What are we doing? April 21st, 2002 Across the Netherlands from Top to Toe: Eext-Odoorn Theoretically, it is possible that Tjasso and Roelie Roossien rose even earlier than we did. This would be quite a feat. For on this day of the fourth and, for this season, last leg of Across The Netherlands From Top To Toe, we found ourselves in the car quite early, on the way to Groningen. Groningen? Yes, Groningen. Schelden might previously have arranged that we would pick up Mattie Finkelstein (jewish beauty we ran into two stages back and who had indicated she wished to take part in the event today) at Assen railway station, but I had, during deliberations via telephone with her, decided to change it to Groningen. This was more convenient for her, since she was at her parents' house in Leeuwarden. And I'd already thought "Seeing is believing". Because although Mattie had proved most assertive upon first encounter, fact remains that the Wandelsoc. has had, to put it mildly, utterly disappointing experiences with women-who-claim-they-will-march-along: they hardly ever do, barring short practice walks towards Noordwijk, and gallant exceptions-confirming-the-rule like Smit & Smith. So I should have known. Just past the point where Marco could still have steered his Polo towards Assen, I received an SMS: 'Weak announcement: I'm cancelling the appointment'. Followed by something about a disagreement within the parental residence and, mostly, a fatigued physique. Why am I so seldomly surprised? Anyway. Following a therefore useless detour, upon arrival in a sunsplashed, fairy-likishly silent Eext-in-the-early-morning, not only did it turn out that we were the first ones there, but also that the plume of smoke emanating from the chimney atop the thatched roof of the Ossenhoes Restaurant beckoned invitingly. And the coffee was ready and of premium quality. So we contentedly waited, in the pleasant company of Tjasso and Roelie, with whom it was a nice reunion, for the arrival of the others. They arrived shortly. And so Van Zijntergen, van Dijk, Prakke, van Prijzen, van Geyningen, van Geyningen, van der Schelden and van Reenen (Weij, to Vandy van H.'s great joy, was unable to attend on account of PanzerFuchsing) set off towards the chair. Which, of course, was still there. Elaborately thanking Prakke's acquaintance for this, we then moved southwards, the oaken easy chair resting upon my very own head. This because I had planned on doing so: I felt my role in this effort had, during the last leg, been somewhat smallish and I also longed for some useful burning off of calories. Doing Drenthe-with-a-chair-on-yo-head turns out to be a great way of doing just that. As unhappy as I was with the fact that, when carrying the thing on your head, you cannot look left or right and lose a considerable part of your hearing on both those sides and to the back of you as well, just so happy I was with the effort I was forced to make. One needs to watch out for one's neck, but other than that it's a fine thing. Onwards therefore, towards the first dolmen of the day (D13), on the edge of Eext. Bizarre thing. Not because it was more intact than all dolmens we had found so far, and was therefore dug in (strange picture of a dug-in-mound-of-stones-with-a-dude-in-a-chair-on-top), but because the jokers inhabiting the farm right next to it had built at least three mini dolmens in their garden, out of smaller boulders. Kitsch par excellence. Both the being dug in of the real one, as well as the fake ones were cause for great confusion within Schelden. "These aren't real, they're made by humans." "Schelden, they're all and always made by humans." "Oh do shut up, you know exactly what I mean." Fortunately, the situation at the next dolmen (D14, at Eexterhalte), just outside Eext, which Marco, Jochem and I had spotted before on motoring into the village, was a lot less ambiguous: only one dolmen, a large one at that. Reason for a pretty picture, of a-mound-of-stones-with-a-dude-in-a-chair-on-top. Not that this put Schelden to rest. He now started to nag about the climbing lion, which on this sunny day graced my right shoulder for the first time. "You can't wear that, you've never been in the services and it's a symbol of the armed forces." "Schelden, I'm not wearing this because it's a symbol of the armed forces, I'm wearing it because it represents the Netherlands and the bond with the House of Orange. I prefer this above the neo-connotations a Dutch flag could possibly invoke, but I do want to have such