Windmill in old Amsterdam (Amsterdam)

Well, dear reader, what a classic song we have for today's title. It's by that international superstar, Ronnie Hilton. What? You haven't heard of him or the song? Well here it is all the from 1965. Enjoy, if that's the word for it. You get extra points for making it all the way to the end. Disclaimer: I didn't.

Today we left the ship for the final time. No, really, it happened. We had to be awake early, with bags in the corridor by 6:45. In the morning, one passenger clarified for the rest of us, after registering the shock on so many faces. Breakfast followed shortly thereafter and then it was into the lounge by 8am and onto the coaches by 8:15am. As has become our schtick, everything went smoothly and the ship was rid of all of us at the appointed time.

We waved a sad farewell to the crew but we had made it further than we thought possible. Once again, well done to the APT staff for making it happen. The road journey had to be punctuated by two stops for the driver, which meant the 4 hours or so would stretch beyond 5. All good, many of us were hoping for some extra sleep.

Some flowers to brighten the story.

About 30 minutes into the journey, I began to feel unwell. A strange feeling in my stomach was accompanied by cold sweats. Psychologically, the fact that I was trapped on a bus did not improve the situation mentally or physically. My agitated state increased, as did my discomfort, with the sweat coming from every pore. Jayne had been side-eyeing me, Grace Tame style, for quite a while. It was time to alert the tour guide.

Chris was supportive and said he'd do whatever was necessary. I headed for the toilet. Now here was a virgin experience, dear reader. I had never been inside a toilet cubicle on a coach. While I'm sure many a gymnastic feat has been performed in this limited space, it was not a happy place for me. I shall spare you the graphic details by time lapse writing ... Jayne was waiting for me when I opened the door. The sweat was still pouring from me as I stumbled back to my seat, strapped myself back in and slept fitfully until the authorised stop along the Autobahn.

Now I had thought I managed all of this very quietly, without notice. However, given the questions about how I was feeling and the comments about my pallor, clearly I was mistaken. It was nice to know people cared. Trip resumed, sleep back in the frame, I awoke as we were rolling into Amsterdam.

We are staying, tonight only, at the Amsterdam Hilton, where John and Yoko stayed when they held their peace protest. Our rooms were ready but our bags weren't unloaded, so it was a quick refresh and we were off to see the windmills of old Amsterdam (see what I did there?).

Imagine (not our room - they stayed on the floor below us).

Zaanse Schans is an historic village somewhere on the North Western outskirts of Amsterdam. I have no idea where, the one-way roads, loops and tunnels made it difficult to follow. And yes, I was not at the top of my game.

Quite amazing to see how they work

Pauline, our guide, talked all the way to the village and then all the way around the village, except for a 15 minute break for free time to allow us to explore the place ourselves. It was insufficient to do much more than look at the souvenir shops. Then she talked all the way home. Yay. It may well have been interesting. It may well have been relevant, but I just wanted some down time.

Grinding limestone for paint

The village itself was very crowded - a big tourist attraction which contains the usual shops and eateries but it is also the site of 4 working windmills. You can actually go inside to hear about their workings and then climb up to the top to see the whole precinct from that vantage point. 

The windmill we went into is still operating by traditional methods to grind limestone and also red wood to make dyes for fabrics and paints. We watched a demonstration of the pulverisation of a block of redwood but there was not enough wind to operate the main mill to grind the limestone.

The site is also home to many people who choose to rent the period houses that create an authentic village. The people who rent there, do so, understanding that while they may be sitting on their front porch, there might be a steady stream of tourists wandering past. The houses and their gardens are off limits to tourists but it hardly makes for a quiet life.

People really live there.

The most fascinating part of the tour was a demonstration of how wooden shoes are now made. The craftsman clearly enjoyed performing for a crowd and transformed a block of willow or poplar wood into a wooden shoe in about 5 minutes. 

Well worth seeing if the opportunity arises.

