All That Dutch Philosophy Must Have Rubbed Off

I was flattered and delighted when Thomas Hamburger Jnr nominated me for a Thinking Blogger Award. The time spent in the Hotel de Filosoof must have paid off. My only regret is that I cannot put the award on our mantlepiece for all to see; still if it was on the mantlepiece it would need dusting, so it's not all bad. This evening I think we shall have our little award ceremony, the sort where I get drunk and everyone else fawns after me.

As part of the acceptance process it is my solemn duty to select five people that I think also deserve the nomination. It is quite timely for me to think about other bloggers I like, having just tidied up my blogroll. Let's see...Nurse Myra? She certainly gets me thinking, I'm just not sure it's about the right sort of thing though; and I can't usually think too deeply for laughing in any case. I'm sort of reluctant to go straight for the obvious bloggers that spring to mind because they are so good, in my view, that they don't need the extra readership that might come their way if I choose them. Yet others I might have chosen have already been nominated. Hmmm, I think I might just have to be straightforward and go for the obvious anyway.

First, I choose David B Dale and his Very Short Novels. David is a fabulous writer who, in each post, creates a perfectly formed miniature novel from 299 words. Each one has the essence of a much larger piece of literature distilled with finesse and skill into this tiny word count. He makes me think about word economy and each one has a theme that is often deep and frequently disturbing.

Next I choose Ruby Soho; Aaryan, who writes this blog in San Diego USA, is another stunning writer; she should be, she actually gets money for writing too - can you imaging that? I love her posts about being a mum to her adopted daughter together with a refreshingly anti - republican political stance. She makes me think that, just maybe, there is a future for politics in the US and its adopted island state, the UK.

Third is Bill Blunt, I'm sure someone must have done him already but I haven't seen it. Bill is a journalistic legend with a scything wit and an astute eye for a story. He is a blogger who deals with issues in an almost frivolous manner whilst ensuring you are tapped in to the more serious underlying story, a true professional.

The trick of writing engagingly, in my view, is to do what the great artists do: simply apply paint to canvas using the palette of superficial colours and washes then produce something that, when you stand back, is much more than the sum of the contents. My fourth choice is someone who does just that. Urban Cowgirl moved to New Zealand from the UK some time ago and writes about the joys of discovering her new country whilst regretting the loss of the old. Her posts regularly raise thoughts about what home means and make me question values in the UK that I take for granted.

Finally, I choose Life and Times written by Jonathan. This was one of the first blogs I read and Jonathan's wide ranging posts cover everything from IT and computer games to adoption and society's ills. The beauty of his writing is in constantly being fresh, thus keeping interest and generating thought.

Eating Out Round Our Way

It's funny how things come along; I've just posted a piece about eating out in Amsterdam and, what do you know, Bill Blunt tags me to write about five places to eat near home. Then, as if that isn't spookily enough, we learn that Pieter, the son of our friends Mark and Caroline, has finished his year at catering college (more food), won an award and is off to Holland to work in a hotel for the summer. So, if you happen to be in the hotel Tatenhove in Texel this summer say hello and well done to Pieter from us.

Where do we like to eat then, here are our five selections:

1. For an excellent Sunday pub meal you can't beat The Swan at Dobcross. It's position at the heart of Saddleworth's prettiest village gives it a head start even before you sit down in one of the flag floored rooms with a roaring fire. It's perhaps best to add that this pub is at its cosy best in winter with a howling North wind whipping through the village square outside as you tuck into the excellent, hearty choice of freshly cooked pub food and sip on your pint of one of Jennings Cumberland Ales (yes, I know Jennings is a Lakeland brewery - they are just jealous because the Lake District don't have the monopoly on pretty villages and glacial valleys).

2. When you want something that is a bit more special - like my birthday - we recommend two favourites. The first is not really an Oldham or Saddleworth restaurant but is just over the border in Marsden, West Yorkshire. The Olive Branch is primarily a fish restaurant in the former pub of the same name. There are two parts to the restaurant: the pub side which is cosy, a bit like The Swan, or the new part where you can sit in booths. Although this sounds odd it actually makes for quite an intimate evening, if that is what you are after. The excellent fish has no local comparison to my mind and the menu is ever changing; in fact, there generally isn't a menu: rather you choose your meal from one of the array of cards stuck to the walls around the bar bearing the day's dishes.

