| What are we doing?
October 29th, 2000 Crossing Borders from Border to Border: Emmerich-Arnhem Today the Academic Walking Soc. marched part one of 'Crossing Borders from Border to Border', a training project devised by van der Schelden MA which should keep us in proper shape for walking until the next marching season starts. We walk down the Dutch part of the Limes (the north boundary of the Roman Empire) in five stages, from Emmerich to Katwijk, along the Old Rhine, stopping to tour all castles we find ready to be ransacked (this, of course, Schelden carefully plans in advance, as he does with the bars and restaurants we visit along the way). The first stage was undertaken by van Driel MA (Rob), Mr. van Prijzen (Bert), whom Henk brought along, Prakke (Prakke), Henk and myself
(the rest of the walking soc. was dearly missed for various reasons), and led us from Emmerich to Arnhem. Van Prijzen is a short plump character, with a moustache (and hussar of Boreel, just like Prakke, but when I say 'hussar' in this piece I refer to Prakke - as I am used to doing that). He's a multiple walker of the Four Days Marches of Nijmegen, nonetheless a member of the first Minimalist Society of Bearers of the Golden Cross ("people who march the Four Days only 11 times at the most", in his own words). For a long time he suspected us of actually enjoying walking. "The good thing about walking is that it ends." Precisely. Van Prijzen will not be present during the next stage but has indicated to Schelden by email that he wishes to arrive in Katwijk without missing one, and is therefore asking for a retry. What jolly good sport, this man. Alright, so, this march. Prakke and Driel came to get me at an ungodly hour. Complicating factor very well could have been daylight savings time, which ended that night. But there was no problem, as, totally confused, I was ready an hour too early, taut from caffeine, in full uniform. And so, a few crazy hours later (which of course included mindless mobile chatter between Schelden and the hussar) we arrived at the van Heemstralaan. Two cars were parked there, an AUDI and a Rover, and we were aware Schelden had arrived with van Prijzen. We feared the worst, justly so as it turned out, because it was the Rover. Schelden must have been sickeningly content on arrival.  Inside he was in his element, ironing my shirt and straightening out Prakke before we knew it. But this bravado was expertly defeated by Ma Prakke. "What ugly shirts you lot are wearing." The widow Prakke is a great person. She lives in a beau-ti-ful home with a fa-bu-lous garden in Arnhem and I have never met such hospitality before.
 We departed after coffee and hot buns, in van Prijzen's wonderful Rover, and invaded Germany at ten a.m.. In Emmerich we had ourselves immortified by a friendly German lady passing on bicycle, then to proceed in the direction of the border.
Had our advance thus far been inexorable, now we swiftly got lost and ran into a dead end: the gate of a brick factory.  Fortunately it was only a short stretch back to the turnoff, and this was followed by a beautiful bit of dike along the river Rhine. Forested hill to the right, the tower of a castle on it, the river to the left, banks of stormcloud cut up by golden rays of sunlight, before us, above and beyond the Dutch border, clear blue sky. This had Rob and me making wicked webcamplans. You know, blurry pixels that hide the gorgeous spots from Sluis, looking through our eyes from behind his computer screen, accompanied by the scrolling text 'Look what you're missing out on' below it.
And he would have missed something. Schelden pissing for instance. Ever witnessed this at ten Beaufort? Closely resembles a cow, seriously. Because yes, the winds were high. But thus far the weather was dry, so after resting on the border stone ('Und so weiter' it says on it) and kissing the Dutch soil we went on towards Lobith. Towards Lobith? Towards Lobith. You see, the river Rhine does not enter Holland at Lobith, although all Dutch have been taught to believe this. It does at Spijk. And Spijk is the kind of village that will be in dire straits when flooding occurs. Better get ready with the sandbags. Or the bricks, of course. A little while later (and three brick factories onward) we walked into Tolkamer, soaking. Because, just before that, the rain struck, and it was nearly as bad as it was during the practice march around Haarzuilens Schelden and I undertook, earlier this year. You know, horizontal rain from your left, albeit a little less horizontal and considerably less frigid this time over. In short, a wonderful downpour, from which the others hid behind a monument on the riverbank (sis-sies) and which I enjoyed from atop and aside it. Waterlogged, we thronged into what looked like Flushings, but turned out to be Tolkamer. Luckily the salvatory SM basement was near. Whilst drying we drank steaming chocolate and flatbitter coffee. No milk. But the eggs and mincebread the corpulent mistress, clad in racy leather, had her willing slave prepare for us, were excellent. And hospitable it most certainly was. They even refrained from whipping when Schelden indirectly caused an incident in which one of the cd towers (this one featuring sleeves) fell over, to the great gladness of their two small dogs. Once outside Schelden was smitten with the bar lady... ...of next door's establishment. She looked at him suspiciously and there was no time, so, thankfully, this led to nothing.  