a symbol for international marches, in order to be identifiable amongst other nationalities." "Yes, but this is a uniform, and so it is not allowed." "Oh do fuck off! This is a carnival suit of a questionable walking club, and I can wear on it whatever I want, you moron!" Whereupon Schelden (temporarily) threw his detailed map into the dust and angrily desisted from leading the party. To the great amusement, naturally, of van Prijzen. And of myself. This amusement rapidly grew when Schelden, while walking along a cycle path through a nicely laid out plot of forest dating back to the previous century, educated Vandy about the how and why of Venereal Diseases. I shall spare you what went before, but just as he concluded his explanation, an immortal moment came to pass, because at that instance an oncoming married couple passed on bicycles. Schelden, cheerfully, his hand raised in a greeting to that couple: "So, that's what Venereal Diseases are all about - Goodmorning Peo-ple!" Van Prijzen and I, we were plagued by belly ache, for laughter. Van Prijzen was very happy anyway, today. He now namely trod through the area in which he had picked up his wife Hilda at the time, and now reached the high point of those days: the Minister Kan-bench, situated next to the pingo ruin, also called 'glacier hollow'. Romantic spot and also the one where Bert most probably engaged in sordid acts with the Hilda. Nah pri-ma. A pingo ruin, by the by, is a kind of soap bubble formed at the end of an ice age, by ice left behind, which then melts and, in doing so, ensures that, because of its arc, the earth it has displaced slides down to the edge of the bubble. Because of this, when the ice has melted, a circular depression is created, with a small circular centre where the last ice evaporates. A hollow like this often fills up with water at a later stage and then becomes a mere, but in this case lies exposed within the forest with, on its edge, not just trees, but also this stone bench. Bert reproduced the above in a fine lecture, which nonetheless was properly disturbed by yours truly, using a folded paper aeroplane labeled 'Oaf!'. So, this tuition completed, I again cheerfully hoisted the chair onto my head and we marched on towards Drouwen. A beautiful bit of walking, it must be said, but the chair did begin to bother me, here. All the more so since the last bit but one, coming out of gorgeous forest, led us along an uneven, unpaved borderstrip, branches overhanging, which gave way to a long and boring, thin and straight asphalt road. I thought I was going insane. And the others thought I was insane. All the more so since, having crossed the road at Drouwen and, to Bert's befitting applause, having made the chair flop down next to the first (D19) of two dolmens there, I turned out to have the fire-engine-red-head-that-belongs-just-before-the-heart-attack. I survived nonetheless, as proven. As I had better, or I would have missed something remarkable that now came to pass. As we were setting up camp atop that first dolmen, an odd man with a monstrously long tripod, two cameras and 1 woman strolled onto the pitch. And this turned out to be the very same photographer who had produced the two masterful group portraits of the Wandelsoc. around the dolmens just before Zuid-Laren during the previous stage! A pleasant reunion, made even better by his informing us of his plans to publish a book about the bloody things soon. And it got better yet when he matched his previous feat by taking our pictures of mounds-of-stones-with-a-dude-in-a-chair-on-top at these Drouwener dolmens too. To the despair of Jochem Prakke, who would have preferred for us to set fire to the chair here, leaving its charred remains behind, was instead summoned by me to do his part, thus carry a part of the chair and, logically, flatly refused to do so. Having bid our cordial farewells, and carrying a chair split up into three parts, we then arrived in Bronneger, at the most touristy dolmen assembly our country apparently sports. One of them (D21) was in a field just before the others, directly behind that one three of them stood close together with a, most probably not coincidentally present, kind of horsetram (but electric, without a horse), and loads of families-on-outing on top of and around them. Dreadful, moreover two of those dolmens (D23 and D24) were so small they apparently were pet graves. Or at least, that's what I thought. Not so Schelden. He reckoned they were fake. "They've been made by humans, one can