3. Our other little more expensive option is a place dear to our hearts. The Rams Head was, twenty plus years ago, a simple country pub on the moorland road out of Denshaw towards Halifax. It is significant because it is where I first experienced draught Theakston's Old Peculiar and Timothy Taylor's Landlord (if your idea of intoxicating liquor is WKD Blue I had better perhaps explain that those two products are real ales, made by people, not by a machine in a chemical factory). It is also one of the places where Mrs C and I did our courting. Now though, much as I hate to see real pubs dissapear, it is a restaurant and organic food shop. Before you recoil in horror, the menu of wild game, fish and organic food is really excellent. If you are ever passing Junction 21 of the M62, don't. Pass it that is, pull off in the direction of Oldham, drive for about 2 miles and sample the delights of the Ram's Head.

4. One of Oldham's institutions is The Old Bill Wine Bar and Bistro (yes, we have a bistro in Oldham - though most Oldhamers think that it is something to do with gravy); it is situated directly at the back of Oldham Nick - hence the name - and is very popular. The continental type menu isn't haute cuisine but is well priced and the excellent atmosphere makes it a great venue for a long evening with a group of friends.

5. Our final choice is in nearby Middleton: Fallen Angels Italian restaurant. This is in the basement of the Royal Toby Hotel and comes with a health warning: don't go here for a romantic dinner. Yes, the tables are candlelit; yes, it is dark and atmospheric inside; and yes, the owners and staff are really Italian; but this place is where you go with about twenty or so other people for a great Italian meal and a raucous night out. It's not unruly but is just great fun - the evening regularly interspersed with crackles from the PA as the dodgy Italian music is replaced with one of a dozen versions of Happy Birthday To You, or Cliff Richard's Congratulations; and the staff parade in a cake or ice cream desert topped with so many sparklers that the procession is followed by an anxious waiter with a fire extinguisher. All that said the traditional Italian food can't be beaten and the cheesy Italianate decor is unique.

Come to Oldham, eat well and make sure you tell them Crofty sent you - I'm always open to a freebie!

Getting Your Fingers Burnt

Blogging requires commitment and time, something I have come to realise after my return to work following three months off. My friend Sarah Didsbury has been a popular newcomer to blogging and partly because of that, the popularity, she has asked me to announce her retirement from blogging rather than have to explain it herself.

Sarah's blog - The Slim Blue Line has provided an insight into the world of modern policing, particularly from the point of view of a female officer. I for one am grateful to her for her posts and I may yet persuade her to allow me to post some features for her; we'll see. For now though she is adamant that she is simply too busy living life to write about it. Sarah is not one for poetry and airy fairy stuff like that but I'm sure she won't mind me quoting this poem by Edna St Vincent Millay that nicely sums up her position:

My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah! my foes, and oh, my friends -
It give a lovely light!

Click here to see what you've been missing.

Don't go to Holland for the native cuisine

This is my last word on Amsterdam, like all travel writers (snort!), I can't leave without saying something about what and where to eat. The starting point on the subject is easy; start from the here: DON'T EAT DUTCH FOOD; that is unless you like herring, and potato, and sometimes cabbage, and pea soup. Our Rough Guide to Amsterdam had pointed out the paucity of Dutch cuisine so were a little anxious about what we might eat; and true to form the guide was right. There were about three reasonably priced Dutch restaurants in Amsterdam and, temptingly emblazoned on their blackboards outside was: herring, potato, cabbage and pea soup - no lie.

But be not downhearted. I have already mentioned that the Dutch are a practical nation and their pragmatism extends to their attitude to eating. Faced with a native menu that is about as exciting as day time television, they do what any pragmatic nation would do: have restaurants from every other culture under the sun. In the area of the city that extends from the top of Vondelpark to the Prinsengracht, there are dozens of excellent, reasonably priced restaurants ranging from Italian to Indian and Indonesian to French - no English funnily enough.

