| What are we doing?
April 18th, 2004 Across the Netherlands from Top to Toe: Bemmel-Niftrik We were, after all, that angry, already. Action breeds reaction. One cannot, after so many years, cut 10 km out of an esteemed marching course just like that - and then expect noone to do anything about it. Let it be said, that the Wandelsoc. does something about that. Let it, moreover, have happened, have been noticed and have been recorded.  Herewith. When Marco's Polo drove onto my front court, I still believed everything was going perfectly. Hours before, I had neatly arranged my paraphernalia, and established as optimal as possible an order of garments and other ornaments to be put on, so that I could get lost as swiftly as possible. Experience teaches, that this is always in vain. And so I stood there, with everything, but without my driving papers. Utterly necessary, if I was to steer that Polo to the Bemmelish. As therefore Marco agreed, who, helpful as ever, awaited my return. Which, cursing and all, rapidly took place, upon which we took off towards Dinger, Lourens E..
 Who reacted somewhat tired, though quick-wittedly, to my telephonade outfrontdoors. Soon, we found ourselves in Breukelen, where all turned out to be well, but the coffee to be better - until I discovered that my camera wasn't there. A swift call to my Good Neighbour Bert, therefore. Who shortly reported finding both camera and hat, around it. Both of them, namely, had been left behind on the Polo's roof, and had, on rigorous acceleration on my part, quickly fallen off it, naturally.
 So, back to Haarlem. From there, we fastly departed again, and as before we knew it we'd arrived back in Breukelen, only Dinger, Lourens E., did know it. He therefore lay back appropriately, having his own ideas about it. Smart, because the road to Bemmel was a long one yet. Travelling down it did come to pass without noteworthy specialties, and so, once parked at the village square, we happily set off in the tracks of the rest of our group.
Which itself rapidly turned out to be waylaid. We'd hardly waved our friendly farewell to the oncoming participants in the twoday 'Pro Corpore'-march of the homonymous hiking club from Gendt, or we learned, through contact by mobile phone, on the overpass across the freeway to Arnhem, that Schelden and cronies had taken a wrong turn there, and so were moving towards Oosterhout in a large arc. 
We then, through harsh rising wind, below a fresh spring sun, along colourful spring blossoms, did so in a straight line. And even before we reached Oosterhout, it became apparent that today would be a moving occasion, for the Four Day Marchers among us. Schelden would, after all, not have been Schelden, had he, now that the course of 'Across the Netherlands from Top to Toe' had penetrated into Gelderland province, not incorporated the Four Day Marches' track into it. 
And now, even before we reached it, this announced itself: for there, in the distance, on the far side of charming horsemeadows, at the horizon, that monstruous electricity-plant-thing arose, the one we know so well from the second day of the Four Day Marches, when we pass over the bridge next to it.  Once in Oosterhout, that beautifully hidden Dutch Reformed village (almost as well-hidden as nearby Slijk-Ewijk) on the Waal, that Four Day Marches' feeling hit much harder yet - logically.
"Normally, there's a checkpoint here", I reported to Schelden, by mobile. "EX-ACT-LY!" was his answer. And so we turned left, onto that blasted dyke, towards Lent. Unreal sensation, to be able to unconcernedly stride there, with a fully stretched pace, under stormy, cloudy skies and bright spring sunlight. Swallowing tearfighting our part, we greeted an elongated procession of Triumph Spitfires, undertaking a rally-outing. The drivers not only cheerily, but also respectfully returned our salute, showing their awareness, pertaining to our marchery, and the depth of it. 
Which wasn't all too odd, since within the Four Day Marches' course, this is one of the more legendary parts. And we therefore certainly weren't the only ones, walking down that dyke that day.  In Lent, the same overpowering sensation struck us. "Normally, there's a party here - and a checkpoint."
Not so now, but this was not to lessen our joy, as we rounded the access ramp to the bridge and walked across the Waal and towards Nijmegen. There, at Plein 1944, in Grand Café Magnifique, we met up with the rest: Henk van der Schelden, Albert van Geyningen, Peter Weij, Marco Neumann, Raymond de Gisser, Fred Regts, Jan Middelkoop and Bert van Prijzen. Having been supplied with, as is usual for us, ample food and drink, by a waiter-cum-clearly-German-accent, who not only fully failed to understand this, but also gave the distinct impression not to want to sell anything at all, let alone to sots who manage to order not one, but two orange juice at a time, but to want to get back as soon as possible, away from this hobbyism, to his regular daily duties: shooting unruly prisoners in the camp he ran as Obersturmbahnführer (the panful of hot tomatosoup-with-meatballs, poured out all over the stairs to the toilets by a terrorized subordinate, unsurprisingly stayed there for minimally the entire length of our stay, ensuring stumbling and sliding capers on our part - and this was logical of course, since a subordinate once shot, can no longer clean up the mess), we proceeded to merrily take the piss out of one another. No less an unsavoury practice, after all, than having that floorsoup laying about. 
Once done there, with even the, usual, yackety-yack, nagging, obnoxiousness and fuss over the personal bills to be paid, we then resumed our storming of the Four Day Marches' course with a high-speed sturdy stamping along the Via Gladiola - that is to say, that which normally is the Via Gladiola. Very strange, here too, to walk there without the enormous crowds and... ...dancing cop Max, whose crossing we approached from behind, this time. 
