A quiet Sunday. Sun, lots of wind and cold! The roses in the garden are in full bloom, especially the dark purple ones which I had not expected to survive. In fact one of the more ordinary pink roses has died, and the other one is not in bloom yet, although it has formed buds. The service this morning was quiet too, half the congregation having gone to Amsterdam to witness the blessing of a new pastor in a Dutch protestant church, a popular retired church member who studied theology after being made redundant and has begun a new career, or rather followed his vocation. The hymns in The Hague were all traditional and beautiful. No mission songs or Kendrick songs, which I actually dislike during a church service. It was all about the good shepherd, and so was the anthem.

Yesterday I went to Veenendaal, amongst other things to collect a dinner set in my father's apartment. It was quiet, but it looked as if he could come in any time. I felt he would be glad to see me. If he had lived, he would have urged me to take him on a drive to see the flowering trees, the bright green grass, the chestnuts in full bloom with their white and red "candles", the beech trees with their translucent reddish and yellow-green leaves, and the river, the sun sparkling on the water which is very low because of this long spell of dry weather, which we like, but the farmers don't. I went to his grave, to see if the stone had been replaced bearing his name. It had, his letters brighter and newer than those spelling my mother's name. It is odd to think he and my mother are there, and I do not feel close to him there. A dead body is just that, not the personality he once was and will remain for me and the people who loved him. His paintings, his writings and his organ which he played every day mornings and evenings before going to sleep, are all more him than anything else. So I feel that here in my living room, where his organ – two manuals and a full pedal - is now, he is closer to me than anywhere else. And he would have approved. When I looked through his photo albums which were very carefully labelled and organised, I was moved by an album in which he had put pictures of the weddings of each of his children. Of my youngest brother of both his weddings. Fortunately he had not torn out the pictures of his first wedding. But also of my wedding, although my parents did not attend it as they were dead against it. Nevertheless the pictures were there, without any comment, plus the invitation cards. Somehow or other he is still so close to me and I can't imagine or grasp he is no longer among us. He is in spirit. But it is so quiet now, not speaking to him on the telephone every night, just telling me about his often uneventful day, the meals he had, the people who came to see him, most days just caretakers, although he had many friends. I do miss that. Gradually I feel truly orphaned and widowed, a loose end, not belonging to anyone, even if I know that people never belong to anyone, but may only be attached to another person, at best through the bond of love, of children, of family. Yes, I have brothers and a sister, but they all have their own families now. They are each and every one of them not just parents but grandparents and have busy lives. To Dutch standards they live rather far away from me too. And they have no clue about how I live, what I do. Perhaps I do not really know what they do all day either.

                The graveyard is a nice and quiet park, an old sand hill in the middle of the peat, the river valley,  on which Veenendaal , as the name so aptly suggests, is built. It is big, beautifully kept and has a lot of old trees. Not a bad place to be, a peaceful garden of remembrance.

                So thinking about all that I water and tie my roses, ramblers which tend to flop in all directions. I have to lead and guide them, very carefully, so that they grow well, cover my wall and are happy. They even smell in the evening, an intoxicating smell similar to the smell of the wild roses which grow in the dunes, on very sandy soil.

Lier, a Belgian jewel

Easter Monday, a warm summer's day. Lier seems asleep, just as the surrounding countryside, as flat as Holland, as untidy as only Belgium can be, the houses and buildings haphazardly placed as if a giant has emptied a box with toys from high up in the sky, not caring where things fell. In the midst of this, hidden by a green belt, we discover Lier, a jewel. The sun reflects on the water of the river Nete, cyclists enjoy the small dikes forbidden for cars and motorized traffic. We park the car just outside the small market town, in the shade of a wide, tree lined road. It is only a short walk along the narrow cobbled streets to the huge church, in size and importance a cathedral, one of the few buildings which weren't destroyed in the First World War when the Germans almost razed Lier to the ground as it impeded their march towards Antwerp. The Saint Gummarus[1] is closely surrounded by houses, its tower visible from afar. It is a beautiful example of the Gothic style which was then at its peak. Building began in 1378 and it took some 250 years to complete the church. The church is partly hidden from view by scaffolding.  Some of the outer walls have already been cleaned and are blindingly white, whereas the south walls still have a greyish colour and the statues and ornaments decorating the walls are in places chipped and crumbling.

