| What are we doing?
February 23rd, 2003 Across the Netherlands from Top to Toe: Coevorden-Ommen  This just had to become a wonderful day. Shortly after a wonderful Ribbon Shower, just before the coming of the new season, we had everything going for us, today. The weather was unprecedentedly brilliant, the chairgag had been completed, the old feuds had died down, old birds had risen from their ashes. And so it was, that today the largest group of participants set out on a stage of an official practice project ('Across the Netherlands from Top to Toe') of the Societas Ambulationis Academica.
 I was therefore, most oldfashionedly, collected from my home by Marco van Zijntergen, and in his Polo, with Rob van Driel and Jochem Prakke, we sped eastward. The traditional stop at Shell Hammerstein in Amstelveen behind us, at 10AM we stepped into the overwhelmingly tarty Bondshotel Talens, Sallandsestraat 51 in Coevorden, timidly, but full of fresh courage.
 Now I should explain this. For it is unbecoming to underrate Hotel Talens. See, in a one-horse town like Coevorden (we had already found out, last time, that anything pretty is demolished there, provided the demolition doesn't cost too much) style soon feels salutary. And style is what Hotel Talens definitely has. It is the kind of establishment that carries away the Wandelsoc.'s approval, and hopefully a matching shield some day, with flying colours. Ex-cel-lent, considerate service, a photograph of our royal-couple-before-the-halving behind the reception desk, and great cookies, with the coffee.
 But it's painted red entirely! With red carpet on the floor, golden yellow curtains therewith! Admit it, if you don't imagine you're in a Chinese restaurant then (which is hard, given the lack of matching smells and the tidy accent of the friendly and, for her age, extraordinarily well-preserved landlady), even the Hästens-shirt of bedsalesman Marco van Zijntergen (who after all tore up his Society-outfit with Jochem's buckknife in Bern last year, then dumped it in a wastebin of Zivilschutzanlage Moos, so had to wear a different uniform this time over) cannot undo the impression that you have entered a brothel. A very expensive brothel, true - a heartwarmingly wonderful brothel, even. 'Here one reads paper, and Kama'. That kind of thing.
 And also, there was a Harm here. He'd been recruited by Albert van Geyningen, after he'd told him he wanted to go and train for the coming edition of the Nijmegen Four Day Marches. Harm Swarts, an ex-KCT-er like Ab, flawlessly identified us as we stumbled in. "I think you're the ones I want", he said. To the astonishment of Prakke. "How did you know it was us?", he asked. "Your shoes gave you away", Harm answered contentedly. And so, his acclimatization was a fact within a minute and a half. Soon, we talked nineteen to the dozen about ribbons, parachuting and the Nijmegen Four Day Marches, as if we'd never done anything different.
 This only got worse, when Schelden, Neumann, Weij, de Gisser and van Geyningen arrived and the group of 10 was complete. The banter took great flight, and so time passed. This to our discontent. For walking is wat we don't like. And the longer you remain seated, the later you start marching, so the later you finish doing so. Yes yes. Leap, before you look. It is a wise lesson, that may move mountains.
 Sprightlier than the last time we met, if only because of the tinnily golden sunsplash, we nevertheless advanced towards the executioner's monument, of the old mustachioed sabrebutcher, General J.B. van Heutsz. There, the group portrait succeeded this time, so that we could do an about-turn, to continue on our way.
 Which then led through country strongly reminiscent of Flanders-west, around that place-with-the-walkingpest: the generally detested, breathlessly feared Bornem. But besides memories thereof, and of Diksmuide-below-the-Ysertower, this country mainly brought astonishment, over the beautiful linguistic manifestations. I could, for instance, photograph Rob in front of a sign reading 'Melkkade' (milkquay), behind which, stuck against a façade, the word 'GORTWORST' (groats sausage) shone.
 Things like those make me wildly contented, being a neologistic poet. And things got better swiftly. We could place the nincompoop in his red Postal Services-jacket below a richly red-white collection of logoes, with 'Hommo Koster, Professional' below it. The fact that, half a kilometre later, we came by another sign of the same, peeling away, for old age and misery, from the front of an old shed, did nothing to detriment the fun about this, although it did make a much less professional impression, that's for sure (so Hommo, this is a tip). But it remains a baffling matter that Coevorden, which must, at some time in the past, have been crowded with the kind of gorgeous patricians' mansions that now scantily remain, has been so intentionally uglified in the meantime. Thankfully, Coevoerden comes to its end, at the head of Coevorden Channel.
