Mum's gone to The MADS

Clockwise from top left: 
1. The room in the Radisson Blu Edwardian Hotel, Bloomsbury Street, with much tweeting going on.
2. My buddies on Table 12: Leanna (Diary of a Premmy Mum) and Lucy (Lulastic and the Hippyshake)
3. Emma (Adventures of an Unfit Mother) with her award for Best Family Life Blog
4. Me with Lisa (Mummy Whisperer) - thanks to Jen for the Instagram photo.
5. Emma with Myleene Klass who was at the ceremony representing Start-rite, one of the sponsors.
6. Lisa and Jen (Jenography) with blingy bag.

The 2012 MAD (Mum and Dad) Blog Awards was held on Friday night at a rather swanky ceremony at the Radisson hotel, Bloomsbury Street. I had decided to drive to Cockfosters station and tube it from there, rather than go by train, which meant I was a little more in control of timings and was able to stop off en route and visit my elderly Aunt in Hertfordshire. Brownie points gained, I arrived about 3.30pm and, because they couldn't seem to find, or have readily available, my booked standard double, I was upgraded to a rather lovely deluxe with king size bed. Having no husband with me to share this opulence, I settled on the next best thing: a bag of crisps, cup of tea and my feet up watching Countdown and Deal or No Deal. Classy.

More lazing about, a bubble bath, another cuppa, and it really was time I came out of my hidey-hole and meet up with the others at the reception. Thankfully I met Jen Howze in the lift so I had a pal to accompany me. I needn't have worried - there were plenty of familiar faces, some I'd met on the yacht party (how braggy does that sound!?) and some bloggers I'd never met but knew instantly from their Twitter avatars or from photos on their blogs. The noise level was pretty intense with the babble from dozens of excitable females and a few bemused chaps filling the lobby of the hotel. The standard of dress was at Oscar level: seriously gorgeous frocks, vertiginous heels and hair-dos (including Lucy's retro up-do, showing us what you can create with a loofah and plenty of hairspray - see photo top right).

Photographs were taken by the official photographer as groups of bloggers draped themselves willingly over the sofa, fizz was sipped or swigged, and nervous chatter continued until we were ushered into the main room for dinner. Tempura squid, chicken, warm pear and chocolate tart were on the menu, all beautifully cooked. Wine went down a treat, though I spilled mine over Phillipa, the Skoda Lady's, phone whilst speaking too much with my hands. She was remarkably relaxed about it and thankfully didn't set the yeti mascot onto me as punishment.

There was a lot of excitement when we discovered Myleene Klass was attending the event. She was very tiny, very beautiful and very friendly: she was more than happy to be photographed with everyone and I'd like to think she enjoyed our company as much as we did hers.

The award ceremony had plenty of whoops, laughs, tears and applause. The most poignant moment was the announcement that Kerry from Multiple Mummy, who is very ill at the moment, had won two awards: her husband was there to collect them on her behalf, to a standing ovation.

On our table, Table 12, (Emma, Leanna, Lucy, Heather, Helen, me and the two Skoda ladies) we had two winners: Emma and Heather winning their respective categories. I didn't win the Family Travel category but it went to a blogger I have always admired: Victoria at It's a Small World After All.

As the evening came to a close, I managed to get round lots of people for a chat before my contact lenses gave up the ghost and I sneaked off to my over-sized bed. On the way I picked up the goody bag which included make-up, baby toothpaste, energy pills, yoghurt bars, a cool bag ( a bag for keeping your sarnies cool, not the latest Mulberry, I hasten to add) and some lip balm. My favourite freebies were the Hello Kitty ear muffs and the rubber gloves for sensitive skin, which you can see me modelling here. They are meant to be worn together, surely?




A big thank you to the organisers of the MAD Blog Awards for a great evening at a superb venue. Congratulations to all the winners and all the finalists. There were 100,000 votes and 3000 blogs nominated so to reach the final was a pretty big deal for all of us.

The Hills are Alive...

As regulars here will know, my am dram performances often pepper this blog. It's a while since I've been in an actual show, my last being The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas in 2010 which was obviously so outrageous I can't show my face in town again. But our little group, Spalding Amateur Dramatic and Operatic Society (SADOS), do concerts from time to time and this keeps my hand in, so to speak.

