| What are we doing?
October 5th, 2003 Across the Netherlands from Top to Toe: Eibergen-Wijnbergen Reality remains more astonishing than expectation can be. When we ventured to undertake the temporarily last leg, of 'Across the Netherlands from Top to Toe', in April of this year, we were at the beginning of a new marching season, and had no idea of what it would bring us.  And because we are the Wandelsoc. it wasn't just questionable whether we would reappear in numbers as large as that last time over (10 namely), it was even, and logically, questionable whether we would reappear at all. For in the Wandelsoc. nothing is logical, and the Wandelsoc. has, for years now, done its utter best to blow apart with bickering galore.
 Well sorry to disappoint ya: failed again. For when Marco van Zijntergen, part of the party once more to my unspeakable joy, had collected me from home sevenish, and we had spliced our way eastward at a leisurely breakneck speed, to finally arrive in the village centre of Wijnbergen, windows wide open in the morning chill, John Phillip da Sousa's 'Commando March', which features on the first, white-labelled, Wandelsoc.-CD, blaring from them at an insane volume, I not only registered, for the first time, true astonishment in the eyes of Fred Regts, but we were also numbers seven and eight, of the rabble arrived.
 And that is less than ten, I'll readily admit (and alas, no niggers, neither little nor big) - but, with otherwise van der Schelden MA, Peter Weij, Raymond de Gisser, Albert van Geyningen and Marco Neumann, not a bad score, it being a first march of our own practice season, in between official marches, and at the end of what may justifiably be called a glorious marching season. More about that in the place only members and Friends Of The Wandelsoc. will see (although anyone remains welcome): the Ribbon Shower namely - but if you're not there, you can get some idea of it by looking at the overview of marching reports, and maybe reading some of them.
 Having driven from Wijnbergen (leaving Marco's car behind there, for the ride-back-with-the-drivers) to Eibergen, in the cars of Marco Neumann and Fred Regts, it could only be called a pity that that is such a quiet village, in the early morning, for to a coincidentally, unsuspectingly present indigenous one, it must have been a frightful vision, that enormous black Chevrolet battlecruiser right behind the Redford, all those debarking brownshirts to follow. A good thing, that that's a joking matter. So shiny, moreover, in the sweeping low autumn sun, those cars. Great lighting for more pompous circumstance: for the fist time, Fred Regts appeared in Wandelsoc. garb, which these days merits a uh... ...sissi-ish blue choker. With which he was therefore presented, here, by the Marchleader.
Rightly so, beyond doubt, and pretty moreover - because one can im-pos-si-bly say that Fred Regts looks like a sissy, with a choker like that. But a Wandelsoc.-outfit does make him SMALLER, and that is a disconcerting experience in itself. There were more of those by the way: new phenomena. Take, for instance, the Marchleader. He hadn't yet gone down a full street or he stopped, for the asking, of that coincidentally, unsuspectingly present indigenous one, about the route. Uncertainty at the start of a new season? Wish for folly? Fear of abandonment? Who knows. The local, anyhow, turned out to be most helpful: without hesitation, we were directed onto the straight and narrow. 
Which it was, unmistakably. But as straight as that way, to Beltrum, there is, just so rigid the Biggest Enemy turns out to be. Not of the Marcher, for that, as we all know, is the Sports Cyclist, who very much thinks very rigidly too, but I have never yet seen a sports cyclist cut up a hedgehog. No, I'm speaking of the Biggest Enemy of all that is beautiful and alive: The Motorist. And at a moment, in time, when I am busy becoming such, it is both sobering and utterly disquieting to be put back on one's feet again, as now happened here. In a mere ten blasted kilometres, we were triply confronted with Squashed Animals here. At ascending levels of gruesomeness, too. 
For of a squirrel like that (not entirely unjustly, a while ago, by email, hissingly referred to as "treerat" by Nico de J. of Amsterdam, following his reading of the London part of my report on the Wellingborough) I'm willing to believe that it acted too fast of its own accord, stupidly did not pay attention, and therefore got the worst of it, but a sparrow like that's almost extinct already, and had, in the middle of those crossroads, done No Wrong. One has to therefore be a Megalomaniacal FuckLout, to drive that down, and the hedgehog... ...we're NOT going to talk about that hedgehog here, okay, or I shall lose control over myself, YES?!?!!! On my car, there will be no sticker reading 'I brake for animals'. No, on MY car, I only recently told my instructor Hans, there will be a STICKER, reading 'I brake for E-VE-RY-THING - F-U-C-K O-F-F' (and, in my car, a built-in rocket launcher, to take care of impending traffic from the rear).  I only half calm down, with the thought that, being a Dead Animal, at least you get an honour guard from the Wandelsoc. - because it is heartfelt, true, but too much of a coincidence to me. Well anyway. Outrage, thankfully, is at least as beautiful a sentiment as Astonishment is. Which came to be too, and very quickly at that. For had we, during stage 7, been surprised by a giant inflatable stork in the vicinity of Coevorden, which blessedly stood there for the reason one would expect, here we were unjustly affronted by a whopper of a pelican, equipped with an intriguing sign reading 'Blank Cartridges'. The question, naturally: did they sell those here, or had the Cartridges only just picked an ill-fated name for their youngest daughter - and put up the wrong bird?