 And there too, is space, for beautiful images. And for diversion. For here, for the second time during 'Across the Netherlands from Top to Toe', the thing van der Schelden MA abhors so much occurred: an unexpected object, not indicated on his topographic map. In this godforsaken, whitesanded case a very recently constructed, virginal industrial harbour. Upon which lay a beautiful layer of ice, to the great joy of Albert, who proceeded, backpack and all, to try and persuade Schelden to attempt crossing it. This did not happen, but that then delivered us great shots, of silhouetted figures on, and along, a concrete border, and a Floydesque picture of de Gisser, with trendy blue sunglasses in front of a vast void with a plant in the back.
 Yes, eyecatching through industrial ugliness, that is what the road from Coevorden to Gramsbergen is. Even the endless stretch of pounding along the Coevorden Channel, which now followed and filled us with vivacious cheer, actually only did so because the weather was so divine. If you hadn't, continuously, seen the ice of a solidly frozen canal on your right hand, you could easily have believed it to be summer. Because we were not only warm from walking, but there was also a fierce, scorching sun. And the freshness of the air, brought on by showers of whose presence it was the only remnant, brought the smell of spring, and therefore hope, for new life.
 That's what the natives must have thought. Since as if there's no overpopulation, and the larger part of my circle of friends is completely right, here too the small fry is thrown up passionately. Judging by an enormous inflatable stork not belonging, for a short while, to Schuitema's C1000 supermarket chain, which was erected next to the Haandrik lock, at the place where we crossed the Coevorden channel. This nasty image in the back of our minds, we moved onward on the far side, towards the Overijsselse Vecht. That river waited some to appear - but as de Gisser and I increased our speed in order to catch up with the rest of the twosomes ahead of us (we would only succeed in this by the time we reached Gramsbergen), we did contentedly pass Overijssel's provincial border.
 The catching up was necessary by now, by the by. For as surprisingly versatile as de Gisser may be, things are bound to become boring. De Gisser in front of the plant, de Gisser by the Coevorden channel, de Gisser at Overijssel's provincial border: high time for another ugly mutt, in the photographs. But that wasn't easy, and this wasn't even just to blame on the halts made to take pictures (although that always is the disadvantage, for camerabearers, in the sporting we do).
 No, people were also marching at an ultrabrisk pace. Which appeared to be surprising. For, besides the few who had, for a long time, succesfully evaded marching ground (although Marco van Zijntergen had only missed 1 stage of 'Across the Netherlands from Top to Toe', but this was more due to the holes in our planning than to his own obstinacy), and relative newcomers like Neumann and de Gisser, we really were accompanied by that Harm. But that Harm was cheating. See, he feigned "Mwoah, mwoah"-modesty as if he was totally untrained and looking forward to the Four Day Marches full of dread, but in reality he'd been through the kind of marches that my highly valued neighbour likes the most: those real ones, high above the tree line, flagstone under one's winterprofile.
So, as a certified marching maniac, he trod us right into senility. Mind you, this quite befits us idiots. And it came in handy, moreover. Because although here, past inconspicuous Gramsbergen by now, the landscape did swiftly become prettier, it actually remained to be awful for some time yet, and in Westflemish proportion after all: ìf it rains here, you áre well and truly fucked. So Schelden's now fully rampant silliness did offer some entertainment, at least.  And that he, being honestly happy with finding a sign that quite entirely did not carry his name (because it pointed to 'Den Velde'), went into a religiously unsound bout of singing, led to scenes that I shall spare you. The thoroughbreds, standing in adjacent fields by the hamlet of Loozen (who were treated discourteously by Jochem too) gave milk gone sour for a long time to come, I assure you. But I must admit van Driel is right: there is, in the straightness of the canals, possibly once sailed by Enter zomps, a certain beauty, true.
 And so this was reason for gorgeous backlight in endless vistas, and animated conversation, as we made for the edge of Hardenberg at great speed. Had we first been lost in endless fields, here the plague that haunts us made its reentrance: sportcyclists, whizzing by colourfully, but rashly, and right through you if you don't pay attention. The sportcyclist is the marcher's biggest natural enemy. Convinced the road belongs to him, he will sail across the corner unannouncedly arrogantly, at murderous speeds, death-defiantly - but not his death, no, but yours. And so we always benignly greet this sportcyclist, then to hiss "Stake in yo spokes, ya cyclesod!" after him.
