Small towns and large

50 kilometres is a hell of a long way in Holland. We find ourselves intending to cover such a journey, then drive only 5km, a trek between Bergen and Alkmaar, or Volendam and Monickendam--but end up spending a half a day in each spot, then wondering why at the end of a day, we get nowhere very slowly.

Small towns in Holland are utterly charming. There are narrow canals with picturesque canal boats and lock bridges to explore, just five steps and you're across. There are village trees, heavily pruned in May, espaliered to a fine manicure in all the tiny streets allowing traffic to pass without paint scratches. Leafy trees that arch right across streets so narrow they look more like bicycle tracks than any village road. Bicycles. Bicyles everywhere. Some with cavernous covered pram fronts as well us upright toddler backs. Tiered brick property facades often with exquisitely painted front doors with the owner's name beautifully outlined in gold, black or white signature ink. Small town museums, always open. Ancient burghur dwellings in perfect nick. Sixteenth century properties leaning crookedly on to crooked little streets just as they always did. 

In between there are black and white cows, baby lambs wobbling after mother sheep; windmills--even tiny Aussie-type varieties; more dykes and canals that show up on our satellite navigator than can be seen by a naked eye, cow parsley; green pastures that smell newly munched.

Then we arrive in Amsterdam. Our home here is a camp ground under an ugly city bridge, just five tram stops from Central Station. We chose it sentimentally, because once we stayed here (we think!) thirty years ago when it had some charm. Today it is all graffiti strewn and litter laden. Old hulks are strangling the canals, yet two swans have a leafy nest filled with tiny chicks on a nest of reeds. So new life happens. But it needs much love and more money than there is at the moment, it seems. 

Much of downtown Amsterdam is like a building demolition site at present. Like something out of Van Gogh's early Dark Period: grim, stiff, forbidding. Central Stations in most cities are notoriously ugly and Amsterdam's main station district is no better. You have a sense you need to clutch your treasured possessions close, very close, and your instincts would be right. Already, today, we've spoken to folk who, unwittingly, have lost their bags, credit cards, purses: so astonishingly quickly and so effectively they are almost in awe at the skill.

We head to Museumplein, which has a much better air about it. The canals are not much cleaner, the tall, mostly characterless, essentially Protestant-upright architecture there (and all over the city) needs a good sand-blast, truth be told, but the mood of the plein is not so forbidding. But there are hundreds of tourists still. 

We spent the day visiting the phenomenal Van Gogh museum which we actually came for. I would still be there, in truth. I was dragged away when closing time came. I may yet return tomorrow. 

Little things added to the pleasure of the Van Gogh exhibition. A vase he used for a wildflower still-life was saved by Theo and Jo, and is with us today. Plaster casts of figurines: human and animal that he used to practise his craft have been saved. And letters, chock-filled with little drawings of his conceptualisations and his communications. 

Sad, lonely, genius, driven Vincent. 

It was worth worrying whether we'd return to our motorhome in time to see it still in one piece to spend the day visiting his works. I hope they don't get stolen.

Monickendam canal

Busy Amsterdam street

Heavily pruned trees at this time of the year