What are we doing? November 16th, 2000 Crossing Borders from Border to Border: Arnhem-Rhenen Leg 2 of 'Crossing Borders from Border to Border' (read the report of the first leg for more information on the project) led the Academic Walking Society from Arnhem to Rhenen. The Walking Society, in this case, represented by Erik 'Max' Max (back from having been gone for far too long, willy-nilly replacing the irreplaceable van Prijzen), Jochem Prakke (hero of the hussar kind), Rob van Driel, Henk van der Schelden and your faithful correspondent. And they had an unforgettable day, filled with history. This started on the way to that blasted Arnhem, whence I travelled with Prakke, Schelden and Max. At Utrecht railway station Schelden already had a limitlessly loud mouth, and this got worse on the train, where he diddled a group of Spaniards out of their violin, then to play 'Zie ginds komt de stoomboot' (a Dutch traditional) on it. Not even out of tune, but still to the great dissatisfaction of a gentleman travelling with us, who nicely asked whether this was necessary. Gentleman: "Say Christ, is this necessary?" and, shrugging in the direction of Max, Prakke and myself: "Well, he wants to be called by his surname, doesn't he?" (Schelden had just said that in answer to my "Jesus, would you look at that"). And in Arnhem, where we met van Driel (who had just escaped from a fort in Gorkum), that day became more memorable rapidly. Sadly, the Frost-bridge hadn't run off in the meantime. But we could remember our last meeting as if it was yesterday (since we never forget anything, we're most mafialike in that), so we delivered the biggest insult we could think of to the bloody thing, and started our march atop the Mandelabridge. From there we went down the Rhinedike in the direction of Heteren. This is a beautiful stretch, I must say. Max complained, until he was blue in the face, about the other side of the river being much prettier, which was true, but if you're on that side, of course you don't get the view of it that you get from the other side and besides, of grass and always greener, sir. Fact remains that the medieval church at Westerbouwing, in the green water meadows, must make one of the most beautiful images in our country. That spot has beauty anyway. Because, across the river from it, is the monument for the Canadian and British engineers. They saved a large part of the contingent of Polish and British paras who were under heavy fire in the night of september 25th to 26th, 1944, fighting themselves to death on the other side of the river, against superior numbers on the side of the occupying forces. As the paras couldn't see WHO was saving them in the dark, they erected this monument at a later stage, in gratitude to the engineers (a more detailed explanation of events, in Dutch, can be found here). Funny anecdote: one of my cousins on my mother's side once was an extra in the movie 'A bridge too far', in which he had to play one of the paras-to-be-saved by swimming across the Rhine in full battledress and bergen. He made it, since my cousin is a sturdy kinda guy. Great spot for a sandwich, all in all, and for Max to take a leak, naturally. And again, winds were high. The parallel with the first leg of our journey was therefore eerily apparent, although today's weather was better (and Max was smart enough to go and piss INSIDE the busstop shelter, otherwise he would have appeared here as cow, of course). After that we moved down the Drielse Rijndijk at great speed. And still the rain did not come. This was strange, since it had been predicted, by Erwin, in large quantities, he said. None of it. What we did see, in the distance and approaching rapidly, was the dam at Driel. An impressive example of Dutch Delta-ingenuity, and such fine reminder of Jeff Wayne's War of the Worlds, because of the red lights on its white ribs. Singing loudly, we reached the municipal border of Driel after a stiff toddle. Time for a substantial photo session. This, you see, was a moving moment for Rob, whose ancestors (partly Polish, so it seems those paras, once saved, got down to some serious rutting; so seriously, in fact, that the village is still timeless because of this - its church tower clock has no hands) came from here, after all. And Rob was completely for it in a different way here too. Leave decorum to Schelden and the Walking Society: on the square in front of the Dutch Reformed church in Driel, Driel MA was officially welcomed to the Walking Society, and was solemnly presented with his uniform during a a beerdrenched ceremony. Moreover, being the current Benjamin of the Society, on that day he