 No, 'tis that pleurisy ping, of that prudish little bell, that we hate so deeply. Then again, it's utterly satisfying to see one of those sportcyclists almost cannon as, along the railway track just before the city limits of Hardenberg, he was unpleasantly surprised by two rollerskating little girls, unexpectedly emerging onto his side of the road, from our midst. He had the nerve to get angry too, with these children. Highly inappropriate, since they were as innocent as children ought to be. And brave too, because they'd skated all the way from Gramsbergen to here. No, it's a good thing he narrowly missed them - for we would have murdered the bugger if he had not.
 We were, however, in great spirits. Said Harm, asked thereafter: "I'm AOK. The going's a bit slow, up ahead of me, but otherwise I'm having a great time.". And so I thought he was joking. Well, I would find out the hard way, on the road to Ommen, later on. But now, first, there was Hardenberg, this after some more suburbia. In this, we were harassed, intensely, by yellow M. See, the much beloved beefbreadbaker, from across the water, had strategically outfitted Hardenberg with utterly relevant advertising: "Chicken McBacon, €2". And we saw this ad at least five times, before we reached the centre of town. While, of course, that yellow M was nowhere to be seen. I tell you, this leads swiftly, to hunger.
But this we could now satisfy, to our heart's content. For the Pierewaaier is a fine establishment, worthy of a Wandelsoc.-appreciationshield. It's not just beautifully situated, with a terrace in a bend of the Overijsselse Vecht, where rowers slide by in manly fashion, service is, besides ut-ter-ly thoughtful and very fast, pleasantly titted too. So the fact that the food, which was equally well-handled (I festively gobbled my way through a delicious 'Lunch Pierewaaier' as Albert van Geyningen slyly took care of Jochem Prakke's unguarded pilsener, an action for which 3L and I were subsequently blamed), took some time to arrive, we do not blame on the staff, but on the size of our own lunchtime appetite and thirst, which was somewhat unexpected, for them. 
This terrace, by the way, had a lot more on offer. There was, for instance, a highly surprised dog, that only slowly began to comprehend what was happening to him. Thankfully, he was lovingly protected, by a copy of Max' Carla, with whom we got along well. And also, Harm made pleasant conversation, with the owners of another dog just like one he used to have himself, a long time ago. 
Not to mention the Cavalier King Charles Spaniel that appeared, and was immediately set upon (that's what happens, when Schelden knows that yours is the same breed as that of the late Fortuyn's dogs). All the better, that Schelden did not know what de Gisser did know. He dropped his first beer out of shock, but the Wandelsoc. herewith vehemently denies having spent the time on the terrace of the Pierewaaier in the company of Bløf-vocalist Paskal Jacobsen, Edwin Evers, and 27 other nationally famous deejays (i.e. van den Akker, Beelen, Boer, Curry en Van Inkel, van Diepen, DuVall, van der Goes, Gofers, de Heer, Hoogland, van Iersel, Jensen, Kater, Kicken, Kolkman, Nieuwehuize, Ouwehand, Paf, Staverman, Stenders, Timmermans, Veenstra, van Velthuysen, Westbroek, de Wild and de Zwart).  Schelden did, however, flawlessly locate the desirable new employer (after all, the move from Laurus to Colruyt can hardly be a good one, now can it?) for Bert van Prijzen (whom we missed dearly, but who, it appeared, was walking today after all, namely the wintertrek of his yearclub 'De'Corps'M', pronounce "decorum", of which Ted Snodendroom is a member too): the Albert Heijn supermarket in Prijzen, pretentiously present on a Hardenberg parking lot with an automobile.
This, though, was the end of locatability, because what I had predicted during the Ribbon Shower now finally happened: there came an end, to the accuracy of our march leader, that had astounded us so during all stages of 'Across the Netherlands from Top to Toe' in the bygone season. 
Hopelessly lost in a shabby growth of branches, we suddenly found ourselves next to a goofy pond in a private rear garden and, in order to escape it and reach the through road again, had to plow through horsefilled pastures, and clamber over electrified fencing. This, today, would not be the last moment of confusion. In fact, another one arose pretty quickly, whilst looking for a sandtrail leading, to forest De Koehaar. 
