Czech your privilege

It was a tale of two cities, both alike in charm, but with significantly diverging price tags.

The first was Prague. This is a proper walking city, all higgledy-piggledy streets hiding medieval towers, dotted with fantastic coffee shops. We did all the famous stuff, like that bridge and the castle, and then just wandered, soaking up the European history. Not much has happened in Britain since 1066 apart from a bit of royal infighting (plus ça change) while here on The Continent it was all going off! Holy Roman Empires rose and fell, dynasties came and went, nationalist movements burned and sputtered out, and it's all written in the streets of cities like this one.

Most importantly from a Davies perspective, everything's so cheap! We were able to afford a room on the "executive floor" of our hotel. Although, now I think about it, nine of the twelve floors were "executive floors", so I may have fallen for some marketing there. But they had a pianist playing in the lobby, which means it was classy, and a free bottle of water in the room. We also enjoyed some excellent cappuccinos in the aforementioned Prague cafes, and Pete's lunch included meat and whipped cream on the same plate. He was happy.

After our last less-than-ideal overnight journey, I admit to some trepidation boarding the train from Prague to Zurich. But, joyously once again, our Euros went a lot further, and we had an ensuite cabin! Granted, the "ensuite" was more of a cupboard, and the sink and the shower were the same thing, but the beds were long enough for me to sleep in a non-foetal position. Luxury!

You know you're in Switzerland when everything starts to run on time, and we actually arrived in Zurich two minutes early! The air was crisp and clear, the skies were blue, and everything was that much more expensive. €100 for some flatbreads for lunch was certainly a culture shock, and we'd got our hotel using Hannah's business travel points because how much for a sofa bed?!

But Zurich was as lovely as Prague, with similar winding, cobbled streets, and the lake making everything airy and open. I considered opening a famous Swiss bank account, but wasn't sure the three francs I had left after lunch would be enough. A far more significant chunk of change was spent by my wife on chocolate. It may be morally wrong buying Swiss chocs when living in Belgium (you can get Toblerone everywhere, after all) but there are some real confiseurs here, including one with a wall of flowing, liquid chocolate! Even pre-Covid I'm not sure I'd have stuck a finger in there for a taste.

One night in Zurich was enough - for my credit card if not my soul - and we were soon back in the station watching the famous clock hands sweep around as we awaited our next train, onward into Germany!

The Charles Bridge, well-known from movies and British stag parties.

Looking back from up the famous gothic tower.

Enlightened.

An astronomical clock. Not as accurate as those Swiss ones.

Horrendous. And delicious.

I decided to show off my music skills at the hotel. The three drunk people lounging in the lobby at 10am were very appreciative.

On board, ensuite. Hmm.

A three-layer Davies sandwich!

Followed by a much tastier breakfast.

Right on time!

Beautiful Zurich (it really is).

And some beautiful coffee here too, from a world champion barista.

The difficult, dangerous task of choosing chocolate.

That's a waterfall of liquid chocolate, just like Willy Wonka!

The good stuff. Better than Belgian? I'll have to eat a lot more to give an educated opinion.

Trans-Europe Express

It's "ski week" break for schools here in Brussels. Now, we Davieses are many things, but we are not skiers (get dragged up a mountain then slide to the bottom? Why not just stay at the bottom and save time?!) We do, however, like to take advantage of a holiday, so decided to do what we never did when we lived in Europe. Namely: see Europe.

The key to this was the newly-inaugurated night train from Brussels to Vienna. Fall asleep in Belgium, wake up in Austria! It's a hotel on wheels! Or a train with beds!! Either way, the romantic notions of an era when travel was that much more refined meant I eagerly booked our "couchette".

Sadly, the beds on a train are a lot harder - and lurch around a lot more - than those in a hotel, with more squealing brakes and horns, and then the lights go on in the middle of the night because you're waiting for the train from Amsterdam to join on at the back. So when we eventually trundled into Vienna, three hours late, I understood why they call it a "night train" and not a "sleeper".

But the ability to walk from your door to another city without touching a car cannot be sniffed at, and the ease with which you can leave your bags at major European train stations and just wander for hours is fantastic. We marveled at Vienna's imperialist architecture, all heavy columns and arches and palaces, as well as snapping pics where they filmed The Third Man, one of my Dad's favourites.

We also enjoyed some fine Austrian coffee. When Vienna beat back a Turkish siege in 1683, they discovered bags of brown powder left behind, and soon the city fell in love with caffeine (which I thoroughly applaud, although the amount of whipped cream floating on some of the concoctions is disturbing).

Our 36 hours in Vienna rushed by, with our extensive meandering exceeding all the goals in Hannah's fitness tracker. It was time to catch a train to Prague, one which thankfully I would not have to pretend to get a night's sleep on.

The height of trans-European locomotive comfort.

Arriving more than a little bleary-eyed.

Straight into Vienna, straight out for schnitzel.

Upper Belvedere Palace. Lower Belvedere Palace is behind me. They like their palaces here.

A place for Pete!

St Stephan's very snazzy church, right in the centre of town.

The Harry Lime doorway!

Why walk around Vienna when you can experience it through the medium of computer games?

The effect of too many computer games.

I prefer a little more coffee in my coffee.

More Third Man, at the famous ferris wheel. 

Relaxing in the Austrian sun.

Are cricket and barbies out too?

