Winter? What Winter!

Good evening, my friends.
Today was a frosty, Winter's day. And I relished it, because tomorrow it will rain (again) and our Wetlands Winter will resume as usual: WET.

But will you take a look at this; isn't it lovely? My dog Gina and I took our usual morning walk along the cycle path  and the box hedge was decked out with tiny frosted edges.

So what, you Canadians, North-Americans, French, Germans, Russians and Scandinavians think. But you still experience genuine winter weather. We, Wetlanders, don't.

We haven't had a proper Winter since 2010/2011 and again 2011/2012. (Coo, that was a Winter, folks! I battled snow storms on my bicycle for weeks, seriously!)

This is my Erica, and if you watch very carefully and closely you can spot the hoarfrost on those tiny leaves as well.

My predominant thought was that it may very well be the only hoarfrost I will see this winter, so I'd better photograph it with my deficient Samsung. (I should start a crowd-funding project in order to obtain an iPhone. This Samsung is almost an ex-Samsung).

The thing is - I like a proper Winter. Not that I do any ice skating these days, those days are very much in my past. But I like the frost and snow. Not so much the ever present icy Northern or Easterly winds that will howl across the wetlands when there is a proper winter.

Come to think of it, the last time I did any ice skating was in 1995. Golly.

That was so much fun though! My husband, best friend Martin and I did the River Meije-Tour. Look it up on Google Earth, why don't you? A pretty-pretty little Dutch River which turned into a typical Dutch ice amusement park, with people alongside it turning their gardens into "koek-en-zopie" stands (food and drink) and Martin and me (never able to keep up with my athletic husband) having to duck underneath countless little bridges and Martin getting stuck there because of his too high bag pack and me collapsing in giggles on the ice due to too many Berenburgers (Dutch liquor) in my hot chocolate.

But. As I said already. The weather forecast for tomorrow is rain. All day. Damn.

Rotterdam Like You've Never Seen It Before! Beautiful!

Hi there!
Not a musical post as such (although the piano sounds fine), but one about the city where I was born and where I travel to to go to work.
I came across this by accident, idly surfing, and want to share it with you all, as it is

WONDERFUL

It was produced by Eric van Vuuren, and I hope he will not be cross with me for sharing it with you. But as he's posted it on FB originally I am fairly confident it will be okay.

Here it is.

Enjoy!!!!A bird's eye view of Rotterdam

Do Not Knock The Cello! Jodymoon's Atmospheric Music.

Hiya, good to see you again.
Jodymoon, Dutch duo-cum-occasional-quartet has been my constant companion for the past two years.
You will find two older posts about them in my post history line, but as I like them so much, I'd thought I'd do another one to help tide you over until their new CD is released in March 2015.

Bringing out a CD is a hazardous business, these days. Everybody either streams or downloads on the sly. Every musician I speak to tells me the same story. CD sales have dropped dramatically. You have to have something of a Don Quichote in you to continue trying to live off music.

Now, I am only a wanna-be-singer (and nothing wrong with that, eh? Far more realistic to be a wanna-be-singer than a wanna-be-native-American, in my view), so what do I know?

Well, I know what I like!

Jodymoon

The stupidest thing just happened: I uploaded this post and it disappeared!

Grumphhhhhh! Will try to write it again from memory. Here goes.

Using a cello on this already lovely song is a stroke of pure genius, and makes it gorgeous.  It was recorded in 2010, and is from the album "Who Are You  Now".

And I wanted you to hear this for two reasons:

first of all, Jodymoon is awesome live, and this track shows it. I cannot stress this enough:

THEY ARE AMAZING IN CONCERT!

Second, I wanted you to hear this cello.

Sure, there is a violin too, and it's great, but every self-respecting Celtic band uses a violin player (not that Jodymoon is a Celtic band!), but who ever uses a cello?

Ever since I saw them last year, I have loved the cello parts in their music. In fact, I have decided I am going to be a cello player in my next life.

All jesting aside, the cello is what makes their music so essentially Dutch. It is like our temperament. Moody. Melancholy. A bit dark.

