Wat zijn wij aan het doen?

March 24th, 2002

Across the Netherlands from Top to Toe: Groningen-Eext

"Fuck! A dolmen!" Out of my throat it bellows over the empty field just outside Eext, with some degree of cheerfulness. Black humour pays off. And it does not arrive unexpectedly either because, by the time you reach dolmen no. 8 after forty hard kilometres, you've physically had it.

The Wandelsoc. had left early for this, the third stage of 'Across the Netherlands from Top to Toe'. You see, just like the last one this leg started in the relatively vast upper northeast of our country.

And so, in Groningen's main square, Marco van Zijntergen, Jochem Prakke and I found ourselves in Croissanterie Paris, which had opened on this early morning blissfully unaware of what was to come, and was therefore brutally raided by Silliness. It offered great quality, by the way. A large selection of premium grade rolls and buns, richly filled, and fine coffee. And all that at such an ungodly hour.

And so we enjoyed ourselves, in this small and packed cellar, with Henk van der Schelden, Johan van Dijk (long awaited reunion), Peter Weij, First Friend Of The Wandelsoc. Bert van Prijzen, Friends Of The Wandelsoc. Albert and Vandy van Geyningen, and three unsuspecting ones: 2 most scrumptious East German students of the female gender, promptly harassed by Schelden, with German drinking songs, and one somewhat groggy Groninger, who however found it all to be pleasantly amusing. This could not be said of the pestered lady behind the counter, who nonetheless performed her demanding duties outstandingly. Very refreshing, and definitely worthy of compliments, especially when considering previous experiences.

So that was already good. And things were to get a lot better yet: the weather was beau-ti-ful. Cloudy and chilly, but dry and with a lot of sun in between. And that sun had a great melancholy quality, in all its wintery character and acrid golden glare. This only in such a way that, possibly, melancholy may in future accompany memories of this day, since, by itself, there was no reason for melancholy whatsoever.

On the contrary. The road from Groningen to Haren offers ample room for deep sighs, frowning eyebrows and cluck-cluck-cluck-sounds. Not for discontent or disquiet, but out of amazed respect for the beauty of surroundings and architecture. I assure you: Overveen pales in comparison. Along that wide provincial road there are countless stunning detached mansions, rimmed by mixed forest plots at times, in pleasant gardens, pretty ponds to their front.

Actually exclusively the kind of country house that makes you exclaim, whilst gasping for breath: "Oh, but we should move into that and have it for our clubhouse!" The absolute height of which is the bizarre castle with the friendly stone lion in front of it, right next to the Hortus of Haren. Moments that make you remember where Disney got the idea in the first place (actually, we're talking Ludwig of Bavaria's Schloss Neuschwanstein, but this is beside the point, it's a matter of seniority - who the hell needs Disneyland when you can also feast your eyes on architectural bizzarities like that in your own country, for free?).

But we are the Wandelsoc. after all, and so the reaction is predictable. Where I, before we passed all this splendor, had the decency to properly visit the toilet of a Shell filling station along the way and also gladdened the franchise holder by buying a Liga Fruitkick for Schelden, Prakke and Weij showed themselves to be the cultural barbarians of old by heftily pissing all over the place. Although it must be said that, this time over, Weij neatly hid himself in a urinal.

This contempt, however, was not entirely unfounded. Because as beautiful as the road between Haren and Groningen is, just so hideous is Haren itself. This dump stands midway between Wolphaartsdijk (Province of Zeeland) and De Koog (Isle of Texel), with their bad seasonal construction, but without their picturesque village centers. What remains is the memory of West Flanders around Bornem, mostly. And you know what it is we do there, usually. It would turn out to be an omen, for the rest of the day.

Which, however, did have a character all of its own. Schelden had warned us of this: this was the stage in which we reached dolmen territory. And so he had procured a map that featured them all, and planned the route from dolmen to dolmen. In order to make it all archeologically respectible, kind of. Well, we wouldn't easily forget that.

