The good news is that every day I’m in England, things are getting better and better.

I slept bucket loads when I first got back, then did a one-month stint as a sales consultant at the local gym (what was I thinking?!), before moving down to London in December.

The bad news is that the BootsnAll server crashed and some of my final postings, along with all their comments, were lost. I was so pissed that I’ve only just gotten around to retyping all the entries. The comments, however, have been lost in cyberspace forever, including all of the congratulations I received when I finished Europe On An Alphabet :( 

It’s taken several months to get motivated, but I’ve finally started writing again. The misadventures of Muggins here may at some point hit the shelves yet. I’m also working on a web site and selling a few of the many photographs I tooks whilst traveling.

I’ll keep you posted and my progress. In the meantime, take care.

Best wishes for 2007!

Lordy, look at all the outpouring of love that’s coming my way! I’ve also received several wonderful e-mails since I returned back to Blighty, all of which offer congratulations and encouragement. I feel like I have friends everywhere, even if I’ve never met half of them.

Thank you so much for all the support over the last few months. It’s definitely been a journey I won’t forget. Will I want to do it again in this way? I don’t think so. Do I regret doing it? Absolutely not.

I met many people while traveling with much stronger dispositions, who seem far better suited to the life of a vagabond than me. What I did was really not that extraordinary, trust me.

Next time On An Alphabet would like to slow things down a pace or two and not do the whole thing in one big sploosh.

Yes, not given up on the idea but next time someone else is going to have to pay. Alas, I’m totally broke and currently have no fixed abode. At 35 years of age I’m moving back in with my father for a while.

I’ve now been back at my father’s place for four days. Trying to settle in England is difficult. After living in the US for 14 years, I’m finding it nearly as hard as backpacking around
Europe.

The first bar I went into alone I was hit on by a very strange man wearing a fedora and dark sunglasses, who, within five minutes of sitting next to me proceeded to say I should seriously think about getting myself a push-up bra.

I paid a visit to the doctor’s and was informed I had five minutes to talk about one problem only. Oh, and no pushchairs/strollers allowed in the waiting room. Not that I have a baby who requires four wheels but I did feel sorry for the mother who had to drag in her twins and an infant. I thought about it after I’d left the doctor’s office but I wonder if they ban wheelchairs, too….

The money’s different (they even have two pound coins now) and so are the accents, and as far as writing goes, all of my Americanisms are “garbage.”

Please send answers on a postcard to…..

Seriously, though, I’ve now got to return to the land of the living and try and figure out (once again) what I want to be when I grow up.

Oh my gosh! I managed to get a seat, at no extra charge, on the very next train leaving Brussels for London Waterloo. There was no time to shop for sunglasses (did I tell you I lost mine a couple of days ago?) or cigarettes (guess I’ll have to give up again).

I sat in my seat and pulled out the left-over bagueffe, prosciutto, cheese, sun-dried tomato spread and half a bottle of red wine. My picnic, my celebration. Two sour-faced spinsters sat across the aisle looked on with twisted faces, a look of disgust (what? it was 5p.m., and I’m hungry) but I didn’t care. Don’t you know what I’ve done? I wanted to say. Even sitting in a seat facing backwards didn’t bother me. I was going home.

As I gradually got closer to England, it was like a valve was slowly being turned and the panic I’ve been feeling, that’s been building up since “5,” I think, was being released into the atmosphere.

Two days ago I couldn’t wait to get back to England and start taking anti-depressants again. Now I’m not so sure. Today I feel a little differently. Stronger, calmer. I pushed my “frontiers” to the point of collapse, to where I didn’t care if I finished the trip or not. Now maybe I can just find a balancing point. We’ll see.

I really did it, though. I traveled by way of the alphabet through Europe and survived.

I know I should have stayed to investigate or relax some more, and I know my rail ticket didn’t expire until August 28, but after a walk on the beach yesterday morning in Zandvoort I’d had enough. I’d go and spend a night in Amsterdam, pick up a pipe for a friend of mine and then head back to England. No, that was too much. I’d have lunch and spend a couple of hours of walking around. That’d do it.

As soon as I walked out of the station, though, and saw the throngs of tourists pushing and dashing around, my heart began to race and I panicked.

 “Screw this, I’m out of here,” I thought. (Actually, I thought something different but am trying not to use foul language and upset folks.) Amsterdam is close to England and I can visit another time (Caroline: get ready for me!).

