Arrival at the Black Horse Inn
It was 1826 and the wind was howling through the bare trees. I always liked October, I loved the smell of wet land and rotting leaves and all the changing colours but this time was different. It was nearly dark and bitter cold already and the rain and hail slammed my face so hard it hurt. It shouldn’t be long before Autumn was over and Winter would come now. I entered the inn and the door slammed shut behind me as the wind grabbed it and blew leaves inside. There were only a few guests in the room lit with a few oil lamps and candles and two candles were blown out instantly by the gust of wind.
My great great grandfather was a poet and writer in The Netherlands during the World Lock Down of 2020 when the Corona pandemic took place. He wrote poetry in Dutch and English and stories about his life when he was a bit older, here’s a picture of him in his fourties.
The entire world wrote history too in those days of The World Lock Down of 2020 when they were ordered to stay indoors for over a year and stay well clear of each other in public places in every country in the world and face masks were compulsory. In those days the global Corona crisis took hundreds of thousands and people all over the world were mourning their beloved family members that died because of this highly contagious virus that originated from China. More than 30 million people became ill from the Covid-19 virus.
There he was, standing in the middle of that dusty road. He was huge, at least seven foot high and he had the arms of a lumberjacker. He had a grey beard, I think he must have been around sixty years old and he wore dungarees like in the old days of The West. He wore a large hat and his clothes were dusty and worn. “If you go any further I must tell you this first.”, he said with a voice of authority. I had been walking for days now and had not met a single person. His voice sounded like thunder after days of only birds whistling and leaves rustling in the wind. Somewhere in the distance a hawk screamed and ducked down to it’s prey. Nearby a rabbit ran to the shade at the side of the road. There were high ferns below the trees at the left where the edge of the forest was and fields with grass, heather and bushes as far as the eyes could see on the hills to the right to the mountains at the horizon.
The first day of our holiday to France: departure, six o’clock in the morning. We drove through Holland, Belgium and France for 10 solid hours. The wind howled around the mounts of the roof case on the car, a Fiat Multipla. Besides that it is the most ugly car human kind has ever invented throughout history, it is also a very noisy car. We had a break for breakfast and then for a pee and then for lunch and then one for a pee again. And it rained. In the evening we got lost finding our hotel. We went to the police station to ask for directions. On the floor at the police station was a white stripe with the word ‘derrière’ on it. It means ‘arse’ in English. Anouk speaks very good French, almost like a native French woman really. It did help us humongously to communicate with the locals but the police man and police woman didn’t know either where the hotel was, that’s how obscure this little hotel really was. It wasn’t called Bonsaï Hotel for nowt you know, very difficult to find. When a police man in France says « Toutes directions » it means « Whatever road you take, we don’t care ». And when we found the little hotel eventually we were very dissapointed, it was a real dump. The WiFi internet was for free however. We then decided to go look for a restaurant nearby and found ‘Del Arte’, an Italian restaurant. The only Italian thing about this restaurant was a picture of Al Capone on the wall. I had a large vase with Heineken Lager and Lasagne and the kids had a charcoaled pizza. It is nine o’clock in the evening now and I’m going to sleep. Nothing happened. Utterly boring.
Hi, I’m Zoltan Karpathy. That’s right, like the famous dude in My Fair Lady. I’m a Goatherder in Moldova, up in the mountains and madly in love with the Pub Landlords’ Daughter Chriszty Stanislv. Here you can read about my life in Moldova. Enjoy!