One hilarious story later, of Albert's, about how he oftentimes cons multitudes by arriving first at a crossing, but not pushing the button-for-requesting-a-pedestrian-crossing (try this at home, kids!), we took a right turn, towards Hatert. There, normally, is the tent, where people work, for lack of personnel. And as we loudly said so ("There's a tent here, normally") this was noddingly affirmed by a local, from his balcony. "You're right!" Wonderful. Meanhwile we discovered, not least because of this local, that we evoked many reactions with our flag, reactions that were much friendlier than they used to be though, when we didn't yet carry the flag, but did already wear our uniforms. Apparently people are much relieved to see that that flag does not contain angular symbols. And maybe it was also because of this, that, a bit deeper into Hatert, Albert's brother Edwin didn't move a muscle when, with his wife Marielle and daughter Lisa, he warmly welcomed us to their home. But it may also have been due to the genes of the van Geyningens. I hadn't thought two could exist, of Albert. That there were more that can react so utterly laconically, with that mocking "Well..." to any and all things. 
But yes, there are. And that he reacted with "Well..." was all the more astounding since having the Wandelsoc. over for coffee, of course, is the purest form of cabaretesque Philistinery. That coffee, by the way, tasted excellently, as did accompanying cookies, while Schelden, with relish, told the crowd about the way he quit his job with our nation's Postal Services (technically, he got fired, but when you behave as offensively as he does, you consciously work towards the moment - I should know). "So I said: that this collection of Mosley-ites wilfully has itself fucked up the ass by the Board is their own business, but in my arse there will be no experimenting."  Lisa, meanwhile, looked at Schelden's topographical map in astonishment - and right she was. Utterly curious, that one gets anywhere at all, let alone Hatert, with a map like that, which - it has been proven - hasn't corresponded to the factual state of affairs for years already.
But it got stranger yet. For despite the map, and after we'd said our cordial goodbyes to Edwin, Marielle and Lisa, we made our way back to the Four Day Marches' course without trouble, and walked to the Heart of Hatert Shopping Centre, happily shortcutting across the grass, because that's not allowed, during the Four Day Marches. Then, we took a left across that bridge where, last year, that pretty prancing picture of the Wandelsoc. was made, and left again at the far bank, towards the A73. No actual honking this time, but there was, in our heads. Because if you've heard that once, you never forget it. 
Nor, by the by, does one forget Ome (Uncle) Jan. Down the embankment to the crossing, after all, we stood on the spot he occupied for years, with a megaphone, to bully marchers towards his coffee and buttermilk. Gone from us too soon, he was liquidated last year, for, it is widely assumed, though not by us, being tied to the waste mafia. We ourselves assume he was finished off by a Four Day Marches' coffeedrinker, because his coffee was definitely unfit for human consumption. 
In any case, we shall dearly miss him, and because of this, we held a small remembrance ceremony, with a speech by Bert van Prijzen, senior Four Day Marcher among us. From there, at considerable speed, we proceeded, along the Hatert meres, to Gilwell St. Walrick, former training centre of Scouting Holland, and a regular Quality Rest on our part, on the fourth and final day of the Four Day Marches. Things felt less strange, here - Gilwell, namely, is a beloved countryhouse, and so it was 'normally' busy there, even though there were no Four Day Marches in progress. 
Having processed the cheese and croquette rolls, we then set course for today's goal. The road to it, around the rim of Wijchen, was a long one yet, and so we had ample time to contemplate. Not just the route, which now posed some problems for us here and there, because those wide streets look a lot different if they aren't closed off at the end by crowd barriers, but also what it was leading to. 
Mother Nature, meanwhile, decided to make a fitting contribution, by having it rain heavily (as Schelden raced to the rescue of a young lady we passed, and who had got caught up in her bicycle chain). Fitting, for this dripping veil of grey aptly portrayed our mood, and granted it a pleasant depth. Wasn't it, after all, this bit, the one to which we were en route now, that last year, on the second day, was so vilely cut out of the course, by the March Management, on the stated account of the intense heat? 't Was. And I shall not expand on our anger over it all too much, because I already have, but confine myself to what that anger produced today. 
Intensely content, we set foot onto that dyke, between Balgoij and Niftrik. I even got down on my knees briefly, to kiss it. Rightly so, because I'd waited some eight months for this. Justice at last, and the satisfaction only grew when, at last, at the end of that dyke, we finally reached Hotel Restaurant Hoogeerd (they had, by the by, already phoned us, to inquire as to what took us so long, because Schelden had made his reservations somewhat optimistically).  For not only this again was the haven at the end of a hard marching day, where we found quality rest, besides brilliant beer and fine food, but this was also the establishment that last year entered the history books as "the place that had to forgo its yearly earnings in 2003, thanks to the KNBLO", and we were therefore well pleased to correct that mistake, if only on our part.
And owner Jo Lepoutre was on to that when, at the end of the copious meal, he joined our party at our request.  "Y'all 've come to catch up on those 10 k's?" "Pre-ci-se-ly!" That Joop then told us that, last year, those yearly earnings were reasonable after all, not in the least because he had repeatedly been on tv, due to what happened, did nothing to lessen the monstrosity of the March Management's decision.
As felt Joop, who was deeply thankful for our visit, and for whom we sang the two verses of the Four Day Marches' Song, after we had, in a speech, offered him our apologies, for the March Management's behaviour. And so we could contentedly finish dinner, knowing that, if no one else will, at least the Wandelsoc. will make its stand. Thereafter, the day received an appropriate ending, in the shape of a failed attempt to reacquire my mobile company phone, from Grand Café Magnifique in Nijmegen, where I'd namely left it, but which was closed by now. And so the door wasn't opened by a nasty German, but by what appeared to me to be three utterly illegal and very stoned Poles, amongst whom 1 -ish woman. When they finally understood I was not the Aliens Police, they willingly helped me search - but we did not find. I'll probably be out of line when I say it, but I hope they found it the next day, and used it to call grandma-in-Urugay all day long. To your health, gentlemen, excellent walking there. Aken awaits, but now, first, Bern. |