| What are we doing?
August 25th, 2002  The Chinese have, I once heard, a brilliant curse for it. "May you live in interesting times." Not many things are certain in life. But that life is interesting, for members of the Wandelsoc., about that there can be no two ways. I know all about that. On Tuesday August 20th 2002 for instance, life was interesting, in a rocksolid ancient Chinese manner. "No problems", I thought, "I'm going down to the Four Days of the Yser all by my lonely self, so what could possibly go wrong?". Sound of a disapprovingly growling quizz-buzzer.
The weather was so bad, sporting festively flashing, lightning greatgodly wrath, that the entire system of our national privatised railroads spontaneously and oldfashionedly collapsed. And so I did not travel to The Hague Holland Spoor at 11.28 hrs. by train, as planned, but by bus to Leiden, via the narrow Zilk-route that I remembered from my rides with the newspaper-transporters, by the distributors, to the District Office of the Press Combination in Schalkwijk, sometime in the early nineties. The bus driver was obviously having a grand time at it and even made a well-intended but entirely useless circle around the western circular road and the Dompvloedslaan, trying to get us to Heemstede-Aerdenhout faster. I couldn't care less. I had all the time in the world, enjoyed the countryside of the Province of Zuid-Holland, and was pleasantly surprised when we arrived at Leiden Railway Station as early as 12:45. From there, the journey rapidly became more bizarre: the train from Leiden stranded at The Hague Laan van Nieuw Oost Indië; and so the way to Holland Spoor necessarily passed through The Hague Central Station - and included a tramride right through the centre of town! The local piloting the tram looked at my international trainticket in bewilderment ("What's that? I've never seen that before!"), but shrugged and allowed me to ride along, after I'd explained to him that the NS-conductor had really just assured me that my trainticket would be valid on the tram, because of this extraordinary occasion. Great. Two hours of waiting later a train bound for Brussels South/Midi finally arrived (the others had propably not even been allowed to leave Amsterdam) and the suffering was past. At high speed I raced through Flanders, via Kortrijk to Ypres. And again I noticed what, being a fervent fan of the NS rolling stock, do not want to know, but couldn't help but notice during the Death March too: that Belgian trains these days are more comfortable than the Dutch ones, and ride on time too. And it all got more efficient yet: because at Ypres railway station, where I therefore, on arrival there at 20:30, had feared I would have had to go through all sorts of troubles, I found a pleasantly surprised soldier, by his shuttle bus, waiting to take me and a fellow Belgian soldier-walker, aboard as the last ride of the day, and transport us to the home of the 98th Logistic Batallion: Kwartier 1ste WachtMeester Lemahieu. Where I was received with an extraordinarily professional smile by utterly competent staff. Apart, of course, from my arrivals at the MESA, it has never felt this much like a homecoming. I was quartered in no time and was then able to reunite with Gerda and Bianca from Noordwijkerhout, and, in the camp's canteen, with the verbose friendly Belgian Eddy, some ex-commandoes of the all-too-soon-departed WandelSwoc. and... ...Flip, of earlier Bavelaar fame! I can inform you, some pleasant Leffe passed through all that. Day 1 (Wednesday 21.08) Oostduinkerke - Diksmuide This did not bar me from rising fresh and cheerfully. But the cheer soon parted. Since the queue for breakfast was mindbogglingly long. And this wasn't even the fault of the hired external catering company (although lots of things were wrong with that, but I'll get to that later), but due to the canteen's layout: since there was only one coffee-dispenser, and it was placed, this was the problem, at the end of the line along which breakfast elements were handed out, in a spot where nobody could freely move around because the space between tables and buffet was 75 cm and it had to accommodate traffic in both directions, both sides carrying filled plates and mugs. This caused the queue to be so long, that Flip and I made the bus barely in time, there to be abused by a rightly angry officer of the Military Police, and were packed like sardines into one of the army buses without having had coffee at all. An elementary logistical fault. For a logistical batallion of the army, I think this is a major cockup. I can find no other words for it. Moreover, the 7th Mechanized of Marche proves to me yearly that things can be different. So. Do it differently! Nonetheless, both Flip (this was his first experience with the event) and I, despite being packed like sardines, enjoyed that bizarre busride, so unique to the two marches for which us walkers are so grateful to the Belgian army. Inextricable part of the best-hell-on-earth. Little compares to tearing around Belgium in a khaki bus convoy at 80 kilometres an hour, while at all crossings all traffic is halted for you by flashlighting MPs on motorcycles. If you weren't a king already, you feel like one then. An hour later, in Oostduinkerke, we fell from the bus gasping for air, at the parking lot in front of the Saint-Nicholas church, a building that is so bizarre mostly because, on its outer wall, they have crucified Christ himself, in handchiseled wooden form, more than three times lifesize. And I hadn't recuperated from that shock when, suddenly, there was this tugging at my coat's sleeve. Well. I should have known, since he'd once told me. Hadn't properly registered it. Awfully typical. Out of surprise, I could utter no more than "Oh. It's you again." - inwardly struggling with what went through me. Two of the things that compare to tearing around Belgium in a khaki bus convoy at 80 kilometres an hour, while at all crossings all traffic is halted for you by flashlighting MPs on motorcycles, are the faces of Steve Atkinson and Andy Briant in the early morning. 
