Twingomania, days interim: Utrecht, Den Haag, Leiden

A few days condensed into one.

On day four – or Maandag, as the locals call it – there was not much Utrecht exploration. I spent the day intermittently working and, between lessons, "faffing about" on AutoScout and Autowereld researching other cars I'd potentially like to drive home. This was tinged with an ever-increasingly pressing sense of urgency, as I realised that this last-minute jaunt had, like so many others before it, been woefully under-prepared.

The original plan – if one can call it that – was to waltz into Utrecht, test-drive something, say "I'll take it" – and then after some administrative RDW shenanigans, drive it home. But that hasn't happened so far. However, I have learned that I'm not very good at negotiation without the aid of a local, and that it's actually much more fun to look at shiny things on the Internet and inwardly ooh and aah for free than it is to part with hard cash and then be terrified by the slightest new noise for the next few thousand kilometres.

Still – I did get to go on a few bulbous Dutch trains while I was making up my mind, and lined up more contenders: one silver (quickly abandoned), two red.

In the evening, Vriend took me to a meal for the locals in Café Mint, which occurs on the first of every month. I chatted with some lovely Dutch people about all sorts of fun things over a non-meaty lasagne, then washed that down with beer on a terrace opposite a statue of Willibrord, a seventh-century monk and missionary who was the first Bishop of Utrecht. This I learned on a very comfortable chair, the cushion of which was heated for cheeky pleasure, while watching the bikes go by.

On day five, Dinsdag, I took a day-trip – by train – to Den Haag to drive a red car. My train left from Utrecht Centraal, which I first saw from a through train on my way from Ingolstadt to Amsterdam a few years ago. I noticed that it was huge back then, and so was a bit disappointed to see that the Netherlands' biggest railway station is really rather unassuming from the outside. Buying a ticket from the NS ticket machine was Dutchly simple, but the walk from the concourse to my platform seemed to take forever.

It was nice train ride to Den Haag, and although I passed on the car, I did get to move methodically up the Dutch urban hierarchy and have a little mooch around the Netherlands' third-largest city – that's one large bigger than Utrecht – and the seat of its government, as well as have a go on a tram. The train from Den Haag Centraal to Moerwijk was on a cute little commuter train decorated with funky Mondrian glass panels, something I suspect busy Dutch commuters probably don't notice.

The test drive was decent and we battled through the language barrier. My English and French did little to combat his Turkish and Dutch, but a daughter studying in Paris accompanied us by phone to help with any questions I had during the test drive – and upon our return to the garage, a nephew had become present who spoke good English. It was a nice car, but with the airbag warning light and the need for a new cam-belt, it was not to be mine.

I made my thank-you noises and took a tram into the centre for some quick power-tourism of the old capital of the Kingdom of Holland. The Netherlands has two capitals. The Hague is the administrative capital, the seat of government, and home to the royal residence. Amsterdam is the constitutional capital.

While the Kingdom of Holland was a (finger) puppet state of the First French Empire, the government remained in The Hague while the capital alternated between Brussels and Amsterdam. When Belgium became a thing in 1830, Amsterdam remained the capital of the Netherlands and the government remained in The Hague, also the capital of South Holland. Haarlem – I have not been there but am assured it's quite nice – is the capital of North Holland, and together they form a region within The Netherlands which is as distinct an entity as it is confusing.

As if by coincidence, beer helped the evening come to an end.

Woensdag brought with it a trip to Leiden.

I have been to Leiden before – in search of snacks – but for some reason or another don't actually remember that much about it, save for there being a nice windmill and a shop that sold things to eat. Oh, and that man in the lounge in Rotterdam Centraal.

This time, there was no time for the munchies and after a supremely comfortable train journey, I hopped onto a very luxurious bus outside the station. From my stop it was a short walk to the garage, but having been distracted by sending "cooee" picture messages to friends from Kooiplein, it was a slightly longer and brisker walk to the garage from the stop I actually got off at.

Here, the second red car failed muster on the basis that it looked and smelled as if someone had been transporting livestock in it. Additionally, and contrary to what I'd been told on the phone, the cam-belt had been living on a prayer for seven years past its recommended change interval, and the dozen-schuiver selling it thought it appropriate to rock up in a Porsche. We also learned after I'd driven it that the APK had expired a month previous, and I found part of a headlight in the driver's side door pocket and some hay in the boot, under the flat-pack furniture boxes. I suppose this was at least a demonstration of practicality.

Vriend drove us back to Utrecht, where over further evening beer not in the bar with the pipe organ, it was determined that the car I drove on day one – the Twingo à Grande Vitesse – was probably the best "drive it away today" choice after all, and another offer was made.

All joy broke loose when it was accepted. We went to the cinema for celebratory beer.

The Louis Hartlooper Complex is a fabulous cinema. In addition to its five screens, there is a kitchen and three bars that serve drinks and food throughout the day. For days blessed with better weather, there's a (heated) terrace on Ledig Erf, and – importantly – an excellent selection of both beer and films.

Following the successes of our first two subtitled film outings – Hamnet (could've been shorter; I remained unmoved) and Sirât (was not expecting that; thumpy soundtrack) – I suddenly remembered about half-way through The Secret Agent that I speak neither Portuguese nor Dutch, a fact that did little to help my already tenuous grasp on what, exactly, was happening. We left before the end.

The famous and reliable number one bus again ferried us back to Vriendhaus, where after more deliberation, it was decided I'll take la TGV home after all.