I'll leave you with another live recording during that same session in 2010. Look them up on Facebook, Twitter etcetera. And buy that CD in March 2015! I like them so much, I'd hate them to stop playing because of lack of funds. And if you have the chance, GO SEE THEM LIVE!

Right. Enjoy!

Jodymoon again

(Bicycle Road Trip - Final Part) Taking a Train to Harderwijk? Not Likely!

Where the NS (the Dutch National Rail Service) f...s up, our heroine goes all Zen in Zwolle, de Zuiderzeeweg is 40 km long and the final destination is reached.

Taking a train whilst taking along a bicycle, is allowed in the Wetlands. So it was with a cheerful and optimistic mind that I wheeled Fietsje into Groningen Central Station on the Saturday morning.

I had just had rain shower number umpteen on my head, but was looking forward to a relaxed two hours on the train to Harderwijk. I had looked it up on Google, just to be sure, and yes, there definitely was a train to Harderwijk, going via Zwolle.

Fietsje and I had to wait a couple of minutes at the ticket machine, but I had her ticket of €6,00 soon in my pocket and looked around to see what platform we needed. When I spied an NS employee, I walked up to him to ask him if I needed to change trains at Zwolle. What came next was the following bizarre conversation:

Me: Good morning, am I correct in assuming I need to change at Zwolle to get to Harderwijk?

NS: Yes, you are.

Me: Is there a direct train?

NS: No, there isn't, you need the train to Zwolle.

Me: Great, thank you.

NS: Platform 6. But it only goes to Zwolle.

Me: Erm...yes, but there I'll change for Harderwijk.

NS: It goes as far as Zwolle. There is no train from Zwolle to Harderwijk this weekend.

Me: Excuse me?

NS: They are working on the lines. So the train stops at Zwolle.

Me: But I need to go to Harderwijk!

NS: Yes, you'll have to take the bus from Zwolle to 't Harde and there you can get a train.

Me: Oh...phew, that's a relief! A bus! Great, thanks.

NS: But that bus doesn't take bicycles.

Me: No bikes? But I am taking my bike...

NS: So you cannot take that bus.

Me: So how do I get to Harderwijk?

NS: You can't. You can get to Zwolle though. Platform 6.

Long story short: I got to Zwolle and got off.

I had decided to cycle to Harderwijk; 40 km. But when I tried to get out of Zwolle, I got another setback. Some joker (okay, I called him a moron on FB) had given the signpost a good kick, making the sign to Harderwijk point exactly 180 degrees in the wrong way. And I only found out after 30 minutes. Thus had to cycle 30 minutes back to where I started. One of the numerous old men I talked to on my road trip came to my rescue. Resulting in the second classic conversation of the day:

Me: Can you please point me in the right direction for Harderwijk?

Him: Yes.

Me: So..? Harderwijk?

Him: That way.

Me: Thank you very much. I just wanted to make sure.

Him: Told you. That way.

Me: Thanks again.

Him: On THAT?!! (pointing at Fietsje with an incredulous face)

Me: Yes.

Him: But that is very, very far!!!

Me: I know. But I like cycling.

Him: You are crazy.

Me: No no no, I like cycling, it's okay.

Him: You crazy mad woman! Well, suit yourself! Crazy woman!

He's probably still standing there in his Manchester trousers on his wooden shoes, muttering about crazy women.

My trip along the 40 km long Zuiderzeeweg was nice, but uneventful. I passed lovely farms,  and friendly boys, and goats and such. But the most exciting thing that happened was that I got showered with acorns from time to time.

And I noticed that butchers close early, even on a Saturday.

In exactly two hours I reached the outskirts of Harderwijk, and my final destination.

It had been an adventure!

And simply wonderful. Who needs trips to far-away places? The Wetlands, my Wetlands, had turned out to be lovelier than I had imagined.

This journey had started from a desire to reconnect with my roots, and a desire to have a road trip without pre-booked resting places. I would go where the wind blew me.

And I got what I desired. Lots of wind, more rain than I imagined possible, and the cobwebs were gone completely. Plus the wind blew away the blues of the downing of that Malaysian plane and the atrocities of War and gave me new energy.

To celebrate, two songs that I think are appropriate.

