When Life Stands Still

I'm reading a fascinating novel at present. It must be written by an expat like me! Actually, I'm not really an expat any more. After 15 years in the Netherlands, separated from family and family home by a strip of grey water that makes everything surprisingly different, I have been repatriated - well, almost. On the way home, like Ulysses, I got slightly diverted and ended up too far west, on the Welsh coastal strip, instead of home in the south of England where I belong.

It's hard to go home. There always seems to be one more adventure waiting to be lived out just round the corner so I suppose it is no surprise that I ended up here. I am still a distance from family and roots but strangely reassured by the sense of having reached British shores and a language and culture that are at least partly familiar: a 'halfway house', as a friend described it. Whether, like Ulysses, I ever finally return home fully is a chapter in the book I have not yet had the chance to read. However, in my current novel, the storyteller is a traveller who is temporarily home for a visit from the other side of the world. She is constantly tormented by the feeling that everyone at home has moved on and she has somehow got stuck in the time frame that existed when she left home all those years ago. When she returns everything has changed. Shops have closed. New ones have opened. Land has been sold and developed. Old feuds have been swept under the carpet. Relationships have moved on.

For me too, it sometimes seems as if life has stood still for me. Going to the local health centre for a regular screening test I was confronted by a puzzled nurse who asked why I had my last test in 2004. I explained as patiently as I could that I had lived abroad and had had numerous tests whilst there, but under a different health system. She accepted what I said but continued to look unconvinced. Did life really continue to happen when once you crossed the border?

Financially, I am only just coming up to speed again. Having moved from the pound to the Dutch guilder, then on to the transformation to life (and prices!) that was brought about by conversion to the euro, and back again to the index-linked pound, I have suffered utter confusion. Currency has lost all sense of value and left me floundering so for a long while I had no innate sense of its worth and what things should cost at all. After a year 'back home' a sense of proportion is beginning to creep in and I no longer feel indignant every time I have to pay for a cup of coffee, expecting it to be served to me at its 1990s price. The sense of disorientation is receding and my feet are back on solid ground.

As for my family, they have moved on without me, growing up, marrying, changing jobs, giving birth and even dying without my permission. Whilst my daughter still regularly attends weddings, I have taken to considering whether I should include a set of black funereal clothing in my luggage every time I leave home - just in case. Yes, life moves on.

So I am left with a question. Did life happen to me too? Did I really see all those exotic places, make all those friends, see my daughter's graduation, wedding and subsequent move to another country too, receive news of my first grandson's birth, experience working life in the Netherlands, buy and sell houses and go for bracing seaside walks on the 'wrong side' of the great divide, that grey, forbidding North Sea? Or was it all a dream? Did I have a life too? Back here it sometimes seems as if there is no space left for it all - it is a black hole in the constellations of my life. New friends are initially fascinated, then puzzled by my expat stories and quickly tire of listening before dragging conversation back on to more familiar ground. But I had a life too! I know it. It is just a little buried in my subconscious and in my photo albums these days. Am I maybe not only a traveller to foreign shores but a time traveller too from the land that time forgot?

 

Such Sweet Sorrow

It’s in my thoughts all the time at the moment. ‘Parting is such sweet sorrow’ wrote Shakespeare and it’s true. Like a helping of sweet and sour sauce! We’re leaving the Netherlands and every move I make the thought comes back – is this the last time? I sit on the tram, not reading my book this time, but gazing silently out of the window, lost in thought…

Things I love, things I hate drift past the window: the grey fog, the ugly buildings in the poorer parts of town, the graffiti (not always a work of art) and the drab clothing that emerges each winter – black and grey, grey and black. But I pass sights that I love – the lifting bridge over the canal, a work of mechanical genius that the Dutch are so good at, a barge gliding softly along the smooth canals, a flower shop, a shop selling cane furniture and wicker baskets and the bikes – trailing dogs, carrying babies, sleepy toddlers, crates of beer … almost anything, whilst their owners answer their mobile phones or warm their hands in their pockets!