became the first mascot-bearer in the illustrious history of the Society, and therefore received Fruity Barbie, to carry around in the GSM-pocket of the freshly starched Havep. And so we looked much better already, as we marched into the centre of town. Having reached a most aberrative establishment, namely a Chinese snackbar with normal Dutch snacks, we buried ourselves in chips-with-mayo and filthy sateh sauce. Which had immediate effects. As it turned out, when Prakke went to visit the loo. Because, in Driel, nothing important has happened since the war, it must have been a remarkable sight to see the other members of the Walking Society, plus the other sunday visitors, tumble out of the premises spluttering and gasping for air. Unusually repulsive, that scent, even for an experienced outlayer of corpses like Schelden. Fortunately, the wind on the Drielse Rijndijk was a lot fresher. Almost too much so, in fact. And we would yet experience too much of it too. Because although our next target, castle Doorwerth, was only a few hundred metres from us as the crow flies, it does happen to be on the other side of the Rhine. Which turned out to be hard to reach. Yes yes, these are the prettier aspects of the walking business. 'If I had only learned a trade', is what you then think. Like being a dam operator, for instance. Because they doubtlessly had a great day. Seated like kings in their futuristic lookout on the far bank, guarding an interminable amount of the people's tax money, through their cctv (and probably also through wickedly planted directional microphones) they were witnesses to the desperation that now came over the Walking Society. Schelden and Driel turned out to be the most criminal. They were already on the other side of the fence by the time the rest of us forced them to deliberate the issue. This, entirely democratically, led to the decision not to attempt the crossing by this, judicially closed, route. Although in my own experience (and that of my cousin, but that's a different cousin than the one who did the swimming) I cannot accuse the police of this pretty riverland of anything but professionality, a speedy reunion with Fred and Harry is not my kind of optimal take on life. And so, ranting and raving, we walked onward down the Drielse Rijndijk until we reached the bridge at Heteren. Driel: "And then you have to go ROUND eh, ROUND. And then on the other side of the bridge you have to go BACK eh, BACK. And then you reach the castle, and you turn around, and you have to go BACK. BACK, is where you have to go. Eh. BACK again. And that's what we're gonna DO." - now that's what I call true walking spirit. And so it was. After a short stop at the Airborne monument below it, we crossed the water meadows and river (Driel still grumbling about not being allowed to cross 'his own' dam, completely justified of course) and turned right towards Doorwerth. Having reached it, we enjoyed coffee and bourbon in Theeschenkerij de Zalmen, a cafe located in the castle's courtyard. And after that we payed a most informative visit to the exhibition 'Bah. Vieze opgezette beesten.' ('Yuck. Filthy stuffed animals.') in the Museum for Nature- and Wildlife management which is housed in the actual castle. Informative, as I had never known the lynx to be an animal that prefers to smoke filter cigarettes. This was what Mr. Max taught me, by providing the lynx with such, sticking from the right hand corner of its mouth. Anyway. After the taking of the group portrait, made by the friendly cashier of the museum, we lit a large joint (strangely we seem to walk real fast on that handicap), and Driel and I, and fellow smoker Prakke put up a hard pace in the direction of Middle-Earth. Yes really, because, after we again crossed the highway to Arnhem, we came unto the Renkum hills, and those forest paths are where hobbits belong. Reason for Rob and myself to name our motion, to be entered at our meeting in Rhenen, 'the Hobbit-motion'. But we'll get to that one later on. On that hilly trail through the wood we also had a very pleasant meeting. With a gentleman doing some cross country mountainbiking who, with total contempt for death, passed us along the muddy ridges through dusk, and cheerfully added "Yes, there are greater fools than yourselves". And at the foot of the hill I was back in my youth. Years on end I squandered wonderful sundays in the forests of Renkum, stealing corncobs with my cousins (well, trying to steal them - I didn't even know where that bloody cob is, on that effing plant), since my uncle Gijs lived there at the time (he has since moved to Wageningen-Hoog). My uncle Gijs who, by the