You may remember our Christmas concerts last year where I spoiled the song from Wicked, 'One Short Day', by singing 'one short day in the haemorrhoid city' instead of 'emerald'. Our MD still hasn't forgiven me as there is much corpsing whenever we sing that number. It was included in the set we did for a group of WI ladies on Monday night in the Village Hall in Pinchbeck, near Spalding. I was under strict instructions not to set everyone off again.

We've had a good laugh, as usual, during rehearsals but things always suddenly seem serious on the night itself when butterflies and inability to eat any tea seem to be the curse of most of us luvvies. My contribution to the concert this week was a duet with our MD, Craig. We sang 'Tonight' from West Side Story. I was practising it in the kitchen in front of Dougie at the weekend. His comment was 'ooh it's very high' which was a real confidence booster, though, to be fair, I was screeching a bit and he could only hear one side of the duet so it was inevitably lop-sided.

One of my favourite numbers in the concert is a four-part harmony arrangement of The Sound of Music: it's absolutely spine-tingling when we all hit the right notes. Another favourite is 'You'll Never walk Alone' which had such relevance this week with the Hillsborough inquiry revelations. I was pretty choked up singing that one, so was grateful it was a chorus number.

Having won over the ladies in Pinchbeck, we have to do the same again with a shorter set on Saturday night at All Saints Church in my own town, Holbeach, as part of their Arts Festival. The first half of the concert features the Holbeach Town Band and then SADOS sings songs from the shows in  the second half. So will be warbling my duet again.

I wrote earlier this week about the immense power of music: how I discovered via a chance encounter with jazz drummer Ronnie Gardiner, the health benefits music can bring to those with brain injuries.  During that meeting Ronnie and I both recalled a video we had seen on YouTube showing an old man suffering from dementia, and the way music had changed his silent, insular world.

If you have time, take a look at this video and you will see something quite remarkable.

I give you....Henry.

(If you can't view the video below, here's the link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fyZQf0p73QM )

When Rory met Ronnie

"Is that Quincy Jones on the next table?"
"No, looks nothing like him."
"Hang on, I'll google him.....no, doesn't look anything like him, but it must be him."
"It isn't!"
"It must be!"

This three-way conversation took place by the swimming pool bar on the last day of our holidays, an hour before we were due to leave for the airport. We knew the legendary record producer was staying in Ystad because the previous evening my husband, Dougie, had noticed at dinner that in the reservation book someone had written "Quincy Jones - private reception" and we'd lingered a long time that evening to try and catch a glimpse.

So why was he in Sweden, in Ystad? He was the guest of honour at the Ystad Jazz Festival  which just happened to be on while we were there. There was quite a buzz about the town and at our own hotel, Ystad Saltsöjbad, the jazz vibe could be felt quite keenly as some of the concerts were being played there. I had watched some very cool dudes playing cards by the pool the day before and that morning had stood at the breakfast buffet next to jazz trumpeter Anders Bergcrantz, having picked up a leaflet about him earlier in the week.

So the American sitting at the next table talking passionately to his friend about music? Was he Quincy? I waited until he wandered off to the bar before bravely approaching the friend and asking him. The answer was no, he was, in fact, American jazz drummer, Ronnie Gardiner, who was due to be playing that afternoon, with the Andreas Pettersson Quartet, accompanying singer Deborah Brown.

I felt a little sheepish but when Ronnie returned he smiled at me, put two glasses of juice down on the table and, with a twinkle in his eye, said to his friend, Eigil,
"Hey, I leave you for five minutes and you've got a girl coming over to you. How d' you do that?"

I explained my mistake and he shrugged it off with a laugh, saying Quincy was taller and generally a bigger guy. He asked me to pull up a chair, invited the boys over too, and, for the next hour, the three of us were completely bowled over by a warm, funny, utterly captivating man.

Ronnie Gardiner has just turned 80 and as a jazz drummer has played with the greatest: Dizzie Gillespie, Benny Carter, Gerry Mulligan and Dexter Gordon. He has lived for many years now in Sweden where he still plays the drums and hosts live jazz in Stockholm.

We talked about his music and he was delighted to hear that our son, Rory, is a drummer too. When he discovered my husband is a doctor, the conversation took a different turn. Ronnie told us all about the work he has been doing since 1980, using the skills needed for drumming to develop a technique to help in the rehabilitation of patients with brain injuries.

