| What are we doing?
April 21st, 2003 Across the Netherlands from Top to Toe: Rijssen-Eibergen  One should not plan events like this on unexpected dates. It can, of course, only go wrong and lead to ill-fated scenarioes. Man, after all, is a creature of habit. And so even Marco van Zijntergen is, and so he was much surprised when he began to realize, on Saturday, that the next leg of 'Across the Netherlands from Top to Toe' (much appreciated practice project of the Wandelsoc.) would not, as usual, be marched on a Sunday, but on the Monday known as Easter Monday. This was his very own fault: for van der Schelden MA had, habitually, properly informed everyone beforehand, by mail, about the what, how, why and, in this case particularly, when.
 But so Marco had made other commitments. And because Jochem Prakke was absent too, because of Easter celebrations with his former college-mates (I've always felt that Prakke has trouble distinguishing the important things, in life), I myself did not have motorized transport to the departure point of today's endeavour, which was Rijssen.
 Not to worry (we have confronted greater problems before): a short telephone conversation with our marchleader later I found myself, on Sunday night, on board a train to Utrecht, where I spent the night at the van Eechoudlaan, there to awaske in the early hours of Easter Monday. Once back at Utrecht Central, Schelden and I there contentedly discovered the new trick of the NS-kiosks: a breakfast-package costing €4-something, with a sandwich-of-choice, orange juice, (small) coffee, (mini)Mars® and bottle of Spa® (blue). Exchanging some stupid banter we finished two of those on the platform where the train to Deventer stood waiting for us. Next to that train, to Schelden's mirth, stood one of 'his' security agents, Femmy Tompoh, who had just finished a night shift and had to catch the same train, to Amersfoort.
 Some good conversation and a trip across the IJssel river onward, we caught the slow train to Rijssen. We arrived there at what was still an ungodly hour, but nevertheless found, calmly waiting for us, the group consisting of Raymond de Gisser, with Albert van Geyningen and his new recruits: Geert de Meijer, his son Mathieu, Thomas van Campen, and Jan Middelkoop.
 As I fruitlessly called my aunt Corrie (she and my uncle Willem live in Enter, close to Rijssen, so I had mailed uncle Willem shortly after the previous stage to ask whether it could be arranged for us to have coffee at their house, and maybe visit the boat- and clogs-museums, of both of which uncle Willem was director for quite some time, because all that seemed to us like a nice thing to do - but uncle Willem changed his email address ages ago without actually killing off the old one, and does not check his current one often enough, so this led to nothing, and when I, following a few unsuccesful attempts during the days that went before, therefore finally managed to get hold of Corrie this morning, I surprised her somewhat; she had visitors and feared it would disturb the breakfast ritual too much if we would drop by, so we decided, in mutual understanding, to give it a pass) the party became complete, with the arrival of Peter Weij and Bert van Prijzen, who had previously parked Bert's car in Groenlo (the intended goal for today).
 They had scarcely arrived, when my aunt Corrie, who realized we still had to walk all the way from Rijssen's railway station to Enter and would therefore only arrive there by the time breakfast rituals would long be over, phoned me back and invited us for coffee after all. In good spirits, therefore, accompanied by singing birds moreover, we left through a slumbering Rijssen towards the edge of the built-up area, and onward, towards Enter. It was a beautiful morning, and the lanes around Rijssen lay bathing in a sharply golden sunlight, which lit weirder things than just those lanes. There was, for instance, Albert, who, embroidering on his joke of last time, had again hung a ginormous medal around his neck. But, again, it was one he had actually earned: the one of the Rotterdam Marathon, 2003 edition, this time over, of all things. Congratulations, Ab (who, by the way, was very laconic about it: "And, Ab, what was that like?" "Oh well, those first 30 kilometres were a breeze. But then it turned out there were actually 42 of them..." "Aha, and would you want to do it again?" "Why, certainly, only it will be impossible for me to attend on that particular day.").
