| What are we doing?
November 28th, 2004 Across the Netherlands from Top to Toe: Ysselsteyn-Velden The scales, from your eyes. Which was to be expected. Every Dutchman who's undergone a naturalization course or primary school, knows that Limburg is a pretty province. So that today would become a nice stage of 'Across the Netherlands from Top to Toe', was obvious. This had been a different affair the last time over. But just like that last time, we were again surprised, nonetheless, by the extent to which that beauty made itself felt. 
We, this time, were Henk van der Schelden, Marco van Zijntergen, Albert van Geyningen, Raymond de Gisser, Lourens Dinger, Fred Regts, Jan Middelkoop, Barend Rijkman, Dick van Kuppevelt, Anita Willemsen, Bert van Prijzen, Marjon van Dijk, Pieter Spaan, the newly recruited Securicor-colleague of Henk and Raymond's, René van de Bilt, and yours truly. And because, as ever, we started where we'd ended the last time over, we did so in the De Peel Inn, where we were again warmly welcomed by the excellent staff, that, this time, didn't supply us with food and drinks, but with coffee. Which didn't mean that we didn't eat or drink, because Anita brought along apple pie (she'd namely just had her birthday, on November 2nd) and Pieter immediately began distributing Stroh rum.  Too merry for our own good, we therefore set off. God knew whereto, of course, or, better yet, Schèlden was supposed to know whereto: to Velden, namely. But before we were there, lots of things happened. And this immediately had a somewhat sobering effect. Because the first thing that happened (gift, by absence, of Peter Weij's, who had had this left for plan, as an extension of the previous endeavour, along the Peel-Raamstelling) was the Deutsche Soldatenfriedhof just outside Ysselsteyn.
 And it goes down hard, on an empty stomach. Endless rows of crosses make you think you're in Arlington, or in Verdun. And then conflicting emotions fight, for prevalence, inside. "Weeeeelll, we hit them harder than I'd thought" - and "But a shame this had to happen at all, of course". I overheard that all Dutch soldiers who fell in Holland during the Second World War are buried here - besides a small group from '14-'18. And if they are indeed all buried here, the number astounds, still. Endless rows of crosses marked 'Ein Deutscher Soldat'. Chilling.
Good thing, that the marchleader immediately diverted us, by, shortly after leaving the cemetery, trekking straight through a meadow and (heavy ploughing) a cornfield, with a ditch for dessert. Odd, though, that he managed to cross this ditch without clamour or trouble. How different, from the last time. And this while this time's ditch really was larger and wider than last time's. But, excellent action, again, this to the great amusement of René in particular, who was having a great time anyway, because he was, at last, among people who dared to take the piss out of Schelden continuously. 
A little later, we stopped at Griendtsveen, or in any case, at its edge, at another war monument. It wasn't entirely clear to us, at that time, to what, apart from the Second World War in general, it referred, but it later turned out, whilst researching on the Net, that Griendtsveen had been evacuated during the war. Right after that monument, we made our way, by way of an ostensible dead end, into nature reserve Mariapeel. And there, the scales loudly fell from our eyes. For this peat moor, along with Overijssel around the Besthmener and Sprengen mounds (see the report on stage 7), really is the most beautiful bit of Holland that we, as Wandelsoc., have trod upon so far. Silent marshland with dying birches, rising like sticks from borderless water water (the tufaformations in Hypgnosis' Mono-lake of Pink Floyd's 'Wish you were here' pale in comparison), vast solitude and quiet, a wild goose here and there: the Peel (pronounce: pale) as primaeval area, beautiful bit of the past. Suddenly those books by Toon Kortooms came alive: the stories of 'Beekman en Beekman' and, for me personally in particular, 'De zwarte plak' ('black slice', meaning 'of peat', but the word 'plak' also is a synonym for 'henpecked', meaning the way the Dutch were by the Germans), enchanting tale about the resistance in Limburg during the Second World War, penned in 1948 already(!). Outdoor adventure, of the better kind. Those Germans must have been driven to insanity: anything can disappear in these swamps. 
Beautiful, and it therefore wasn't even just because of Pieter Spaan's Glühwein (that he started to pass around here - I'm telling you, that man, alcoholically speaking, has utterly proper ideas!) that, as soon as we were out of this marshland, we took a much contented break to catch our breath. Following that, Friend van Prijzen had predicted that what would come now was ugly again, but none of that came true during the first few kilometres - so that I could pleasantly pester him by, time and again, shouting "It's not all too bad, the landscape here, Bert!", from his wake. Better yet, I then finally succeeded in taking his photograph while he was urinating ("You're gonna hear from my lawyer!"). Although that was also the moment in which I had to admit we had finally ended up in ugliness. "Jay-sus, Bert, this place is so ugly!" This, then again, was totally drawn into the gaudily preposterous by the suddenly materializing themepark Toverland (Magic Land) (sim-sala-tastic). Reason for a nice group portrait, in front of it. 
