The written thoughts of a traveller.
Touring with Rock ‘n’ Roll bands; exploring Europe and the world; flirting in bars… and some naughtiness.
Oh, and all with a trombone. Enjoy..
PINK. No, of course I don’t know who she is, but is that just so uncool that it’s almost cool? No, I didn’t think so. Namibian hasn’t a clue either, but we both recognise songs from airtime on the radio. Well, we’ll go and have a little look at her concert – to see what
A thirty-five minute drive last night – Namibian leading with the “spaznav” turned off – brings us to Oberhausen, a place low on the list of tourist destinations. In fact, I’d be surprised if it features at all. Like those new towns of Stevenage and Hatfield, for example, Oberhausen is dull – reasonably clean and
Tachographs are a dashed nuisance. Namibian and I awoke yesterday after five hours in bed – separate beds, that is – faced with a dilemma. Either we go immediately, to reach our destination within a regulation “spread-over” period of fifteen hours; or we wait another four hours, to complete a nine-hour daily rest. These hard-and-fast
Did you want a bit more on Colditz? OK then: I join a tour in English, along with four shirt-wearing sexagenarians from Kendal. They’ve come all this way…and not a single bit of Mint Cake between them. We look under-dressed next to Susanne in her duffle coat, and feel it, too. Either Susanne’s coat is
Namibian, never a picture of athleticism, has taken a turn for the worse. With sunken eyes and clutching a bottle of cough mixture, he looks like a Peruvian spectacled bear. His nose runs as he asks how far it is to the shopping centre. My reply – ‘ a fifteen-minute walk’ – has him wincing,
Did you know that Antwerp has the second largest harbour in Europe after Rotterdam? No, nor did I. After barrels of laughs in the laundrette yesterday – touring is just all razzmatazz – I cycled to the Schelde River via the International Magazine Shop, a quiet haven littered with snoozing kittens. I’m an animal lover
One can fool about with blunderbusses and grapeshot for only so long. Moving swiftly from Dinant’s Citadel, Ive and I drive to Durbuy, ‘the smallest city in the world’. If asked, though, I’d lean towards it being more of a village. What constitutes a city, anyway? I used to thing it was having a cathedral.
Why sleep in a truck – or Hotel DAF, as I fondly call her – if I don’t have to? Twenty-seven minutes away by train is Brussels, and my pal, Ive de Sterck. But one has to survive being tossed about on Tram 12 to Central Station first. The driver accelerates hard into the first
I got drunk last night. Well, not “falling down” drunk. More like four pints, or whatever the equivalent is in Euroland’s metric measures. Now I could pretend I need ten pints to feel tipsy, but why bother lying? I can’t drink, and that’s the end of it. Namibian’s almost the same, unless whisky is involved.
“Barnaby’s thoughtful musings on his voyage through life. You are not alone as you travel that valley my son.”
Father Pius Smith, Hastings.