         We are here to see the choir stalls and the famous medieval stained glass windows. Alas, inside the church restoration is also in full swing judging by the sheets of plastic, the dust, the dishevelled choir and the scaffolding. The famous glass has been removed, the windows boarded up. The wooden choir stalls have been moved to the sides, robbed of their special lanterns, the miserecordia's covered in dusty cobwebs. It is impossible to photograph them, unless I trespass and step over the thick red rope closing off the choir, and lift the wooden seats of the pews one by one. It is dark in this part of the church. A triptych by Rubens of which only the two side panels are said to be original, the main panel a replica, is hidden behind a big wooden box. If we had not known it should be somewhere in this church, we would have missed it completely. We can hardly imagine what the choir will look like when the windows will be put in place after the restoration and the light will stream into this part of the church again through the beautiful windows, when the choir stalls will be where they should be, the lanterns back on top. Now everything is covered in a thin layer of cement dust. The side-chapels which encircle the choir like petals, contain splendid works of art, triptychs decorated with gold leaf, the blue and red still vividly bright; a Piëta dating back to the 15^th century; art which has been placed here and there without any further thought or plan. It looks like an old antiques and bric-a-brac fair, full of exciting and unexpected treasures in hidden corners, dusty and neglected.

         The nave of the church is filled with light, and the beautifully carved baroque pulpit bathes in it. The most impressive part is the sculptured choir screen, looking like intricate lacework, separating the nave from the choir.  It was made in 1536 by a sculptor from Mechelen, then the capital of that region. A guide, an elderly man, takes us to a side chapel which he opens with a large key. Inside he shows us crates in which the stained glass windows have been carefully packed to be taken away for restoration. They have been sitting there for a long time, he tells us. And they are supposed to be ready in 2012. His tone betrays his doubts.

         He enjoys the questions my companion keeps asking him, and when the church closes at midday, he offers to show us the most important sights of Lier. Bike in one hand, he guides us through narrow alleys and cobbled streets, past former monasteries and nunneries, past the Timmermans Museum, dedicated to the well-known author Felix Timmermans who lived in Lier, to the Beguinage.

         The Beguinage is totally enchanting. It is very quiet and sleepy, a village of its own, just on the periphery of the town. The whitewashed houses are almost blinding in the midday sun. They have no numbers but sweet sounding names, such as 't Soete Naemken, and de gestolen live vrouw. (The Sweet Name, and the stolen kind woman.) They vary in style, size and decoration and must have been built in different periods. In the middle of the Beguinage, in a sundrenched square, stands a big Baroque church the front of which could easily belong to a church in Portugal or Mexico. The church is locked, because of petty theft as we are told later. A pity, as the interior seems to be worth a visit. Many of the little houses are rented out, others are empty awaiting restoration. I feel a stab of jealousy when a young woman puts her bike against the wall of one of the little houses and turns a key in the lock of the front door. It must be wonderful to live here. Our guide tells us that the two gates, one leading into the town, the other one opening to the banks of the Nete, were still locked every night when he was a boy.

         We thank our guide, who is obviously very pleased that we were so interested in everything he loved to tell us, and wave him goodbye when he mounts his bike and goes on his way. We turn our attention to more mundane things and find a sidewalk cafe with a view of the well-known Zimmer Tower and a metal flock of sheep, referring to the rich past of Lier, enjoying the view as well as the Belgian specialities.

