Back in 2015, my dad and I decided to take off for a few days together, to get a bit of quality time in before my emigration. Since we didn't have a lot of time, we weren't too ambitious, and we decided to visit a friend of his in Holland.

Now, being a keen bargain hunter, his latest van, Reginald, was a steal. Coming in at just under 700 pounds, we agreed, there was little that could go wrong. I waited for my new passport like an idiot, as the absolute latest delivery date came and went. This was the UK, so of course, it was going to be weeks late.

When it finally did arrive, we headed down to the docks to begin the adventure. Now, my dad's a seasoned traveler, so he knows a trick or two, and I had expected some great moments at the ticket office (he has a knack for getting freebies and such).

As it turned out, 'great' was over-selling it a bit.
After waiting for the ferry to turn up late, one of the boarding plebs stopped us and told us we had to go into the ticket office. Naturally, no reason was offered for this diversion. The office was guarded by a certified dragon who demanded we pay an additional fee of 50 pounds for undisclosed services. The fee, it seemed, was not optional, and though we fought like soldiers, she wasn't budging and we were sent round the back of the office to pay it. Figuring the fight was worthless, we would write what Burtmom calls 'a stonking letter' to retrieve the funds after we got home.

At the back of the office was nothing. A fence protected the nothing. When we returned through the convenient one-way system and queued behind ourselves in the hundred-meter wiggly queue line, only to face down the dragon for a second time, we were told to pay her directly, then sent back to the line we were pulled from in the loading queue.

I was already in love with the British ferry system before this point, so you can imagine my adoration growing with this latest experience.

When we rejoined the queue, the same pleb asked why we were late for the late ferry, which blew our minds, and when we explained, he informed us that the fee he had instructed us to pay was not necessary, but could not be refunded. A great scam, indeed. He further explained that a letter would need to be sent explaining the situation they had created and an appeal process would begin, wherein, they would decide whether or not to return the money they had conned us out of and then told us to get back by appeal. It was all very well put together.

On the boat, my dad began demonstrating some of his life's greatest achievements; The first was his method for attaining a good seat, which was to lay across all of them with a blanket over you, knowing everyone would be too polite and/or scared to come and ask you to move. And it was good. As the pair of us occupied twelve of the fourteen window seats on the top deck, the crowd disbursed into the blowing gale outside to give us some peace. Just one brave lad stayed put and you can see him minding his own business in the picture below.

The rain followed us from England and our journey was just beginning. Holland was definitely as flat as they say it is. What they don't say is how boring that is. It's not just flat, it's as straight as a die. It's as though the architects hadn't figured out curves. It was like lego. Like... it was like... Well, you get the point.

We both slept through the first hour of driving, with my dad just waking up now and then to turn a corner. The rest was ... well, it was really straight. When we reached our town, we checked into the hotel and made ourselves at home. I'd failed to get a game of giant chess going with an old gent, and disappointedly flopped back to the room to find out what was planned for the evening.

After a brief sit, we left the room and drove a few miles, where I was introduced to the friend. She was funny and made us welcome at her home, where we discussed many things over dinner, including her undying love for my dad.
In front of her husband and kids.
So that was fun.

After dinner, and the surprising lack of kung-fu we'd been ready for, we went for a little drive.

Here's a fun fact:
When the road is wet and flat and you come round the corner in a three-ton vehicle a bit too fast, your rally training kicks in automatically, and your dad screams like a girl and almost craps himself. Give it a try. Prove me wrong.

Later that night, Burtdad decided to abandon me at the hotel, where I would be expected to hang out on my own for several hours, while he spent some time with his friend alone. Yes, we all know about air-quotes. But being the adventuring type, I wasn't about to sit on my hands all night, so I rented a bike and set about getting lost in the town. I cycled down the canal as far as the eye could see and ended up at a busy crossroads. After an hour of that, I turned around and went back. And that was when I discovered that cars can drive along foot paths in Holland.
Amusing.

The evening was pretty dead, but the next day, we went out for lunch with this friend and I learned more fun facts about the strange land we had entered. Here's a useful one: Cars turning onto the main road have right of way. That's because there aren't enough accidents, I suppose.

We drove for the sake of driving and had some more chats and listened to some more songs, including the very excellent "Is That Jazz?"

As it got dark, we were, of course, pulled over by the trouble makers and were forced to perform what I affectionately call "The Cockney Switch", to save a bit of hassle regarding the insured driver and the actual driver.

Lexicon:
The term "Cockney" has nothing whatsoever to do with the act, but makes it sound as though it's a well known operation, when it's actually not. You can find out more in The Cockney Maneuvers Handbook.

Stealing the good seats.

Giant chess in the hotel.

My rented bike.

Reginald in Holland.