Parting – it happens to me every day. Is this the last time that I will make this journey? Is this the last time that I will sit at Kathy’s table, laden with the results of her lovingly produced creative cooking, surrounded by familiar friends with whom I can forget to brush my hair, tell my secrets, risk exposing my attempts at writing a literary masterpiece? There’s sadness involved in parting.

But it’s sweet too. It focuses the mind. Each time it happens I am filled with joy that these things, these places, these adventures, these friends have been mine. And they will always be mine to keep: memories filed away, shared experiences, high points and low points. Yes, I’m leaving, but I am enriched, enlarged, inspired by so many things. There are painful partings, I know, but this is a good one and I shall remember it with happiness.

‘Don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone… but it was good!’

A tribute to my friends in the Writers Circle…

We’re on the move! After living almost a quarter of our lives in the Netherlands, we’re leaving! We never expected to stay so long when we came – but that’s what they all say. Fifteen years! It’s a way of life: the Dutch language, Dutch lifestyle, Dutch customs (and the expat ones), favourite places, favourite foods, favourite bars and restaurants and, of course, favourite friends… my friends.

I shall miss you all. There, I’ve said it. I’m looking forward, of course – to the next adventure; but I’m looking backward too, over my shoulder - already. I know I shall miss you. It’s a very special place, this writers circle, and each one of you is special – irreplaceable. You’ve known me for some years now, you’ve welcomed me, shared my ups and downs, laughed at my jokes, listened to my stories and praised my writing attempts, taking me seriously and giving me constructive criticism with a smile and the sincere encouragement I needed to go on. And I love each one of you – so gloriously different, so wonderfully unique. We’ve a wealth of talent here and I am proud to know you, proud to be part of you, happy to eat your scones, touched by your hospitality, invigorated by your enthusiasms.

So I’m taking you all with me (did you know that?), packed in my suitcase. I haven’t finished with you yet – I shall need you in my new life. Well, maybe not in my suitcase, but in my heart, in my memories box, in my fund of inspiration and my sense of self-worth. You’ve all given me so much.

I’m packing up my home right now. There’s a lot of it to pack – you wouldn’t believe how much (yes, maybe you would!). Packing up my life and putting it in store. I’m going home… well, home from home. Which one’s home? Hard to know really. I’m going home for Christmas. I’m going home to my sister’s. But I shall be homeless for a while: a displaced person… a bag lady! In transit. In process. In a muddle!

But, I promise you, when I’m settled in, I’ll unpack it all – including you. I’ll unpack you all from my memory box and you’ll occupy pride of place on the mantelpiece – well, probably on the bookshelf, next to my writing desk or beside my Parker pen. A fitting place for my inspirational friends. Thank you all – for a box full of memories, a bundle of laughs, a warm blanket of friendship around my shoulders and an immeasurable richness of stories, poems, moments of shared madness, outpourings of passion and sheer literary genius. Thank you most of all for your acceptance, which I accept gladly, and will take away as a part of me wherever I go.

Weather Alert!

It's Sherlock Holmes weather! A thick mist has settled over the canals and if this were London in times past it would be a good day for a murder...

These days weather seems so 'global'. Maybe it's just that we are more aware of what is going on in other places. Huge weather systems develop and sometimes the whole continent seems enveloped by the same weather - whether it's drought, storms, or torrential rain and flooding. The weather is a wild card these days and even more unpredictable than ever.

I watch the weather's progress on TV. 'Exiled' in the Netherlands, I still like to watch the good old BBC 'back home'. Carol, in her latest outfit, with her never-failing neat hairdo, tells us that a depression is sweeping westwards across Britain. It will cause heavy rain and maybe some flash flooding - there are flood alerts out in many areas - but it will move away eastwards by tonight, so a better day tomorrow. 'Thanks for that, Carol!' I think. Where will it move to? Oh, just into northern Europe, France, the Netherlands - somewhere far away! In Britain they are looking forward to a fine weekend, but we shall be wearing their cast-offs.