Ronnie realised that when he plays the drums, each arm and leg has to work independently, requiring a large interaction between the brain's various centres in terms of motor skills, coordination, memory and sense of rhythm. After lots of research, he created a multisensory technique using audio, visual, tactile and kinetic energy with rhythm, music and sound/movement codes. The method has had success in patients with strokes and Parkinson's disease and also with groups suffering from depression, dementia, autism and dyslexia.

To explain his method - the Ronnie Gardiner Rhythm and Music Method (RGRM-Method) - Ronnie became very animated and started tapping his feet and slapping his hands on the table, whilst shouting out a specific sound for each limb. He had all of us 'booming' and 'chicking', to the bemusement of everyone else around the pool. Naturally, Rory, as a drummer, picked up the routine very quickly, whereas Dougie and I had to concentrate very hard to pick up the pattern.

I noticed he had some very dapper shoes on his feet - one blue and one red. He explained that he wears a red and blue costume when he is teaching, each half of his body a different colour. He had to buy two pairs of shoes, one pair blue and one red, in order to have the correct pair for his work. The shoes on his feet that day were the other halves of his working pair.

We learned a lot from Ronnie that afternoon. He recounted the story of a woman who, following a stroke, had one wish: to be able to dance again. Using the RGRM Method, Ronnie was able to stimulate her brain to send the right signals to her limbs so that, at a big family gathering some time later, her husband held her close and she danced.

Research on the RGRM method has taken place at the prestigious Karolinska Institute in Stockholm and the Sahlgrenska University Hospital in Gothenburg. There seems to be no doubt that this programme can really benefit patients but it needs to have more testing worldwide if it is to be used as an effective technique outside Sweden itself. Just read the positive accounts of doctors and patients here.

At 80 years of age, Ronnie Gardiner is an inspiration. As he left us to go and practise for his concert that afternoon and as we drove off towards the airport, as a family we were left quite breathless with emotion.

One young man in particular had discovered a new hero.

Rory and Ronnie

Update: 19 September - I sent a link to my post to the contact address at RGRM and received a lovely personal reply from Ronnie himself. He has given me details of the UK branch and I have since been in contact with Lee Wax who is very happy to be contacted with regard to finding practitioners in this country. 

www.rgrm.org.uk

www.facebook.com/rgrm.uk

lee@rgrm.org.uk

Mum's gone to Sweden: Living the life of luxury

We had planned to do lots of sightseeing from our final stop, Ystad. I had booked four nights in my splurge hotel of the fortnight, the Ystad Saltsjöbad, and it was so fabulous, and the weather so gorgeous, we felt the lure of the swimming pool, the beach and the bar: sightseeing went out of the window to a large extent. Certainly a day trip to Malmo was axed: one to do on another visit perhaps?

I don't think Dougie knew quite what had hit him when we drew up and saw this fairly large hotel complex, situated right on the beach just outside the town of Ystad. The bedrooms, to be fair, were quite functional and on the small side, but the public rooms were just heavenly, oozing comfort and style.

"How much are we paying for this?" he squeaked.
"Never you mind, love. It's on the credit card, we can pay for it in September."

Breakfast was sumptuous and could be taken on the terrace or in the large, smart dining rooms. There was the usual fare of fruit, cold meats, cheeses, croissants and cereals, but we had a feeling they were catering for a rather choosy clientele when we spied a large selection of vitamin tablets next to the jugs of fruit juice.

What does he look like?!

The Ystad Saltsjöbad is a spa resort and everyone was wandering around in white dressing gowns and slippers. We didn't bother booking any spa treatments. I think I've said before on my posts I'm not very keen on being massaged and fiddled about with. Maybe if the weather had been cold, I could see the benefit, but when you have the sun beating down outside and a willing husband with a bottle of Ambre Solaire, there's no contest. The spa brochure was interesting as always, once I'd realised that the Swedish word 'behandling' means 'treatment' and not some kind of  stress relief 'extra'.

We often took lunch by the pool but, after our morning in Ystad town, we decided to drive back via the supermarket to get a few things for a picnic lunch back at the hotel. We chose rolls, ham, tomatoes, and stocked up on drinks and crisps then I sent Dougie off to see if he could find a small pack of butter. Back in the room he opened the little pack of butter, only to find a lump of something grey and smelly. Turns out he'd picked up some yeast. Nice.

