Dialogue: Look ma, I'm being a good girl now

I can't believe we made it, that we actually found a home after the mayhem of the past three weeks. Gemma, with whom Kate and I stayed in Barcelona, had told us about an apartment she keeps outside Amsterdam and that we could rest there a while if we liked. Kind as it was, Holland, from Spain, seemed further away than the moon.

But make it we did, all the way to the 'Dam, the Big Smoke, and four days of fun although, keen to be settled, we headed for Leiden, the town we were bound to reside in.

The trip on the train took a Twilight Zone turn when we suddenly stopped between stations. Someone had pulled the emergency cord and the staff couldn't find where to release it. For over an hour we were kept in the dark and it wasn't long before we attracted some company.

First there was an old man who kept calling the guards, gesturing that it was us who threw out the anchors. The guards then pretended to arrest us - odd, but it suited the situation.

Then, somehow, some young men started inspecting our palms, the fortunes they read not the usual love-and-luck deal. Kate will be dead by the time she is 50 and I'll spend my old age alone. While coming to terms with our rather bleak futures we were instructed to jump to another train. It was all quite commando until we reached Leiden, where finding our home was a comparative breeze.

The address we'd been given was missing some bits but a stranger changed course to assist us. Though he looked like a Euro Nazi - shaven head, trench coat and tattoos - we chose to ignore his potential political affiliations.

His footwear - not boots with steel caps - was what finally made up my mind. I decided that even if he were a Nazi, he couldn't be too serious about it in those soft, comfortable shoes. But all's well that ends well: we made it this far and our Nazi, John, is really a vegan Shiatsu practitioner. I remind myself, not for the first time, to refrain from judging books by their covers.

And our home, Loridanshofje, isn't just a house, it's a full-on historic place. It was built in 1655 by a wealthy French trader, who had not only fled the Spanish Inquisition but had lost his family and most of his friends to the plague.

Despite his poor luck, or perhaps because of it, he decided, by means of good deeds, to found almshouses to be lived in by the elderly poor. The residents would then pray for the soul of their benefactor, ensuring him a place in heaven.

There are about 30 of these hofjes (courtyards) in all, but ours is one of the nicest, so much so that tourists pass by to admire our garden and enjoy its tranquillity. As I write by the window, watching them walking round with their maps, I can't help but feel a little smug.

Leiden is lovely. Not only home to The Netherlands' first university, it's the birthplace of Rembrandt.

One piece of folklore I like is the tale of Mayor Van Der Werf . In 1574, when plague, war and famine threatened his people and the Spanish had had them holed up for years, he is rumoured to have chopped off one of his arms to demonstrate that life could get much worse. Or, some say, so his people could eat it.

So now we are settled in our cosy little home and what do you know, I get sick for the first time in ages. Any semblance of health had been denied on the road by irregular sleep and poor food, not to mention an intense social life. Excess is fun, I'm the first to admit, but I'm glad my body finally took umbrage - a kind of self-inflicted rehab.

Finally, in case I haven't got across just how lovely life is here, perhaps this will help illustrate my point. You see, Kate, who's been travelling with her mother's ashes, had been looking for a scattering place somewhere in France. But nowhere, until now, has felt as suitable or beautiful as the garden outside our front door.

* Contact Elisabeth Easther on her travels at imabroad@chickmail.com.