And, quite apart from the ever-silly Wandelsoc., there for instance also was that troop of highly surprised kangaroos that, quietly hopping around their pen next to the farm, suddenly found themselves confronted with a Wandelsoc. that crowded around their fence making luring sounds, and degrading them to being the target of lame jokes ("Look! That one there has a penis with eyes!"). The kangaroos, how wisely, remained at a safe distance alarmedly, and waited to see which way the wind would blow.  Fortunately for them we marched on shortly, and laid down a brisk pace towards Enter. This was not entirely unexpected, because novices do always set off overconfidently - more disquieting was the fact that they would turn out to keep it up, until the end of the extremely hot day. By the time we had, in Enter, reached the home of my uncle and aunt along the Jagersweg, most of us were soaked: that's what you get, with twenty-two degrees and a burning sun under a clear blue sky. All the greater, therefore, was the relief the garden of Jagersweg 8 as ever offered: the few hundred square meters of herbal-, vegetable- and forest-garden my uncle and aunt maintain are an idyllic oasis, a feast for eye and mind.
For years (and hopefully for many to follow) we spent and spend weekends there as a family, during Sinterklaas particularly. As if that isn't sufficient tradition, the Wandelsoc. will remember this day for a long time to come. Seldom are the moments that we, despite our looks, are taken seriously and received in a human fashion, with pleasantly intelligent conversation, quite apart from the surroundings, food and drink. In this part of our nation, so often taken for 'conservative' and 'old-fashioned', it especially is extremely pleasant to find that there still are people who do not base their judgement on the first impression. But of course, this is the family I am part of. Nevertheless: happy to find that my fullest confidence turns out to be utterly just. Long live Corrie and Willem Knot. There.  Fully refreshed we therefore relocated ourselves from Enter in the direction of Goor. We were in some hurry, after all: the day would yet be short, the distance to be covered great. Not an ill word, therefore, of the companions we could today count among ours. Uncomplainingly hard, they carried on. I don't believe I had realized we were already in Goor, by the time we were already in Goor. In heat like this in particular, that is walking half of Nijmegen could learn something from.
 That I hadn't yet realized we were already in Goor could, apart from an animated conversation with de Gisser about the five-day holiday he had just spent in London with Marco Neumann and Henk van der Schelden (not a bar and no other one's budget safe, of course: "de Gisser, this is my round, but I'm all out, could you put out for it?", and then a quarter of an hour later: "de Gisser, it's your round!"), have been due to the ridiculously Scheherazadical fatamorganic building that greeted us on the border of it. I have, by now, already forgotten what company owns it (it had a completely unnoteworthy name as well), but I'll never again forget that building. Disneyworld meets Hans Christian Andersen, large golden onion to boot.
Once past that, Goor turned out to be a roguish municipality in other ways too: there was a jumble sale today, and the locals made it an event. Cosily displayed nicknacks, splayed by abundant sunlight, became desirable thingummies. I, therefore, bought myself a ludicrous pair of sunglasses (always handy: being Chielie you never know, when you'll lose them), for €3. And Albert found his destination here too: three cheerful bunnies, in a booth full of purplish Easter fun.  Here, as well, at a rest-around-the-corner, inserted into the trajectory by our march leader, the Wandelsoc.-garb turned out not to be the only one well-suited for cutting up, with a knife: as if he were Marco van Zijntergen himself, Thomas van Campen enjoyed himself greatly here, by turning his pair of black long trousers into shorts, then to offer the leftovers to Bert, as headgear. Who was very contented with it. "And, do I look at all like Arafat, like this?" Yes, Bert, most certainly you do.
 Not that it could do any harm, a bit of cloth like that. For as I am writing this I still have the burning sensation, in my neck. It was a long time ago that we had marched in Moroccan conditions such as these, and I was astonished, therefore, about the stoical perseverance of our youngest participant Mathieu. When I was fifteen, which he is at the time this is written, I marched the 15 kilometres of the St. George's March in Oegstgeest and thought I was a Tough Young God - Mathieu would, that evening in Eibergen, have wrecked 42 rockhard kilometres without flinching. Hats off to you, dude.
