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What are we doing?
April 8th, 2001 Crossing Borders from Border to Border: Rhijnauwen-Bodegraven And on the other hand there's days that start out rotten but end in a satisfactory way, like this one. The unions, we were told, were in intense negotiations with the NS-board of directors, so there were no strikes this time. Not that that mattered, since, due to track maintenance, there was no difference with your average striking day, at Haarlem railway station. Therefore, the 07:25 train to Amsterdam did not ride. In bad mood therefore, Jochem Prakke, Marco van Zijntergen, Max, Rob van Driel and I hit the Intercity train, en route to Schelden, waiting in Utrecht and to leg 4 of 'Crossing Borders from Border to Border'.  Thankfully the atmosphere got sillier quickly. Flietje, together with Prakke, provided a brilliant episode of Biscuit Wars, and directly thereafter Jochem, who was riding the train illegally until then, found a valid oneway ticket Haarlem-Bunnik on the floor. It was a good thing it came out of wildly laughing Rob's Havep (so beautifully tailored by Henk), because that hussar has too much of that damn luck already: wife, kid, home, car, job, Walking soc.
In Utrecht things took a rapid turn for the worse. Logical, since Schelden arrived. He raised hell in the railway station, by loudly singing the Internationale from the window of the stationary train (he was in strike-along mood and further heartened the railway personnel by denouncing railway director Huizinga out loud), which led to both astonishment and happy singing along on the part of the other travellers. He followed up with 'Je cherche fortune'. Very nice, all of that. 
 But directly after that, Henk felt he had to give everyone a kiss from Larisa. Much less nice, if you ask us.
Once in Bunnik, putting ourselves in mortal danger, we passed in front of the train that was only just pulling up again, to fastly march along sunsplashed paths towards Rhijnauwen, last time's terminus. This extra bit at the start of the march, of course, was a rotten thing. Alright, it was our own fault, for giving up there last time, but it would hurt us later on.  In Rhijnauwen it turned out that this teahouse, situated in beautifully rural surroundings amongst fields-we-could-not-see-last-time-around a. in sunlight indeed is a sight for sore eyes but b. is closed sunday mornings, so the reunion with this bloody tow-path-along-the-Rhine fell heavy on our morning stomachs. Muddy motherfucker, that makes my Adidases go flipflop and makes me die a thousand deaths. Not to mention its popularity amongst joggers-coming-the-other-way. Excruciatingly irritating.
 Amelisweerd, at such moment, makes up for a lot. It's a pretty forest, sporting fine swans. Nature in your face, it feels like being in a 17th century painting. And to think I had thought it had gone, for at least a decade (back in the eighties of the last century there was a big row over a bit of highway being led through it, the people removed from the trees by the police claiming it spelled doom for the entire forest).
Meanwhile I was able to vent my pent-up mud frustration at Galgenwaard stadium (where I'd never been, not even for Prince) with a loud 'A-JAX'. There. That showed FC Utrecht some. As a Haarlemmer, I can, of course, impossibly support my home team.  Anyway, after that we marched into Utrecht itself. Time for a contented smoking break on the terrace of a restaurant at the bridge across the Rhine. Which was used by Max to harass the waitress only just arriving, with an undesired bit of obtrusive pastorate, whilst throwing biscuit bits at Jochem, and vice versa.
 Maxs are a curse, particularly in a sleepy sunday town. Everything passing gets Wandelsocced anyway, particularly the ladies. If it's not Max, than you can be certain it's Prakke. It's a good thing arriving boyfriends of bicycling girls at times do so on time.
 The waitress was relieved, after much unanswered doorbanging, by a woken colleague, of 'this terrible company', which happily marched on, into the centre of Utrecht, along canals and by the papal palace. Salient detail, that van Prijzen (not walking, after all) was with the pope, at mass, at that very moment. And they always are a beautiful sight, those riverquays with those surrealistically grand buildings. Reminded me of the photo of the inner city of Bruges, on my parents' wall.
 At this point, by the way, Satan made his steering error and we made a superfluous circle by below, past the discotheque where sometime in the past, in my presence, my ex-boss Tony was refused entrance due to an advanced state of insobriety, but did manage to enter the premises, only to be ejected from it in an even less sober state, shortly afterwards.