Enjoy!

Dotan - Let the River In

David Bowie - Wild is the Wind

C Wibe Koopman

(Bicycle Road Trip - Part 6) Moi, Beautiful Groningen!

Where the skies are stunning, our heroine sets you right on the character of Groningers, dinner is served and old hearts are warmed.

Groningen is a piece of the Wetlands all to itself.

It has the reputation of being cold and empty (except for potatoes and the occasional seal), and its inhabitants are said to be taciturn.

When I first visited our northernmost province, in 1987, I was happily surprised to find its landscapes wide, with stunning open skies, and its people friendly. A Groninger isn't taciturn, he is cautious, and not inclined to tell a stranger immediately to his face what he thinks of him. Personally, I think this a very good habit! (Compared to, say, a Rotterdammer or Amsterdammer, who will call total strangers klootzak or eikel to their faces, when he simply wishes to acknowledge their existence).

Ever since that first quick visit in 1987, Groningen has had a huge place in my heart, with wide open skies.

No surprise then, that my 6th day of my road trip was a good one.

May I give you a tip? Do not forget to visit Winsum. It is a charming village on the Hogeland (above Groningen City towards the Waddenzee), with one of those typical Groninger churches and three windmills built onto a terp (a man-made hill, to keep the Groninger feet dry when the Waddenzee or one of the numerous rivers flooded the land). Look at that stairway! Even when flooded, this church is accessible. It has a charming bridge that puts the ones in Amsterdam to shame. And good bars, always important to a Dutchman.

I'll let you in on a secret: I wouldn't mind living in Winsum. It has everything a village has to offer, and more...as it has a direct Arriva train to Groningen City only taking 15 minutes to the city centre. 

Years ago in the late Eighties we have tried our best to move to Winsum, but then (as now) fear of unemployment kept us in the West. With hindsight I feel we should have taken the plunge. Too late now...our kids do not want to leave their friends. (We'll kick them out in a few years though...never say never!)

Spending at least a couple of days each year there, I have to shamefully admit I forgot to take photos for you... But I'll make it up: we spent the evening having dinner in another (even smaller) village nearby, Garnwerd, and there I did take them.

Garnwerd is cute. People, especially students, come all the way from Groningen City to eat here at Hammingh and the brand new Garnwerd Aan Zee. And no, it has no direct sea access, that is a joke. But if you follow the Reitdiep river you will get to the sea eventually. The Waddenzee, that is, filled with seals these days. In fact, so many of them lose their way and end up in my neck of the woods (so to speak), that they are building a new seal sanctuary in Stellendam, only 14 km away from my home.

But I am drifting...

On the Saturday, one week into my adventure, I left Winsum, again with rain in my face, and cycled in an hour to Groningen City, where I planned on taking the train to Zwolle. Yes, I could have cycled there. But that would have taken me another 2 days, and I was pressed for time by now. I had to be home by the beginning of the week.

Groningen proved yet another knooppunten hitch... there were road works with badly signposted diversions and it took me a while to find my way.

Especially for you, I searched out a song. No, they do not have northern lights over Groningen (well, almost never), but just close your eyes and listen to Nick Drake. Northern Sky

My tip for wanna-be knooppunten cyclists: get into your Zen-mode when attempting to use a knooppunten route in a major city!

(Bicycle Road Trip - Part 5) Friesland and Groningen - hey-ho the North!

Where all kinds of birds take precedent, our heroine visits a Friesian estate, Fietsje spends the night with a classic Morris and the sun makes an entrance.

It was great to wake up to a dry world for a change...

My friend had taken the day off, and we spent the morning at our leisure, having breakfast and watching the many housemartins and swallows wheeling over her enormous modern barn. They had their chicks with them, and it will not be long before they all depart for warmer climates (very sensibly). They had another charming little bird there, called a Kwikstaartje in Dutch.

All too soon the sky started to close in on us again though, and we decided to get a move on, as we wanted to take a drive through her part of Friesland (on the border with Groningen, so in the North-East) and visit an estate in Veenklooster.

By the time we got to the estate, it had started to rain again - bugger!

