The Hike - 3

Preparing myself for my hiking holiday in the North of England is proving more difficult than I thought. Our wet Wetlands weather, fickle as it normally is, has been challenging to say the least.
But last Sunday turned out dry, so I jumped into my hiking shoes and set off for a hike around my neighbourhood of Nieuw-Helvoet, before the floodgates would open once again.

This vibrant Viburnum greets me every day, on my daily walkie-with-my-doggie, and isn't it gorgeous? 
It is a good example of the many Viburnums which are lovingly dotted around this neighbourhood. People in Nieuw-Helvoet are proud of their front gardens, on the whole (always exceptions).

I set off from home and turned left, taking the old through-road from Nieuw-Helvoet to the naval port of Hellevoetsluis. Nieuw-Helvoet is contrary to its name actually quite old, dating from 1367,and has a beautifully preserved traditional ring of houses (also called 'Ring') around the old church. 
But archeologists have dug up remains of habitation from the Iron Age (800 BC), along with clear evidence that the land was flooded again and again, which made living around these parts a challenge to say the least!
Churches in my part of the country were more often than not built in two parts: the ship and the bell tower separately. 

You can see from the shape of the tower that it has a square, no-nonsense shape, and that money was short. Hence bricked-in "windows" where, in more affluent places, a leaded glass window would be.Life on my island of Voorne was hard.

As you perhaps can spot,the year 1820 is on the plaque of this traditional house in the Ring. Which makes it one of the newer houses, paradoxically.
This one, the Raadhuis (town hall), dates from 1760.

Nieuw-Helvoet has long since been integrated into the larger town of Hellevoetsluis, but it has retained its tiny-town atmosphere. Nieuw-Helvoet was here first, and used the mooring place they called Hellevoetsluys as their harbour on the sea arm called Haringvliet, separating my island of Voorne from the next island of Goeree-Overflakkee. It was only when the Dutch government decided to make Hellevoetsluys their major naval port, that the number of its inhabitants exceeded that of Nieuw-Helvoet.
(If you are into names: Haring = herring, vliet = river, hence "the river where you can fish for herring". Helle = difficult, voet = foot, sluys = lock, hence "the place where there is a lock from the sea arm Haringvliet to the difficult navigable river Hellevoet")

I've told you before that the graveyard is on my route, and this time I decided to enter it so I can show you a traditional Wetlands burial ground. It is still in use, but only people from this neighbourhood can be buried here. It has one official Common Wealth War Grave, a bit forgotten now, and on the whole is rather quiet...Most of the old families, with their family graves, have been lost in history.

But look what I found...Mathilde Bernardine Washington, born July 11th 1888, Died May 1st 1989, wife to corn merchant and sometime mill keeper Hermen Maasdam. This tickled my curiosity!Was this an American bride, that for some reason had ended up in my wetlands? So what do you do then? Right, you consult Mr. Google.
And you find out that Mathilde was the daughter of Wilhelmus Wassinghton (note the spelling!), born December 1829 in the Northern province of Friesland, and his marriage issued "7 children born without life from 1860-1869" - so my, old Wilhelmus must have been chuffed to get a living Mathilde in the end!But what caused the spelling of her name on this gravestone? Was it a mistake? Google couldn't answer this question.

I'll end with the Viburnum I started with, simply because I adore the way this homeowner lovingly trims his box.
My hike was a short one, only 5.913 steps, but the weather was great for a change and I enjoyed it. Hope you did too!
Join me next time?

Viggo's Blog: I Have Been Banned From Upstairs at Night!

Hi fans, Viggo here.
The unmentionable has happened: my woman has told me in no uncertain terms that I am not to wake up the entire house at night by jumping unto the doorhandles.

I mean, WHY???

She is so.....mean!
Doesn't she realize that it is only from a feeling of warmth, love and a necessity of crunchy nibbles that I try to get some attention when it is dark?

I have tried to reason with them, really I have tried. Only last week I have done my business on the bed of the young woman, just to make clear that she should not ignore me at night. For some reason she started to make strange sounds like 'eeeeeeeeeuw' and 'yuck' and 'Muuuuuuuum!' And can I help it that her duvet wouldn't fit in the washing machine? Is it my fault that 'Mum' had to wash it under the shower because it was too large to fit anywhere else? If you ask me, my woman should have told the young woman to wash it herself.

Anyway, I noticed a distinctly icy reception from then onwards and the young woman started closing her bedroom door at night. Well, tough titty, I have known how to open doors from when I was 6 months old, so...duh.

But now, since I have been opening that door repeatedly last night, those humans have put their heads together and decided I should 'be put out'. Because they 'need their sleep'.
They should do as all responsible cats do and nap during the day!

I'll let you know how things evolve.
Perhaps I'll need backup.

