| What are we doing?
February 24th, 2002 Across the Netherlands from Top to Toe: Kloosterburen-Groningen Today the Academic Walking Soc. marched part two of 'Across the Netherlands from Top to Toe', a training project devised by van der Schelden MA which should keep us in proper shape for walking until the next marching season at least. Part two? Yes, part two. The Wandelsoc.'s fond of completeness, and so a North-South route through the Netherlands starts on the Wadden, not on top of the Waddendyke north of Kloosterburen.  Therefore today should have turned out much differently than it did. Weeks of preparation had already gone towards the establishing of contact with all mudwalking guides that we could discern online. They all cried "You are out of your minds if you want to go walk across the mudflats from Schiermonnikoog to the coast of Groningen" but, when we insisted because our planning would otherwise have gone haywire, all of them also cried "Then it's your own problem. There's only one man crazy enough to do this, and his name is Lammert Kwant".
And Lammert Kwant said: "Yes, this is possible. But you must wear a wetsuit". He did not add, but we did comprehend, that this was in order to make us survive a bit longer in case we drifted away, but it did lead to a major hassle, of course.  Pleased with the ill-fatedness of this aspect of the endeavour, Schelden, van Zijntergen and I therefore motored down to Holland Diving on the Amstelveenseweg in Amsterdam, on the evening of Thursday, february 21st. Dracula van Zijntergen looks real charming in one of those suits, so it was swiftly rented and that made this first visit, only paid because Marco works on Saturdays, thus had to pick a different day for the fitting, a sinecure.
However the second, the following Saturday, was an old-fashioned chaos. Schelden already went into a fit shortly after he and Peter Weij picked me up by my place of work. Work? Yes, that's where I was, since Wegener eMedia was moving office that day, from just in front of the entrance of the Holiday Inn on the de Boelelaan in Amsterdam, to just behind the Novotel on the de Boelelaan in Amsterdam. And so the dragging and tugging under Superhenk's command had a bizarre intermezzo for me.  See, so I got into Weij's car, and we drove off towards the VU, when Weij, quite logically, asked "Do we turn right here?". Whereupon I said: "Ain't got the faintest". Whereupon Schelden exploded. "I only let you sit up front because I assumed you would know the way..." "Thou shalt not assume, Schelden" "Yes but you are familiar with Amsterdam, are you not?" "Yes but Amsterdam is a rather large place and I do not know how to get to the Amstelveenseweg from here".
My reasonable words naturally fell on deaf ears, since Schelden proceeded to, quite injustly, assume that I was no good at reading maps (ignoring, beforehand, the fact that I had done this for years, for papa, on holidays abroad) and tried, controlfreak par excellence as he is, to jerk Weij's Streetfinder out of my hands, having first ordered me to find the route in it.  Anyway, following one U-turn because of the confusing curve across Olympia Square, we arrived at Holland Diving in good order. I suspect the lady working there, during our fitting of the wetsuits, was predominantly charmed by Peter Weij's welltrained body. You see, I can hardly imagine that Schelden's Körper or my streamlined past-the-disaster-body could enthrall her, while she really did remark "I have a great job, with all these nude men around me". And so thank you Panzerfuchs, for her compliment.
 Suits, footwear and gloves rented and packed in sports bags we set off towards Schelden's next fit. He, namely, proceeded, on the way back to my place of work, to read out an "important letter of Lammert Kwant's". That is, that's how he introduced it. But he lied. You see, he started to read not that letter, but the preceding two emails that Lammert Kwant sent. A completely needless case of trying to be interesting. After all, I read my email. Therefore, I knew those two emails by heart. When I proclaimed this, Schelden exploded and not only refused to partake any further in the Wadden endeavour, but also wished to leave the car immediately.
 All the better that Weij resolutely refused him both leaving the automobile, and leaving the self-organized route. Bravo Weij: 0-1 for the Walking Drama.
Better yet, where the failing of dramatics was concerned, was that, later that night, the whole of the mudwalking turned out not be realized at all. Lammert Kwant decided it was too much of a risk after all, and if someone everyone tells you is taking too much risks tells you it's too much of a risk, you take it very seriously.  And so, for now at least, we missed the undoubtedly hilarious sight of Bert van Prijzen in a wetsuit. He, namely, was waiting for Marco and me, sitting in his Roâhvah, but without his wetsuit-diligently-rented-in-the-south, in front of Groningen railway station. His Roâhvah, by the way, turned out to be heavily smeared. Which turned out to be less hilarious than it seemed.