I paused long enough to pick up some really tacky souvenirs (no pipe, I’m afraid) then headed straight back to the tracks and hopped the next train to Brussels. I’d no doubt have to wait for ages—maybe even stay the night—to get a seat on a train to London that would let me use my discounted Eurostar ticket (if you have an inter rail ticket you get 50% off the price).

After another three trains I arrived in Zandvoort in the Netherlands, my final stop on this trip. I’m completely and utterly knackered, but I made it. Hoorah!

The seaside resort is only 30 km from Amsterdam and can be reached directly by train (twice an hour). It’s like Brighton without the pebbly beach or Blackpool without the pleasure beach. It’s cold and windy, like England, and people are wrapped up in beach towels and jackets, trying to make the most of their vacation at the seaside. The braver folks (read crazy) lay out in their bathing suits hoping to catch the tiny slither of sunshine fighting to break through the clouds.

I walked into the town center (all of two minutes away from The Best Western), passed the rows of houses advertising available rooms–and the magic mushroom shop–and picked up a little punnet of freshly caught and fried cod (more food…) being sold on the sea front.

Sitting on one of the benches overlooking the rough, frigid sea, I celebrated my accomplishment of completing Europe On An Alphabet. I sat alone and watched the kite surfers jumping up and through the waves. Seagulls screached above and dog shit dotted the pavement.

Well, I made it. A bit of an anti-climax but nonetheless.

Before getting on the train to Holland, Caroline and I went in search of Belgian waffles back in Namur. I’m going to be rolling my ass home anyway so might as well make it really worthwhile.

Since it was on the way back to the hostel in Namur, where she had a reservation for the night, Caroline gave me a ride to my accommodation in Yvoir, my “Y” place. The hotel is right next to the train station and sits across from Yvoir Island. It’s like a version of Fawlty Towers, minus all the staff except Cybil, and even she’s now about 90 years old and cannot accompany guests up to their rooms upon arrival. Neither does she speak English. Just points and babbles.

A very bizarre experience. Extremely high ceilings, creaky floorboards, flowered wallpaper on the walls and doors, and Scottish tartan curtains. The king-sized bed was two single beds pushed together. The only other guests in the establishment were three men all sharing one room.

I didn’t fancy sitting by myself all evening so Caroline and I went for drinks (and another game of Scrabble–English, this time), and then I snuck her into my huge room with mis-match oversized furniture for a slumber party. Getting her out the next morning was a little tricky but since the landlady was too old to run after us and we weren’t able to understand what she was saying, it wasn’t too difficult to get away with it.

The weather has been so bad the last couple of days, it makes everything look depressed.  The huge houses that sit along the river and nestle up in the surrounding trees surrounding are like something from the Amityville Horror movie.
 

   

At the end of my first day in Namur, I was tired, fed up and looking forward to a good, long night’s sleep. Only a few days left now until I’d be back on English soil. Hooruh!

“Would you like a glass of wine?” the 29 year old blonde asked. “I have a bottle in my car. I’ll have a cigarette, too, but I don’t suppose you smoke, do you?”

Oh, sweetie, you’re talking to the wrong person right now. I would love to join you in both activities.

We sat on the hostel balcony, overlooking the River Meuse and gradually made our way through Caroline’s bottle of wine. When that was done, we moved downstairs to the bar for more wine and a game of Scrabble. We hadn’t been playing for long when we realized it was French Scrabble. Not to be defeated, we continued with our attempts to lay down English words, but by eleven we were both tired and quite drunk so called it a night.

The plan for the next day was to be active. Caroline and I would go to the adventure park in Dinant, 30 km south of Namur. We’d climb rocks, swing on a pulley, and cross rope bridges.

“We only do something when we have a group of 15 or more people,” the girl at the center said. “If there’d been something set up, we could have added you, but we don’t have anything.”

Our plans were thwarted. Just as well because shortly afterwards the skies opened. We drove into Dinant center and found a cafe overlooking the river. It was around 1100 hours when we got there and two coffees, lunch, wine, and three hours later by the time we left. A break in the clouds gave us just enough time to visit the Citadel in Dinant.
DON’T BOTHER!

   

We paid 6,50 Euros and caught the cable car up to the top of the hill. There are also 480 steps, if you feel like some exercise. It’s a complete wrip-off. There’s nothing really to see and the tour guide who takes you around does not give an English translation. With all the money they’re raking in from tourists, the least they could do would be to upgrade their exhibits and give the dummies decent wigs. Even Caroline, who did get a Dutch translation thought it was a big load of pants.