20/8 Goodbye Europe, as I know it

A grim, cool morning. The sun glimmers weakly through the morning mist. Even without rain the tent is soaking wet. During an extended breakfast the sun fights its way ever stronger through the fog, drying most of it out. After packing comes checking the route. A glance at the Dutch road network tells me I won’t even try the country roads. Only just before Rotterdam will I decide whether to turn into the countryside or head straight for the ferry port.

Holland from the highway is, let’s say, indifferent. The closer you get to the Greater Amsterdam and Rotterdam areas, the more lanes the highways have and the denser the all‑connecting intersections become.

Up to the Greater Rotterdam area it’s a very pleasant summer day. I pick a stretch of country road where I look after the bodily needs of my AWO and myself and spend the rest of the time until check‑in. The western peninsula of Rotterdam seems very suitable for that. Five kilometres before the targeted gas station the sky turns hazy. Three kilometres before it gets dark. One kilometre before I’ll get wet, with no chance to pull over and quickly slip on rain gear. Jacket wet, trousers wet, underpants still dry. It could turn into a longer stay at the station. But inside, the air‑conditioning blows cold from the ceiling. You can’t stand that. I put together a route made up of several cafés. In one of them I intend to get dry. So now rain gear, off we go. The first café is no longer there. Shortly after, there’s a ferry that crosses so quickly that paying and putting on gloves takes longer than the boarding and disembarking. The good captain sees that I’m having trouble getting dry money in the adverse conditions, but he doesn’t give up. No worries. The next “café” isn’t really a café, but a private rustpunt (Dutch for rest stop). So a stopping point at a nicely secluded house on an open field. Without the map entry I would never have turned off here. Arriving at the yard, I look through a large window into the living room and see playing, shouting children. Am I really in the right place? There, back there, a woman. She looks at me through the window with wide eyes and probably wonders who the astronaut on the not‑quite‑fresh moped is. She doesn’t yet know that even under the helmet it’s no longer looking fresh. She disappears, then around the corner asks me in Dutch, “Quick, quick, where does the wind carry you?” “From the east, and I’ve had enough of rain!” A large garage, set up as a party room with a bar, is offered to me and I get coffee and a biscuit. This is a decent way to kill time. Only, the longer I wait, the heavier the rain becomes. Is this a preview of England? 6:30 p.m., I have to go and can’t wait any longer. It’s pouring buckets, the navigation goes rogue. I have to stop several times to bring the navigation app back into view. That’s exactly what I missed at home: a proper hard‑test with rain and everything that comes with it. Now I puzzle together my route to the ferry port with wet fingers, the port keeps disappearing from the display. Very annoying, very, very…

Five kilometres from the goal the first signs appear: Hull. I don’t need the navigation any more, the rest will find itself. With 80 km/h through the harbour area and pouring rain I don’t need anything else. And you know what? The rain stopped abruptly at check‑in. See? On to the ship, mopeds tied down, berth found, food grabbed, shower, brush teeth, pee, off to bed. Write blog, close eyes. Good night! And tomorrow we’ll drive left, I’m already nervous…