| HARWICH - CAMBRIDGE - ROTHERHAM The Hoek van Holland (The Hook of Holland) is a promontory that serves as a transport hub linking European road and rail services with ferries across the English Channel and North Sea. It was also where our Eurail Pass would end and we would continue through to the UK by sea in a sealed bubble. The whole of the Stenna Line ferry was enclosed against the weather providing shelter but also a feeling of claustrophobia. Ten years previously a ferry from Zeebrugge in Belgium a few miles down the coast had forgotten to shut the cargo doors and went down like a stone. I scanned the signs for the closest exit to the outside and then proceeded to kick back with a few ales as we made our way into open water en route to Harwich in Essex.
The UK customs terminal was like a pet shop. Dogs of all shapes and sizes together with their handlers wandered around the queues sniffing out luggage and passengers. Tourists arriving back from the Sodom and Gomorrah of the continent getting the once over. I remembered the Eidelweiss seeds from the Sound of Music tour and wondered whether I was breaching quarantine. Probably not into the UK but definitely for Australia, I decided to ditch them at the first opportunity. I had plenty of time to think as I waited in the non resident queue. L was on the dual passport fast track and after travelling all around mainland Europe on her Aussie book switched over to her pommie version for entry into UK. She sat impatiently flicking through a magazine in the waiting area as the snail pace of immigration checks continued.
 I must admit that our arrival back into the old dart had been underwhelming. The customs building was by far the biggest presence on the docks and lead into an car park that aside from a couple of waiting taxis was deserted. In the distance appeared to be a small village but the view was mostly of a wasteland of empty paddocks and a road meandering into the distance. I had not been seeking a welcoming committee but as a busy international passenger terminal I had expected a bit more bustle and a few more connections to the 20th century. It would not have surprised me if one of the horse drawn cabs from Vienna had arrived to take us into town. It was like getting off a Jumbo jet at Sovereign Hill.
Harwich wears its maritime heritage proudly. Having spent many holidays of my youth in the Victorian seaside town of Port Fairy, it was obvious that towns like Harwich were the architectural templates for these Australian villages. The cab dropped us off at a guesthouse overlooking the North Sea in the shadow of a large statue of Queen Victoria who bore a pained expression like someone had just farted nearby.
A hearty pub meal and boozy follow up. When the bar shut we retired upstairs with a bottle of red that L promptly knocked over leaving one side of the bed looking like a murder scene. With sheets stripped off and most of the vino mopped up with towels we crashed. For once L couldn’t grumble about sleeping in the wet spot.
Today’s mission was to hire a car and begin our journey north towards Scotland. The friendly lady on reception – Who obviously didn’t know yet about the wine incident - Assured us that there was a car rental office on the main drag in town within walking distance. So we lumped our bags down the hill like coolies to the shopping strip and began an hour of fruitless meandering as we searched for a street that seemingly did not exist. Four times we asked for directions to the rental place, and four times we ended up back at our starting point none the wiser, blaming each other for the navigational error.
We then hit on a strategy of going into every store in the general area and asking if they rented cars. Finally we came upon a car dealership with a small Thrifty sticker in the window. It was in the wrong street, had a different name to what we had been told and certainly did not advertise the fact it rented cars very prominently but twenty minutes later we were heading out of town in a brand spanking new Ford Escort. We hoped that the road map we had purchased from the guest house was more accurate than the verbal instructions we had been receiving from the locals.
Harwich sits on an estuary formed by the mouths of the Stour and Orwell rivers. The exit roads from the town snake through hedgerows and stone fences straight out of a James Herriot novel. The sort that fox hunters leap in their red coats and Robert Plant sings are full of bustles. Quaint folk in gum boots herd dairy cows through the mud and every blind corner seemed to hide a tractor moving at snails pace in the middle of the road. Everywhere were incredible shades of green with foliage threatening to overtake any static structure like Amazon jungle around an Inca temple. The morning mist gave way to drizzle patches that punctuated the rest of the day. Enough to be annoying but not sufficient to really get wet or justify windscreen wipers. We had seemingly left the sun behind on the other side of the Channel. The tinted windscreen and sun shades sported by the hire car appeared to be incredibly optimistic features. It was mid summer and the nip in the air was reminiscent of a Melbourne winter. No wonder the Pom’s wore socks with their thongs.
Cambridge is a university town, famous for its rowers and alumni of Russian spies. We grabbed a feed in a café overlooking the River Cam and watched the water traffic floating by. Against the bank were moored lines of row boats jutting out into the river like teeth in a comb. The air was full of the sounds of car horns and bicycle bells duelling for prominence. The Beastie Boy’s new song Intergalactic boomed out of radio speakers everywhere. It was the song of the moment and on high rotation on the airwaves. It became a theme tune for the rest of our trip, punctuating the saccharine pop and tortured R&B that seemed to comprise the majority of UK radio play lists. We were glad however for the diversion of the radio as it covered up the awkward silences that tormented our train adventures.
 The A1 motorway cut through Sherwood Forest and we managed to slip through unscathed by robbers merry or otherwise. The diminished size of the wooded area unlikely to hide much more than rabbits and foxes these days. As we approached Sheffield the rolling countryside became noticeably industrialised. Power stations pumping white steam out of huge cooling towers and smoke stacks counterbalancing with dark plumes. Were these the dark satanic mills I vaguely remembered from high school English Literature classes.
We gave up our lofty aim of driving to Edinburgh in one hit and pulled off the freeway. Once again we found ourselves in a suite but this time we had to pay dearly for it. Buggered after a days driving we hit the Hay at the Swallow Hotel in Rotherham.
A miracle. Blue skies. Above jet fighters screamed at altitude leaving vapour trails from horizon to horizon, protecting the realm from a return of the Luftwaffe no doubt. The water on the road surface steamed providing an eerie mist as we drove. Spirits lifted and bare arms on window sills threatened to tan. But it would not last. Within half an hour the grey gloom returned.
A rest stop at a petrol station displaying prices surprisingly similar to home. Similar that is until you realised that the price is per gallon rather than per litre – Not to mention the exchange rate factor. Ouch! No wonder the Pom’s all drove around in little clown cars or caught the tube.
The A1 motorway bypassed most cities and towns and we made good progress north. As we drove past Newcastle a huge winged statue looked down menacingly upon us from a nearby hilltop. It was called The Angel of the North and is like a 12 storey rusted manikin in a gimp suit with an aircraft wing strapped to its back.
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