We parked her car and first had a tea in a café run by people with a disability, the Oude Zwaan. This initiative is being followed more and more in the Netherlands, and it's a good one. People with a disability get money from the government, but the idea is to provide them with a steady job in a café, supervised in the areas where they need help. Our young waitress did the serving herself, but was helped with adding up and checking the bill, that kind of thing.

The Fogelsangh State (meaning bird song estate) was quiet. We had it to ourselves...and boy, was the lady from the gallery glad to see us! It took some effort to get away from her.

And get away I wanted to, for there was an exhibition showing owls, and I wanted to enjoy this in peace!

The watercolours were lovely, but far too expensive for my purse.

The estate itself showed how affluent Friesians lived in the eighteenth and nineteenth century; with a ladies' morning room, a gentlemen's hunting room, a library, a music room, etcetera. Not half bad. Obviously, I preferred the music room with its piano.

Taking photos inside was strictly forbidden, and this time I obeyed, sorry.

The rain, meanwhile, was coming down in buckets again, so we ran back to the car and drove into Kollum, to visit a 'Wereldwinkel' (meaning: world shop)

Another great concept! I believe it was an initiative by Oxfam originally, not quite sure though. Artisans from the Third World send their stuff to the Netherlands, and get a fair price. I bought a gorgeous little stone bird from Zimbabwe for my husband there, as it would be his birthday soon.

Back at Tessa's, I helped Rein pick their plums, and all too soon it was time to go to bed, as they had to make a very early start in to work on the Thursday morning.

Never mind, for the sun was out!!!!

I said goodbye to Tommy, tore Fietsje away from their roguish Morris, and was back on the road at 8 am.

Fietsje and I made great time. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, the cows greeted me by sometimes galloping along next to the bicycle path, in short - I had a wonderful morning!

At some stage I passed a farm being dwarfed by huge receivers; did they expect an alien invasion in the Friesian polder?

After only a couple of hours I passed the invisible border with Groningen. I stopped for an early lunch at Roodehaan, a tiny hamlet on the Reitdiep river, and phoned our auntie that I was almost there.

Life was good!

My tip for wanna-be knooppunten cyclists: if you are in Groningen, say 'moi' (pronounced as in oy) to everyone you meet.

(Bicycle Road Trip - Part 4) Oh...Enkhuizen, Pearl on the Zuiderzee!

Where Enkhuizen captures our heroine's Zen heart, two brave old ladies share their life stories, waves crash against a boat's windows, a train leaves too early and an old friend is embraced.

Having spent a really pleasant evening at Annette and Jan's, Tuesday dawned early. 

The fourth day of my bicycle road trip to Groningen (and back) started with a quick shower and an even quicker breakfast at the b&b. I was eager to get going.

After days of cycling Fietsje and I had fallen into a comfortable routine: a quick charge up of the battery at night (hers with the charger, mine with a glass of wine and my e-Reader) , and an early start.

Looking over my route, I had decided not to attempt the Afsluitdijk connecting Noord-Holland to Friesland (the wind had shifted and would be blowing straight into my face by now), but would cycle from Hoogkarspel to Enkhuizen instead, and there would board the ferry to Stavoren in Friesland. Jan had assured me it only took 75 minutes to get there, and my kms were easy-peasy that day. Not around 85, but only around 28.

Cycling merrily along, I got into my Zen mode. Reaching this state of being became easier by the day. My ordinary life at home, and my stressful-but-exciting life at school I could shed with no trouble at all. At home I was Mum, Wife, Secretary, Helper, Gardener, Washerwoman, Cleaner-cum-occasional-Housepainter, Justice-of-thePeace, Cook, Cat-Pleaser and Dog-Commander and General Peacekeeper.

On Fietsje I was simply Renée. And I LOVED it!

Enkhuizen beckoned. Following my knooppunten to the harbour (and the ferry) I was overcome with admiration. What a gorgeous town! The rain made it very quiet, so I could enjoy it all the better. I decided to buy my boarding pass first, and was told the ferry had left only 20 minutes ago. The next one was to leave at 12.30. Gulp! It was ten to nine...