You see, it had been excruciatingly bad weather all through the weekend. This had deteriorated that morning, by way of malicous snowthrifts (and this while the whole of Holland was by now convinced summer had broken loose, goes to show ya) which surprised even the authorities in such a way that the ride to Groningen turned out to be a feast of caramboling automobiles: in ditches, along side trails and right in front of Bert van Prijzen, spinning into the berm after a risky passing manoeuver.  Luckily, there were no victims anywhere, including here, and it had also put Knight of the Realm van Prijzen in such a spot as to succcesfully be able to use his sports tape, originally meant to be used on his feet, on the disheveled front bumper of the terrified maiden that had just tried to outgas him. Medieval values are a beautiful thing, at times.
 Taking the cabbage, but leaving the wolf, Marco, Bert and I therefore, having left Marco's Polo along the Singel of Groningen, in front of De Bonte Koe, through sometimes blustery snowstorms, blazing across the Groningen homesteads and enriching the morning with the pure allure of a seventeenth century masterpiece, inkblack to goldcold, motored on towards the goat.
 The goat was on the Waddendyke north of Kloosterburen, dressed in a smallish red Postal Services windjacket. And once we had discovered that the sleeper dyke before it was the sleeper dyke before it, we unmistakably found him. As a minute black dot in the distance, that sat down when I asked it to by mobile phone. Masterful.
 Most masterful also, was the farmer who, by the time we got out of the cars and had greeted Schelden, Weij, Vandy and Ab van Geyningen, proceeded to, after measuring us with his looks and explaining that the entire road from sleeper- to Waddendyke is his private property, ask us concernedly if it was going to become a trend for walking freaks to use the end of that road for parking on departure.
 We succesfully deceived him (since we are yet to return there with Kwant, Lammert Kwant), and so the Academic Walking Soc. cheerfully laid down its first steps down the path of yet another heroic march through our beautiful Lowlands. Beautiful all the more since the heavens spontaneously parted to grant us a passage enriched with sunlight in such an impressive way that, by evening time in Groningen, I would turn out to have sustained sunburnt cheeks.
The aforementioned farmer, by the way, had also helpfully explained to us that one of the bridges to be taken along the route was temporarily closed. Important information, since it saved us from hours of detour, therefore reason for Schelden to proclaim the man to be "one of our comrades" later on. 
Not that it mattered much, since Schelden himself made sure we had to detour for quite a bit, by way of the Kruisweg, having first lost sight of eachother (this, however, being due to the farmer, who had rightfully sent Marco, Bert and myself back for an admittedly beautiful view across the Waddendyke towards Schier, that we would sadly have missed). It must be said though, that this was a rather amusing detour, since Peter Weij decided to, at this point, heavily detox hisself in an unsuspecting ditch. As if the manure surplus does not exist whatsoever.  The fact that we were detouring uncloaked itself to us at the bridge across the Uilenestermaar, just before we passed by Grijssloot and across the Hoornse Vaart, into Wehe-den Hoorn. This is an utmostly picturesque village, partly thanks to the mounded church dating back to the thirtheenhundreds, which is all the more beautiful because there's a sign in front of it reading 'historical church' and was all the more beautiful because an extremely beautiful woman in a sleek black off-the-road-car drove by us. And she smiled at us, and wove at us too!
 Singing for joy (Bert turned out to know the Duck song with which I had driven Schelden into a rage during the preparation phase; and so this happily rang from our throats, leading Bert to concernedly remark that he probably wouldn't get the song out of his head for days to follow and that the only solution for that was to make the entire board of directors of Laurus Belgium sing it - which we thought was a fine idea and led us to the devision of the 'Laurus sings Annie' CD) we therefore set off again after a short rest.
By the by it had turned out, at this rest, that Bert is an acquaintance of the professor who's behind the Massenspectrometer Panzerfuchs Weij ("You'd do better to invest your tax money in me than to invest it in the House of Orange - NBC is the future"; Weij during a previous practice march towards Noordwijk) works with every day: coincidence lurks around small and unsuspected corners.  After that, we never arrived in Warfhuizen, village sporting one of the most beautiful mounded churches in the province of Groningen. This was because Schelden decided to hang a right just before it, to the dismay of Nijmegen Four Day Marcher van Prijzen who, from this experience being fond of flat asphalt, now had to go and totter crosscountry.
