And hopefully, it won’t take quite as long to write up and conclude.
That’s how I left my last blog.
I haven’t really taken responsibility for myself lately- outside of work and going to the gym, I’ve not pursued any of my long-term goals; keeping up with my writing included.
When my Nan asked me at the weekend when I’m finishing my travel blog it sort of made me reevaluate how I’m spending my free time- so, I’m rounding off, finally, with the Netherlands instalment of this travel diaries series. I hope you enjoy reading.
Today is the twelfth of May, meaning yesterday marked six months since I got back from travelling. That period of my life, stretching across ten countries, twenty-five cities, and eighty-one days feels like an entirely different lifetime to the one I've come back to. It's funny how easily I've slipped back into routine, back to work, birthdays, the simplicities of home life, waking up to an alarm in the morning and knowing exactly what the day ahead entails for a change. Every person I've re-met has asked how travelling went- and every time, I've given the same answer- ‘The best three months of my life.’
And whilst that's not wrong by any measure, it doesn't begin to do what Zac and I were lucky enough to experience an ounce of justice. My time travelling was like nothing I could have prepared for. Wholly unique, so vivid and complex in my mind still, I feel I could walk you through literally step by step every day of the journey. If I could sit down with someone and they give me the time, I would describe every single person I met and the time I spent with them, every museum and piece of art, every crammed train journey and bus timetable that was slightly off, every meal I ate. Ultimately, though, the mixture of emotions attached to all of those memories isn't something I could put into words. It was a special, special point in my life that I will never be able to replicate, and I think that's part of what makes it so perfect.
But that's a bit long- so, it was the best three months of my life.
The last 10 days of my trip started where I left you last time, boarding a midday train from the station just down the road from our hostel for a 2-hour journey into our penultimate destination, crossing the border into the Netherlands’ second-largest city, Rotterdam. It was a relatively comfortable journey through grey November weather, and once getting off of the train we burdened our backpacks once more and took the short walk to a hostel I was very excited to stay in- Rotterdam’s ‘King Kong’ hostel. I’d been recommended it by someone online and saw gleaming reviews, particularly for the ‘loft’ rooms; so of course, I booked Zac and I a bed each, not entirely perhaps thinking through what that would entail. The loft rooms were- unsurprisingly- on the top floor, which made for a hell of a journey up three flights of stairs with a rucksack each as big as ourselves.
The room itself was decent, more on the cosy side with 12 beds in our curtained-off area alone, but made for a nice refuge for 3 nights against the indomitable wind and rain that was the main memory of our time in this city. By this time of year it was getting dark early, and so the sky was already a heavy shade of blue by the time we set out for dinner at half four. We opted for a pizza place not far from our hostel (Italian food, for a change?) which went down a treat, and then caught an uber to Zac’s find for evening entertainment.
It was a short drive to the Baroeg, a small music venue on the outside of the city where some sort of student night was being held, with local young bands performing all sorts of rock music. Three or four acts took the stage and put on a really great show, kicking off our time in Rotterdam amazingly- and given my tiredness by the time we returned to the hostel, I would have slept like a log if it hadn't been for the worst snorer of the whole trip. I could hear him over my airpods on full volume, and at that point all I could do was pray he was only staying the one night.
We awoke the next morning to the sound of more wind and torrential rain, which threw most of our plans for a day of sightseeing out of the window. It led to a very uneventful 24 hours, getting us as far as the kebab shop down the road for an annoyingly pricy (and sub-par tasting) doner and chips, before retreating back to the hostel to keep warm and dry, reading some of my book and continuing to practise guitar. We cooked for ourselves in the hostel’s amazing kitchen that night following a mad dash in the rain for ingredients, and shared a couple of games of chess over some garlic bread and tomato rice before getting an early night in.
The next day, our final full day in Rotterdam, called for some essential sightseeing- regardless of the weather, we were resolute on not spending another day in the room. Luckily the rain was only intermittent, though it was the windiest day of the year so far; perfect to scale the 185 metre tall Euromast!
That was our plan following brunch at a place just off of the Erasmus bridge, and, paying a not-entirely-traveller-budget-friendly fee to get up there, enjoyed the best view in the city over Rotterdam. Well, I did; I think Zac’s view might not have been so great given the wind blowing his hair in every which way possible. We took some snazzy photos posing in clogs, and explored the city late into the night, feasting on Burger King as all reliable and self-respecting adults do. I remember feeling slightly apprehensive realising we were hitting the last week of the trip that evening, worrying about returning to normal life and having to take on responsibility again. I decided it best to put that out of my mind and try and enjoy what was left, which wouldn’t be difficult knowing that tomorrow we would be reuniting with one of our best mates again.