In Noordlaren, by the first dolmen (G1), I had to grudgingly admit the bloody things do in fact exist. You see, I had never believed this and always repressed the fact, since I had never yet actually seen one. This belief of mine was strengthened by my colleague Sonja Snoek, graphics designer who, using the same map of dolmens that Schelden had, had once tried to find them and had not succeeded in locating a single one. The inevitable conclusion is that graphics designers do not regard lines on a map as lines on a map but as 'aesthetically pleasing blue linear entities', that women CANNOT READ MAPS and... ...that dolmens do exist. Grmbl.

Fortunately, the gravity of this establishment and the archeological merit of it all were immediately wrenched from their context by the unsurpassed Albert van Geyningen. He, namely, had found an oaken armchair, dumped by the side of the road through Glimmen, with a pinkish grey seating cushion. Always the joker, he'd enlisted Dracula van Zijntergen, hoisted the thing up unto their shoulders and carried it to this first dolmen (G1).

Upon which he pontifically placed it, then to take place in it for the first official portrait of the Wandelsoc.-by-dolmen, made by a friendly passer-by under the age of thirteen, member of a family on a Sunday outing. Pretty picture of a mound-of-stones-with-a-dude-in-a-chair-on-top.



By miniaturesque farms constructed in ancient Dutch fashion we marched on. And Ab, he did bravely bear the cumbersome armchair, upon his head.

He continued to do so even when our going got rather rough and we had to pass through a muddy ditch, because the Hahn family both rightly and adequately balances the right of way across their private territory against the right to free garden architecture. This therefore turned into a hilarious clambermess, during which Ab had to go through all kinds of trouble in order to remain balanced, armchair and all. He did succeed in doing so, by the by.



Meanwhile Bert educated us on the judicial aspects of the right of way. It namely lasts for nineteen years, provided no one exercises that right during those nineteen years. When someone does, the counting starts over. Here's hoping, therefore, that the Wandelsoc. passed through that ditch in Midlaren on day 365 of the nineteenth year. We do after all like to be of use.

Down the country lane to the right a pleasant surprise awaited Ab: dolmens numbers 2 and 3 (D4 & D3) stood one meter from eachother, by a farmhouse. In addition, next to them stood an obliging passer-by, who also turned out to be an excellent photographer, and so delighted us with four digital masterpieces (could have easily been Vermeer originals): Very Pretty Pictures of mounds-of-stones-with-a-dude-in-a-chair-on-top.



And so our journey gained impressiveness by the step. Not just because of the dolmens, which after all are ancient burial mounds (and it may appear to be irreverent, all that fussing about with the armchair, but appearances are deceptive: it requires, after all, quite a measure of effort to achieve the effect), but also because of the folklore. You see, the road down which Ab now quickly ran into trouble because of the chair on his head, is the road to Zuidlaren. That bit of road is the subject of an ancient Dutch folksong, reason for Schelden, Weij and myself to cheerfully strike it up. Memorable moments.

And Zuidlaren, as opposed to Haren, does happen to be a gorgeous village. With majestic, colonially styled verandas, an ancient church, a cattle market (now probably closed due to foot and mouth) and... ...an excellent snackbar, La Veranda, run by very friendly staff, partly female to Prakke's delight. Here's where the usefulness of carrying an armchair around came to light: on arrival at the cafeteria's terrace with plastic bucket seats, you're carrying your own more comfortable seat with you. Very handy.

Having consumed loads of fine freshfried chips, croquettes, veggies and splashings of sauce, bingeful quantities of cold drinks, bowls of dubious but sufficiently hot soup, and ice and icecold Underberg (distasteful, but it does get you warm), we beat the pavement hard, towards dolmen number four (D9), located in the middle of a residential area in Annen, right next to a roundabout.