 None of this stopped us, chopsmackingly advancing along the canal, from picking the first McDonald's we could find from all available establishments, and invading it immediately. The fact that we consumed humongous amounts of fastfood was embarrassing enough, but that Schelden actually made to treat his blister there, whilst eating, makes bse and foot and mouth pale in comparison. Particularly since it turned out he didn't have one, after he'd left the place again with an incredible amount of useless theatrics. Other than that, McDonald's is a model of hygiene: I used to help make those fries at one time, so I should know. Bring your own rat, should you want to get rich.
 Once walking again, this didn't go fast, with a belly-full-of-burgers. So we stopped for a group portrait, because it's always nice to. I had the distinct impression that the chartered fellow countryman who made it didn't enjoy it at all, whatsoever.
 We had already forgotten him, because we had caught Santaclaus in the act! I'm talking the Dutch version of the fellow, and he's not supposed to be around in april, but in december, so this was a rare sighting. And consequently, Claus got bugged by the Wandelsoc., which tackled him around the corner, his servant included. All this running makes one belch (but Max likes human sounds, and that makes a real difference): high time to stop for the next group portrait, to the astonishment of the nicely cooperating episcopal duo.
 Some portrait, too. Santa's beard heavily disheveled by Max (Max obviously does not trust those Saints), the (unusually tasty indeed, by the way) servant improperly manhandled by Schelden. By the time we again sighted the Rhine, by the flanks of Hoog Catharijne shopping centre, we had hardly stopped laughing, and the party they were to attend probably never became what it should have been. A contaminated Claus, to be avoided and controlled, inoculated and culled.
 So anyway, at this time we finally walked through that tunnel-by-Utrecht-Central-Station, where we had told eachother so often that we'd be 'coming by here soon'. Well, that turned out to be an anticlimax. That tunnel is dark and, moreover, inhabited by bloodthirsty animals,B I R D S, they are. And the Rhine is ugly, at Utrecht CS, and this is because of, yes really, Utrecht CS (that you don't see anything of it in the photograph is entirely due to photographer Marco's qualities). Bomb the fucker gentleman, bomb it into oblivion. What blemish on Dutch architecture. There. I'd been wanting to say that for years now. It's that Utrecht has so many nice bicycling maidens, but otherwise one would find it a complete letdown.  Shortly after Utrecht came a moving moment for myself: the Amsterdam-Rhine Canal, where we crossed the track of my first practice march, the one to Haarzuilens with Henk. To walk across that selfsame bridge, triply decorated and as Wandelsoc., with a Max marching up from the depths below me, that's what makes a man happy. Reason for a silly dance on my part, at the far bank, sadly missed by the photographer. But then, he had not been alerted.
 Yet the grin faded from my face, to be replaced by astonishment in Mobilion. This is a glass floor-you-may-stand-on with a map of the Netherlands below it, a website about it and a lot of deeper intentions behind it. Great fun for the kids, cute lights too. And pure propaganda for the national highway construction scheme. What pays for all this? My tax money, exactly.
Happy nonetheless, since I was in familiar territory, I marched swiftly, by Leidsche Rijn and de Meern. Fugly stretch, I already knew. Crawling with gardens that give one the creeps, created by the nouveau riche of floral- and transport-gangsters. Why beautify, when you can make it uglier? Lets all senselessly squander the euro! To think my ex-boss lives there, and the picturesque Vleuten, place of birth of his brother, is right behind it. None of all this beauty, this time over - just the endless grey road by the river. But it did make for a good opportunity to catch hares Max & Prakke, who had escaped by the left bank at the Mobilion.  That I outmarched Marco on this bit, which ended in Café-bar 't Scheepje, positioned at the end of the dike like some biblically saving inn, was something I would face the consequences of 3 beers later and 1 pair of sunglasses lighter, as we walked towards Harmelen. Outmarching Marco is an ill-fated idea. The man has legs so long, and such a natural talent for walking, that even on long distances he keeps looking like a leisure walker. And so he swiftly disappeared around the corner, even though Max and I had had a reasonable headstart.