         An inhabitant of the Beguinage whom we talk to on our second walk through the area, tells us that the Beguinage started out in the Middle Ages as the red light district. The wool industry was very important in Lier, and water was needed to process the wool. To prevent the water within the town to be contaminated, a block of houses was built just outside the town where young farmer's daughters lived who were entrusted with the task of washing the dirty wool. In the evenings they offered other services. It was not until the 16th century that pious and unmarried women came to live here. I do not know if all the beguinages started out as houses of pleasure, or if this just applies to Lier. The one in Lier is a world heritage site, which honour however does not imply provision of the necessary funds for its upkeep. Money comes from other funds and sources, which is the cause of endless bureaucratic disputes and nightmares. Meanwhile the restoration progresses very slowly and many of the delectable houses are falling into disrepair while remaining uninhabited. It could be a haven for artists, writers and recluses.

         Reluctantly we take our leave of the Beguinage and explore the rest of Lier: the market square with the Town Hall and the many street cafe's; the wide river Nete streaming through Lier and joining another branch which embraces Lier. The dikes along the river, bordered on both sides by trees showing their young, bright green foliage, are free of traffic and perfect for walking. Young parents with prams, old people, arm in arm, a walking stick in their free hand, lovebirds oblivious of their surroundings, children on coloured bicycles, they all enjoy the coolness of the shady banks, parading here as if they are Italians on the leafy walls of Lucca. A few boats with tourists drift noiselessly by, the only sound the voices of the guides who point out through microphones the passing sights and points of interest. On a bench under the blossoming chestnut trees we let them sail by, lazily enjoying this day.

         Later in the afternoon the town fills with people. The sunny street cafe's are packed, so much so that we can only find a table with great difficulty. Young and old, cyclists and loiterers, friends and families, gather here at the end of the day to enjoy the sun, Belgian beer and the staple food: chips. And so do we, before setting off for home.

        

photo's

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[1]  Saint Gummarus

"Schoon Lier", in Dutch this time!

Tweede Paasdag, een warme zomerdag. Lier slaapt, evenals het land er omheen, plat zoals Nederland, rommelig zoals alleen België maar kan zijn. In dit land ligt Lier verscholen, een klein juweel, omgeven door een groene gordel. De zon schittert op het water van de Nete, geruisloos volgen fietsers de smalle dijken, verboden terrein voor auto's. We parkeren de auto net iets buiten het stadje, onder de bomen. Via nauwe straatjes, geplaveid met kasseien, is het een korte wandeling naar de enorme kerk, een van de weinige gebouwen die niet verwoest zijn in de Eerste Wereldoorlog, toen de Duitsers Lier plat walsten, een obstakel in hun opmars naar Antwerpen. De Sint Gummaruskerk[1] ligt ingeklemd tussen huizen, de toren van verre zichtbaar. Het is een voorbeeld van Brabantse hooggotiek. Men begon in 1378 met de bouw, om die ruim 250 jaar later te voltooien. In 1496 werd het huwelijk van Philips de Schone met Johanna van Castilië hier ingezegend. De kerk staat gedeeltelijk in de steigers. Een deel van de muren is verblindend wit, de stenen te glad geschuurd. De zuidgevel is nog grauwgrijs en ornamenten zijn afgebrokkeld.

         We komen speciaal voor de koorbanken en de gebrandschilderde ramen in het koor. Helaas, ook van binnen wordt de kerk gerestaureerd. De beroemde middeleeuwse ramen zijn weggenomen, de openingen dichtgetimmerd met planken. De koorbanken staan slordig naar de zijkanten geschoven. Spinrag hangt aan de neus van een leeuwenkop, een van de miserecordia's. Er is geen schijn van kans dat ik ze kan fotograferen, tenzij ik wederrechterlijk over het gespannen rode koord heenstap en de zittingen een voor een optil. Het koor is donker. Een drieluik van Rubens waarvan alleen de zijpanelen origineel zijn, staat verscholen opgesteld achter een houten stellage. We kunnen ons maar nauwelijks voorstellen hoe het koor eruit zal zien als de restauratie voltooid is en het licht volop zal binnen stromen door de beroemde ramen, de koorbanken weer in de normale opstelling zullen staan voorzien van de unieke lantaarns. Alles is bedekt met een sluier van fijn cementstof. In de zijkapellen, die als bloembladeren het koor omkransen, treffen we prachtige kunstwerken aan, drieluiken versierd met bladgoud, het blauw en rood nog fel en stralend. Een Piëta uit de 15^e eeuw, kunstwerken die wat achteloos neergezet lijken. Het doet denken aan een grote rommelmarkt, vol verrassende vondsten op onverwachte plekken, stoffig en verwaarloosd.