The Marching Team of the Herts & Bucks Wing of the ATC has namely walked the Yser for years. I had really forgotten about it completely. And I completely lost sight of them immediately in the bustle of the card-stamping at the start, but this didn't matter, since at that point there are four days yet to follow. Because my knee had incurred a considerable blow during the landing after my third parachute jump, the weekend before, I then started at a very slow pace. And so, fighting off my tears of joy below my sunglasses, I strode down the Leopold II-avenue towards the sea - but stopped at the tearoom on its corner, for coffee, you see. Then we hung a right, over the beach boulevard of Oostduinkerke, to Nieuwpoort Bad, with its mixed architecture (typically Belgian, not a controlling body in sight, which then has both dis- and advantages: a medieval-looking church next to a step-gabled cafe, next to a grey block of flats: yup, that's when you're on holiday). Here, entirely inadvertently, I ditched Flip at a busy waterstop. Making a virtue of necessity I decided to then stamp on towards those two beautiful flags. Successfully. Just before Nieuwpoort I drew abreast of the ATC. Unique moment, because it was the only one in which I ever regretted walking around in a fully black attire - since my Soc.-uniform by now proudly sports the badge the Marching Team gave me at the last MESA. Also, they introduced me to a Dutch reservist they meet every year during the Yser (and whose name I have typically failed to remember yet - reason for a future reunion). Pleasant chap, and good conversations. Which went on for a while, since there was quite a bit of concrete yet to be trod down, through Nieuwpoort (where the Order of the Horse Fisherman hands out fish, but the queue was so long that we passed on it), via a lunch on the banks of the Yser ("Eh! You can't toss off here" "Yes you can, just so long as I don't notice") and a pontoon bridge across it (midget rememories of the Cuijkian), through Keiem (the Dead Horses Street) and along the empty dyke to Diksmuide. And I stamped down it at great speed, because this Yser was much like my first MESA in more than just the obvious ways- again I had not brought a sleeping bag and was therefore sleeping under my long coat, and again I had forgotten to bring plate, mug and cutlery. Saying that this was the MESA's fault, where this year it wasn't necessary to bring them along for the first time, is poppycock, of course - as long as the rules say they aren't provided, you can depend on absolutely nothing. And so I had to speedily locate the local Blokker in Diksmuide, just like I'd had to in Bastogne at the time. Which I managed to do, no thanks to the dumb chicks in the clothes shop, who directed me to a ghastly expensive interior design store, where the owner, thankfully, was a lot smarter and immediately understood that I was looking for a branch of that pleasantly orange coloured chain of stores. And so I could 'enjoy' my evening meal without further problems. The brackets are not there for nothing. I told you I would get back to talking about that catering service, didn't I? Well, I am therefore doing so now. Because the organization may claim, in its own brochure, to be very happy with this company, as opposed to the previous one, but I say it's ridiculous that, with half a chicken, mashed potatoes and applesauce, NO VEGETABLES are supplied, there is NO GRAVY and I have to conquer half an empire to procure SALT AND PEPPER. Hot damn. It's a good thing the vegetable soup did rock, since it was thick with veggies. Totally fed up with this dinner-bullshit, I fell into bed wretchedly, following a rather more nice telephone conversation with my love. Time for a new day. Day 2 (Thursday 22.08) Poperinge - Poperinge  Which didn't turn out much better, at first. When, at an ungodly hour, because I wasn't going to let yesterday's misery repeat itself, I found myself at breakfast, I was soon joined by a lady who recounted how a vegetarian companion of hers had, despite pleas thereto on her part, not been allowed to have more than 1 slice of cheese - and I myself was already irritated by the fact that I received only 1 slice of sausage, just as I had received a slice each of the much larger sausage, brawn and salami; what kind of ridiculousness is that? When meat comes in three different sizes, would you pretty FUCKING please make the amount you hand out of it match the rolls you also hand out, yes?!?! Which means that, to my mind, it would be normal to hand out 2 slices of brawn, 3 slices of salami or 4 slices of sausage, per roll, YES? Effin' morons.