Nevertheless we had a pleasant walk through Harmelen, home to my distinguished colleague van 't Klooster. Sadly, he did not answer my calls, but he did, at a later stage, succesfully retrieve my sunglasses from 't Scheepje for me. Passing below his window and by Het Wapen van Harmelen, past the one-horse town of Putkop (a name that led to immediate anagramming frenzy on the part of the Wandelsoc., you may understand) on it went to Woerden, van Zijntergen leading the way, along one of those tow-paths that remind one of ummm... ...Rhijnauwen.  In Woerden Henk was friendly requested to leave Snackbar Friendly (which does contain very friendly people indeed, and good meat loaves to boot), because he completely freaked out over the suggestion to not make Alphen aan den Rijn, but Bodegraven our destination for the day, an idea which arose from somewhere amongst Max, Rob and Prakke. I agreed with them, but wisely shut up about it and cheerfully suggested to 'at least walk on for a little while'.
 Past the toll bridge of Nieuwerbrug (where the toll is leveed by locals who maintain the bridge) we marched through upcoming cold to Fort Wierickerschans. Here we held a freezing smokebreak of 10 minutes, so Max and Henk could catch up before the victorious entry into Bodegraven.
 On de Schans it was indeed decided to leave it at Bodegraven, but we did reach the compromise of dinner in Alphen, since Henk had made reservations with a fine restaurant there and we didn't yet know the establishments in Bodegraven. Faster than we thought we would, we were at Bodegraven railway station, our faces contorted by pain and fatigue. Yes, well, you see, that's what you get, when you have an extra bit to walk at the start of the day, like we did.
 At Bodegraven railway station we were up for a relatively long wait in the cold, and so Max made a virtue of necessity by pissing against the station wall (hadn't we experienced something similar some time before?). Which, naturally, led to great hilarity amongst the fiercely protesting Wandelsoc..
 Our protests, of course, were in vain, but hurrah, there wasn't a constable in sight. So we hit the slow train to Alphen, where you can get real quickly, as long as you don't walk there.
 Once there, Jochem surprised me highly, by leaving for Haarlem, in order to study for his Golfing licence. Bloody hell! I didn't knew such idicocy existed! Golf! My liver turns in its grave out of sheer astonishment! Visions of grassland in Purmerend, and more of such nastiness.
 Deeply shocked I limped to Restaurant Lekker Eten (Fine Food) with Henk, Marco, Max and Rob, situated diagonally across from van der Schelden, a fine store for fully electrical home appliances.
Lekker Eten has no website, which sucks. Lekker Eten, moreover, has utterly faggottish waiting personnel. This also sucks. And this personnel is most obtrusive in the way it presents the available merchandise. This also sucks. But Lekker Eten does have Really Fine Food. The 'Lekker Lam' (tasty lamb) for instance. Makes one suck one's fingers, I tell you. And the 'Blote Billetjes in het Weigras' (naked bottoms in the paddock grass)-salade. Poofterish, but delicious. Not to mention sorbet and Spoom.   
To put it shortly, we became a contentedly filled Wandelsoc., all the more so since a friendly fellow eatress cheerfully photographed us. And besides - Lekker Eten is situated beautifully, by the Rhine, with a terrace-for-the-summermonths. It's a great recommendation if ever I gave you one. Not in the least because Schelden inadvertently made some money when paying the bill. And here's me, wasting my good money on tips. Al-ways the same.  Staggering back to the railway station turned out to be less of a task than we'd expected, but the train left in front of our eyes (with Max in it). Reason for us to go visit the bar of Hotel Restaurant Toor, where we ended the day feasting on the sight of the waitress and excellent half-liter units, and Rob enriched the glass display case for pies with his half eaten Snickers. Great going.
 And so, 43 kilometres richer, we found ourselves onboard that train at last. Now don't give us any shit about not marching the full 60 (which it wouldn't have been anyway because Alphen's only 10 clicks from Bodegraven): this was a practice march, dammit. Do come see us march in Nijmegen, Bern, Diekirch, Bastogne or Bornem.
To your health gentlemen, excellent walking there. Katwijk awaits. |