Is our weather always someone else's cast-off? Rain today there means rain here tomorrow. Strong winds there are repeated here tomorrow, but hopefully a bit weaker, some of their initial fury gone. Somewhere, surely, the weather must be brand new! Like pristine, crisp, sparkling snow falls, with not a footprint to be seen, somewhere there must be shiny new weather - sparkling new raindrops, bright, shiny sunshine, pure, clean, soft rain that has never before touched the ground or glistened on the first rose of summer.

I imagine some kind of cauldron, or maybe a furnace, with weather elves, dressed in green, a bit like Santa's little helpers. They are busy creating weather. They hold pressure gauges and test their very own new recipes for high and low weather pressure systems. There are grumpy elves, down in the Doldrums, creating low pressure and gloom; bright, chirpy elves making bright, sunny days and happiness. Fresh off the peg!

There are dark, gloomy days, hurricanes, each with their own name, ready to roll and spread abroad chaos and destruction. In another place, there is a small store of perfect summer days, ready to be let loose sporadically, just when the inhabitants of earth have started to despair - the perfect blue sky, perfectly shaped, fluffy white clouds and soft gentle breezes. They are all new. Somewhere, high above earth's atmosphere, or in a deep, dark cavern far below us, this is for real! I know it. Just like the red sweater, I remember from my childhood, with its cuffs rolled up three times over, everyone's cast-offs were new once upon a time.

Living in the Future

“Koffie verkeerd?” “Ja – jazeker!” I reply, accepting her offer of a mug of hot, milky coffee. She has anticipated my order – a sign of my regular attendance at this charming café at the heart of the town and conveniently situated just at the point where I am starting the journey home, laden with shopping bags. But it’s not enough. I have a routine, it’s true, but not a life here. I have outgrown my life here, tried all the options, enjoyed them for a while, but I’ve run out. What I have is good but it’s no longer enough. I want to move on.

So the endless discussions rumble on. When we retire, where shall we go? Back to our home country, of that we are sure, but where? Back to where we came from? Or back to where we spent the early years of our marriage, bringing up our young daughter, close to the seaside, in a gentle, relaxed part of the world that is also tempting for a laid-back retirement lifestyle? Shall we have a garden? A bijou patio garden, full of pretty pot plants but not too much to care for? Or one of those corner plots with room to grow our own veg? Should we head for a quaint cottage or settle for a modern home where we can at least have a few years of peace before we have to worry about its upkeep and repairs?

The future is a foreign country – unknown, uncharted and bristling with adventure. Although we are heading home to our countrymen who speak our language and think like we do about most things, we are heading for unknown territory and the details, the questions and the dilemmas fill every waking hour. One day there will be an end to all this. We shall live in the future. Our fate will be sealed and we will find ourselves in need of new topics of conversation. Daydreaming will be over and we will wake up to a very present reality.

How will that be? I have no idea. This transition stage of our lives drags on and on. It has become a way of life. We can no longer see beyond it. But one day it will be over. We must keep our eyes fixed on that point for one day it will come. The present will be past and then we will live in the future. It’s a sobering thought. We must be careful how we build that future. We may have to live in it for a long time.

The good, the bad and the ugly

The ice and snow have melted here in the Netherlands and the world has reverted to its proper colour (glorious green - at least that's the colour I would paint it!). We can breathe again and stroll about looking at the melting ice on the canals and hunting for signs of spring.

It's a time for observation again, no longer cooped up within four walls and feeling stodgy and stifled, wrapped up and pinched against winter's harshness. Time to re-invent my much-loved outdoor life and for a spot of poetry - two poems which reflect the Dutch landscape in different ways, good and bad, which many of us will remember long after we have returned to our home countries, wherever they may be:

Heron’s Reach

Hunched, poised,
By the water’s edge,
A sentry on duty,
Awaiting the changing of the guard.