easily discern that." In any case, to offset those day trippers unhappy with our presence, because it meant they temporarily had to step down from their dolmen (D25), there thankfully also were excursionists happy to take pretty pictures of mounds-of-stones-with-a-dude-in-a-chair-on-top for us (to the despair of Jochem Prakke, who would have preferred for us to set fire to the chair here, leaving its charred remains behind). And also, we ran into friend Yoram here. Friend Yoram was a local, aged under sixteen, on rollerblades, who proceeded to see it has his jolly duty to escort us as a guide. Silly situation, particularly since, because of the blades on his feet, he sometimes had to detour quite a bit when we, lifting the parts of the chair high into the air, plodded along unpaved loose sandtrails. But, friendly, it must be said. Some stamping further, and after a good conversation with a married couple we overtook, that was training itself for a long holiday walk in these parts yet to follow, we arrived at the edge of Borger, and at the largest dolmen (D27) in our country. It not only is by way of surface area, but also in height, and so this became a comical climb, during which I even temporarily lost my batons. The richer for a pretty picture of a-mound-of-stones-with-a-dude-in-a-chair-on-top (to the despair of Jochem Prakke, who would have preferred for us to set fire to the chair here, leaving its charred remains behind) we rounded the dolmen infocentre and, in mad procession with the chair components, walked into Borger. There, at Snackbar 't Hunebed ('The Dolmen'), sweet Larisa was present, having waited for us there for hours already. For hours? For hours. You see, the idea to, instead of setting of together with us and then call it a day halfway, only join us later on in the journey, then to finish it with us, was a good one of course - but Schelden's estimate that, at the previous phonecall, it would take 1 hour and 10 minutes for us to reach her, was about two hours off. And so Schelden was constantly reminded of that for the remainder of the day. "1 hour and 10 minutes eh?!!!" Snackbar The Dolmen is not a succes, by the way. The provisions are reasonable (Bert's sandwich was impressively hefty in particular), that's not the point. But when I asked the young man waiting on us to split the tab into separate dockets for each person (mindful of our usual gigantic orders), he did so, but also proceeded to process each order separately, preparation and delivery included. Moronic Drent! And so we were there for a long time, waiting for our food and drink, staring hollow eyed at those who went before us and, eyes peeling, at those who followed us in gorging. To top it all off, the place is, as said, called 'The Dolmen', but its menu sports a picture of a stag - not of a dolmen. Totally missed promo opportunity. Prize for foolishness. And oh yes, friend Yoram made a nasty fall here, whilst rollerblading across stone steps out of pure boredom. Well anyway, one orange juice (for the vitamins), one coffee (for the caffeine), a Four Roses (for the alco-kick), a half pint of lager (for the good taste), a toasted ham and cheese sandwich 'Dolmen' (which again had nothing to do with its name, but had been ordered out of interest into it - cheap and nasty trick to sell a toasted dry slice of bread with ham, cheese and ancient ketchupn), something with a lot of fries (for the carbohydrates) and an Underberg (for the beleaguered stomach lining) further, I did feel a lot better and, after saying our goodbyes to friend Yoram, we set off again, this time with Larisa. Towards two dolmens (D28 and D29) in a somewhat forlorn plot along the N374 in the Buinerveld, where we explained to Larisa the trick behind of photoshopping two pictures of a-mound-of-stones-with-a-dude-in-a-chair-on-top into 1 picture of a-mound-of-stones-with-a-dude-in-a-chair-on-top and so took four pretty pictures of mounds-of-stones-with-a-dude-in-a-chair-on-top. To the despair of Jochem Prakke, who would have preferred for us to set fire to the chair here, leaving its charred remains behind. None of that, onward with its parts. Thankfully, we didn't have to walk along the provincial road for too long, since it didn't offer a reason for happiness about the scenery but, to my unspeakable joy, entered the good old Dutch heath for the first time during Across The Netherlands From Top To Toe. Prettier walking territory is almost unthinkable, all the more so when you drop down into a proper pingo ruin almost