Back at the pool, I tried to read my book but found myself people watching. There were lots of family groups but a fairly large contingent of conference chappies who were let loose from about 4pm and then proceeded to leap into the water, doing Peter Kay's 'top bombing', with some very impressive expense account pot-bellies.

We were very lazy in the evenings too, preferring to eat in the hotel restaurant rather than drive into town. The food was delicious: great steaks, fish and yummy puds like a rhubarb and strawberry compote with cinnamon cream and cardamom crumble served in a Kilner jar. All washed down with a cocktail or two and accompanied by a jazz quartet and a nice fleecy blanket to keep the evening chill at bay.

I could get used to this.

Mum's gone to Sweden: Where's Wallander?

"Look! You can see our hotel at the end of the beach!" I piped up, simultaneously pausing the action as I pointed at the TV, "it's just in the distance, a hundred yards from where the dead body is poking through the sand."

We were watching the new series of Wallander a few weeks prior to our trip, seeing Kenneth Branagh ferreting about with a non-too attractive white limb sticking up next to the shore.

"Is that where we're going?" Dougie asked, and continued to shake his head as we saw our gruff hero drive through the bleak, rainy countryside or stand, desolate, at the dark, ominous dockside.

I had a lot of work to do to convince my family that Ystad would be a fabulous place in the summer. I was right. It was perfect. This is the beautiful Ystad, the gorgeous, flower-filled little town, with its tiny terraced houses, gladioli blooming at each front door. This must surely put a smile on Kurt's face in the summer months.

If the moody detective prefers the quirky and bizarre, I reckon he can't improve on the medieval crucifix in the St Maria kyrka where the figure of Christ has a mop of actual human hair, donated by a well-meaning parishioner in the nineteenth century. Oh dear, not a good look. I'm afraid I was sniggering so much (God forgive me) that I neglected to take a photograph.

This same church is the home of Ystad's famous night watchman who sounds a bugle every 15 minutes from 9.15pm to 1am every night. A tradition that goes back to the 17th century, to warn the townspeople of threatening fire, the haunting sound is audible wherever you stay in the centre. You can't see him, but if you look carefully you will see his horn appear in the openings in the tower walls. The bugle-blowing only stopped during World War II, though residents then complained that they couldn't sleep because of the unbroken silence. Now it continues for the sake of tradition and if the night watchman does spot a fire, I gather he phones Emergency Services.

We found a little gift shop selling local pottery and there were some special mini night buglers. We bought one as a souvenir, though Rory wasn't exactly impressed and thought it looked like "a nun with an enormous spliff".

And how would you know what that looked like, young man....?

Mum's gone to Sweden: Alien Adventures in Ängelholm

Ängelholm hadn't been my first choice when choosing a stop on our Swedish fly-drive. I'd rather fancied staying in Båstad, the tennis capital of Sweden, where the Open is played in early July. Truth be told, it wasn't the tennis that attracted me; more the endless fun I could have, if people had asked me where we were going on holiday, to shout 'Båstad!" in a demented Father Jack bark. It's actually pronounced 'bow-sta' but why spoil a good wheeze. Both Båstad and Ängelholm are towns in the very north of the ancient province of Skåne, which I have now discovered is pronounced "Scone". This didn't help me much as I'm very much a 'scone rhymed with John'  rather than a 'scone rhymed with own' kind of girl. Apparently it's the posh scone/own you use to pronounce Skåne.

Have I lost you?

Båstad was pretty much booked up because of a tennis tournament, so Ängelholm was my next choice; and what a good choice it was with the adorable Klitterhus hotel which more than made up for the fact that I couldn't shout Båstad at everyone.

Our sightseeing day in Ängelholm started quite well.  As seems to be our habit, we had taken a boat tour from the marina, along the Rönne River, to the main town. The town was pretty, arranged rather like the hub of a bicycle wheel with several bridges leading to it. We had coffee and bagels and then, woman on a mission, I became fixated on finding the clay cuckoos for which the town is supposedly famous for making. Now I don't know about you but I was looking for something that resembled a bird. I searched in many shops looking for this creature, hoping it would make a good souvenir. I should really have asked someone but the Burgess trait of not seeking help seemed to have seeped into my psyche by some sort of touristy osmosis. Since our return to the UK I have googled the famous clay cuckoo and discovered it looks like this:

It is a little musical instrument that you blow into. Not something you'd possibly find inside a clock then?