The 'hats off'-bit did and does not only concern Mathieu, by the way, but our marchleader too. For, with all his fatigue, so shortly after five booze-ridden twenty-four hour periods in that coaldusted beauty of a city-on-the-Thames, and despite his ominous warning, at the beginning, that today would "not be beautiful", the bit that now followed was, all the more unexpectedly so because of this, one of great beauty. They call this 'Diepenheim', and it is, as well as that of the Diepenheim Estate, the place where Warmelo Castle stands. In both cases we are talking about beautiful buildings in an idyllic setting, definitely worth a visit and group portrait.  Which we therefore took, on the steps of Diepenheim Mansion, undisturbed (revenge for the irritating bullcrap we experienced during a similar undertaking a while ago, at Amerongen Castle). And from there we walked from Diepenheim to Warmelo, after we had by-passed a ridiculously shut but pleasantly ancient cast-iron gate. Ridiculously shut (with a rusty chain) because, all the way down that road, there isn't a 'no entry'-sign to be found, and it can freely be entered from its other end, just in front of Warmelo Castle. Silliness, aggravated because we were called by the incredible Ben Jeursen as we entered this access road.
 Jeursen, who has ties with Groenloo, was there the day before, and therefore very disappointed that it wasn't on that day that we walked there. A nonetheless cordial telephone conversation later we then arrived at Warmelo Castle, where Weij proceeded to lecture, about the villainous behaviour of the wrong members of the House of Orange, here. Although I reproduce Peter's lecture here, I personally distance myself from this story, for besides its being biased (in both adjectives and suggestiveness) and lacking in hard evidence (the quoting of sources does nothing to detriment that), I find it particularly irrelevant.
 There aren't many families without bitchy behaviour. That bitchiness acquires a grander scale in families of power and fortune, but remains to be expected. This does not improve if that family is not royal but presidential, and it remains an ordinary family row, with which I have nothing to do whatsoever, as a citizen. I am part of a people of which, within our parliamentary democracy, the nature and soul are respectively represented and united by the ostentative work that our royal family does, both outward and inward, and I find this a beautiful thing. God save the queen (both the previous and the current one).
 Well then. This lecture past, we walked back into Diepenheim, and sat down on the terrace of Cafe-Restaurant 'De Heerlijckheid', Grotestraat 94, 7478 AE Diepenheim, Tel. 0547-351237. This is the best establishment that the Wandelsoc. has had the privilige of visiting so far, where the catering industry is concerned (and we haven't exactly had reason to complain, in the near and farther past).
 Besides fine food and drink (the homemade meatball-on-bread really is that, and very tasty to boot) at an utterly fair price, a clever menu (the homemade meatball, for instance, as one of a series of dishes named after places in the direct vicinity, is called 'Marclo', and they also have a dish for every resident of Warmelo Castle there ever was, carrying his or her name), a pleasantly dark interior (the homemade meatball is exactly what you'd expect there) with excellent toilets (the homemade meatball will not abruptly make the need arise to go and visit them, by the way) and its enjoyably accessible location on a central square, it was, on this sunsplashed terrace (of course, it also made for pleasant consuming, of the homemade meatball, because of this) the attentive, firm and enterprising service that stood out in particular.
 Some examples. The, by the by ut-ter-ly well preserved, owner not only didn't flinch when we placed our orders, ridiculous as usual ("I'd like 1 ice tea, 1 buttermilk, 1 orange juice, 1 coffee, 1 beer and a menu"), but made suggestions applicable for her own use too ("shall we make that beer a large one?"), remained friendly when, among ourselves, we raised hell over the money, returned several times to suggest extra orders, and besides all that sensed the atmosphere well enough to tell Schelden off when he became too insolent, much to our hilarity. The second waitress found it no problem when we approached her from outside her quarter, not even when we did so for the obligatory shot of Schelden-with-the-waitress. And as I walked inside looking for the toilet, in order to wash my hands after eating the homemade meatball, there not only immediately was the understanding bartender who had guessed what I was looking for a long time ago and therefore said, smiling benignly: "The toilet, sir? That way", but in that toilet, moreover, there were space, freshness and soap.