         Het schip van de kerk baadt in het licht, zodat we de fraaie barokke houten preekstoel kunnen bewonderen. Het meest indrukwekkend is het gebeeldhouwde doksaal, de afscheiding tussen koor en schip. Het is in 1536 gemaakt door Mechelse beeldhouwers, een wonder van kantwerk. Een wat oudere gids neemt ons mee naar een zijkapel die hij met een grote sleutel opent. Hier staan de ramen uit het koor opgeslagen, in vierkante kisten, klaar om gerestaureerd te worden. Ze staan er al erg lang, vertelt hij. En in 2012 moeten ze klaar zijn. Ongeloof klinkt door in zijn stem. Hoe meer vragen mijn metgezel stelt, hoe enthousiaster hij wordt, en als de kerk omstreeks het middaguur sluit, biedt hij aan ons rond te leiden langs de bekendste bezienswaardigheden van Lier. Met de fiets aan de hand gidst hij ons door nauwe straatjes, langs oude kloosters en het Timmermans Museum, gewijd aan de beroemde schrijver van deze stad Felix Timmermans, naar het Begijnhof.

         Het hof is wonderschoon, slaperig en doodstil, een dorp op zich, aan de rand van Lier, destijds buiten het centrum gelegen. De zon schijnt fel op de witgekalkte huisjes die namen dragen als "'t Soete Naemken", en "de gestolen live vrouw". De huizen verschillen nogal in grootte, stijl en bouw. In het midden, op een zondoorstoofd plein, een kerk met een barokke gevel die je zo in Portugal of Italië zou kunnen plaatsen. Helaas is de kerk gesloten omdat er veel kunstwerken uit de kerk gestolen zijn. Jammer, want het interieur schijnt de moeite waard te zijn. Een gedeelte van het hof wordt gerenoveerd. Veel huisjes staan leeg in afwachting van restauratie. de rest is verhuurd. Met enige afgunst kijk ik naar een jonge vrouw die haar fiets tegen een huisje zet en de sleutel in het slot steekt. De gids vertelt ons dat de twee poorten, een aan de stadskant en een die toegang geeft tot de Nete, in zijn jeugd 's avonds nog gesloten werden.

         We nemen afscheid van onze gids die zichtbaar tevreden is dat hij zijn verhaal aan ons kwijt kon, en zoeken een plek om te lunchen. Op het terras met uitzicht op de Zimmer toren en een metalen kudde schapen, een verwijzing naar het rijke verleden van Lier, laten we ons de Belgische specialiteiten goed smaken.

         Een bewoner van het hof die we spreken op een tweede wandeling, vertelt ons dat het Begijnhof in de middeleeuwen in feite de rosse buurt was. Lier leefde van de lakenindustrie evenals Leiden. Daarvoor was water nodig. Om het water in de stad niet te vervuilen, werd een wijkje gebouwd buiten de stad waar boerenmeiden woonden die de wol wasten. 's Avonds zorgden ze voor ander vertier. Pas in de 16^e eeuw kwamen hier ongehuwde, vrome vrouwen te wonen. Of de overgang van rosse buurt naar Begijnhof alleen voor Lier gold, vermeldt het verhaal niet. Het Beginhof in Lier staat op de UNESCO werelderfgoedlijst, dat overigens niet zorgt voor fondsen om het hof daadwerkelijk te onderhouden. Die moeten van andere instanties komen, wat geleid heeft tot een bureaucratische nachtmerrie, impasse en leegstand. Het autoloze hof  lijkt een droomwereld, een oase voor kunstenaars en rustzoekers.