The process is now shortened by the use of some machinery to rough cut the outline of the shoe and then drill out the inside, both using a last as a guide to automate the process. In 5 minutes, instead of the previously required 5 hours, he had produced a rough shoe whose toe and heel were then refined by hand tools. The shoe is then set aside to dry out for several days, before it can finally be polished and decorated. The craftsman showed us how much liquid was still in the wood by blowing into the shoe and forcing an astonishing spray of fluid out of the toe. 

The wooden shoes are still very much in common use in the Netherlands, requiring 2 pairs of socks, to be worn in, for wearing across many spheres of life, including industrial and agricultural areas, where they are the Dutch version of a steel capped boot.

Wooden shoes for sale.

Other random sights around the village included a woman, who looked very much like she was shoplifting a scarf from a souvenir shop and then paused outside to show her husband her new acquisition. We also saw a teenaged girl who was sporting 2 very badly scabbed knees as she hobbled around the exhibits. Perhaps a victim of trying, unsuccessfully, to adopt the local transportation method of bicycling around the cut-throat bike lanes of Amsterdam?

I say cut-throat because one piece of information that our tour guide repeated several times, was that we must be careful when walking around the city, because the cyclists here are referred to as 'killer bikes'. They have designated bike lanes everywhere which are heavily patronised by cyclists, motor cyclists, mini smart cars, in fact any vehicle that is not technically a full sized car or truck.

The cyclists rule the roads here and the official road rules are mere suggestions or annoying inconveniences - they take no prisoners if you inadvertently get in their way, even if you have right of way.  Every cyclist seems to be on a serious mission to get somewhere and they ride in endless streams, without helmets, at quite a pace. Not for the faint hearted or out-of-towners, in my humble opinion. Anyone who hesitates or falls off will undoubtedly cause carnage in a major pile up!

While we were touring the windmill village, others from our group chose to experience a canal cruise. Something we will do later in the week. It is the last week of school holidays here and one of the pastimes of the naughtier children involves balloons, water, bridges and canal boats. It really is a test of their grasp of physics. Fill a balloon with water, tie off the top and then wait for a passing canal boat with an open top. As the boat passes under the bridge drop the balloon so that it explodes in the open section of the boat drenching those nearby, as well as scaring or scarring them. It was a test of nerves for the passengers and the bomb throwers.

Take your umbrella in school holidays.

Back at the hotel, it was time for a hard earned rest. Truth be told, I was exhausted but there was no time for sleep because tonight was the final cruise dinner - even though we were on land. Tomorrow our group would be heading for all parts of the compass. Some, like us, were staying in Amsterdam at other hotels, a group were heading for Paris, others for England to join an ocean cruise, or to Scotland to catch up with family. Some were even returning home.

I know I've commented on the concept of service in Europe previously dear reader, but the dinner was next level. It was a buffet style meal and all three courses were put out at the one time in 'choose your own adventure' fashion. The way the food was arranged did not lead to the formation of an organised line. The wine, it was announced to applause, was a continual pour - if you could attract the attention of the wait staff. Their role appeared to be to stand at the wall, dressed smartly, looking superior, demonstrating their ability to ignore anyone who wanted something from them. There was no risk of over indulging on alcohol, not that that was on my list anyway.

Despite the logistical challenges, it was a lovely evening and we got to spend time with all the people who had become a part of our lives over the last two weeks. Andrew organised a sneaky farewell speech to thank Hedleigh, our cruise director, and then it was time for bed. A number of people were flying out early in the morning and those that weren't would see each other at breakfast.

Until tomorrow.

