Wetlands, reeds, bogs and churches

A choir-free Sunday. So I decided at last to pay a visit to family in the North. What attracted me most was the route through that part of the country. I had hoped for a clear and bright morning, but when I got up, the sport fields in front of my house were wrapped in a milky mist. Last time that happened I did not go on the trip I had planned and was sorry for it as the weather cleared in the course of the day. And so indeed it did today. A feeling of excitement, of discovery took hold of me. I love driving on a Sunday when the roads are free of trucks and heavy vehicles. The world seems quieter, almost serene, as the feverish rush of workday traffic is absent. Going through the flat parts of the west it grew gradually brighter, till the sun shone in all its glory. It was cold, very cold for this time of year. Spring seemed far away. The rows of trees on the horizon lining invisible roads were delicately drawn against the sky, their branches outlined as if by a fine pen, showing no signs of buds yet. There was a certain beauty in it. Also the light is so unusual when the trees are still bare, so clear and pure. There was no wind whatsoever, quite a relief and a miracle in this country after what seemed like weeks of icy cold winds from the east, making the temperature seem even lower than it already was. Driving through the polders, the flat land reclaimed from the former sea, I seemed to drive through a land completely at peace. The many modern windmills dwarfed the lines of trees on the horizon. They were enjoying their Sunday rest and did not move at all, not even slightly, something I had never witnessed before in this flat land which is so seldom without wind. They looked like lazy ballet dancers on strike, still holding their elegant pose. Crossing the water the lake was like a perfect mirror , a silver sliver reflecting electricity masts which even seemed beautiful in this pearly morning light.

Once I left the new land and entered the 'old' land I was filled with happiness. This is still the Dutch countryside as it used to be: small winding dikes which formerly followed the shore of the Zuiderzee and the banks of rivers, streams and canals, old farmhouses, huddling under their red tiled or thatched roofs, pitch black soil where the reeds had been harvested and which were waiting for new growth, bundles of reeds, cut in winter, shrubs struggling to survive in the moorland, old oak trees with knotted trunks, firmly rooted, wide open vistas, with farmhouses on the horizon. There were many birds and water fowls, a stork on a high nest, its beak in its own feathers hiding from the cold, some horses , a rare donkey, and many geese. Everything seemed eagerly to be waiting for spring, which this year has kept us waiting far too long.

I followed minor roads, small dikes with the occasional low lying reed and peat workers' cottages, now much sought after holiday homes. The only traffic were hikers and cyclists, well wrapped up. The bushels of reeds seemed made of burnished gold in the low light.

Leaving this fascinating land, a land which must know tales of witches and ghosts, a land of mists and treacherous bogs, mysterious hovels with mossy roofs, I meandered though small villages, in search of old churches and wooden bell towers. Unfortunately many churches are no longer used and seem to go to ruin. Some are now used for venues, parties and chamber music concerts, eg. the church at Peperga, the Peter Stuyvesant Church, others are just neglected.

Peperga

The Peter Stuyvesant church has a remarkable stone tower, which seems far too grand, high and wide for the small church it is attached to. Black crows were circling around the top of the tower, a perfect lookout point. Peter Stuyvesant, born in Peperga, was the son of a Dutch minster, worked for the West Indian Company and played an important role in what was New Amsterdam and now is New York. He died in New York in 1672.

 Vinkega

 

A church which is falling to ruins is the church at Vinkega, which was built in 1899, used as an artist studio after closure and is now empty and falling to pieces. However, there is hope as the path towards the church which is rather hidden in between two farmhouses, has been restored. It is now a nice lane bordered by old and gnarled trees. It took me some time to find it though. Two fat cows in a bordering field looked at me curiously while lazily lying in the rough grass.

 Noordwolde

Grave stone of the Bell ringer of Noordwolde

This part of "Friesland", West Stellingwerff, has many interesting villages. Some of the churches have wooden bell towers, standing apart from the brick churches. Sometimes the bell towers might be old, and the churches uninteresting and relatively new, dating only from the beginning of the 20^th century. Sometimes both church and bell tower date back to the 14^th century. I took lots of pictures. This is a country where one could spend  weeks exploring on foot the many small settlements and towns, history book in hand. Street names indicate that there must have been many monasteries and nunneries in this area, but they are hard to trace.

 Boyl

 "leaning" gravestones

At last I arrived at my destination, my relatives, the end of my trip, on my way there distracted by many picturesque houses and small holdings for sale. After a nice dinner and a happy evening I began my two hour drive back home through the darkening land, very satisfied with my day away and determined to go back to that area soon.

Elsloo, double bell tower