After that we went along more water (here they force surfers into suicide when in high spirits, that is, there's a sign by the marina reading 'surfboards from bridge' and the only available bridge is a towering plank leading to a jetty), through an unDutch fairytale forest (the kind that sports oddly lightcoloured trees, though they weren't birches), and then we ran into a dead end again. Or so it briefly appeared, because there turned out to be a narrow footpath across the industrial estate, hedged between a brick factory and another marina, which made it all feel much like the Dodentocht at the horticultural research centre. Although, logically, we felt a lot better. Specifically Driel (the Lean Mean Walking Machine), who finally got his vaunted off the road bit right after that. Mud, reed and grass: happy landings therefore. Having reached the ferry at Pannerden it turned out the mistress had misled us. Her warning that the rickety thing only sailed once every two hours, which had led to castleless plans on our part, turned out to be poppycock. Not to mention that they were very nice girls, those girls from Angeren aboard the ferry. And so we happily marched unto the courtyard of Castle Doornenburg. A beautiful thing, this castle, particularly since that courtyard sports a farmhouse, but other than that Floris was taped there (the series featuring Rutger, remember, and so later on the movie was too) and so the castle tour is equally irrelevant. Better suited to kids than to serious adults like ourselves. Although, this fitted neatly into the senseless perceptions of Schelden and the hussar. They greatly confused the fair maiden who bravely showed us around. Schelden by girding on the harness specimen, then to tremendously swish around the room, Prakke by opening the bar in another, as soon as she declared it was closed at the time (Prakke: "Say ma'am, that's a wonderful necklace you're wearing" Ma'am: "Sir, you should focus on the castle, not on me"). Driel and I meanwhile had a great time admiring the view, and Bert watched the proceedings bewildered, and corrected the speech in the meantime. Bert namely happens to be a fan of van Gelder's. Not Jack, but Karel, a fifteenth century earl. After the tour the maiden, cleverly, was nowhere to be seen, but the Oranjeboom (sadly) flowed abundantly. That's sad where taste is concerned, not the flowing.  Having squandered a full 2,5 hrs we set off sprightly, in the direction of Arnhem. We almost met our untimely end on a deep layer of liquid mud by an earthen dike, onto which we strayed coming down a zigzag path through the marshes (Satan's little steering error). But we were lucky: the mud only reached to our knees.
And into the bar in Huissen of course. Schelden again fell in love here. With the bar lady, Annette. This time he was in good company, namely Jochem's. Although that appeared to be something quite different than infatuation of the heart. Well anyway, one weird conversation (in which van Prijzen unsuccesfully positioned himself as the guide to a group of derailed youths) later we hit the dusk. Then came the hardest part of our journey, for me anyway. An endless stretch of highway, Arnhem misleadingly close and approaching. Misleadingly as in not. That John Frost bridge, it walks, I now am certain of it. But we did arrive there, and shook eachothers hand at the center of the bridge, ending a succesful and blisterless (barring one very small one for Jochem) first stage. Or so we thought. We had only just arrived in hell. You see, it doesn't matter how great the distance is, if you know in advance, the fatigue at the end is a purely psychological thing. So having to walk on when you think you've arrived is a hateful experience. And as Prakke lives about seven wide streets beyond Sonsbeek this was quite a ways yet. To me, at least this had the advantage of freeing a large part of Arnhem from painful memories, replacing them with better ones.  Not least because of the holy mother Prakke. She drowned us in in abundance (warm fireplace, ample drink, good food and lively conversation) when we stumbled over her garden sill, exhausted.
I have seldomly felt so encumbered. What wonderful woman. You see, when one's in that house, in that kind of company, drinking one's wine by the crackling fire, in front of the alcove with conservatory aspirations, after 45 kilometres (27.9 miles, a distance van Prijzen determined in a most scientific way - by gauging his feet, which felt "like just under 50"), even a photo session forced upon oneself by Schelden cannot ruin one's mood. And Rob and I had nothing to complain about, where the other gentlemen were concerned - they took Jochem Prakke's Citroën all the way back to Emmerich in order to collect the Rover, Schelden tagging along so as to make sure the other two wouldn't fall asleep, while we lit and kindled the barbecue, with variable success. The hussar brought me home to the Vide at a quarter to two in the morning. And I must say, it hasn't been often that I fell into bed this contentedly (and this abruptly). To your health gentlemen, excellent walking there. Katwijk awaits. |