My advice on where to eat is to ignore whatever it says in the Rough Guide. Simply take a stroll and check out which places look popular - menus and staff change too quickly, in my view, to be able to rely on a guide written twelve months ago. Before I tell you where we did eat though, I need to qualify something I said in an earlier post when I railed against the generic nature of Amsterdam's shopping centre: full of shops you might see in any other main city - McDonalds, H & M, Next etc. I am not entirely against global chains; at least not now at any rate. Whilst I would love every shopping centre and city to be full of unique shops and local traders I cannot discount entirely our discovery of Wagamama, the casual worldwide noodle eating experience: it is fabulous. An eclectic clientèle sat on benches with long tables and just the right distance between you to be matey, if you like and absorbed in each other if you don't - there is probably a scientific formula for that distance. The menu is an imaginative mix of noodle dishes and other very reasonably priced oriental fare; and the service is friendly and refreshingly efficient. In the spirit of adventurous journalism, I was tempted to investigate a desert that consisted of a kebab of lychees and pineapple, dusted with grated coconut and - wait for it- fresh chilli; sounds so wrong but was oh so right, as the poet said. I can't wait for an excuse to investigate our Manchester Wagamama .

So that is Amsterdam done with; and not before time: yesterday was Pentecost Sunday, or Whit Sunday, as it is known around here. Why do I tell you this? Because that means Friday is Whit Friday one of the most important days of the year around here; but before I spoil it by telling you the plot, I'll sign off - you'll have to wait and see.

War, Art and Philosophy

I'm beginning to wonder at the power of my blog; the post before last I mentioned the fabulous singer songwriter Loudon Wainwright III and next minute he pops up as a guest on the Radio 2 Acoustic and Traditional Music Show (I hesitate to call it folk music because of the stereotypical images of beardy wholefood Fair isle types). But that is the power of our art: in Amsterdam I was already musing on war and its effects thanks to the weaving of Spanish Civil War themes into the Case of the Missing Family by the excellent Thomas Hamburger, so it was only a short trip in my mental landscape to the Second World War and walk across the real landscape of Amsterdam to the house of Ann Frank, the daughter of the Jewish family forced into hiding when Holland was occupied by the German Army.

The tale of their hiding is told in the Diary of Anne Frank but is set in context in the preserved house in which the family hid; the fact that you know the end of the story makes the journey to the inevitable end even more poignant. The house is a big tourist draw and was full of people of all ages who started the morning chatting and pointing out things of interest to each other; by the end of the trip the crowded rooms were eerily silent as people mulled over the implications of what they had witnessed.

That's war then, but what about art and philosophy, I hear you cry. The Van Gough Museum was a disappointment to me, too full of people to fully appreciate the magnificent collection of his and his contemparies' paintings; however the exhibition of Max Beckman's war time paintings in the gallery annex was not full of people - if you've seen his paintings you will know why, you wouldn't want them on your bedroom wall unless you were ready for some pretty disturbed dreams. His war years in Amsterdam as a German were very different to that of the Frank family, but it was worth the mental and emotional effort to compare them.

Philosphy? Our hotel, De Hotel De Filosoof, is the home of the society of practical philosophers. This group attempt to apply philosophy to modern day ills in a similar way to a therapist might do - I guess it's a bit like cognitive therapy: learning to think about problems in a different way. And this philosophising brings me full circle back to Radio 2 and the (oh go on then, call a spade a spade) folk music show. It is hosted by Mike Harding a Lancashire comedy singer, made famous for his rendition on Top of the Pops of the single Rochdale Cowboy, sat upon a stuffed Alsation dog. But I bet you didn't know he was a philosopher too. I once heard him sharing an account of how he awoke in the middle of the night, threw back the curtains and stared up at the vast starry expanse above him asking the eternal question of himself:
"What is it all about?"
His responded in blunt Northern tones:
"It's got bugger all to do with me."
And went back to bed.