We’d barely finished waving Rotterdam goodbye when we pulled into Amsterdam, the 40 minute journey going in the blink of an eye the next morning. We set up shop in our Airbnb just outside of the main city and got some food shopping done, stocking up on a few essentials ready to cook a feast when we welcomed a guest for the next four nights. Ciaran flew into Amsterdam that afternoon, and it didn’t take long to get back to old ways, most of the maturity Zac and I had built up over the last few months disappearing in an instant. We headed back to the apartment (getting back later than expected after getting off the train at the wrong stop), cracked open the beers (remember, essentials?) and caught up on everything we’d missed.
Our first stop the next day was the Heineken Experience, which is a must-do if you’re there, seeing the company’s history and learning all about how the beer is made- but probably most importantly, the free samples. To this day I could swear they put something else in the lager there because it only took two pints there to have me staggering out of it.
That set the precedent for the day very well to be fair, wandering the canals and shops of Amsterdam and basically experiencing the lads holiday we’d been talking about since we were sixteen. Amsterdam is the perfect city to get lost in, there’s no place better to walk and talk, and I can only imagine how much better still it would be on a long summer day compared to the early cold nights we’d climatised to. This was also the night I finally said goodbye to the beard and tache- and I quote, ‘Calum will be pleased, he can’t call you a tramp anymore’- cheers mum.
The following morning we caught the train into the city centre and gave ourselves a chance to experience the city sober, seeing the landmarks and jumping into different tourist shops and under tram shelters to avoid the rain that still wouldn’t leave us alone. I bought the all-important postcard, the final one of my collection for this trip, and that sense of sadness in the end drawing nearer again creeped back into view. In two days' time, we’d be saying goodbye to Ciaran again; and then a further 3 days later, catching our bus for the long, long journey back to London. The trip that had felt almost fictitious for years was soon over before we’d even really realised it had begun.
It will sound like I’ve made this up on purpose to protect our integrity, but we genuinely did accidentally come across the red light district during our wander this day- and so, as all tourists must, took a walk through. Expecting it to be funny at least, there was something actually quite unsettling about being there, constantly looking over your shoulder and avoiding conversation at all cost- so we opted to leave, and headed back to the station to catch the train back to our Airbnb.
Ciaran’s last full day with us started with rain that made us all feel like we were back home already, and after a morning (more like midday by the time we’d all got out of bed) shop, headed into the centre to try and salvage something from a grey, wet day. This involved at least two visits to McDonalds, creating an outfit for Zac to wear in H&M, and our visit to the Amsterdam dungeons. We paid for our tickets, and found ourselves locked in a prison cell, which is how all fun stories begin, before being led by our dungeon guide through all sorts of weird rooms. After a mirror maze and a witchcraft trial, Ciaran was picked on by the tour guide to get taken away from us, and we found him in a cage in the next room- yet despite all our pleas, they wouldn’t let us leave him there.
By the time we’d escaped the dungeons, the heavens had really opened, and the wind rendered my umbrella completely useless, so we did our best to figure out the tram network to make it back to the station. Once in the warm and dry, Ciaran crafted us an expert meal of some sort of chicken and rice (nearly burning the rice, which he’d forgotten about, in the process) and we all slept well that night.
We had to be out of the Airbnb the next morning, Zac and I spending our last two nights in a hostel, and so got up early to clean up the house and finish packing the last of our stuff. Ciaran’s flight wasn’t until the early evening, so he helped us get all our belongings to the other side of town where we were going to be staying, and then took a wander to find brunch. Just over the river from our hostel was this great Irish place that did- what felt like at the time- the best sausage and bacon bap I have ever eaten. We demolished one of these each, and the boys finally let me take them to the place I’d wanted to try since arriving; what TikTok had called the ‘best cookies in the world’, Van Stapele Koekmakerij. These triple-chocolate cookies were all baked fresh in front of you, filled with melted white chocolate, and not overly expensive considering how much traction they’d gained online. The queue was massive, but in my opinion, they were worth the wait. I’m hungry now just thinking about them.
We checked out this massive bookshop on the way back towards our hostel, mainly to avoid the rain, and once the weather had calmed down a little went and got Ciaran’s suitcase from our locker and took the train with him to the airport. It was a pretty rushed goodbye, having left things a bit closer than we maybe should have, and Ciaran ended up taking my portable charger home with him in the process, but after waving him off Zac and I definitely felt a bit like ‘well what now?’ Arsenal, Zac’s team, were playing that evening though, which answered that question, as we headed back to the Irish pub from that morning to have dinner and watch the game.