         We rukken ons maar met moeite los en verkennen de rest van Lier: de markt met het stadhuis en de vele terrassen, het brede water van de Nete dat door Lier stroomt en dat uitkomt op de tak van de Nete die Lier omgeeft. Op de aarden wallen, omzoomd door bomen die in jong felgroen blad staan, is het goed wandelen. Jonge ouders met kinderwagens, oudjes arm in arm, in de vrije hand een wandelstok, verliefde stellen, kinderen op kleurige fietsjes, alles komt voorbij en geniet van de koelte en de stilte. Opvallend is de afwezigheid van verkeer. We zijn bijna vergeten hoe weldadig dat kan zijn. De stadswallen doen me denken aan Lucca in Toscane, een totaal andere stad, maar ook omgeven door lommerrijke stadwallen waar het heerlijk toeven en flaneren is, weg van de hitte van de stad. Een paar fluisterboten met wat toeristen varen voorbij, het enige geluid de stem van de gidsen die via een microfoon wijzen op bezienswaardigheden en vertellen over de geschiedenis van de stad en de gebouwen die ze passeren. Op een bankje aan de kade onder de bloeiende kastanjebomen laten we ze aan ons voorbij glijden, loom genietend van deze dag.

         Later in de middag wordt het drukker. De zonovergoten terrassen stromen vol, zo vol zelfs dat we slechts met moeite een plaatsje kunnen vinden. Jong en oud, horden fietsers en slenteraars, beëindigen de dag hier in de zon, genietend van Belgisch bier en grote porties frieten. Zo ook wij, voor we weer vertrekken richting Nederland.

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[1]  Sint Gummarus

Meer foto's

Good Friday

It is weird to wake up on Good Friday by loud pop music, coming from the sports fields of the school opposite. The school celebrates an important anniversary and has organised some festivities for pupils and former pupils. The noise gets worse and worse. All pupils assemble in the middle of the field. I notice they have chalked lines on the grass, probably characters or numbers, and the pupils are requested to gather strictly within the confines of the lines. They all wear white, red and blue and Christmas hats. They are tightly packed together. I do not realise what is going on till a small lightweight plane starts circling overhead and instructions are blaring out of the loudspeakers. The pupils start waving their red and fur trimmed hats while the small plane keeps circling lower and lower. And then it is over. They disperse, the red, white and blue dilutes. The plane disappears from view. Then the beat gets louder and any attempt at conversation in my the garden is drowned out by the noise. No Christian school would ever organise an event like this on Good Friday. Society has grown away so far from the Christian feast days that most people don't even know why they are given a day off. Any free day is an excuse for a party.

It is a warm summer's day again, and people who still wore winter coats and boots last week, now appear in sleeveless summer dresses and sandals. Last year at Easter we had a late snowfall! Now we are having the highest temperatures at Easter time since 1901, according to the weatherman.

At midday I drive to The Hague for a short choir practice before we enter the church to sing during the last hour of a three hour service. The choir has practised till late last night, but since I went to the St. Matthew Passion, I couldn't rehearse with them. Fortunately I know the music well. It is very hot in our heavy robes of man-made fibre. The sun is brilliant and seems to mock the solemnity of the occasion. We sing three anthems, the congregation joining us for the traditional hymns. The singing is alternated with Bible readings, meditations and prayers. One of the anthems we sing is "Surely, surely, He has born our griefs and carried our sorrows", from Händel's Messiah. We only sang the first part during the service. King's College Choir Cambridge of course does a better job, but we didn't do badly at all.

Palestrina's O Saviour of the World, and Turn the unto me o Lord by William Boyce (1710-1779) were the other two anthems.