Imagine (Canberra)

And the weather bureau got it right. It was zero when I checked the temperature this morning before 7am. I parted the curtains to reveal a pristine, cloud free, beautiful blue sky. Despite the temperature, it didn't feel that cold. We had well and truly warmed up by the time we had walked to Old Parliament House, a brisk 40 minute walk, excluding the 10 minutes I spent trapped on the median strip. Let me explain. I crossed to the western side of the road to take photos of the National Museum. Do not attempt to take on the Capital Hill traffic, dear reader. Much like London, Canberra is populated by passive aggressive people. They smile as they run you down. I'm uncertain whether the similarities are due to the cold climate or the population of bureaucrats or a population of cold bureaucrats. Regardless, they drive fast and are unsympathetic to pedestrians. In Redfern, as in New York, the pedestrian rules. Canberra was a culture shock. At home you can tell an out-of-towner by the fact that they disregard pedestrians.

Arriving safely, we were removing layers to enjoy our breakfast at the Terrace Café in the sunshine. We found ourselves in the company of a group of walkers. Loud walkers who were discussing one walker's daughter's impending wedding, as well as some function that someone was required to attend even though the notice was intolerably short and required some diary reorganisation for a suitable representation to be made. First world problems. Imagine if they had to work for a living as well? Goodness. How would one cope? I frequently had to lean across the table to hear what Jayne was saying. Clearly this was another 'destination' café', although I rated the one at the Museum much more highly. When my coffee arrives and my first words are "Oh dear..." it does not bode well. The food was acceptable. The service was entertaining - every time the young girl came out to deliver food and beverage to the walkers' table, the tray was precariously positioned over Jayne's shoulder. We were only ever one misstep from catastrophe.

The Museum of Australian Democracy or Old Parliament House

Like the museum, we had booked a tour. This is not the first time we have visited Old Parliament House (OPH), now renamed the Museum of Australian Democracy or MoAD. I find the whole concept of a museum about democracy in Australia somewhat laughable. And not just because the democratic part is only 120 years old. There is also the fawning, sycophantic behaviour toward the English Monarchy, but more on that later. And then there is the Aboriginal Tent Embassy across the road. The fact that it is still there and still needed, after almost 50 years, is an indictment on every government that has held power. I know, dear reader, you don't expect me to make political statements. You expect that I will be impartial, as always, and a model of decorum. That is especially the case, if you follow me on Twitter.

The foreground is what is important

My mind has wandered again. Where was I? Ah, yes, the tour. We last visited OPH when the National Portrait Gallery was still housed there. On that occasion we had a tour of the chambers and the PM's office and a few other areas. This time the tour focussed on the building itself, although we visited the chambers and post-tour, we wandered the former corridors of power. Actually, we were here to see the 2020 political cartoons display. Well worth a visit, and it was a delight to be there to listen to people, including us, chuckling their way up and down the corridors. The stand out? Well, Cathy Wilcox is an absolute favourite and had her own corner of the exhibition, as well as being sprinkled liberally (see what I did there?) throughout. Jayne's favourite? The first dog on the moon. See below. I even enlarged it to make it easier to read.

from The Guardian

Anyway. The tour commenced in the King's Hall. You'll never guess what is there, dear reader? Oh, of course. A statue of King George V. Apparently he was the king of some dreary little country across the sea and got to be boss of Australia at the time, despite self-government. And here comes the fawning and knee-bending. So. A country that has been permitted self-government decides, well, the men in power decide (how different it would have been if women had a voice. sigh), that the main hall to their new parliament house - the hall that joins both chambers, should not have a map of Australia depicted on the floor, nor the coat of arms of Australia on the wall. Just to reiterate, the parliament for Australia can not have a map of the country it represents. Cool and normal. Why? I thought you'd never ask, my curious reader -  because it is the King's Hall. No coat of arms higher than the king's head and "the old country" (be careful how you spell that) sent a statue of dear George. Nice mustache, cool knickerbockers and check out the roses on those shoes! I can imagine the discussion with his wife, before posing for the statue. "Do you think the roses are too much Mary?" I'm sure they would have been perfectly suited to the dusty dry plains of the bush capital. A place he never visited.  Couldn't even be bothered to turn up to open the building that houses his statue. Such a country.