Amsterdam - Philosophy, Art, War, Sex and Aching Feet

I'm going to have to write about our trip in instalments - there's a lot to write. But first - having read my heading - let's get the bit that everyone who knows us wants to know: yes we did investigate the red light district and no, the sex and the aching feet are not the result of some adventurous new position discovered as the result of our investigations.

Amsterdam is a fabulous city: easy to get around and easy to just be in; everyone speaks English - willingly; and the public transport system would make John Prescott blush (remember his cunning plan for a ten year integrated transport system? - the one he hastily dumped on Stephen Byers when he realised it couldn't be done). Famous for its liberal culture the city has a generally relaxed feel; Amsterdam's citizens are neither gushily friendly nor stand offish, more that they are simply happy to share their space with you no matter who or how you are.

I know you probably won't believe this, but our sojourn into the red light district was actually to visit a church. De Oude Kerk is Amsterdam's oldest and grandest church with burial records dating back to 1300 but, as if that wasn't enough, it also has a magnificent organ (that is not an invitation to skip ahead to the smut, by the way) and, at the moment, contains the World Press Photo of the Year exhibition. This is an international annual contest to do exactly what it says on the tin: find the best press photo of the year. The winning pictures in a variety of categories then go on a world tour.

It was stunning; I'd already seen the wining picture in The Independent, but the large scale photos really take your breath away. The subject matter is often grim and I take my hat off to the art of photographers who have the gift of composition and can use it under circumstances that would leave me diving for cover. If you get five minutes click on the link to see an on-line gallery of the winners; but, even better, if you get chance to go to the exhibition, do.

The irony of the juxtaposition of stark media images, a beautiful place of worship and window brothels not 15 metres from the rear wall of the the church, was not lost on me as we stepped out onto the Voorburgwal, the canal that bisects the dark alleys of the Red Light district. We had chosen our moment carefully, not wanting to get our pockets picked in the crowds of lascivious lads later in the day, mid afternoon was sufficiently daring for our sex tour. Even then though ladies in windows plied their trade to passing men - it's always men - who bargain shamelessly for a better deal on their desired method of having their snake milked. I'm sorry if that is a little blunt, but my overriding opinion is that that is all it amounts to; even our Rough Guide warns unwary young men not to expect the romantic encounter they hope for: it is an extremely practical service.

In the interests of journalism I assiduously studied the lady window occupants, though was made to suffer for my art with a hasty clip round the ear off Mrs C. She needn't have worried; the whole thing was unappealing and seedy. The alleyways are liberally peppered with live sex shows and DVD bars with private cabins: I had to explain why someone, who might not be able to afford the fifty Euro fee for a window visit, might opt for a cheaper private DVD cabin.

All that said, once we'd agreed on our joint moral stance, there was great fun to be had giggling and snorting at some of the more extreme sex aids offered for sale:

"Good Lord, you'd put your back out with that thing!"

Our moral stance? The other notable inclusion in this legalised leisure centre for the lonely, was a large number of sex health centres and other centres offering support for people involved in the sex industry. The Dutch view seems to be more pragmatic than liberal: deal with the world as it is rather than sweep the unseemly bits beneath the carpet and hope they will go away. I admire the Dutch approach.

Into the Hands of God and Physics I Place Myself

Did I mention that I'm not a good flier? "Amsterdam here we come" I gleefully cheer on the one hand; whilst on the other I'm a bit of a sweaty palmed wreck.
"Who's afraid of flying?..." sang the insightful Loudon Wainright III, "I'm just afraid of crashing..." he reassuringly continued.

So, give us a thought at around 8.15 tomorrow morning as we embark on our KLM white knuckle ride!

See you all soon.

There's Culture Up North Tha' Knows...Our Perfect Weekend

Grand opera and grand gardens – it could have been any of Europe’s cultural capitals; but it wasn’t, this was Yorkshire, England. Celebrating a significant birthday for Mrs C, we gambled on the English summer weather with tickets for an outdoor performance of La Boheme. After dropping bags at our B and B, Watergate Lodge, Knaresborough, we set out into a perfect summer afternoon and enjoyed the town’s riverside tranquillity before dressing to impress, picking up our picnic and heading to the hauntingly beautiful Cistercian ruins of Fountains Abbey.