After the service I take a couple of friends from Leyden home, and we have drinks in my garden. At 4 in the afternoon it is too hot to sit in the sun, but the leaves on the climbers over the pergola and on trees are not yet big enough to provide shade, and I have not had a chance to set up the sun umbrella's. We enjoy cool drinks of beer and cider. Later I take my friends to the station, one to catch a train home, two to take the bus. On my way back I pop in for some provisions, as the shops close early on Good Friday. Most church services traditionally are in the evening.

Being alone that evening I think of my father. He was looking forward to Spring, to the new buds and the young leaves on shrubs and trees. To the bright sunshine and all the blossoming trees. To trips out in my car to see the beauty of the light on the river, the cows in the fields again, the grass, almost fluorescent green after the dullness of winter. Being an artist at heart he enjoyed the colours, but especially the light and what light does to the things we see. He could catch the light in his paintings, something I try to do by taking pictures, which is not half as efficient a medium as painting. Photography cannot play the tricks on us paintings can. Pictures  catch the truth, freeze the truth, paintings show us something different: not only the truth, but what we personally see, our perception of reality, which is subjective and more than the truth. Photoshop might be the new means of achieving something similar, but it can never be as expressive as a painting, which is an artistic representation of what we think we see, or of the way we see things. 

Maundy Thursday

Every year from childhood on I have attended a concert/performance of the St. Matthew Passion by J.S. Bach. As a child we would go to the try-out the evening before the concert. It cost us next to nothing, and although sometimes part of an aria, which to us children seemed very long already, was not to the conductor's liking and had to be repeated, at least we heard the whole Passion life. It was amazing to us to see the boys who seemed to have dropped down straight out of heaven with their angelic voices, shouting and running around outside during the interval or before the concert, using language which was strictly forbidden at home and in school.

Since a number of years friends buy me a ticket to go with them to the Passion in the Pieterskerk in Leiden, a fabulous gothic church. It is one of the best known performances, sung by professionals and accompanied by a selection of musicians from the Concertgebouw Orchestra in Amsterdam. The tickets are expensive, so I am very grateful for this gift. This year they could not attend, but they bought me a ticket anyway. It is always freezing cold when the St.Matthew Passion is performed in the Pieterskerk, people dressing up in boots to prevent their feet from turning into blocks of ice, wrapping comforters around their necks because of the draught. This time, for the first time in my life, it is a warm summer's day and the church is very hot. Women are sitting in sleeveless summer dresses and men ask permission to take off their jackets. It is a relief to be able to go outside during the interval to get some fresh air.

The Passion is always very moving. I just do not understand why the tempo has increased so much during the past decade or so, so much so that the soloists hardly get a chance to use the full potential and warmth of their voices. It is as if they want to go home as quickly as possible and get it done and over with, which is such a pity. Nobody longs back for the slow pace of 30 or 40 odd years ago, but this is extreme. One of the cellists complained about it. He could hardly keep up with the singers.

I sit next to a man who knows a lot about the orchestra and likes to gossip. He points out a beautiful elderly violinist, a woman with a shock of grey hair, pinned high up in a loose bun. She looks very elegant."One of Haitink's mistresses", he whispers.  "And I can tell you more", which he doesn't.

I have brought my score as I like to follow the music closely. As soon as the interval begins he says: "Any mistakes?" He makes me laugh.

For the first time in my life I cycle into Leiden without a coat, and I do not even need it when I cycle back at 23.15. It is a balmy night, a summer night, and quiet in the streets. The music goes on, all the way towards home, the haunting aria's which I know by heart and could sing if I only had that voice. They never bore me, always move me, more than any sermon about the passion of Christ could ever do.

Here one of the aria's sung by a formerly well-known Dutch alto.