However we did find some chocolate which cheered us all up:

As we sat in the boat on the return journey, the boys had a Plopp and I discovered a little gem in a tourist leaflet about the town....

On May 18, 1948, a Swedish entrepreneur, Gösta Carlsson, claimed he had seen a UFO land in the forest clearing at Kronoskogen, a suburb of Ängelhom. Whether he did or not has obviously never been proven, although it would seem the area had witnessed 'large-scale test flights' over the years. Nevertheless, in 1963 a memorial was constructed on the spot where the supposed landing had taken place. The memorial consists of a concrete model of the UFO plus the landing traces.


"I must see this before we leave," I said, "it's not far from the hotel, just a few minutes drive."
'Must we?" muttered both boys in unison, showing a complete lack of enthusiasm and interest in this very rare attraction.
"Yes, we must! I'll navigate."


It was starting to rain at this point and the sky was becoming ominously dark, but Dougie and Rory were given no choice in the matter: we were going to see the memorial. It seemed an easy route on my map but the road we took didn't look quite right. This was because we were driving on a cycle path. Dougie's rather dubious solution was to put his foot down so we could get to the end of it quicker. We eventually ended up in a car park of sorts in the forest. It was wet, muddy, we weren't dressed for the occasion, and we weren't entirely sure how far into the forest the memorial was. As we ventured forth on foot, the mozzies started to attack my ripe husband, our son began to moan and whine in spectacular fashion....and then an enormous crack of thunder boomed overhead. We went no further.

As we tramped back to the car, some two minutes after getting out of it, I figured that if the little green men had managed to travel millions of miles to reach a forest clearing on the west coast of Sweden, then how come we had given up so easily.

And I bet they didn't use the cycle path.

Mum's Gone to Sweden: In search of the elusive Klitterhus

A sunny morning in Trollhättan, and a final hearty breakfast by way of Albert's Kok (right, must stop the double entendres) before our journey to find the elusive Klitterhus (oops, done it again). We seemed to hit a whole series of roadworks on the main roads south, which made us feel like home.

Dougie and I had decided to try and be more relaxed about eateries, to do as they always say in the guidebooks "Come off the main roads, find a little town with a local restaurant", rather than our usual pick up something from a service station on the way. My guide book recommended Falkenberg "a well-preserved little town that really comes alive in July and August". Unfortunately Falkenberg wasn't at all alive on a Sunday lunchtime in July. We drove round for ages trying to find the hub of the place and would have given up, were it not for the fact that a certain teenage boy had been necking a Swedish version of Red Bull in the car and was now desperate for a pee. We parked in a very dull part of town, managed to find the bus station with no passengers and no buses and also, unfortunately, no toilets.

Rory was now in some discomfort, Dougie had split from the posse to go in search of a toiletter, there was a cold wind whipping down the main street when suddenly I spied a rather weird burger place/shack and ushered my boy in. As he found the gents, I perused the menu despite having no intention of ordering. Panic over, we shuffled back out saying something like "ooh let's go and find your father". Couldn't find Father for love nor money. We hadn't decided on a meeting point but thankfully mobile phones came to the rescue and we had an emotional reunion in the bus station as the metaphorical tumbleweed bounced down the street:

"Where the F*** did you go?"

We returned to the car, said something to the effect of, 'Lets get out of f***ing Falkenberg' and headed back to the motorway, towards the beckoning golden arches of a McDonalds where Rory was, once again, able to drool over the beautiful blonde girls with the swishy ponytails.

May I say now, my apologies to anyone reading this who lives in Falkenberg. I'm sure I'm doing it a great disservice. But stress, hunger and a full bladder can have a negative effect on one's view of a town.

Onwards, then, to Ängelholm, where we found the beautiful Klitterhus. A former beach pavilion, it was a fabulous find, all seasidey decor, huge picture windows with views over the bay, fresh flowers in the bedrooms. Rory said he felt like he was in a Jack Wills advert.

We couldn't eat in the restaurant that night as the hotel had a booked party, so we wandered down to the marina and had one of the best meals of the fortnight in Hamnkrogen. More beautiful blonde waitresses to put smiles on the boys' faces, great steaks and my pud - hot chocolate brownies with blueberries and strawberries - made for a perfect evening.