That is Catering we, as Wandelsoc., love to learn from, shining example for the stupid staff of places like De Stinkende Emmer and C'est Du Pain. Go there, everyone! Preferrably all at once. They can handle it, no problem. Ten out of ten, with a bonus mark.  And a great place to have some fun in too. There was, for instance, the picture postcard, of princess Laurentien and prince Constantijn, that that very same republican and orangehater Peter Weij bought at the boutique next door, and wrote to some acquaintance on the spot. And the pushy penchant, which manifested itself for the first, but not the last time that day, of Thomas van Campen to imitate alderman Hekking of Juinen, visible in the photo I took of Weij-with-the-picture-postcard.
 Once the bill was paid, we briskly stepped forward to more fun: the watermill at Diepenheim, namely. Ancient, tourable thing, for which we had to detour some, but which turned out to be well worth that effort. The willingness to explain of the miller present surpassed that of the equally present Schelden (who, from the doorwell on the first floor of it, held a speech for the tourists, in German, registered on film by myself, which hilariously ended with "Wenn mann hier oben die kleine Koerbe einfuehrt, kommen da 'runten die besoffene Kerle wieder 'raus"), and surprised me almost more than his explanation that those holes in the roof did not produce leakage, because the expanding ryestraw closed them by itself, and those ancient roofing tiles, by the way, also don't blow off in a storm, because the wind can play between them.
 Or the corn basket, dating back to 1500-something, made from a kind of grass that mice will not eat, water-resistant all by itself, and twined together with blackberry branches, deprickled by pulling them through a cow's horn. Most impressive. And also, this watermill, idyllically situated as it is, by its own duck pond, made for gorgeous photography, of a pleasantly weary walking bunch, which nevertheless attentively listened to Bert's explanation about how rare this mill is within the Dutch territory (not an indecent word about juniper bushes was heard) and how nicely the anecdote from 'The eagle has landed' (an endlessly repeated movie in which Germans, dressed up as Americans, invade England, but are exposed because one of them, accidentally skewered on a watermill-wheel exactly like the one here, comes up from the water after a full turn of it, with his collar opened, from below which the oak leaf of the German Wehrmacht visibly glitters) fits it.
 And if we, moreover, thought that this would end our suffering under all this picturesqueness, we were dead wrong. It went on and on. With a swift gait we stepped through an area which, apart from a Liliputlian quality, also definitely has a Swiss one, of vacuumed pastures. I could, for instance, photograph Bert by a sign with the fantastically discrepant placename 'Wormgoor' (wormdirty), which stood before such a lawn, which wasn't even private, but ordinarily communal property. Try that in Haarlem. No room for lawnmowers there, because of the dogshit, mark my words. No, take Twente instead. Amazing region, almost as amazing as the day itself.
 It, namely, not only already had been for a long time (if not at least because, besides an unprecedentedly high number of cancellations from Haarlem, we were priviliged to welcome to our midst an equally unprecendentedly high number of first-timers from the rest of the country, then because of the extraordinary things we passed), but remained so for a while. I suddenly found, for instance, a more than lifesized Track-clog next to an arbitrary farm. This was noteworthy, because that clog is the symbol of at least three websites of my employer (and I seem to remember that a group of my colleagues once 'borrowed' a large wooden version of that clog, just like this one, from a farmer, with his knowledge by the way, and used it to stage a promotionally sensible 'abduction' - would I accidentally have found that farmer here?).