And that wasn't the end of the fun: Sevenum is alive, with it. Because apart from the endless pig farms (with the roguish logo of sow production company 'Cofok' as hilarious summum, and Martin Gaus' dog school as runner up), that, indeed, do definitely not enhance the landscape with their sheds and degassing chimneys, there was the excellent Café De Sevewaeg, in Sevenum's town centre, that sported the 'peasoup bun' on its menu. Bewildered because of this, I decided to order it, along with my usual beverage array of milk (no butter- available again), orange juice, coffee and beer. And I'll be damned! You don't believe your eyes! A real sphereshaped bun of sourbread finequality, with a liftable lid, and below it, in it therefore, actually steaming peasoup! That my late grandma from Zeist would not have bettered, to boot! A delicious experience, which we were in dire need of, mind you. 
Because thereupon, because of a performance of a local theatre company in the backroom, all hell broke loose: we were roughly pushed over by massing locals, and when we had finally escaped them, we found ourselves outside, in the pouring rain.  This then did produce funny pictures of ponchoed Socsillies, and otherwise, too, noone was about to get in a flurry because of it. Take, for instance, Albert. We hadn't well and true left Sevenum, prancing along down a treelined death trap (where, again, mongoloids passed us at ridiculous speeds; this seems to be habit in the Limburgian, because it happened during the previous episode too) or Albert said "Chielie! Got any cutlery on you?". "No!" "Yes you do, it's sticking out of your right pocket!" I'll say. The villain had, indeed, supplied me with a Sevewaegian set of utensils, without me noticing. And I wasn't the only victim. "Bert! Got a beer tankard on you, by chance?"
Not yet recovered from this sottery, we ran, just before the ferry to Velden, into a potatoe-machine! Dumbfounded, Marco van Zijntergen and Albert decided to activate the machine, to see what would it would produce. This turned out to be, for relatively little money, a sizable bag of potatoes! Bloody wonderful, and reason for Albert to happily carry it home. Well done, son. 
The ferry to Velden, thereupon, turned out to be the source of so much fun, in the pitchblack dark and pouring rain, that we spontaneously forgot about that rain. And this continued, as we tore into the village centre, loudly singing the Wandelsoc.-song. It must have been a terrifying racket.  In Restaurant 'De Chinese Muur' (Chinese Wall) we then hit the chow, and it was satisfactory. Because the quality was excellent, better for sure, than in the wokrestaurant of the same name in Plasmolen, where we had, to please Marco Neumann (who had, for march upon march, been nagging about a Chinese meal), dined at the end of leg 12. This Wall too, we therefore decided to level, to please Neumann, but that, in hindsight, turned out to be a pearl, before the swine: because Neumann wasn't with us at all, today. Dog breath (but oh, he did miss the utterly pleasant waitresses, his own fault)! Who was there, or in any case arrived there, was Ronald Fischer. He had not marched along at all today (nor had he the time before, by the way). This because he had scored a 22 year old girlfriend, and that girlfriend was Article 31 reformed, so that meant church twice on Sundays, and no marching for him. But it also had its advantages, and this was what Fischer had come to show us. "Guys, I'm really only here to show you my dick. Y'all really have no idea what a hard time it has with a girlfriend like that! Up yours!"
This, of course, was reason for merriment, which only increased as we moved up one establishment, to Café 'Het Wapen van Velden' (The Velden Arms), namely, and not only St. Nicolas passed by (what did that remind us of?), and not only Albert delighted us again ("Schelden! Shouldn't you unpack that lobster?"), but Fischer, at the end of a lavishly liquored night, also really did show us his dick! Weehee! Nothing out of the ordinary, by the by. Grossly exaggerated. Needs more work! 
Lavishly liquored, by the way, not in the least because Schelden made good on a promise here, by passing around drinks through tickets he'd prepared himself, beforehand. He'd thought of this to celebrate that we had reached Velden, but also that George Bush had been reelected (and he'd even made those tickets subject of a bet about that, in advance). Very nice, by itself, but oldfashionedly frenetic in its interpretation, of course. Because, as he had announced beforehand, those tickets bought you a beer, not a drink, apiece. So whoever desired to drink liquor, had to remember that each ticket was worth €1,30 (the price of a beer in the Velden Arms, utterly reasonable amount, of course) and then, according to Schelden, furnish the remainder on one's own.  When I had thereupon said that I would pass on his tickets, because it would mean less of a hassle for me, he threw a total fit and hollered that I should not ruin his party. Heeheehee. I didn't, of course, intend to ruin his party - and I therefore, having bought a vodka out of my own pocket, made a festive toast to John Kerry. After which, to make up for it all, I drank ticket beer for the rest of the night, and did after all congratulate Schelden with George's victory. One has to be above certain things, at times, in this life, eh.
It was a long time, before quiet returned, to Velden. To your health gentlemen, ladies, excellent walking there. Aachen awaits. |