Quite the dandy. (Enlarged to see his shoes)

So, we have the 'new' country (please take it as read that this land was inhabited by the first nations' people for at least 60,000 years before the European invasion. Respect.) and the architect of the new parliamentary building, a Scotsman, is being dictated to by the politicians. It was ever thus. Like, they know shit. No really. Do some research. They knew better than Walter Burley Griffin and Marion Mahony Griffin and their design for Canberra. Oh yes, we hide behind the money problems, but really ... or better than Jørn Utzon and the construction of the Sydney Opera House. Or Scott Morrison and leadership and responsibility. Oops, sorry, he is a politician and knows nothing of either of those concepts. At least, he has yet to able to demonstrate them. The list go on and on.  For both examples.

As an aside, let's look at why Canberra was chosen as the capital. Put aside the Sydney-Melbourne rivalry. It's just an older sibling arguing with a younger one. Any elder sibling can describe the difficulties faced that are not shared by the younger, so Melbourne, shut up. Anyway, the main reason Canberra was chosen was climate. Cold climate. It seems the early fathers believed a cold climate stimulated thinking and mental aptitude. A damn pity they never visited Canberra in summer. It's fucking, unrelentingly hot. Perhaps that explains the Morrison government and their series of unmitigated balls ups they have presided over this summer. Except the bushfires. Morrison was holidaying in Hawaii then and we all know what happened to Morrison's hero and the electorate named after him when he visited Hawaii. Oh. Too obscure? Morrison is the member for Cook, as in Lieutenant Cook, when he invaded this country. Not Captain, that happened later. But Hawaii was his undoing. Well. Spears. Spears were his undoing.

In case the new political set, inhabiting their parliament, were getting a bit uppity, the designer has the Union Jack as a motif emblazoned anywhere and everywhere. It was in windows, on wall cabinets, in floors. As very unsubtle reminder that England was still number 1. And herein lies the problem. Our politicians were too focused on being English that they forgot they were in Australia and governing for the people living here. To be fair, we weren't recognised as Australian citizens until 1949 and were still considered as British subjects until 1984. Pathetic really. As a result, down through the years we have had governments ruling for Britain, not for the Australian people.

The British coat of arms atop Australia's (old) Parliament House

Xavier Herbert in his landmark novel, Poor Fellow My Country, captured this sentiment beautifully. To simplify the 1700+ page tome: Australia was populated by people from overseas who left their home countries because they didn't like them and then replicated what they had left; further entrenching their unhappiness and causing them  not to accept and love their new country, because it wasn't the old country. Of course, beyond this, we had the lie that Australia was uninhabited to begin with. Any country that can't face it's past will always struggle to reconcile the present. As for the future? How can there be a sound future if you don't understand and acknowledge the past. Can you ever know where you're going if you don't know where you've been?

To further illustrate this point I tender the photo below. It was a part of an exhibition honouring the 1954 visit to Australia by Queen Elizabeth II.

FFS

We made our way back to the hotel to enjoy the beautiful afternoon sun on our balcony - and a nice bottle of Gruner Veltliner picked up on route. For our last night we decided to eat at the hotel restaurant, if for no other reason than I get a discount. I understand they need to advertise themselves as something other than the restaurant in the hotel, but you know, that is what they are and that is the standard of the food. The other issue was staffing. They were seriously understaffed and people left before all meals had arrived because they were tired of waiting. Given the number of food options close bye this is very dangerous.

The title? Ah yes, my dear reader, I was lacking inspiration to an extent and then thought of John Lennon's classic Imagine. And I guess that is where I am with Australia, imagine what could be ... because we're not there yet.

And on that note my dear reader it is time for me to pack away my keyboard until our next trip. All that focus on the 'old country' is hurting my brain. Australia is a wonderful country but we need to come to terms with our past before we can move forward as a united people.

The Captain Cook Memorial Jet (says it all really)

ps One song that didn't make a post title is Go Back to Canberra by The Kids. Google it, angry punk stuff channelling '70s punk.