"Bloesemtocht" along the river Linge

All of a sudden summer has arrived, weeks earlier than usual. Around May 5^th it is safe to buy annuals, fill hanging baskets and troughs with colourful geraniums and pelargoniums. The nights can still be very nippy and night frosts, not uncommon, would damage early planted flowers irreparably. But now, although it is only mid April, the temperatures are soaring, reaching 25-28 degrees centigrade, a temperature we do not even often get in midsummer. Everything has burst into flower all at once. The Japanese cherry trees, the dark purple lilacs, the lighter coloured wisteria, almost transparent, intoxicating us with their perfume at dusk. Rose buds are swelling. Green fly and ants appear out of nowhere. Yesterday the trees only had hesitant buds, today they are in full leaf, even the oak trees and the beech trees with their young copper coloured and their almost fluorescent green leaves. In the "Betuwe", our Dutch "orchard", the white blossom of the pear trees are still there while the pink rimmed blossoms of the apple trees show themselves in full glory. It is very unusual that everything blossoms at the same time.

So it is a perfect time for a bicycle trip along the Linge, a very picturesque and narrow river meandering south of Rotterdam. Contrary to the big rivers, the Maas and the Rijn, this river is not navigable and only small pleasure boats can use it, canoes and rowing boats. I enlist a friend and put both our bikes on the rack behind my car. We decide to go on a day in the middle of the week, as in the weekend it will be very busy indeed, especially since the Easter weekend is approaching, when everybody will be free. Besides, the weather forecast is absolutely wonderful. And with those high temperatures, the blossoms do not last long.

When we arrive at Beesd, our starting point, we are surprised to find a special parking area just outside the small town. What surprises us even more is that it is almost completely full. The grey population of Holland is obviously still fit. They all have racks behind their cars and are in different stages of unloading their bikes. It is almost hilarious! So much for a midweek day! So many 65 plus couples, it is just unbelievable. Of course we feel we do not belong, after all we are still fair haired and dark haired, with only a beginning trace of grey. Till we realise that we do belong, that all those couples are more or less representative of our own age group. It comes as a shock. On the bright side we realise that they are all fit and kicking, fit enough to ride bikes. The invention of the electric bike has obviously greatly increased the number of grey-haired cyclists. A battery helps one to push if necessary, so a person with stiff joints, painful knees, arthritis and what not, even with a heart condition, can still cycle using as much effort as they can muster. So a wife can happily and without much effort keep up with her husband who may be slaving away and working out.

In the cafe on the main street, lined with espalier trees, the knotted trunks forming a stark contrast with the fresh green leaves, we all meet for a coffee and Dutch apple pie with cream before mounting our bikes. After all we are going to work out, so cream is allowed today. Every one of us seems determined to enjoy this day.

The area is stunningly beautiful. Although wedged in between a railway line and busy roads, along this river which stretches from East to West it is a haven of peace. Many parts of Holland used to be like this: quaint villages with their own windmill and church and town hall, huddled against the body of the dike which has to protect them from the river, the roofs often thatched. The windows of the bedrooms on the second floor look out across the dike towards the river. The living room on the first floor has views of the orchards, fields and estates on the other side. The cottages seem to lean against the narrow and winding dikes. Cycling there is wonderful, looking out to both sides: to the river as well as  to the orchards where the apple trees are celebrating a glorious wedding. The verges along the aptly named "Apple Dike" are yellow with dandelions and laced with early flowering horse parsley. These villages are mostly protestant, and very royalist. Some are already decorated and spruced up for the official Queen's birthday on April 30^th, festooned in orange, red, white and blue.

When we see a picnic  table in a grassy common, we stop to have our sandwiches. Two couples join us. Obviously they are enjoying the day like we are. We talk, laugh and they crack jokes. Eventually my friend exchanges his carton of apple juice for one of their boiled eggs, produced this very morning by their own chickens. Apparently my friend looks so needy, that they offer him the second egg as well, free of charge, adding that he might need them more than they do, being younger! Anyway, we are all having fun, and meeting them adds something extra to the day.

We make a short detour through a very attractive estate, Heerlijkheid Mariënwaerdt, once long ago probably an abbey or monastery, given the names of the sheds and outbuildings, but I am not sure about its history. Since 1743 it has been in the possession of the same family. The big house is surrounded by parkland and woods, stretching towards the river on one side. It is now in use as a conference centre, but the estate also has many working fruit farms. A shop in one of the farms sells biological produce, juices, honey, cider, fruit etc.