But once in De Koehaar all suffering was past. What beautiful marching country. From there to deep inside Hardenberg Forestry, by fens lit with gold by the sun, covered by layers of ice sparkling in white, between golden helm and heather, over paths leading through meticulously maintained mixed forest, past sandddunes and through fields: one would almost start appreciating the Pieterpad.  This, of course, we didn't. That is, I didn't, in any case. For quite apart from our aversion towards the Pieterpad, and just like it was during the last stage, shortly after the lunchbreak, I needed to have an incredible crap. And, different than last time, I could not control that urge until we got to the next rest. Which would have been impossible anyway, since it was way too far off. So I took a roll of toilet paper out into the forest, and it was quite a while before I could join the team again. That, then again, did get us some wonderful shots of the group ahead of me, which, by the by, horridly lost its way once more in the meantime and had to go straight through the woods in order to get to a life-threateningly dangerous motorway (the N36), which had to be crossed, however.
 It appears that Schelden, during an attack of hypoglycaemia, virtually threw up a considerable amount of blood over that, but I missed this, sadly so. He appeared to have blamed Prakke for his own failing. This makes me nod in agreement. Always comes in handy, blaming Prakke for things. See, he doesn't give a flying fuck. Our feet, meanwhile, milled on imperturbably, through Hardenberg Forestry, from the picturesque to the beautific. Take, for instance, that fairy-like little famhouse by the three-forked road, sundial in its garden. That the inhabitant present tried to land us with brochures of that cursed P-path, did nothing to diminish the fact that she lives very nicely, there. Or actually, very un-nicely, where us lesser mortals are concerned.
 Mind you, I should actually say that it wouldn't even have had to be due to the landscape anymore. Admittedly, it was strictly breathtaking here and, once in the woods again, well-kept too (probably by scouts-hunting-for-the-forester's-badge-yours-truly-once-gained-too, who are always omnipresent, this close to Ommen) - but it especially was the fan-tas-ti-cal-ly beautiful sunset which bathed everyting in a redgolden glow that was so pretty, that little could have disturbed this experience. New, and unsuspected depths, within the word 'luscious'.
 No, even the nastiness, which on this relatively short, but speedily marched distance, now unavoidably entered our pestered frames, had little influence. Through Bornemite lanes, doggedly striding onward, we edged inexorably closer to Ommens city boundaries, where we found a satisfied, but wasted Schelden, who showed us the way, to the cafe.
The cafe was called 'Flater' (blunder), and honoured its name. No, definitely not a good review, for this. The staff, admittedly, was attentive and correct enough, and willing to take our group portrait at the end too, and the patronage was good, from the two lady walkers who, at the start of the evening, were at our table, there to immediately be Prakke-d, via the blonde-at-the-bar who was mistaken for the infamous sollicitor for Volkert van der G. (the guy who shot Pim Fortuyn) by Schelden and Weij, to the very friendly male company surrounding her - but the food was, although of reasonable quality, definitely unprovokedly parsimonious for its price, and the assortment of available beverages left a heckload to be desired. No, in cafe Flater you can have a nice enough time, but you'll leave in bad spirits. 
Not in the least because Schelden, aware by now that he would not be able to extend his infamous piss-up prolongation into Haarlem, for lack of car-room, decided to then drink himself into oblivion right there and then - at the unexpected expense of all of us. For when the time for settling accounts came around, the spontaneously cash-controlling Neumann suddenly missed some €11. Guess where they had gone? Right. Down the throat of the only person who, after looking over the long tab, dared to incorporate the word 'about' into the declaration of the amount owed by him. 
Arseholic misbehaviour, which thankfully was immediately and harshly dealt with by Peter Weij, who gave Schelden a lecture not to be misunderstood, out in the parking lot. Which, by the way, probably won't stick, for by the time he did, Mister Marchleader was pissed out of his mind. That aside, it was an instructive moment, not in the least for Dracula van Zijntergen, who was listening intently, after all plagued by history, as pertaining to Schelden's intrinsic bastardity. 
It is obvious, therefore: this was a marching day as of old, from the boastful start to the embrace on the finish line. Nos iungat querulantia. To your health gentlemen, excellent walking there. Aken awaits. |