Leaving the Low Country

I always get sad leaving a country, and this morning is no exception. I’m on a train looking out at dutch farmhouses, with their thatched roofs, medley sheds, zwart/wit koeien(cows) and neat canals divvying up the fields.

I’ve just seen an old friend from 10 years ago. There’s a lot between us, but how do you catch up 10 years over 1 coffee and 50 odd minutes? I guess the sadness comes through fullness in this case.

I now have no more opportunities to stuff genuine dutch foods into my protesting belly. I’m sure this is good for my health, but I wish I’d found a fresh stroopwafel to top it off. That’s what they’re good for after all – topping a cup that runneth over…

Also around 10 years ago, on a train in Spain, I wrote a letter, on pages ripped from the back of a book. That letter found it's way to the girl who is now my wife.

My brain is already trying to switch to deutsche mode. After all the false starts where German came up and I needed Dutch, my brain had finally started reeling out some impressive sentences, and I do believe some locals didn’t realise my imposter status.

With the myriad of bike tracks everywhere I am also sad not to be pedalling more here. Time for that in other places of course, but this land is where half of my heritage lies, where many strong childhood holiday memories were made, where my passport says I belong…

We sit in a silent carriage, my baby asleep in my Irish wife’s arms, and my thoughts in melancholic places. I am loving what I’m seeing, loving what I’m doing, and now I look ahead to cycling by the rhine for a week.