 Thankfully, the queue was short. But this was not due to the meal-setup: it was only because today we started the march an hour closer and therefore an hour later too, from Poperinge namely. And so I had ample time to cool the can of cola that I'd received WARM (grmbl) on a fogfrosted barrierpole. After that, we were transported swiftly to the NMBS railway station, and we walked into the hop country around Poperinge. Oh, but that is beautiful! I had never known, but always felt, that such beauty lay behind that wonderful Belgian beer I have downed so much of already! I really mean that - the hop country around Poperinge, with the fullblooded stallions amongst the hopvines, is nothing short of strictly overwhelming. A symphony of green, lighter green, and the clear blue of the sky. For, it must be said, the weather was exceptionally good, on this second day.
And continued to be so, past the paras, who, in a field in front of the Saint Sixtus Abbey put down a feat of pure professionalism with their gorgeous state-drakkars, making their landings against the smoke trail and practicing millimeter-tight chute-folding. I take off my hat for a deep bow to that, being a trainee at the matter myself. Not to mention the fact that they jumped from one of those beautiful army helicopters, rotoring about between the clearly bluelit cumuli, at (I estimate, but I'm NOT good at that kind of estimate) some 12000 ft. I passed on a visit to the brewery of Saint Sixtus (but I will pay one in future, since the Westhook, since this march, has my solid promise, as pertaining to holiday time), and instead went on at great speed, via Proven to Watou, where I contentedly sat down on the terrace of one of those obviously family-run bars, in the burning sun, with Flip, and hit the Leffe Brun right next to the doctor-of-the-medical-troops, who arrived there with his two beautiful blond dogs. I may detest the keeping of that kind of animal in an urban environment, but a fine animal remains a fine animal. 
After that it all got better yet, because we walked via the Helleketelweg (Hell's Kitchen Road) by the Nine Elms British Cemetery - where the ATC, the banners visible in the corner proved, was paying tribute in proper fashion. Hat off, therefore and, whilst waving to a Belgian soldier I hadn't seen since the MESA, onward. There Larisa called me, and so the next bit, to Zwijnland, where Flip dug into some Belgian chips and we both hit the Leffe, passed quickly. Flip and I there concluded in unison that Belgian waiters, and Belgian people in general, are really much more relaxed in their thinking than us Dutchmen are, and we cracked some jokes with two Belgians.
 After that came a bit of hard stamping (during which Max phoned me, in order to be brought up to date on things), and our arrival in the marketplace of Poperinge - where, again, I inadvertently lost Flip while scouting for an unoccupied seat, and eventually found one myself in a corner next to a friendly Flemish grey-haired lady, who proceeded to interestedly quizz me about this and that, receiving appropriate answers. Following another conversation with Larisa (the mobile phone remains a wonderful thing) I headed back to the bus, and found Gerda and Bianca in front of it, seated at a sunscorched seat-o-rama by the parking lot's edge.
 It was here that Eddie left our camp. He had namely managed to arrange for quarters for himself in camp Poperinge after all, and preferred its bustling pleasantry to the boredom of Ypres. No problem, of course, to each his own. Having had a dinner that this time over WAS very good (ham, carrot, cabbage, salad, unpeeled potato, curry-, mayonaise and whisky-sauce, tomato soup) I fell over awfully early and exhausted this time, and had nothing whatsoever to drink, there in that canteen.
Day 3 (Friday 23.08) Diksmuide - Oostduinkerke  On the third day progress moved backwards. Not only was the coffee utterly thin (this Grandmother's Coffee may originally be pretty much okay, but if you add too much water it still is undrinkable rubbish), but also the track today led back, from where we had already arrived, to where we had already been.
 Counterbalancing this, of course, is that, at the end, you can then be much happier with the fact that you have gone through hell to do what you did. But that then means that, following the trek out of Diksmuide and across the Yser by the Yser tower, you have to engage this endless stretch of long straight dyke passing Avekapelle, on which, all the time, you can see people in the distance, walking past the places you will have to walk past yet too. Pretty frustrating. The distribution of Belgian praliné-chocolate (just after the Yser tower, centre of the Yser pilgrimage that immediately follows this four day march, and that has unjustly been hijacked by pan-European ultranationalists and is therefore notorious), the constant flyby of helis (a genuine Sea King among them), the paras and the freely distributed Campina yoghurtdrink did nothing to detract from this.
