| What are we doing?
October 3rd, 2004 Across the Netherlands from Top to Toe: Cuijk-St. Hubert It was high time, to do some tight treading. Because the last leg of 'Across the Netherlands from Top to Toe', the one of May 16th this year, had been more of a pub-crawl than a long distance march, because it concerned 'From Rest to Rest two': a walk past the Quality Rests that we, as Wandelsoc. and Friends Of The, make use of during the Nijmegen Four Day Marches. Not that we'd already left the course of that, the Mother of all Marches. No, this edition would be the last one during which we'd tread that. And this began where it ended last time: at Café De Bond, in Cuijk. We'd driven there from Haarlem, in Marco's brand-new Polo (thanks to Lammerts van Bueren, fine establishment with excellent website). We, that is Marco van Zijntergen, Max, Bart de Jong (yes, the fireman who still temporarily isn't that, but does maintenance engineering at Schiphol, was there again - we do have few more active Friends Of), and... ...Marco's girlfriend Marjon! That was news, because she doesn't usually march. But she'd just returned from holidays, with marco, during which they'd walked both the IML-march in Arenzano, Italy, (Marcia Mare e Monti) and the one in Seefeld, Austria (Einhornmarsch) together. Mind you, they only made some 20 kilometres a day in both cases, but that does no detriment to the fact that I know few who start their Wandelsoc.-career, from 0 kilometres marched, with the succesfull completion of two official marches. And those who started out on our regular practice course, from Haarlem and Katwijk, know that 20 kilometres, the first time over, is quite a distance. A considerable feat, therefore, of which notice has been taken and praise for which. Thankfully, by the way, Marjon was not so boisterous as to want to go the full distance, close to forty kilometres after all, today. But she did partake, to attempt a shorter route with nestor Max, which had obligingly been devised by Marchmaster van der Schelden. 
Once in Café De Bond, today's group swiftly completed itself, with a couple of new faces among it: there were Henk van der Schelden, Peter Weij, Fred Regts, Barend Rijkman, and Albert van Geyningen - but also the new faces, of Dick van Kuppevelt (the dentist in Grave from Gassel who, after the introduction of the Wandelsoc., to him, by fellow former commando Jan Middelkoop, and two successive visits to his back garden by our riff-raff, had become so enthusiastic that he'd acquired a uniform, in unison with the Secretary, and now showed up here, bravo), Kees van der Jagt (a new Friend Of, former commando too, recruited by Albert van Geyningen, who, moreover, and to the great joy of Max in particular, brought along his dog Rinka), and... ...Bert van Prijzen, First Friend Of, who'd namely shaven off his moustache! My consternation was great ("Good morning, Baldie!"), but thankfully the others hardly noticed. After we'd thanked and paid the landlady of Café De Bond for her excellent coffee, we went there where, during the last stage, only the die-hards still went (they carried on to Plasmolen for dinner, then, but the march officially ended earlier, in as said, Café De Bond): the centre of Cuijk, en route to the crossing of the Meuse. In that centre of Cuijk we stopped at the store of LuckspecialistTM van Oort (we live in weird times, in which this concept, on invitingly façadial neonlighting, is brotherly paired to 'Smoking kills' and, together with it, invitingly gazes down at the passing rabble). We, rabble, did so on the one hand because Schelden, van Prijzen and Snodendroom have the regular habit to, upon passing by here during the Four Day Marches, buy a cigar here and light it (last time, over this had led to great hilarity because Albert did not care for a cigar at the time, but, to Schelden's great anger, asked for a National Lot for the price of the cigar, if and when Schelden was giving out presents at all), and on the other, to inaugurate Dick van Kuppevelt as Wandelsoc. Member. This, for some time now, involves the draping, around the neck, of a sissyish blue choker, by the Secretary, accompanied by a renownedly clownish speech. As happened now too, to Dick's and all our joy. 
Then, it was time for those cigars. But LuckspecialistTM van Oort hadn't budged, when Schelden had rung him in advance, requesting to open up in order to sell us those smoker's requisites: he flatly refused. Clear lack of commercial spirit, or fatal religiousness, who can tell? Anyhow, we found ourselves in front of a closed front. Schelden, however, was not to be caught out, and produced a box of cigars, once offered to him by the members of the Consortium Quinque Virorum, his high-school debating society. One should never look a gift horse in the mouth, so we gladly and gratefully accepted these ancient, dehydrated rollsticks, brayingly lit them, and contentedly advanced, towards the ferry across the Meuse. 
Still smoking with pleasure we arrived, by where normally the tent of Middelaarian korfballclub Astrantia stands, leftward at the Plasmolen bridge, from where, in good Four Day Marches tradition, First Friend van Prijzen landed what remained of his smoke in the water, with a firm arc. Different bridge (few kilometres onward, normally, towards Malden), but same water: neat-ly done, and an example Marco van Zijntergen therefore followed. Schelden, who'd managed to lose his cigar earlier on, decided to resolve matters differently, by watering into that same water. 