As we returned to our rooms, suddenly the party below decided to have a bit of a dance. The disco had started up. As the bass notes thumped underneath us, Rory suddenly came storming into our room:

"I can't sleep with that!!"

"Oh, love, is it too loud?"

"Yes it's too loud, but it's bloody Abba!"

Mum's Gone to Sweden: Getting a soaking on the Bohuslän coast

We didn't think we would see any of the famous Bohuslän coast during our trip round Sweden. We had promised ourselves that maybe we would travel to this part another time. But it dawned on us, while staying in Trollhättan, that we weren't too far away from the west coast and it would be a perfect day trip. So, after an early breakfast at Albert's we took the big brown bear across to the pretty fishing town of Lysekil.

Lysekil's chief attraction is probably the aquarium, but we've seen plenty of those on our trips so instead we took a walking trail across the rocky headland, Stangehuvud, made of the local pink granite. On the way I did my usual 'reading out bits from guide books'. I rather liked the story of a local figure, Carl Curman, a health guru of his day, who convinced his patients that sunbathing on the rocks was dangerous because 'the amount of air must be regulated.' He suggested they pay to use the bathhouses along the waterfront, owned, funnily enough, by Mr Curman himself. It also said in my book that these classic bathhouses are now a popular place for segregated nude bathing. We gave them a miss - well, it was a bit chilly.

It was an enjoyable trek across the granite rocks until, as you will see from the photo, tempers started to fray and everyone became grumpy. The weather was on the turn and we were no longer that close to the town. Seconds after this photo was taken, the heavens opened. Rory and I instantly regretted leaving our raincoats in the car. Dougie had his Jack Wolfskin with him...Mr 'Prepared For Any Eventuality'. We had to dash back to the harbour, watching all the sensible people dressed in cagoules  whilst I cut a dash in my fetching turquoise cashmere cardigan.

Back in the harbour we looked for somewhere to eat and procrastinated far longer than someone dressed in a sodden cardi should really do. In the end I dived into a place called Restaurant Rosvik. The boys were convinced I'd made a terrible mistake but, in fact, it proved to be an epic lunch - a huge chicken and bacon baguette toastie with massive bowl of potato wedges. Back in the car, with my trusty Rough Guide, I turned the page and read "Lysekil has plenty of mid-range family restaurants...one good option is Rosvik". I pointed this out to Dougie and pretended I had picked it all along because of the recommendation.

Back at the Albert that night we all cosied up in one room for what seemed like hours and hours (in fact it was hours and hours) to watch the Opening Ceremony of the Olympics. The boys lay flat out on the double bed and I was elbowed off onto a nearby chair. But this was my favourite chair from the whole holiday - covered in sheepskin yet cool, chic Scandi design. We had to watch the ceremony on Eurosport, with a Swedish commentator, but managed to keep up with what was going on as now and again we'd hear "Shakespeare...Mr Bean....Arctic Monkeys, ah, Sheffield! Sebastian Coe! Judas Priest!" I'm pretty certain Judas Priest are from Birmingham but if he was keeping up with the wonderfully wacky Danny Boyle creation, then I think I can forgive him.

Me with trusty guide book on favourite sheepskin chair.

Mum's gone to Sweden: Hotels with rude-sounding names.

"You did this on purpose, didn't you?" Dougie declared, looking up from the sheaf of papers I'd given him a few months ago, detailing our holiday itinerary for Sweden.
"Did what on purpose?"
"The third and fourth hotels you've picked"
"Remind me," I smirked, but I knew what was coming.
"Albert Kok hotel in Trollhättan?"
"Ah yes, but it means kitchen in Swedish. I have it on good authority that Albert's kok is highly recommended. It's a show kok: you can see it from the lobby. People come from miles around to sample Albert's kok"
"Do they really?"
"Indeed they do."
"What about this next one, in Ängelholm?"
"Ah yes, that's my favourite"
"I can see why. The Klitterhus!"
"Lovely spot, the Klitterhus. Difficult to find but certainly worth the effort."
"Does it have a translation?"
" 'Hus' is a house and 'klitter' is a dune. So it's the house on the dunes."
"So we've got to get from Albert's kok to the klitterhus?"
"Yes, but I'll navigate. You'll struggle on your own and I know what you men are like, you won't ask for directions."

We found the Klitterhus!