Oh well, all the more time to enjoy Enkhuizen! But there was no guarded bicycle shed, so that meant taking Fietsje along. We wound our way through the Golden Age alleys and streets, and could have taken 100 photos (but didn't; my mobile was still protesting my every move).

But the rain got the better of me. Around 9.45 I was soaked to the skin again and squelching in my shoes. This made me feel cold.

Time to find a café that was open. I found one opposite the Drommedaris, the famous town tower.

"Do come in out of the rain and get warm," the friendly bargirl proposed. But I didn't dare leave Fietsje alone and chose to sit outside on the terrace, as had become my habit during this road trip.

"I'll put the terrace heater on for you," she said. Bless her heart!

A coffee, chocolate cake and a Beerenburger (from Wikipedia: In terms of alcoholic beverages, the region is renowned for its many bitters (such as Beerenburg) and other high-proof liquors) soon hit the right spot. And the heater dried out my hair and wet rain suit very nicely.

At 12.15 I was ready to board the ferry to Stavoren. Fietsje was the first one on (make a note of this, you'll need the info later), and I chose a spot near the window whilst the boat hand tied up my bike. An old lady from Steenbergen asked me politely if she could join me. Certainly!

Her life story was a fascinating one. 88 Years of age, she was still having her adventures around the Wetlands, travelling by train these days. And another lady (67), also cycling on her own, joined us as well.

We spent a very pleasant hour chatting about travelling solo, and how it enriched our lives. In the meantime the wind had shifted yet again, and had strengthened from an okay 3 to a raging 7.

The water was crashing against the window, and the assembled tourists, many of them German cyclists, became more and more quiet. I checked if Fietsje was still tied to the railings. She was. My 88 year old companion didn't bat an eyelid and ordered a beer. My other companion smiled at me and told me about a wonderful cyclists association. I watched the waves and thought about the Titanic. Cannot think why...

When we docked at Stavoren Fietsje was the last one to leave the ferry. Causing me to miss the train to Leeuwarden...

My cyclist companion Tilia had advised me to take the Arriva train, as there were thunder storms over Friesland and I would find no shelter at all. She did the same, getting off at Sneek.

So...we three spent another hour waiting for the next train on a windy, wet, deserted platform. But at least I had plenty of time to text my friend in Friesland that I was taking a train, instead of cycling towards her. She cheerfully told me to meet her at Leeuwarden station, and that we could travel to Zwaagwesteinde together. What fun!

It went off without a hitch. Taking Fietsje along on trains was a piece of cake (at least it was on the Arriva trains). I even remembered to check out. At Zwaagwesteinde my friend Tessa took her car; I took Fietsje.

Her neighbour Gerda helped me find Tessa in her out-of-the-way nature reserve, and I met Tessa's cat Tommy for the first time. (People reading my blogs more often know that this counts as a major event in my life).

Another goal reached!

When I sat drinking great whisky with Rein and Tessa (tea!) that evening, I realised I was having the time of my life.

My tip for wanna-be knooppunten cyclistst: do not get tempted to let your bicycle be the first one on a ferry!

(Bicycle Road Trip - Part 3) Who Will Pay the Ferryman?

In which our heroine almost collapses, the ferryman is grumpy, the sheep are smart and Hoorn is crowded.

Waking up on Monday morning, day 3 of my Bicycle Road Trip to Groningen - and - back, took no effort at all. My internal alarm clock went off at 6 am sharp.

I had ordered breakfast for 7.30, so had plenty of time to pack my Lidl bags and go over my route for the day. My mobile was holding up, although it did need yet another power transfusion and made funny noises. My bike battery charger worked perfectly though. And the knooppunten map had dried up, crinkly.

The hotel lady served me my breakfast in an empty restaurant, telling me yet again that I was lucky to have the last room. Yeah, right! All those people had not stayed the night, but had returned to Amsterdam where they had come from in the first place.

I was on my bike before she knew it. Wormer was just as depressing as the night before, although I did pass a lot of pretty houses.

I crossed the river by bridge and cycled into the Beemster polder. "Nothing but sheep", the man in the bar had told me the night before, and he was correct.