Not resting, but silent,
Ever watchful,
Surveying his territory
As the sun falls beneath the reeds.

A breeze springs up,
Ruffling his head feathers.
Head swivels,
Beak pointing this way and that.

Softly, softly,
Creeping forward,
No sharp movements,
Then a sudden plunge.


This one I wrote after a trip back home. The rhyme seemed to fit the neat, regimented landscape:

Thinking in straight lines

I’m back again in Toytown
Where the roads are made with bricks,
Where the trees all grow in straight lines
And other clever tricks.

The water flows in channels;
The river’s bends are gone.
The croaking heron, honking geese
Drown out the chaffinch song.

Beneath the neat lace curtains
The plants all stand in twos,
Purple orchids in square pots
Make up for country views.

What happened to the softness?
Where are those fine green hills?
The mountain’s purple grandeur
Replaced by twirling mills.

No time to sit and ponder
On how life ought to be.
The holiday is over;
Too wasteful just to ‘be’.

I’m back again in Toytown
Where thoughts run in straight lines,
Where black and white, not shades of grey,
Regale my weary mind.

Marken, Netherlands

Not on the menu

People watching! I'm doing it again. I think I'm incurable - not that I'm looking for a cure - it's too much fun! The cafe has a double aspect so I get the best of both worlds: a view out the front to the market square with all its brightly coloured, canopied stalls, bustling with people on market day and, at the back, a view over the canal, the shopping street opposite and the rows of bikes leaned up against the railings.

There's a winter chill in the air, the first of the year really, which somehow inevitably turns my thoughts towards bright, crisp mornings, Sinterklaas and Christmas. The market stalls are so reminiscent of those colourful Christmas markets, so popular in northern Europe, their stalls overflowing with wooden decorations, toys, candles, hot chocolate and gluhwein! But for the moment I'm content with my mug of hot coffee - it's too early still for all that.

A couple of women are sitting by the back window, relaxing together over a cup of tea and catching up on the gossip. The conversation is animated and I do my best to eavesdrop. But they are speaking in Dutch and it's too difficult, so after a while I give up and let their words drift over my head, blending with the soft and innocuous music that fills the air, typical of cafes everywhere. Nothing to get excited about musically, but it covers the silence and provides the gently chilled-out atmosphere we're all looking for. 'Gezelligheid' (a kind of cosiness) the Dutch call it and for that there always have to be candles and soft lighting, together with the music.

Snatches of conversation drift over to me and I catch the word 'lekker' repeated over and over. 'Gezellig' (cosy), 'lekker' (delicious, good) - such familiar words - just a few of those Dutch cliches we joke about. 'Hartstikke leuk!' (fantastic!), 'Uitstekend!' (outstanding!), 'Fijne dag verder!' (enjoy the rest of your day) they exclaim. I am building up a stock of these handy sayings; there is one for every situation. My Dutch is poor but my ever-growing treasure store of cliches ensures that I have something to say on every occasion!

I joke about it, but these are the things I shall miss when one day I return home to my native country. I shall also miss the coffee, the 'patats' (chips) and the cheese (I won't miss the windmills and the clogs). It's a game we play at home: "what will you miss when we go home?" I will miss the market. I will miss the way passers-by wish me 'eet smakelijk' (enjoy your meal) as I tuck into my picnic. I will miss my favourite bars and the cafes where the owners recognise me as 'the English lady who writes'.

The waitress has just arrived with a little tray full of flowers in simple glass vases. A white freesia and a purple iris for each table. She smiles and we exchange a few words. I'm a regular here. I shall miss that too. But, for now, I just drink it all in because there's so much to see and so many stories to invent about the people around me. People watching is not on the menu but it's free of charge.