Strange interface between ancient history and the modern, but a saving haven for poor Ab, who had, down long though pretty country roads, now definitely been beaten by the armchair (he had even considered exchanging it for one of those bathtubs the cows drink from, but that would have constituted theft, so instead he tied the seating cushion to his backpack and hung the oaken frame around the rest of him). The armchair which, nonetheless, was proudly hoisted atop the dolmen, of course. And into which Schelden was then placed. And behold: yet another pretty picture of a mound-of-stones-with-a-dude-in-a-chair-on-top.



Fortunately for Ab the next stretch was a short one, and Peter Weij took over the seating cushion here, tying it to his backpack. This stretch, however, was long enough for some fun: Vandy amused himself, Ab and me thoroughly, by calling Schelden, who was walking a few hundred metres in front of him, on his mobile phone, every few seconds. Schelden couldn't see who was calling him, since Vandy's caller ID was switched off. And of course Vandy hung up every time Schelden answered his phone. Fun fun fun.

Through a pedestrian underpass that brought home memories of Nijmegen the road now led into the Kniphorstbosch, a bit of forest infested with regional tourists, where we soon found the next dolmen (D8). This, by the way, was a very pretty one. Picturesquely situated in this Drenter wood, the sort of thing you imagine when confronted with the term 'dolmen'. High time, therefore, for a pretty picture of a mound-of-stones-with-a-dude-in-a-chair-on-top. Taken, as usual, by a helpful passing family.

In the chair, this time over, was Weij. Justly so, since he was the one carrying its seating around after all. And who continued to do so for a while longer too. Our trek continued along the Strubben, a part of the forest used by the army as a live fire range, around which to this end metal holders are placed, in which red flags and/or lights can be put. To Vandy's sadness, they were empty today. The rest of us thought this was an excellent arrangement, all the more so since, in order to reach the next dolmen, we had to penetrate into this exact bit of forest, along a winding trail.

At the end of which was a dolmen (D7) like I picture them when confronted with the old Germanic description: in a forest of thin trees that nevertheless succeed in filtering much of the available light and cloaking it all in an unreal kind of greyish suggestion, which kind of automagically induces respect for death as an entity. Wodan, Freya, Donar, the whole shebang. Beautiful, and definitely reason for a pretty picture of a mound-of-stones-with-a-dude-in-a-chair-on-top. The dude being van Zijntergen, but if you think that Weij was in this picture all along, you are mistaken. He himself was the photographer and so I had to paste him in at a later stage, out of a second photograph, using the unsurpassed Photochop, since, at this holy site, there were no obliging passers-by.

Holy places were made to be treated with respect, and so the loud singing that I had begun on the road towards here, with Joe Jackson's 'Tango Atlantico', continued just as cheerfully, with the song about the Duck by Annie M.G. Schmidt that we sang before.

And a happy caravan we were. Weij still carrying the seating cushion, Johan bearing the brownred oaken frame, and me holding the bottom plate, through which the mother in law must once have sagged (since the son in law had diligently repaired it with two small planks). Plodding on, we now arrived in Anloo, at the place where, quite traditionally and about time too, since it hadn't happened yet, this time over, Great Leader Schelden got lost.

Even Panzerfuchs Weij's help went to no avail: we went down a hopelessly wrong way (not parallel to the provincial road to Anderen, but straight on, westward in the direction of Gasteren), onto an unpaved and therefore most uneven forest path, then to finally get back to the (wrong) road, only after following an equally unpaved and uneven stretch along a particularly polluted ditch, having to jump across this and exhaustingly work our way through freshly plowed furrows in the clay. Noteworthy, since we saw some real wild roes here (they stayed far from us but did offer an impressive sight, backlighted on the horizon in their fleeing spurt), but killing, since the going was very hard due to the unevenness.

Particularly Vandy was decisively beaten by this. Pissed off about this, he proceeded to use any stick-like bits of wood he could discern to beat the living crap out of all the rest of the wood he found along the way. Making manly attempts to uproot all traffic signs he ran into, he could no longer see the humour in papa Ab's joke, who, just before the Gagelveen mere, tried to roll a heavy borderstone from a corner of the road to its middle, by way of a start to building his very own dolmen.