They were everywhere, with their backs turned towards the wind (still force 7) and rain (still lashing merrily), or watching me impassively.

My knooppunten led me past gorgeous farms, and through tiny hamlets, where the only living creatures awake were the sheep and some dogs.

When I neared the hamlet of Jisp, I needed to cross the river. The ferry was moored on the other side, though.

Waiting awhile, I idly watched a young girl pushing a trolly filled with leaflets along the dyke, until she had reached me and stopped.

"Hi, when is the ferry due?"

"You have to do it yourself," she explained with a big smile.

I beg your pardon?

She made me walk around the sign, and sure enough, there was a blue flywheel with instructions for drawing in the ferry.

'Push down the foot pedal and turn the wheel clockwise'.

It was connected to the ferry via a chain, and would draw it in. Now, normally, this would be done in balmy weather without wind, I'm sure. I had to do it against wind force 7 blowing that ferry down river away from me.

By the time I had it halfway, I had to rest. By the time I had it at my side, I was winded, sweating like a horse and exhausted. I wheeled Fietsje onto the ferry, and frowned at the two winches. See, they were expecting you to do this with two people! Not true, one was for one direction. The other for my direction.

I truly hope you appreciate the effort and hardship I had to endure to pursue my road trip!!! When I was at the other side of that river, I almost puked.

My map showed the next ferry in a short while, and I cycled towards the Jan Hop ferry with great trepidation. It being a Monday, and it being the Beemster, obviously the ferry café was closed. I wasn't even surprised by this time. No coffee for me and Fietsje.

But: there was a ship bell! I could ring that bell! It would summon the ferryman! Man, what a relief.

Ringing that bell was the highlight of my morning. Across the water an old man came out of a door in a little wooden blue-painted hut, and walked to the motorised ferry. He put-puttet to me, and tied up at the landing. One Euro to cross over. I would have paid ten.

He was grumpy, my ferryman. No nice chat about where I was heading. So we crossed the river in silence.

And on I cycled. The next hurdle was the Noord-Hollands Kanaal, connecting the North Sea with the IJsselmeer or Zuiderzee (the old-fashioned name I prefer). I had feverishly looked up the ferry times, afraid that this ferry would not sail on a Monday in the Beemster, but it was huge and even took buses, so it sailed. It took its time arriving though, so I had the time to have a pee and a sandwich to get my strength up in the ferry café.

My next destination was the old port of Hoorn, famous for its merchant ships in the Golden Age. Because of my early start in Wormer, I reached Hoorn around 10 am.

 I had expected a sleepy pretty town; I got a heaving steaming reeking Summer Fair, with so many people drinking in the café's and bars that they spilled out into the rain onto the pavements. No one cared. It was mayhem.

Yep. You saw this coming: my knooppunten had disappeared behind fair stalls selling trash and trinkets, and I got lost - again. After trying to find my way for half an hour, I gave up and parked Fietsje next to a café terrace. I ordered a tea and a kroket sandwich. I got a coffee. Sent it back. Got two kroket sandwiches. Sent one back. Got the bill: for a coke, a tea and two sandwiches. Sent it back. Got the proper bill, with apologies. Accepted. Left.

When I spotted two policemen, I asked directions to the outskirts of Hoorn. They apologised, were strangers to Hoorn themselves, only drafted in to manage the Fair crowd, but if I wanted to walk with them to their meeting point, I was welcome. Perhaps someone there would know which way I should go.

So Fietsje and I were escorted to some street corner milling with policemen drinking coffee from plastic cups, getting some hoots from the revelers on the pavements. Fietsje, new to hoots, didn't like it one bit.

But: justice! Behind one of the police cars I spotted a knooppunten Knooppunt. Hurray, I was saved!

The gorgeous town gate was the last thing I saw of Hoorn when I sped away, vowing I will return some day to have a proper look at the town, preferably not in the 3rd week of August.

The rest of my trip to Hoogkarspel was wet and uneventful. I dropped off my gear at my b&b and reunited with a niece-once-removed from my husband, and an extremely nice time was had by all.

My tip for wanna-be knooppunten cyclists: make certain you have had a good breakfast before you attempt a do-it-yourself ferry!