carried on, wheeling her way into every elbow and knee in her path.

The Hoxton Paris 30-32 Rue du Sentier, 75002 Paris, France

I was a guest of The Hoxton Paris and my stay was complimentary. As always, my opinions are my own.

Israel: Tel Aviv – 5 Nights In The 24/7 City (GIRL TOWN Launch Edition)

“Are you sure this is it?” the driver asked, as he hesitantly dropped us off in the street outside our Airbnb. It was it, but it was not what I’d expected.

Up four flights of stairs, through a steel door, and into a dank dark misery hole/apartment. I wasn’t sure what to say. I watched the small lady wrestle Rachel’s duvet into its cover, leaving it twisted and bulbous, like a mangled pork product from a malfunctioning sausage extruder. She patted it down, told us to leave the key outside in the cupboard when we left, and shot off on her push along scooter.

I didn’t notice at first the words ‘Putas Israelianos’ (Israeli whores) scrawled across the front door. Turns out the last Airbnb Rachel booked was an outbuilding in someone’s back yard. She’s not been allowed to book one since!

We sat, ate hummus and crisps that we’d bought from the corner shop, listened to Pat Benatar on my phone, and waited as darkness fell. Then we got lost for an hour whilst trying to find the gallery (where later that week we’d be launching the GIRL TOWN* exhibition).

We wandered back alleys, back and forth, the waft of weed on the air. I asked for directions from a man who was eating noodles off the boot of his car. I started counting cats, I lost count quite quickly and spotted a dog wearing a shell necklace. We realised we were back where we’d started when I spotted the same cat twice. Turns out he was the gallery cat.

There are thousands of cats patrolling the streets of Tel Aviv, posing for photographs, all looking vaguely related, occasionally letting our high-pitched screams and rubbing round legs.

The gallery was a fascinating place. It was, back in the day, a print works producing communist publications, and since then many things, but I felt it had come almost full circle to now being such a socialist space. We ate dinner with some of the team, 11pm at A’la rampa, under the shadow of a multi-storey building, it’s side wall painted with a large black horse.

Back in the hovel box/apartment it got noisier as the night went on. Car alarms, sirens, shouting, revving engines, doors banging, stereos pumping out Justin Bieber and Ed Sheeran, until gone 4am. I had a feeling of despair, a fear that I had just signed up for five nights of sleep deprivation and shit music.

We were up and out of the pit of doom/apartment fairly early. It was hanging day at the gallery. I looked like I was hanging. My face was swollen, eyes puffed up like prawn crackers. Listening to Justin Bieber and breathing in damp, mouldy air for hours will do that to you.

The exhibition hang went well, it was relatively simple and we had free rein. Later in the afternoon we were able to meet up with my friend Moran and she toured us round Jaffa. The sea front, the wishing bridge, to Victory for ice cream (where I was able to put into use my only word of Hebrew, ‘fistuk’) up past the mosque and the catholic church, through the flea market, and back again.

We met another friend, Gali (who I’ve known for 12 years now) up at Habima Square and ate mushroom quiche at Lachmanina, probably the most expensive quiche I’ve ever eaten.

Notes from Thursday: Day off to explore. Cockroach in the hallway. Lunch omelette. Chocolate cake wedge. Cat with crossed eyes. Cat attempting to teleport whilst also attempting telepathy. Statue of the Predator in a shopping mall. Cemetery. Walked to the sea. Sent Rachel into the sea. Found a tiny plastic spanner and a piece of sea glass. Walked back through Carmel Market. Met a little dog in a cute jacket. Drank pomegranate juice (that tasted like beetroot soup). Generally explored.

When I woke up I felt less like I was wearing an inflatable mask, slightly more human. I think I had been revitalised by all those cats and their cat power, or maybe the damp was going because we’d breathed most of the moisture into our lungs.

We wondered if anyone would come to the exhibition launch, but we needn’t have worried. The exhibition had been featured in the Haaretz newspaper. There was a buzz about it, lots of people came – not only because they’d seen it in the national news but they’d also heard about the exhibition from friends all over the world.

Someone told me that my name meant ‘horn’ in Hebrew. Someone else told me it meant ‘ray of light’.

It was a relief to get the exhibition launched, and for it to go so well. On Saturday morning we stayed in bed late then wandered down to Rothschild Boulevard, to Benedict, and ate celebratory brunch.

Moran took us to the port, to the park, to Sarona market. Malls and gardens. Then to dinner. We walked back across the city and came across a protest against the government – thousands of people, flags and banners, police.

We’d been encouraged to try two Israeli snack favourites – Bissli, a kind of crispy crunchy baked pasta-like corn snack, and Bamba, a peanut butter flavoured Wotsit.

I liked the Bamba. The Bamba didn’t like me. After eating a couple of handfuls and marvelling at their amazing peanuttyness (50% peanut apparently) I started to feel sick, and dizzy, my head hurt and my neck started to swell up. I had to go and lie down. I wasn’t sure what would happen. My top lip swelled up. My sleep was filled with nightmares, punctuated by cold sweats and shakes. Then I was woken by the neighbours music at 4am. I listened, a tune that sounded so familiar to me, but one that I’d not heard for years. I concentrated, tuned in to the rhythm  and waited for the chorus.  It was La Bamba. The irony.

Favourite things from Tel Aviv: Our exhibition. Meeting lovely artists. Seeing friends. Every day sunshine. Cats everywhere. Clementines growing on trees in the street. That little dog in a jacket. The beach. Finding a piece of sea glass. The Bauhaus architecture. Seeing the Predator in a shopping mall. My new pouty top lip which, although much smaller, is still refusing to go back to normal. That Ripndip Lord Nermal shop window (top image). Why didn’t I go in and buy these slides?

*Find out more about GIRL TOWN, see  launch event photos, and read why we took the exhibition  from London Photomonth to Tel Aviv, here.