 Rerejoicing somewhat because of this madness (and already cheered up some because Albert had enriched his garb with four postal-elastic-bands-suspended-from-safety-pins, "awarded for bungee-jumping"), we made our way into rustic Beltrum as we slowly warmed up to the walking. Here, we found a pleasant repose, at the local snackbar, which found itself to be overwhelmed, not so much by ourselves, as by our usual eccentric orders (omelettes were spotted here). Where, apart from that, more silliness spread swiftly: Albert van Geyningen, always the character to be kept an eye on in matters such as these, actually managed to enrich Peter Weij's coffee with nine sugarcubes (with some help on my part, I'll admit). Whether Peter had noticed this remains a mystery to me - his unperturbedness turned out to be worthy of decoration, anyhow. Not a foul word crossed his lips, no reaction became our reward; although he was absolutely overactive for the remainder of the day. But that is only to be expected.
And this was useful, to boot. 'Cause let's be honest here. I've admittedly done a nice job at concealing it, in the past alineas, by way of multicapitals and loads of roundbuzzing long-windedness, but today this course was what the Marchleader warned us for during the previous stage: UG-LY. I can, despite this region's good people, not make it any prettier than that: this part of our journey, around Mariënvelde, is bo-ring as hell, and should I ever be able to avoid it, then thou shalt not see me there again. 
There were meadows there, granted, with green and stormcloudy skies, as Dutch as ever, but I will keep contending that I have seen it before, and better. I'm prone to wild illusions, possibly, plagued by the drizzly rain that we did not, or at least uncannily seldomly, experience before, but I don't really believe so. No, it's a whole load of nothingness here, despite some cute signs and our own silliness.  But nice, that that Sorrow turned out to be Sufferable. All misery comes to an end sometime. And here, now, that end was Halle. For that is where Café-Restaurant-Hall Nijhof is, and that is a Quality Rest of the kind we appreciate: in oaken-panelling, with high ceilings, there's ex-cel-lent food, and warmhearted staff, led by a beautifully shy waitress, plague of hormones to us all (that she looks somewhat oafish in the obligatory picture-with-Schelden, does no detriment to that), we found the much-needed recuperational pleasantry here. Needed so much, in fact, that we stuffed ourselves to the limit, from a ridiculously large menu with items sporting names that would not have ill-befitted Eethuys Dorestad, and so pleasant that we became jolly for it. Besides that obligatory waitress-photo, Albertgag befell Schelden here: Ab drank almost all of Schelden's beer, when he had gone to the loo, and when he again failed to pay attention for a bit, it was sneakily replenished by Neumann. Schelden actually got more angry over the latter than he did over the former (bizarre), so much so in fact, that he disappeared for a short while, topographic map and all. Thankfully, the chilly cold outside brought him to reason swiftly, whereupon he renewedly joined our party. Moreover, Raymond and I again had a Hästens-gag photographed here, roaring with laughter around Marco's likewise shirt, where Marco, being a bedsalesman, can after all get so merry over the failing concept of the Hästens-stores, an idea which has formerly well-running bedstores work themselves out of the market by way of an obligatory commitment to only 1 brand.
Much the merrier, therefore, because of the hormonal disaster and the catering, we moved on. And it was not just us who appeared merrier: even the outside world now offered us Animals, That Were Alive. From a perplexed horse, with disdainful ponies, to hazily staring walibis, here, as the world in between them began to look more and more like the Milsbeek Hook, because of the wind and the open, treelined field, that world was definitely lively, if not pretty yet. 
But pretty, it became no more. There then, for sure, lies a Task, for the Marchleader, ahead at the next stage (not contending therewith, for not believing either, that he could have done anything about it here). Good though, that Albert counterpointed his blandgaggery here, by in this lowland blown into voidness, suddenly presenting us with a drink, from a hideous black, Hawaianesque bottle (posing as a statuette, of a midget woman with bare breasts and buttocks, one of those bottles that would by no means have looked out of place, in the interior of my uncle Willem in Enter, whom we visited during the last leg), poured into small Green Beret-shotglasses. Reason for Schelden to make another excessively blustering, but much appreciated speech, about it. 
So good. Via the Slangenburg (Snakeburg), a picturesquely situated castle, where we made our final group portrait of the day, because I had finally outfitted myself with a second memory card for my Nikon Coolpix 4500, but had forgotten to bring the already available second rechargeable battery (which is why Marco van Zijntergen, who made that group portrait, is not in it, as I didn't have enough battery left for the second half of the composite shot), we then arrived in Wijnbergen at last.  And there we were welcomed by someone we hadn't expected to be there, which absolutely goes to his credit: Ronald Fischer, former legionair, lastly beheld during the Airborne, which he completed with much effort, today just finished working at the clearance of the Blauwe Aanslag (a famous squat), he was waiting for us here, with beer and cigar. And that was wonderful, for, in the godforsaken middle-of-nowhere, it is always fantastic to, following countless ghastly kilometres, run into a fellow Society member.
 Better yet, he possessed one of those new phone-plus-camera handhelds, so he could nicely take the obligatory Schelden-and-waitress-picture in the hotel here. That he wasn't just here, nor just elaborately explained how wonderful we all were (not a hair on our heads is about to believe that, of course), but had also booked an entire night's stay in this, Hotel Wijnbergen in Wijnbergen, so that he would not have to drive back, had Schelden and myself, paranoid as we after all are, immediately suspecting him of being an AIVD-plant. For let's face it. If you were the AIVD, and noticed five guys making some 12 other guys march across half of Europe in a uniform strongly resembling that of the SA, for some years, in growing numbers, would you not want to find out what that was all about? Also, we would naturally feel very honoured, with such unjust attention, and fine use of our very own tax money.
But alas, it shall probably not be true again. Oh well. Even if it would be, it would not make a difference, because we have nothing to hide - but we could then at least have wished Ronald Fischer a minimum of one-and-a-half pleasant years at the expense of his supposed employer. Now, we shall, therefore, do so without: a heartfelt welcome, fellar, and thanks for the beer. To your health gentlemen, excellent walking there. Aken awaits. |