 In the direction of Roodehaan van Prijzen and I got into a political discussion about the rising tide of right wing dissent in advance of next May's elections, van Prijzen not only turning out to be more shortsighted but also more hypocritical than I, but at least to be aware of what he's going to vote (the newly created opposition of Fortuyn, namely, since "they should forbid them to operate those satellite dishes, at least then they can't watch hate-mongering television channels broadcasting from their original countries" - but history thankfully teaches us that everyone suddenly owns a radio as soon as you outlaw them so, to me, it's much more of a happy plan to blast the guilty satellites out of the vacuum using the freshly bought Joint Strike Fighter and while doing so also to lose a few Daisy Cutters on top of the broadcasting tv studios, since it is better to think structurally then to engage in the combat of symptoms). Unlike me. I'm part of the floating electorate.
We didn't cross the Reitdiep and walk via Saaksum to Ezinge, habitat of Kwant, Lammert Kwant because, as said, that bridge was closed. Instead, we followed the Reitdiep on its northern side, westward in the direction of Schouwerzijl, where Schelden paused by the beautiful, but sadly threatened (by replacement with newer structures) locks of Schaphalsterzijl to raid a much beleaguered farmer and completely blast his closet in the outer shed with diarrhoea. Schelden: "One of my farts lasted for a solid minute". 
Thankfully, we were unaware of this and were therefore free to enjoy the panorama stretched out before us here. Our enjoyment continued, when we discovered that, if no other, at least one good English tradition hàs been adopted by our antisocial populace: that of the public footpath. Since that was what the path was that, through cheerful forest romps and heavy toiling along a dyke infested with minute depressions, took us through mud and across barbed wire barriers, and into Garnwerd, while Vandy explained to me how he likes to shoot dead songbirds with an airgun; he'd fucking better refrain from it in my presence: of all living creatures, songbirds are just about the most enjoyable. 
 By Jove, were we lucky today. Garnwerd is home to Hotel Hammingh, the most famous of cafes in the province, 125 years old and recently visited by the then Miss Zorreguieta. And it sports an intensely beautiful bar, where, after a hefty wadden omelette and coffee-cum-Jamieson, things were considerably looking up for this weary brownshirt. As they were for the rest of us. Moreover, the Orange Nassau family tree graces the wall here. Things you can learn from, my dear Weij.
 And so we happily carried on, at a murderous speed. Logical, since the rest of the trajectory, barring Oostum which sports a beautiful mounded church (with a sign right next to it reading 'church ->') was much less of an eyecatcher, where nature was concerned. The closer you get to Groningen, the more you end up in a cultivated recreation area.
This is why we stamped across the bridge spanning the Reitdiep at Wierumerschouw and across the Van Starkenborghkanaal, along the university complex and into Groningen at a rate of six point five kilometres an hour.  Then came the solution to the puzzle. Weij, van Zijntergen and van Prijzen left with the wolf, in Marco's Polo, to motor back to the cabbage by the Waddendyke, while the goat, Vandy and myself waited in De Bonte Koe (where umbrellas grow from the bushes lining the outer wall, and the peppermint reservoir is patient but, sadly, meals are no longer served).
One ex-cel-lent meal in 't Golden Fust cafe (It's a wonderful joint! Three stars from the Wandelsoc. and solid points for the serving staff!) later, we lumbered onto Groningen's main square, moving towards the automobiles. 
And then something incredible happened. Enter Mattie Finkelstein, jewish beauty, student of Art History at the Imperial University, who approached Schelden and said: "Do you have things to proclaim?". 
It must have been destiny. There can be no other cause for anyone to say this to Schelden. And so Schelden, Weij, van Zijntergen and I found ourselves in Cafe De 3 Uiltjes, pleasantly drinking down the night with her. That is to say: Schelden pleasantly drank down the night with her, and the three of us looked on in amazement. 
Even the fact that, due to his tiresome, predictable elongation of the drinking bout (telling me we shall go after this round, then luring the unsuspecting Marco into ordering another when I'm off to the loo) upon leaving the premises, where, by the by, an irrepressibly mediocre coverband almost ruined my good spirits, but fortunately compensated for its ignorance by opting for proper repertoire (play Cheap Trick's 'I want you to want me' and you can do me no further harm), I pinned Schelden to a wall above my head and verbally pounded the dust out of him, could therefore no longer spoil the evening, all the more so since Mattie commented on the event in this way: "All goes with the territory". |