 But of whether or not this bit should be cut from the track next time over, I am therefore not sure. More fun, definitely, were the freeway overpass, where I reacquainted Gerda in the company of Sjors (a dubious Belgian doctor with a great sense of humor) and Tony (the kind of Flemish-speaking Italian that irresistably reminds one of the one from ''Allo 'Allo'), and the trek across and along the runway of military airbase Koksijde that followed it. After that came a sturdy bit of stamping through a villa estate in the dunes, with a stop halfway at the church of Our Good Lady In The Dunes - where we were cheerfully treated to fresh Tönissteiner fruitwater (not for the first time). And by the end of this bit we had finally reached the sea. Turning right onto the boulevard, I was suddenly set upon by the feeling of being back in Zandvoort, with Noordwijk behind me in that case, and felt the urgent need to call Schelden and inform him that I had now, finally, completely had it with this march, since I, after all, didn't come here to do a berloody practice march.
 But all of that is nonsense, of course. Since having trained for those circumstances is exactly what makes them nice. And so I utterly contentedly sat down on the first terrace-in-the-shade that I could find, looking out at the hot sand from below the grey concrete, Leffe in hand, and called my love. Great moment that. And it all became nicer yet, when a few hundred metres on, I was caught in the nets of the Order of the Horse Fisherman. Now I must first explain something about the Order of the Horse Fisherman. And I will cite two things to do so:
 There. Having thereby hopefully made it clear that the Order of the Horse Fisherman is a, so far, much more successful kind of Wandelsoc., that the Four Day March of the Yser on the one hand is a weaker copy of the MESA so far, that on the other hand it is an admirable initiative that began with a collective that is much more admirable than the 98 Bn Log, to whom I am nonetheless eternally grateful for the hospitality I enjoyed, I would say that what I said before again rings true: do it differently! The Four Day March of the Yser is a march that lies around waiting to become a world class event.
But now I am making too much of a fuss about it myself. Since the important thing at this stage of the march definitely was the Order's shrimp soup. It was freely distributed on the boulevard, by members of the Order in appropriate dress, and was of such ri-di-cu-lous quality that I went back twice for a refill. Go and experience it. I have no other words for it. And this was an impression that stuck during the finish-of-the-day, on the beerterrace of Four Day March Camp Oostduinkerke (why did Kwartier Lemahieu not have such an outdoor terrace, and could we only drink inside there?), in the burning sun. Having returned, by bus, to Ypres, there followed an evening meal that was VERY good this time (roast sausage, peas and carrots, potatoes, gravy, chicken soup) and a pleasant get-together with Flip, Gerda and Bianca, in the camp canteen. Day 4 (Saturday 24.08) Ypres - Ypres And the next morning, over breakfast, this upward curve within the catering effort continued its rise: breakfast was excellent (although there was, again, this lonely slice of sausage), since last night's left-over roast sausage was served up cold, to be placed in the pistolet, and today's coffee was black enough for the average taste (and therefore still too weak for mine, but in this I am an exceptional case, I realize all too well). This had to be counterbalanced by misery, of course. And so it was: right after breakfast a downpour set in which, considering the pan-European floodings of the days that went before, made me fear that I would find the Kwartier Lemahieu under water upon our return. But thankfully the rain died down to a drizzly trickle shortly after the start, which today took place right in front of 'our' canteen. It enveloped the entire area of the Battle of the Yser in a suitably grey mist. Suitable, since today was the day that the factual reason for this Four Day March, the remembrance of the ridiculous number of deaths during the Battle of the Yser, came to hit us the hardest. See, what I had expected was a kind of Verdun, where the cemetery that is the result of the infamous battle for Verdun is so large and the rows of silent white crosses are so endlessly long, that it gives one cold shivers. None of all that in the Yser valley. Instead of that there is a small cemetery, with its own monument, round about every hundred metres, and at every three- or four-fork there's a set of at least five green signs pointing to cemeteries like that. And so this realization, as the days of walking pass by, is a creeping one: this doesn't end. And this morning, as through this grey fog we passed by two small cemeteries just in front of Provincial Domain De Palingbeek (Eelbrook) and I took off my hat for the zillionth time, I finally began to comprehend what cannot be explained (but has been, in museum 'In Flanders fields' in Ypres, where I still haven't been to visit by now - another reason to definitely want to spend a future holiday in the Westhook). Quite apart from the fact that we are talking about horrifying matters here, it's a great thing by itself that that realization finally set in - and great remained the proper description for today, in multiple ways. Since it is all the more poignant to notice the natural beauty of the recreational areas of today, such as the Palingbeek, whith its cobblestoned paths along the quiet canal through the forest. Across the little bridge girded by butterbur (which therefore reminded me of the astounding mountain valley above Schloss Neuschwanstein) we turned right into the Nonnebos, where at 12 km a beautifully situated chalet-like restaurant (sporting a super-playground for the kids and real animalsTM) was a fine reason for Flip and myself to, albeit still in that drizzle, sit back behind a well-earned Westmalle Double.  By the Australian burial ground of Polygon Wood, through the Gasthuisbossen (where I was accosted by someone who, unbelievably, was looking for my reports on the MESA, having heard rumours about them from fellow walkers) Zonne- and Zillebeke we then, in much merrier mood, came to arrive at the edge of the incredibly beautiful Zillebeke Pond. Much merrier, because Zonnebeke (Sunbrook) honours its name: there the weather became dry, blueskied and sunny.