way, after having been co-director of van Gelder papermills in Velsen for years, together with a few others founded Parenco, the most environmentally friendly papermill in our country. Which is exactly what we were walking by at this time, after having made a short stop at the busstop in Renkum (and yes, Prakke knew ALL departure times and numbers of those buses by HEART). I have never been so proud of a neon sign. You see, everyone, including the board of directors of the factory itself, naturally assumes that the abbreviation stands for 'paper', Renkum' and 'company', which is not true. This acronym was thought up by one of my cousins (uncle Gijs has six children and is a multiple granddad). He won the contest that the plant had instigated, and duly informed the family of the real thought behind it: 'Parenco' means 'Papa van Reenen, and Co.'. And the fact that that name is still up there in neon, while my uncle has long since retired, this is what pleases me greatly. Anyway, that stretch by the factory was unpleasant apart from this, as we were walking along the hard shoulder of the highway. Well, Max found that unpleasant, anyway. I had a great time. But this might have been partly due to the Red Bull. Or to the rain, since that arrived here for the first time, albeit only a brief and drizzly shower. The last drops slipping down our necks, we ascended the Wageningse berg. To arrive, after walking through that literal copy of Aerdenhout, at what was beyond doubt the most poignant monument of the day: Hotel de Wereld, in Wageningen. 'Respect' isn't quite the right word here. A lot goes through you when, as an orangist and patriot you're standing, for the first time of your life, on the spot where our people regained its freedom. Most emotional moments, from kissing the doorsill of the Hotel to the portrait of the Walking Society, made by an extremely friendly waiter (the Hotel was closed to the public, but by request we were allowed in anyway) in the capitulation room, the same one where Foulkes and Blaskowitz wrote history under the watchful eye of Bernhard, Prince of the Netherlands. Reason for a drinking bout in the fine Academy Cafe Wageningen sports. Where Schelden, by the way, started a row with the hussar, because Henk didn't yet understand it was normality, all those empty peanut shells on the floor, and that therefore Jochem (completely in his element) was rightly throwing them over his shoulder flamboyantly. From Wageningen we went to the foot of the Grebbeberg, in pitchdark and at killing speed. A lovely bit of whamwalking, that definitely revived Driel and myself, but during which Max, being a deeply trained long distance marcher (Max walked the Camino, which teaches one how important it is to keep one's own speed), fell behind a bit. Which was no problem, since we waited for him at the foot of the hill. And then we went over, reaching the next gripping monumentmoment atop the hill. A place to stand still at, that stone of remembrance with the beautiful poem by J.C. Bloem. Here's where a small people finds its greatness: the roar of the lion. Descending, we reached the municipal border of Rhenen. Here I was fittingly welcomed by the rest of the Walking Society, and the evening presidiate was transferred to me. Which rolled along quietly from there. Except for a bizarre incident in Het Filiaal, the establishment picked for dining originally, whose ambiance, however, turned out to contrast sharply with the one it had had during Schelden's recce. And so we looked further, but almost did so without Max. Because he hated that ambiance so much, and was so knackered by now, that he hadn't barely set foot across the doorstep when he announced loudly that he 'would continue on his own' and that we were free to remain seated. Tssssk. None of it, fatso. Innit together, annall. So we ended up in de Koning van Denemarken. Where we had a great barmeal, congratulated eachother on another blisterless leg of our journey, and fielded the Hobbit-motion. In this, Rob and I (partly on behalf of our newest female member, Dame Larisa) requested a move of our marches to Saturdays, on account of monday's work. But because Henk would most definitely no longer be able to partake due to his working saturdays, I voted against my own motion in the end, and it was rejected forcefully. Nonetheless Schelden turns out to be a sharp listener, since the rerun of the first leg is planned for a Saturday. All in all this, the second leg of Crossing Borders from Border to Border, in many aspects was a heavy march, but also a very satisfactory one. To your health gentlemen, excellent walking there. Katwijk awaits.