Just past that clog, remarkable again, there came an extremely hot and dusty sandtrail-along-the-water, where we were almost driven down by an oncoming motorist, and surprised by a buzzard, fleeing from us by lifting off and grandly flying away. And as if that wasn't striking enough our marchleader completely lost his way, in this sixth hour of our walk, for the second consecutive time in as many marches. Which led to a dejected collapse by a ditch, on his part. "It's all going too hasty, on those corners." "Then you should holler "STOP"." "I did say we should stop to change maps." "Yes, but you said we were going to after the next turnoff to the left, and we're not there yet." "If they'd leave those roads like it was six years ago, when this topographical map was made, there would be no trouble now." Yeah, right.  No, that sign 'Schelden route' (of the Dutch AA), below which I could photograph Schelden some few dusty, hot kilometres later, in by his own saying "exactly the stance that conveys how I'm feeling now", naturally begot a somewhat hilarious connotation. But we should not overly slag off our marchleader where that is inappropriate. He was, after all, already dead tired when he set out on this march, and had, moreover, considering the number of cancellations on the one hand, and the large number of first-timers on the other hand, had to make a considerable effort to arrange it all. And as if that wasn't enough, he now not only managed to again supply us with a bit of utterly pretty, walkable forestry but, as we were leaving it, he also guided us past a traffic accident just being cleared away at that time (a tow truck was dragging one car from the ditch, while the other one, just as total-loss, was already on a trailer on the far side of the road) and the interested crowd that had gathered. Yesyes. You never know what's going to happen, with Schelden, but something always does, that's a given.
And so we then finally arrived at Cafe de Hertog in Eibergen, our terminus. It wasn't supposed to be that of course (we should have passed it though; for this was where the Prakke-museum was supposed to be, he had sworn us - but, we now gathered from the inhabitants, Prakke had again swindled us: there's a corner in the aldermen's museum dedicated to the machine factory of the Prakkes, at the most), for our goal had, after all, been Groenlo. But it was six thirty by now, and we were in the middle of nowhere, at one and a half hour's worth of marching from Grollo, and knew we still had to collect the cars and have dinner. So, for logistical reasons, we decided not to go any further than Eibergen. I really don't believe that fatigue played a role in that decision. For not only did I still feel very fit, but also Thomas and Mathieu weren't complaining at all. This was to be expected from the former, for besides swagger he really does have hard experience (although he did have two blisters today), from for instance the Omloop of Goeree-Overflakkee, but of Mathieu's this was a monster feat, to my mind. 
Although I did, after Bert had said goodbye to us, and we were outside waiting for the drivers, who were speeding via Groenlo to Rijssen in a taxi (endless quarrel, of course and by the by, was instigated by Schelden about who was to take place in that cab) see him get into a shakily cold sleep. So we swiftly moved inside. There, by the way, we were, like we were on the terrace, received in very friendly manner by the pleasant staff, waitress Anchell in front. Yes, Cafe de Hertog is a nice establishment. One can do without the food (sounds like snackbar, tastes like snackbar, costs like snackbar - fine but inconspicuous therefore), but while drinking, one could be in a worse place for sure. 
 This then became a sociable thing. Hekking managed to move into another photo (in vain, of course, for Photoshop performs miracles), and waitress Anchell, when I (while I thought I was out of her earshot) asked Geert what she had just told him her name was, from behind the bar threw a sailing coaster with 'MY NAME IS ANCHELL' on it straight into my face, Henk and I, by request, sang a loud rendition of 'Jerusalem' at the top of our voices, to the applause of the entire bar, the owner made a hilarious group photo of us around the billiard table, and Anchell, finally, willingly had herself placed into the obligatory picture-with-Henk. An evening to swiftly forget, albeit more because of the booze than because it is really necessary. Following a rally to Deventer in Peter's car, and a trainride via Amersfoort (where I said goodbye to Schelden) to Haarlem, freely extended by the national railways, I fell into bed contentedly somewhere past two o' clock.
To your health gentlemen, excellent walking there. Aken awaits, but now, first, Bern. |