Snow limits

The answer to the question "What's the best country in the world for [insert something here]?" is always "Norway". It's true! But not being trusting people, we decided to go and find out for ourselves.

Things didn't start brilliantly, with a three-hour delay for our flight. Brussels Airport basically shuts at 9pm, so it was strange huddling together with our fellow Oslo-bound passengers in one small corner of a giant empty atrium.

The reason for the wait soon became apparent: SNOW! This was Pete's reason for wanting to head north in the first place, but de-icing planes evidently slows things, and by the time we'd touched down in deep-and-crisp-and-even Scandinavia the last airport train had departed. 

When we finally got to the front of the taxi queue, I decided it was best to close my eyes. The driver explained how all Norwegians have to complete courses on winter driving to get a license, and about snow tires, but that didn't help. Coming from a country where a heavy frost causes road chaos and carnage, I was not prepared to be driven at 120kph in white-out conditions. "I feel the road through my feet and hands," said the driver chattily. I'm sure you do, but I was too busy asking the Virgin Mary for protection to respond.

After the small matter of finding our rented apartment at 2am in a blizzard (unlike Scott of the Antarctic, we didn't resort to eating anyone to survive) I was beginning to wonder if Norway was all it was cracked up to be.

But my fears were unfounded! The next morning we donned every warm and waterproof thing we'd packed and set out. The city of Oslo is unbelievably walkable, even under a metre of snow, and busses, trams, and people didn't seem to care about snowmageddon. It's almost like...this is normal here! We wandered around the frozen harbour with it's floating saunas (just no) and had lunch at a restaurant with a dedicated warm room to shed your many layers in.

The day after was clear and bright, and we took a boat trip around the fjord on a fancy electric catamaran. For a pre-Christmas destination, Oslo seemed very quiet, so as Pete was the only child onboard he got invited to drive. I guess there are no maritime laws in Norway. The captain hovered attentively, and amazingly this did not all end in disaster.

Talking of boats, we also got to walk around on the ships that took famed Norwegian Roald Amundsen through the Northwest  Passage and to the South Pole! They're just sitting there in an Oslo museum!! He was racing the aforementioned Scott, and it seems like the Norwegians actually planned their Antarctic foray in minute detail, whereas the Brits just trusted in our famed pluck and courage to get us through. And we know how that turned out.

Our flight back to Brussels was only slightly delayed by de-icing, where runny brown stuff slid down the plane windows before take off and filled me with no confidence whatsoever. By now I should have been assured that the Norwegians know what they're doing in these temperatures, but I think our next trip might be to the Costa del Sol.

A merry pre-Christmas.

My little angel.

Outside the palace. Yes, they have a royal family here too! But these ones let you walk around their garden.

Finally warming up on a cruise.

How Scandi can you get?

This is about as high as the sun rises at this time of year. It's like being back in Durham!

Why don't we put him in charge?

First naval commission successfully navigated!

Another impressive Norwegian ship: the Gjoa.

A model of the British attempt at the pole. Hmm.

Another British attempt.

See? The Norwegians thought of everything.

OK, that's enough snow now.

Canal knowledge

I believe my time away from home has given me a wider perspective on other cultures and customs, leading me to greater acceptance of diverse traditions and ways of life. But come on - clogs?!

These shoes, made from material that no shoe should ever be made from, were everywhere on our recent trip to Amsterdam. In shops, on signs, as decorations...but tellingly not on anyone's feet. Are clogs simply a ridiculous myth dreamed up for tourists, like the Loch Ness monster or the British royal family?

I mused on this as we wandered around the capital of the Netherlands, another fabulous European city an easy train ride from Brussels. Like many others, this is a romantically medieval town of cobbled streets and narrow bridges over canals. Yes, lots of canals. It's completely unsuited to modern car traffic, which doesn't stop the residents zooming down the streets, no doubt constantly cursing at directionless tourists.

We were here mainly by Pete's request. He had read Anne Frank's Diary of a Young Girl back in Houston, while far too young himself really, and wanted to visit her house. The warehouse where the Jewish family and friends hid has been completely preserved and surrounded by a modern museum, and it's as devastating as you might imagine. There should be a list of places it's mandatory for world leaders to visit before being allowed to take office, and this should be on it.

After our time in the city, we moved to the countryside and an outdoor museum. Here was the real Holland: windmills, cheese, and more clogs. It wasn't quite the Dutch Disneyland, but we did get to tour a "colour mill" that was used for crushing all manner of minerals into dyes and paints. The sails were turning, but I didn't get to commit the health and safety violations that Windy Miller used to in Camberwick Green.

We had lunch at a nice brewery by the river. Though I may get extradited, I have to say that Dutch and German beer is much more to my liking than Belgian, mainly due to it being less that 10.5% strength. You can still function after a glass! Perhaps that's why bureaucracy takes so long in Brussels; don't bother trying to open a bank account after lunchtime.

Our 48-hour whistle-stop Netherlands tour complete, we caught the train back to Brussels with our bags full of stroopwafels and our tummies full of stamppot. And - much to our downstairs neighbour's relief - no clogs.

Yes, Amsterdam really does look like Amsterdam.

A coffee shop, but not that kind of coffee shop.

Life skills.

How Dutch can you go?

Another deathtrap for Windy Miller.

Too gouda be true.

Let's make clogs even more uncomfortable, said someone.

Miffy's Dutch! Who knew?

I always told Pete he had big shoes to fill.