And so, with a broad grin, I paced past the Herts & Bucks Wing ATC Marching Team at a murderously rhythmical pace, and along this Pond to the finish in Ypres' youth stadium, where happiness and satisfaction dominated, in the burning sun. Wearing the butt-ugly, but impressively heavy medal that goes with this event, Gerda, Bianca, Tony, Sjors and I contentedly collapsed into the grass with all other marchers. After I had congratulated Flip, had assisted Steve in handing out the medals to his team ("Thank you. Now, would you get out of our photograph, please?") and having said our happy goodbyes to eachother, the parade across the Grote Markt of Ypres followed.  And this is where this march becomes unforgettable and a definite recommendation to anyone. Since in all other aspects the MESA, as far as I am concerned, wins out: the Four Day March of the Yser, except for the landscape, namely has all of its ingredients in a trimmed-down form. Even the fine shrimp soup of the Order of the Horse Fisherman does not alter that fact. But the Four Day March of the Yser has one thing that is absolutely unique to it, and that is this entry into Ypres.
 Cold shivers of grandeur wash over one as one, at the end of this march, is allowed to pass below that massive Menengate, in which the names of 102.000 missing (who could therefore not be buried elsewhere in the surrounding landscape) are chiseled out, applauded by the people of Ypres, who do so with full dedication, really mean it and put their hearts into it. This goes on for a while after that because, turning left onto the Grote Markt, walking down to the honorary grandstand just before the Lakenhallen, where the Belgian defence cadre and mayor and aldermen of this beautiful Ypres, arisen from its death, put in their well-meant bit (thank you VERY much, it was an honour to me!), this is the finish that the Schweizerischer Zweitagemarsch in Bern should have, and that the Four Day Marches in Nijmegen, because of their massiveness, can never have. Experience it, go see it, it is a definite recommendation.
 The sudden quiet, which drapes itself around one like a blanket after walking past the entry to 'In Flanders fields', in the porch below the Lakenhallen, at that point is not even unwelcome - it provides room for thought, and melancholy over an event that unfolds itself like a poppy and leaves an impression sweet as opium: for the walk itself I would not have to do it again, but to the Westhook I will return, because of the Four Day March of the Yser. And therewith, this march is not only succesful as a march, but also, more so even than the MESA, in its goal of remembrance, and it would be a crying shame if the rumour that the continued existence of this march is threatened because of a shortage of means, ever turned out to be true and would lead to its disappearance. Should that ever happen, I shall be all the more proud of having taken part in this year's edition. Flanders, thanks.
There followed some pleasant beerdrinking with Gerda and Bianca, a busride back to camp, some pleasant winedrinking with Gerda and Bianca, a busride back to Ypres railway station (during which the hero driving the bus told me about how he had just slept on a couch in the mess for four days and would only see his wife and child again tonight, after voluntarily driving at least 400 kilometres a day, in bussing the marchers around), a trainride to Brussels South/Midi in the company of a pleasantly conversing pacifist Brit (who had been to see the Passendale Peace Concert), and a pleasant trainride home, where I arrived at 00:30 - but those things all took place in the kind of daze that I have not had the pleasure to endure since the MESA of 2001. Great upshot, at the end of my first holiday in years. To your health, Chielie - excellent walking there. |