Opera Brava are a small company who specialise in pared down performances; accompanied simply by a pianist they manage to distil the essence of grand opera into exquisite miniatures. Their performance was punctuated by Tawny Owl calls lending a fittingly sad note to Puccini’s tragic tale of love and loss in Bohemian Paris. Cynics say that plots like La Boheme have about as much depth as Coronation Street, their distant detergent relative; but as poor Mimi coughed her last tuberculous breath into the hankie held in her tiny frozen hand, assembled picnickers took an extra sip of Chardonnay to disperse the lumps appearing mysteriously in their throats.

The following morning, replete with culture and Peter Guest’s excellent Watergate Lodge breakfast, we headed to the RHS Gardens at Harlow Carr. These are gardener’s gardens where people won’t glance askance at you for talking about mulch or compost. There is a gorgeous floral array, a stunning kitchen garden, woodland walks and the national rhubarb collection - fabulous. We also benefit from the knowledge that the growing conditions are not dissimilar to our home patch: ‘if it grows at Harlow Carr, it will grow at home’, our motto.
Opera and gardening: not to everyone’s taste – but this was our weekend and we loved it.

The Great Airmiles (bit of a) Con

OK, I'm over my introspective period now, you'll be glad to hear. In fact Mrs C and I have a bit of a spring in our step at the moment: we are going away - properly away, abroad, alone: sans sons - for the first time in nearly nineteen years. We have planned a trip to coincide with a special birthday for Val and because our sons were eighteen in the same period - expensive - we have saved Airmiles thanks to the true rulers of our fine land: Tesco.

The trip we planned was four nights in Rome, direct flights from Manchester in a hotel recommended to us by the well travelled Reverend Richard. The reality is that we are going to the equally interesting - I'm sure - Amsterdam. Here's why: despite the hype, you are very limited to where and how you can travel with your hard earned Airmiles, unless you live in London. Yes, I know that lots of airlines fly direct to Rome from Manchester but with your Airmiles you can only fly via Gatwick because Airmiles only deal with a limited number of companies. So, Amsterdam it is, leaving on Monday on a jet plane; and despite our initial disappointment we are very excited and currently spending evenings poring over our Rough Guide to Amsterdam.So don't plan your world trip based on Airmiles before checking where you can go first.

While we are on the subject of travel I'm quite excited about the new Fuel My Blog competition which involves a blog post about my best weekend. The prize is a trip to Austria which might just compensate for the lack of a trip to Rome so watch out for my next post.

My body: a map of experience

It occurred to me, whilst musing over my body's failings and foibles, that, while it might not be the perfect specimen of masculine form, my body does form an interesting aide to reminiscence. So, join me on a trip over my body's lumps bumps and imperfections and experience a selection of the events that caused them.

Let's start at my feet: large, hobbit like, flat as pancakes and recently scarred with 26 stitches at the hands of the excellent Mr Sundar, Orthopaedic surgeon. The surgery the result of my insistence on running for many years on feet that clearly weren't designed for it.

Moving over my hairy shins we arrive at a moon shaped scar just below my right knee, another experience at the hands of an orthopaedic surgeon when I was fourteen years old. This memory is not pleasant, not because of the surgery but because of the memories of repeated visits to the doctor, trying to convince him that there was something wrong: I knew there was - it bloody well hurt - but the experts of the time did not believe me. My memories of repeatedly hitting the sore spot to give the doctors cause to listen, would clothe and feed a psychotherapist's family for months.

Skirting my hairy thighs we pause at mid-point to view two scars. One the result of childhood exertion: showing off trying to lift a climbing frame, aged seven, a piece of my bowel popped through the inguinal canal causing a hernia. The resulting four inch scar to pop it back would cause today's surgeons to chuckle as they removed most of someone's innards through a hole the size of a five pence piece (think dime for the US). The other scar is rather more personal; it is tiny and hidden in the corrugations of my man-parts. Its minuscule size is inversely proportional to the size of the family-limiting decision it represents; and though off less importance, the experience itself is worth a passing reference: "Fame, I wanna live forever, I wanna learn how to fly (fly)...." trying to make small talk with a man wielding a scalpel at your testicles is not for the faint of heart.