The churches in the different villages are unusual. Most of them date back to the 14^th century, but often only the tower or the lower part of the tower still goes back so far in time, and the churches were rebuilt at a later date. The old ones were of course built as Roman Catholic churches, but became protestant after the Reformation.

In Acquoy, a lovely small village, we come across a church with a most unusual, detached tower, which is hanging over to one side. The difference seems to be 1.15 meters! The church behind it which was rebuilt, is in fact not more than a choir, positioned with its back to the tower. Most odd. In this churchyard directly near the tower is the grave of the wife of a minister, named Cornelia Pisa! Quite appropriate! Besides this church, there are also very picturesque dike houses worth seeing and a village pump.

We also pay a quick visit to Asperen, a small fortified town within a chain of fortified towns and strongholds through Holland. Asperen has a big church, which burnt down twice and was rebuilt in the original style. The tower survived. We are lucky, because the church is open in preparation for a wedding, and so we can admire the beautiful organ and the very sober but architecturally imposing interior. A few ornamental oak pews are also interesting.

We cross the river to the north side and stop for a drink in Fort Asperen, just outside Asperen, built as part of the Dutch Water Line. Although the many cyclists have not bothered us at all, because cycling is a noiseless pastime, it becomes quieter towards the evening. We head eastwards via a very narrow dirt road on top of the dike along the Linge. The beauty about these dikes is that they do not attract cars, except cars and tractors from locals and farmers. Besides long stretches of the dike are closed for cars as they are far too narrow. So cycling is a real pleasure.

We admire some more houses, lots of apple blossom, the winding river, the warm evening light on the fields, a few more churches, till we are back in Beesd, where we end up in the same cafe with many of our fellow cyclists. Unfortunately the chips and the piece of cardboard posing as chicken are not half as good as the apple pie we had in the morning, but it is the only cafe we can find. And who cares if at 7 in the evening it is still warm enough to have a meal at a table on the side walk.

When we drive back the sun sets, a big red ball.


Here you'll find some more pictures of this Linge trip.

Fading...

Entering a house which is no longer lived in is a strange experience. It seems dead. But why? The furniture is still in its place, nothing much has changed. However, there are no flowers, no living pot plants in the windows. The kitchen seems far too tidy. No newspapers or magazines  litter the table and chairs; no pens and notebooks, no mail, postcards or family pictures. The electronic organ has disappeared, which has robbed the room of its soul. There is still soap in the bathroom and there are even pictures on the walls, but no welcoming smells of coffee, of a fried breakfast. No soaked prunes in the little glass jar near the sink. The heating is off, it is strangely cool in spite of the warm spring weather. We bring our own sandwiches, our own coffee. We go through our parents' possessions, finding things we did not expect nor want, missing things we need to have but can't find. Clothes are piled up on the bed, ready to be packed and sent off to Rumenia. There are plastic bags for things we will throw away as they have no value for anybody at all. There are the things each of us is interested in: the silver trinkets which we love but don't want to polish, the beautiful china which can't be put in the dishwasher but has to be cleaned manually. The china ornaments and fascinating Chinese vases or pots, richly decorated in gold and blue. Nobody welcomes us, nobody tells us he is glad to see us. It seems cruel to throw out things which the parents liked and valued, as if by doing so we say that what they liked was not worth liking. It seems like a judgement. We see our mother's hand lovingly cherishing some china sculpture, admiring it. We see her filling the room with fresh flowers, arranging them so that their colours brighten the room. She opens net curtains, lets in the sun, the light. She rearranges pillows, tidies the windowsills, looks at all the ornaments she likes. Gradually that image fades while we break down the world she so carefully built for my father and herself. We are on our own now, and will grow further apart since our parents no longer unite us, no longer are a pivotal point.