48 Hours in Amsterdam: PART TWO

Friday, 28 April 2017

I was a vision of undeniable beauty.

Bin bag wrapped firmly around my left hand, my tram ticket held tightly between my teeth, and my luggage balancing precariously over my right shoulder, I sprinted awkwardly next to my sister, my limbs flailing dramatically as every item on my person threatened to catapult into the air like a live-action version of Buckaroo.

We had exactly seven minutes until the tram would be pulling into the station, and absolutely no clue where we needed to dispose of our rubbish.

In the near distance Merrin caught sight of several sizeable, grey boxes. I spat my tram ticket into my spare hand as we gracelessly threw down our luggage and pressed on towards what appeared to be a graveyard of plastic containers.

"IT'S LIKE FUCKING CRYSTAL MAZE" I bawled as we manically opened bin lid after bin lid in attempt to find one empty enough to shove in our rubbish.

Four minutes.

Missing this tram would mean missing our slot at The Van Gogh Museum, thus wasting €17 each and throwing a monumental spanner in the works for the rest of our day. We had cheese and wine tasting booked for midday, a cocktail masterclass afterwards and a train to Groningen - essentially, missing this tram would initiate a domino effect of lateness that would lead to unavoidable catastrophe.

48 Hours in Amsterdam: PART ONE

Thursday, 27 April 2017

 I stood nervously at the front of the queue. My bag was heavy on my shoulder, my passport was slowly soaking away in a pool of sweat in the palm of my hand. I was attentively analysing everyone ahead of me, watching them meticulously pick apart their luggage, neatly and efficiently dividing their belongings into separate plastic trays.

These seasoned travellers made me nervous, I had already been convinced that anyone involved in security at an airport is simply a bulldog in a suit, and was positive beyond reassurance that any fumbling about would certainly lead to my arrest and permanent confiscation of my passport. Shit.

Cheese & Wine Tasting at Reypenaer, Amsterdam

Wednesday, 26 April 2017

As a person whose ‘kass’ expertise stretches as far as once enjoying an exotically-flavoured Babybel, I was both eager and apprehensive to take part in the cheese and wine tasting workshop at the Reypenaer store in Amsterdam.

We woke up relatively early and enjoyed pastries and coffee together in our Air B&B, before (literally) rushing off to catch the tram to head over to the Van Gogh Museum, before traveling into Dam Square, where the Reypenaer store is located, for our midday slot.

With a cheery welcome, we handed over our tickets and paperwork before being directed to the back of the shop, where we descended a steep staircase to the tasting room. Here, we were greeted by rows of wooden tables, neatly set out like a Victorian Classroom and adorned with wine and port glasses, various cheeses and a guillotine, that prompted me to make a mental note to not excessively piss off my sister within the next hour.

Postcards from Lynmouth & Lynton

Thursday, 6 April 2017

 I first stepped foot in The Crown hotel, Lynton, three summer's ago. I was about four or five glasses of wine down - the result of being a sore loser in a pool tournament from the pub before, and consequently sulking into a bottle of Pinot Blush.

As we stepped inside, my step-dad scurried to the bar armed with the genius idea of buying us as many Jack Daniel's and cokes as he could fit in his hands, proudly placing one after the other in front of me with a cheeky grin exclaiming: 'they're doubles!'

Well, that cheeky grin soon washed off his face when half-way through the second I erupted like a volcano of vomit, soaking me, the chair, the floor, and pretty much anything else within a metre radius. The last thing I remember was the stern voice of captain obvious over the bar suggesting 'I think it's time you take her home.'

As we staggered back to the cottage where we were staying, we agreed, for the sake of everyone involved, to never tell my Mother of the incident, and it has, to this day, been referred to as 'the night we don't talk about'

So, when my step-dad, James, told me that he had booked us all into the Crown hotel for our trip back to Devon to celebrate his Mum's 80th birthday, my only thought was: "I really do hope I've put on enough weight in the last three years to become unrecognisable."

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