Once past that bridge, and the Plasmolen catering establishments (all of them closed this time over: during the third Four Day Marches' day usually opened invitingly), in Plasmolen itself, something happened to us, that does not happen enough: we were welcomed there by an enthusiastically applauding crowd! I'll say! As if it's the fucking Four Day March! Points, to the Limburgers, and many thanks, from Us. Time to do something in return, and there was room for this around the corner, thankfully: for there, in home 'De Geuldert', a boy had been born, named Jaimy. And although he had apparently been taken away for a showing-to-gramps, this did not keep us from performing a festive aubade, like we had twice before, on similar occasions. 
And then the Langstraat began. This, particularly during Four Day Marches' days, so endlessly long avenue of suffering, that leads from Plasmolen to Milsbeek, now too befell us, to our content. Content, because we did not, as we do do during Four Day Marches' days, rattle with pain here, because nature was kind to us (the sun shone pleasantly, there was a light breeze, and it was dry), and because we did arrive at the start of the Milsbeek Hook here. And this was a memorable moment. For the Milsbeek Hook is the place that we, as Wandelsoc., regard as the most hallowed of all marching grounds: there, men become men. Who, at Four Day Marches' day three, manages to round the Hook, knows he's alright, as a marcher, can no longer forego his cross, and may call himself marcher. And so, I warmly welcomed the Wandelsoc. and the Friends Of The here, the Four Day Marchers among us did their best to convey the gist of the above, thus the importance of this bit of the course, to the rest, and we enjoyed the wind and space the Hook, as always, offered. 
Until we got to about halfway the way up, where Max (who previously drove Schelden into rage by continuously asking him for such) namely finally got his explanation about the alternative course that Schelden had cooked up for him and Marjon. And so, following that explanation, we said goodbye to both for now, and stamped further forward, through the Hook, to where it normally goes left. That moment, we briefly commemmorated, but we did not follow suit this time: for Schelden had, for jolliness, thought to turn Hook to Superhook. 
I'd almost forgotten it already, but he had, in the preceding weeks, properly consulted me on this, and I had approved of it, because I'd felt it was a fun idea. But I'd also and always said that, because this endeavour was called 'Across the Netherlands from Top to Toe', I definitely did not want to march one single metre through Germany, until we'd rendered honour to the name of this march (that we'll end up in Aachen down below, therefore is acceptable, from my point of view). And so as, via Ven-Zelderheide (shortly before which Henk raided a random home to requisite water for dog Rinka, who susbsequently didn't care for it at all, because it was happily outdoing all of us, marching) and a short stop at Café 'Het Wilde Zwijn' (the Wild Boar) there (where Albert, with Barend, merrily hit the beer inside, whilst van Zijntergen kept himself occupied outside, with a Breaker, Regts, Weij and van Kuppevelt discussed the state of world affairs, and van Prijzen, van der Jagt, van der Schelden, de Jong and I took superfluously took some fresh breaths) we suddenly turned into the Grensweg (Border road), running along the Reichswald (Imperial Forest), I really thought that moment of wayward Germanification had arrived after all, and I therefore cursed the Secretary into oblivion. Unjustly so, and for which I herewith offer my apologies, because Schelden had taken my argument seriously, and did not set foot in Germany - but made a square circle directly along the border, and that Reichswald. By the time we hung a left I'd latched on to this, and only First Friend van Prijzen still was worked up about it. 
This, by the by, much so, because he detected unnecessary kilometres here. And Bert simply hates those. Not entirely unjustly so, and just in this case (since they were detected correctly: by themselves, they'd not have been necessary, although, in this way, one does acquire one's long distance marching experience, which had after all been loudly demanded by multiple loudmouths, in advance, because of last time's pubcrawl). 
Those extra kilometres did then bring us something which heartened us: Anita Willemsen, namely, who had herself dropped off here by her parents (to whom, as Chairman, on behalf of the Wandelsoc., I apologized, to their hilarity, for what we do to their daughter), and joined us. Somewhat unfortunate for the hardened former commandoes, of course, that at the end of such a march, by the time you yourself are, as Peter so splendidly calls it, starting to look 'apple-ish', a murderous chick like that pops up and, casually smiling, marches you to bits, but this was of course amply compensated by her ah... ...charming personality. 
Which therefore naglessly brought us further, and into the North-Limburgian Gennep, maternal village of Marco's girlfriend Marjon, where she awaited us on the terrace of Happerij & Tapperij (Eat- and Tappery) De Dragonder (The Dragoon), in the company of Max and a motorclub. Which furtively left as soon as we, loudly singing our society song, arrived, and this made room for Max, who complained. He namely had, out of sheer goodness, agreed, at Marjon's request, to, along the way to Gennep, pay a visit to her parents' grave, but had had to make a detour of 9 k for it, to his great dismay. 