We’d thought about taking a boat tour the next day (the booze cruise particularly peaking our interest) but the weather soon put those dreams to rest, and so, eventually rising out of bed in the Flying Pig hostel, went and explored the vintage shops and restaurants, eventually ending a relatively uneventful day with a steak (choosing to push our budget a bit on the back end of the trip) and a night time walk through Vondelpark.
Our favourite pub got another visit from us the next morning, having a repeat of the bacon sarnie, and then we spent the day getting things sorted for our early start tomorrow.
To make it back home at a reasonable time the next day, we had to catch the earliest bus we could from Amsterdam bus station, which was at 7.30AM, meaning we’d have to be out of the hostel at 6AM at the latest if we wanted to catch the tram across town to get to the bus station and have a comfortable half an hour to wait before our bus. This was one we did NOT want to miss.
We spent the morning practising this route just to be absolutely certain- caught the tram from the place we would the next morning, checking the timetable to find a suitable one for tomorrow, and then sussing out exactly where our bus would leave from the next day. This all worked out fine in the end, and so we returned to the centre and did some last-minute souvenir shopping for all our mates back home. After a stop for what would be our last Dutch beer, we stocked up on snacks for the journey, and bought some dinner to make back at the hostel, where I cooked for Zac for the last time, before getting an early night in, well aware of what the next day held.
5.15AM, my alarm goes off and I’m sitting bolt upright. Home day.
We’d had showers and packed bags the previous evening to save irritating our roommates, and so just had to get changed that morning before heading downstairs, handing back our room key and setting off to the tram station. Almost on queue- you might guess it- yes, the rain started within seconds of us leaving the building, and with one big bag on and a carrier bag in each hand, I wasn’t about to try and find my umbrella, so we carried on walking, making it to the tram stop with a little time to spare. The sign read, 3 minutes to arrival; 3 minutes passed, the sign updated to say the tram had departed, and yet no tram had arrived. Nerves started to set in a little bit, and we loaded up the uber app ready, but sure enough 3 minutes later the belated tram arrived. We arrived at the bus station, which was already full to the brim with hordes of backpackers waiting on buses to scattered cities across the continent that were now much more than just names to Zac and I. Munich, Rome, Madrid; it was one of the moments you’d think was scripted if you weren’t there, living it. The same could be said for the interesting Latvian guy who started conversation with us at the bus station, and seemed more like a comedy character than a real person. Safe to say, we got away from him as soon as possible, getting ourselves first in line to dump our bags in the bottom of our coach and find a more comfortable seat on the FliXBus than that we had taken between Bordeaux and Madrid.
The journey was tedious, but the thought of sleeping in my own bed that night made me willing to endure pretty much anything that the bus threw at us; annoying passengers loudly taking phone calls and sitting in seemingly endless traffic included. Between Rotterdam, Antwerp, Bruges and Calais, I finished two packs of oreos, a box of breadsticks, and a good few chapters of my book. The six and a half hour drive to the French coast of the English Channel was all worth it once getting that stamp in my passport at border control, and realising I was only 6 hours from home.
We boarded the ferry at about half-past one in the afternoon, leaving the bus and taking up post at a table in the cafe next to the charging ports. It was a smooth cross over to Dover, finding it strange to pay for my pizza on board in pounds for the first time in eighty days, and taking a moment as we approached the white cliffs to take in a heavy breath of English ocean air. A hell of a journey, but it was good to be so close to home again.
Zac and I shared an airpod each during the two hours that took us back up to London; night time again, approaching our twelfth hour of this voyage back to London, eyes closed and Pink Floyd’s ‘The Wall’ providing the perfect homecoming soundtrack. We made good time coming into the capital, but rush hour in the city combined with the Palestine protests of that day slowed down our approach to Victoria bus station significantly. Our bus held at a standstill for at least twenty minutes, a ten minute walk from the coach station, Zac decided to go and ask the driver if we could get off, get our bags and walk it. And so, in the most backpacker way possible, we concluded our journey on foot.
It’s very hard to verbalise that feeling of seeing the people closest to you again for the first time in so long, especially being so young, and the distance having been so far. Standing on that street corner, exchanging hugs, wanting to say everything and nothing all at once. We were all exhausted, yet taking that familiar train on the Waterloo line home, stepping off the platform back in Bracknell, heading to Mum’s car and finally letting that bag off of my back, it felt as though I could have walked the entire journey if I had to.
It didn’t matter- I was home.
So for the last time this series; thank you for following along, and once more, for the read-
EV.
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