straight away. This last fact was, of course, reason for a repeat of Bert's earlier discourse on the matter, for the benefit of Miss Larisa. A little further on, where this beautiful Exloo heath is by then called Exloo Forestry, we encountered the next dolmen (D30) and obliging passers-by, who just like us weren't inhabitants of the region (Schelden: "Hullo, we are westerners"; Passers-by: "So are we"), took a fine picture of a-mound-of-stones-with-a-dude-in-a-chair-on-top (to the despair of Jochem Prakke, who would have preferred for us to set fire to the chair here, leaving its charred remains behind). Satisfied with this result we took a short rest, here in Exloo, then proceeded to locate a nearly untraceable dolmen (D31), wickedly hidden in the Hunzebos. Reason for a pretty picture of a-mound-of-stones-with-a-dude-in-a-chair-on-top (to the despair of Jochem Prakke, who would have preferred for us to set fire to the chair here, leaving its charred remains behind). None of that, onward with its parts. And into the gorgeous heath of the Odoorner Zand. Busy scribbling on the notepad-with-prettiest-spots-in-the-Netherlands, for this is most certainly one of them. Bert van Prijzen went apeshit when he set eyes on real live juniper bushes growing in the wild (juniper berries are hardly ever used in gin these days, only in two remaining variants, all the rest is plain alchohol with water, Jochem Prakke taught me at a later stage, but wild juniper bushes are veeerrryyy rare, so that explains), reason for a pretty picture of a-bunch-of-bushes-with-a-dude-in-front. The gorgeous heath became more gorgeous yet, by the by, because we were passed by an oncoming voluptuous blonde here (and her guy, looking aptly empty and satisfied whilst walking by us). Ah, that perfume. Ab, to me: "Chiel, but you smell good all of a sudden man". Me, to Ab: "Here's predicting that'll last about twenty metres". By the municipal border of Odoorn we then found the last dolmen (D32) of today. To the great joy of Jochem Prakke, who would have preferred for us to set fire to the chair here, leaving its charred remains behind. We did no such thing but, after taking a pretty picture of a-mound-of-stones-with-a-dude-in-a-chair-on-top and an Oldfashionedly Lively Debate on the matter we did leave the chair behind, atop this Drenthon mound of stones. Since I am partial to finishing jokes started, I am going to have a fit if, during the next stage, we run into even a single dolmen whilst not having that chair with us. It was not to mar the atmosphere. This was excellent, over beers and meal in the Oringer Marke. This is a catering factory, obviously accustomed to better days, particularly during summer, with hordes of eager tourists. But it is a catering factory with standing (Barcelona FC once stayed there during the days Koeman still played for them, the photographs on the wall told us). Despite the fact you are a piece of meat on a conveyor belt, the sense you have of that is expertly repressed by the excellently trained staff (we have, so far, only had it better in the Hotels of Orange in Noordwijk). Snackbar The Dolmen would do well to learn from this. Which we therefore elaborately explained to the blond Valkyrie, waiting on us on the sunsplashed terrace (where you can ring the blonde, using a small bellknob on the outer wall!), beer in hand, before we, having said goodbye to the van Geyningens, filed inside, there to finish te evening with the celebration of the Diës Natalis: the Wandelsoc. is now two years old, a moment that had hitherto passed by unnoticed, but now was reason for juicy reminiscence. And reason for a foodfest-with-fishtrio. Fishtrio? Fishtrio. Jochem Prakke, wicked and miscreant, had conspired with aforementioned well-trained personnel to, bowing to kitchen efficiency, offer us two choices of uniform dish: fishtrio and tournedos. Don't ever do that again, Prakke. It's not that they weren't good, but I like to decide for myself what to eat, daftweed, so I desire a menu. Which I eventually did get, just to make the point, but, out of courtesy, did not use. A fine fishtrio it was, then. Beats me what the hell it is those fish see in eachother, but there you go. After dinner van Prijzen took his leave, to hurry back to Hilda. One dark picture further, of a-restaurantsign-with-five-dudes-and-a-dame-in-front, obligingly taken by the well-trained personnel, we then finally departed for Haarlem. To your health gentlemen, excellent walking there. Aken awaits, but now, first, Bern.