We, of course, thought this was a neat feat on Marjon's part, but nonetheless expressed our sympathy with Max. We had ample time to do so, by the way. Happerij & Tapperij De Dragonder namely is a fine establishment, with good food and drink and an utterly friendly waitress, but quite clearly not geared to the kind of monstrous orders the Wandelsoc. is prone to place - so that Fred had to wait endlessly for his piece of apple pie, and never got the tray-full-of-beers that he, out of pure boredom, ordered beer-by-beer, in the meantime.  Dog Rinka, by the by, didn't give a fuck. It wildly amused itself, with the bits of minced-meat hotdog that owner Kees tore off, from out of his roll. And otherwise, too, the little dog was unaffected: for as the kilometres began to count by now, for us, and (following an unjust but hilarious comparison, by the Secretary, of me, with - the photo of - Richard Klinkhamer, interviewed in the NRC, murderous author of 'Woensdag gehaktdag' (Wednesday mince day, a book about the murder of his wife, which he himself committed), never released, and laborious settling with the manager of De Dragonder), as twilight slowly set, we doggedly tore on to Haps, the little dog merrily frolicked onwards beside us.
Not that we ourselves were unmerry. Dick and I, for instance, were greatly amused, by a 'car' that passed us, and left such a cloud of smoke that even an unattentive Roscoe P. Coltrane would have had the day of his life. A little later, the thing stood by the roadside, on a small industrial estate just in front of Haps, the grinning drivers beside it: apparently, Dick observed, one of those cheaply bought wrecks that was happily being trashed. Strange, though, that this happened on the public highway, and not at the nearby rally course. 
Anyway. IN Haps, thereupon, something incredible happened: we dropped out. This is what happened: Bert van Prijzen marched on. He had namely told his sweet wife that, given the fact that the intended finish, Mill, was relatively close to their domicile in Gemert, he would be home early. And because it was, by now, getting reasonably late after all, but he wanted to make good on his promise nonetheless, he walked on to Mill alone, while we opted for rest. I would never have done this, but I raise my hat to his loyalty to his wife. 
Good thing that, by the by. Because Bert had made some ado about that, during this walk, and rightly so: my newest hat was a bit small, for my head, and therefore looked a bit ludicrous. Matter of supply shortage, on the part of the Hell's Angels with whom I do all my business (Dirk's Dump in the Paarlaarsteeg in Haarlem, fine establishment, namely), as pertaining to the acquisition of marching attributes. Upon writing this I've therefore bought a better thing, to wear the next time over. But so, rest, therefore. We took it in Café de Molen (the Mill), cosy affair, but very smokey at the time, where we were cheeringly welcomed by the beerdrinking local population. Points to Haps, and excellent, that beer, moreover. 
Once escaped, from so much coziness, we decided, at Dick's instigation, to raid another former commando, in an attempt to recruit him. The victim lived in St. Hubert, in a beautiful home (wonderful garden to boot) with 'Nunc aut nunquam' written on it. We (meaning 'we' without Weij, because he had, just in front of St. Hubert, decided to go and do a railway sleeper march, parallel to the course, into the local jungle, and therefore returned with excellent photographs and an enthusiastic story, but missed out on this visit altogether) were uncommonly warmly welcomed there by former commando Huub and his friendly wife, who not only lavishly provided us with drink, and assisted us in the transportation of the drivers to their cars in Cuijk, but also promised to receive us anew, the next time, at the start of the next stage, as starting point. 
So much friendliness leaves no room, for doubt: that we were in Northern Brabant again was obvious. We (Weij included) then dined in the nearby Restaurant and Bowlingcentre Erica, situated just outside, but just inside St. Hubert where the land register is concerned. And there, the food and atmosphere admittedly weren't bad, and, it must be said, the staff did it's utmost to please us (here too, the friendliness was definitely worthy of Northern Brabant): but I must nonetheless state that, as Wandelsoc., we have, by now, seen better places along this course. 
In better places, namely, one does not even notice that the staff is doing it's utmost, there is no discussion about that (they made quite a point of it here), and the food lingers in one's memory for a long time. Take, for instance, Bistro 't Klokhuys of Bemmel, the Ossenhoes of Eext, or Bondshotel Hammingh of Garnwerd.  Now, we found lovingly prepared, reasonably priced, and, as said, courteously served food, on a menu with resounding names like 'catfish fillet' - but if they'd served it to me as 'chicken breast' or 'schnitzel', I'd have believed them too, and you just don't want to hear that the staff is working it's ass off, in a place where you pay for the food: you want to notice this. All of which does no detriment to the fact that we, of the Wandelsoc., can recommend Erica to you, should you go around looking for food in St. Hubert/Mill: because a bad time, as said, you will not have there, and I am, moreover, under the impression that there was a lot of strangeness in play, to which I can relate, since it's quite something, when the Wandelsoc. comes down on one's establishment. We, the Wandelsoc., therefore had a good time there, while Dick, by way of his GPS, calculated for us that we'd stamped away 39 kilometres, today.
And because of that, too, we concluded this first stage of our winter curriculum (as opposed to the summer season with the official marches), contentedly. To your health, gentlemen, ladies, excellent walking there. Aachen awaits. |