It was therefore a good thing that the rest of us were still able to acknowledge the uncanny beauty of the piece of wood we ended up in, now that we had reclaimed the right road. This beauty was humongous, beyond doubt. The Terborgh Estate must simply be one of the prettiest parts of the Netherlands. Forest the way primordial forest was meant. Only downside: there's like a dolmen (D11) like in it. Well, like I said, when one's tired, one starts to complain, about dolmens.

Not so the accidental passers-by: they enthusiastically took our picture. And so presto: another pretty picture of a mound-of-stones-with-a-dude-in-a-chair-on-top. Who then had to be Vandy, logically.



He continued to beat the trees, although this ended when, out of a magnificent tunnel of overhanging trees, we emerged from the forest. But that wasn't a problem. Firstly, Vandy happily proceeded to beat the clay- and dirt-road (futile exercise, but the stick-like wooden shape in his claws was so large that it made for a splendiferous sight). Secondly, and more stunning yet, it was a fantastically pretty, golden afternoon sun that shed light on a breathtaking panorama: that of five (actually six, but we could only see that at a later stage) brightly coloured hot air balloons, sailing towards us through the sky high above. Vistas that burn themselves onto the retina.

And so even the especially gruelling crosscountry-with-ditchjump that followed, on compass, across freshly plowed furrows of thick, greasy clay could not dampen our spirits, all the more so since we also spotted a highly disturbed rabbitlike thing, launching itself towards a burrow most probably situated at least two fields further up.

And then we arrived at dolmen number eight (D12), on the Kampakkers of the Eexter Es, that thing from the first sentence of this report. Vandy by the way threw me into a laughing fit just before we reached it, by replying to Johan's estimate of the distance yet to be travelled by command of Schelden and Weij ("It can't be too far anymore, if they behave normally") with this statement on the Wandelsoc.: "Normal? NOR-mal? That's impossible here. Bullshit is what these guys are about". Yup, humourwise too, this journey by now was more than just a casual memory of the Deathmarch. Well anyhow, time therefore, for a pretty picture of a mound-of-stones-with-a-dude-in-a-chair-on-top. That uh... ...was me.

And because I'm so ugly that about wrapped it up. But all of us had also completely had it by now. And so Eext, the village this dolmen was next to, through which we had only been supposed to pass through, by the house of Prakke's acquaintance who lives here, on our way to Borger, became our goal for the day. You see, if you arrive at six, and you have to spend another hour acting out the game of car-retrieval and will then face several hours of driving back to the west of the country, you really do want to have the time to have a decent meal between the retrieval and the drive back, after such a wearysome day, yes?

Fortunately, we did not only have such time, but Eext also offered the per-fect place for it: the Ossenhoes Restaurant. Although its staff at first was somewhat ill at ease when the extreme right raided the place, by the time half of us left to hunt for the cars, our booze bill had run up to such heights and it had become so overly evident that this was a non-political walking party, that they not only loved us, but also waited on us outstandingly and supplied us with splen-did food.



It must be said: as, at the table, I presented Schelden with the framed, completely worn through crotch from my first pair of Wandelsoc.-uniformpants as a memory of the marching season of 2000, my first one after all and the one in which he had trained me to be an accomplished marcher, we could not have wished for a better ambiance.



The Ossenhoes is a great place, high class, in gorgeous rural surroundings, more than just nice to be in, not in the least because of its interior: it is the stable of an ancient farm, tastefully redone in the manner common to the area. It's a definite tip, go there! But not all at once, please. We, anyhow, will return there at least once more: for coffee at the start of the next leg of our journey. This we agreed on with the owners, Tjasso & Roelie Roossien, just before we proceeded to store the armchair with Prakke's acquaintance living in Eext. Of course it will have to come with us again next time: we still have some twelve dolmens to go.



To your health gentlemen, excellent walking there. Aken awaits.