Moving hastily on, we bypass the largely unscathed abdomen and pause a moment at an interestingly moon shaped scar just below the middle joint of my right index finger. This represents some of my irritating character traits: impatience and enthusiasm for invention without the necessary clear thinking pragmatism. Picture New Year's Eve 1978; I am sixteen years old and am to spend the night alone in the house - my parents have sportingly supplied me with a four pack of bottled Guinness. The Old Grey Whistle Test - the older equivalent of Jools Holland's excellent Hootenanny - is about to start and I reckon I've just got time to open a bottle in the kitchen. The familiar theme starts; I can't find the bottle opener, so in panic reach for the next best tool: a Party Seven can piercer - a Party Seven was a seven pint can of beer for which you needed a piercer to open - I had not worked out that the piercer's width was greater than the bottle neck width, so was surprised when the neck of the bottle snapped gashing my youthful finger. It bled until January 2nd.

Scooting over my face with its slightly bulbous, broken-looking nose (another story) we'll finish with what is my favourite scar. Atop my balding head, running transversely is a perfectly straight three inch scar. A sign of youthful exuberance and sheer stupidity that, I am proud to say, has never left me. Do you remember the Fame TV series? Leg warmers, dance and music - the seed of every youthful ambition to be in the entertainment industry. As the theme music played through the credits dancers leap into the air as they sing:

"Fame, I wanna live forever, I wanna learn how to fly (fly)..."

I was getting ready to go out for a drink, freshly bathed and wrapped in a towel I watched Fame in my bedroom. As the theme music came on cast aside the towel, ran naked along the landing of my parents' house and leapt into the air at the appropriate moment, failing to notice that I was positioned directly beneath the bathroom door frame: four stitches no local anaesthetic...the doctor lied.

Hope you have enjoyed this journey across my body; hope you kept your dinner down.

I'm making the big time

I've just spotted my face in the 'Today's Top Bloggers' section at Fuel My Blog. Thanks to everyone who voted for me today. If you don't know what I'm talking about have a look for the Fuel My Blog widget on the right hand side of my page; it looks like this:

When you've found it click on it, just to see what happens...you can also click on it if you like my blog and want to vote for it, or 'fuel' it as we say in the trade. If you are a regular visitor give it a click each time you are here, if for no other reason than to give me the lovely warm feeling I had when I saw that I was popular today.

More of 'Am I normal?'

I'm not normally so introspective, but whilst on the verge of creating a post about my body - I'll not tell you too much about it, don't want to spoil a future plot - I shared a thought, a perfectly innocent thought, with my colleagues. Their reaction was both instructive and fascinating.

I have some weight to lose, roughly a stone, I feel fat and my clothes are uncomfortable.
"Well buy new clothes" I hear some of you shout; but I am made of sterner stuff than that. In order to judge my progressive weight loss I have a method of viewing myself with an objective eye. Rather than rely on the Avery bathroom scales, I consider my appearance by standing naked in front of a mirror, tensing whatever muscles can be tensed and well, jiggling up and down. It is quite obvious - barring obvious exceptions - which are the wobbly bits to lose.

This is the thought I shared with my colleagues and I am ashamed to say that, after listening, one or two of those with a better visual imagination were looking a bit queasy. You can see why I am rather reticent to make future posts about my body. I put it down to Val's and my shared background in nursing, we have shared many a romantic dinner where the dinner table talk has centred on topics that any decent horror movie critic would describe as gore: it is our normal. It is also the shared normal that our two sons have grown up with. When they were younger some of their friends found our normal dinner table chat rather rich for their tastes; we had to learn to be more sensitive to the needs of their more sensitive friends or risk rejections to our tea time invitations.

So we are back round to this idea of normality again. I think I will do the post about my body, then, in the great democracy that is the blogosphere, people can choose the normal they prefer.