Tarrah! XX

The Hike - 2

Resolutions should be upheld, right?
So I took myself on the second hike of my training for Northumberland,to our local beach in fact, and promptly overdid it.

The thing is, the weather was so glorious compared to my first hike, that I decided to go to the nearest saltwater beach (15 minutes by car)and walk all the way to the next village (Rockanje) and back.
The way there, with a southerly wind of 21 km/hr at my back, humidity of only 71% and a lovely 13C, was a doddle. A piece of cake. Nothing to it, I practically flew along with the numerous magpies overhead.

Hahaha, try having a picknick at this table... The last storm has moved a lot of sand!

The sun shone, the waves glittered happily in the distance (the tide being out all the way), the curlews ambled along the waterline searching for whatever they search for, dogs ran past me with exuberance and gave me an enthusiastic wink along the way and I could hear them thinking ("Hi! Isn't this great! Where's your ball?")

Then it was time to turn back. And all of a sudden I crash landed. For the low Winter sun was directly in my eyes, the cold wind blew straight into my face and my feet sank deeper and deeper into the sand. And I needed to pee. Desperately.
Now, a real hiker thinks nothing of peeing in the wild, I'm sure.
But there's no cover on Wetlands beaches, none. And the Rockanje beach shacks do not open their doors during the week until Easter.
What to do? Brave the dogs (and their masters...) and pretend to lace my shoes whilst piddling through my left pant's leg? I couldn't do it.

By the time I had reached the halfway back mark, I was panting and had bladder cramps. Besides, half the beach was now in my shoes between my toes.

I kept telling myself I was doing really well, and concentrated on the birds and watched the waves in the hope of spotting a seal (didn't though).

After 1 1/2 hours and 11.607 steps I reached the car.
The hike was lovely, especially after I had reached my bathroom, but I did wonder how on earth I am going to master those Northumberland hills in August.
Oh well, I have six months to reach my goal: good enough hiking stamina to keep up with the rest of the company!
Nice of you to join me, do come along next time?

The Hike - 1

Well-aware of the beneficial influence of hiking on the psyche, I have booked myself a hiking holiday in Northumberland in August, where I am supposed to be able to do 6 hour walks up and down those hills.
Being gruesomely out of shape, a hiking training program seems in order. Want to accompany me?

If you are following my blog, you'll know that I've had a rather bumpy ride of late...No need to go into it, but I really need some changes in my life and mostly in the mental department. And since mental and physical are closely intertwined, I have devised a training schedule for myself with the aim of getting me able to walk those Northern English hills without pain and without embarrassing myself.

So, today was the first day of the new and better me (loud guffaw inserted here!).

I set off from my new home on the outskirts of my suburb of Nieuw-Helvoet, and set myself a hike of 1 hour brisk walking.The weather conditions could have been better, but definitely a lot worse. It was dry, but foggy and damp (humidity 100%: quite normal for my part of the Dutch Wetland Delta) and very gloomy, with a light south-south-westerly wind of 16 km/hr and a temperature of 4C.

I decided to walk towards the old hill fort in Nieuwenhoorn.

I pass this when I cycle to work, and like it very much.It is part of the old naval defense works, but is in disrepair. Farmers are allowed to graze their sheep around it, and the sheep are accustomed to stand in the middle of the cycle path looking blank.

After passing the hill fort I came to the village of Nieuwenhoorn (now part of my naval town of Hellevoetsluis)and turned right. This wind mill, called Zeezicht (Why? You cannot, and was never able to, see the sea from here!)has been an eyesore for years as it was practically falling apart. But thankfully now it is being repaired. 

Walking along the main road into Hellevoetsluis, I came across this placard.

This needs some explanation as to why it made me laugh out loud. 

Here we go; a quick lecture on the Dutch psyche.

We are a nation of ice skaters. You think the Canadians have the honour, but you are wrong. We Dutchies have invented ice skating, and it is in our blood. The placard reads "Sharpening Skates" and it is a manifestation of wishful thinking. For we hardly have any frosts anymore, and if we do have them (like this past week in fact), the temperatures don't drop below zero far enough to get us ice thick enough to skate on. This hurts. It makes us migrate to parts of The Netherlands where they do have ice thick enough (the North-East, where the mild sea winds don't reach)or even to Austria to skate our largest skating event on the Weisensee and pretend we are in Friesland.

This Blue Heron at the end of my street is the better for it - they suffer when there is ice. It watched me walk past and cheered me on. They are quite common in my part of the country (I remember English twitchers going wild with envy when I told them I see them every day in my country)and pretty tame. Still, naive bird feeding people do get an eye pecked out by herons from time to time...

And that concludes our first hike. I hope you've enjoyed walking along with me and will join me next time.

Birdlife in Old Dutch Graveyards.

As a lover of small and large birds, my new domicile next to an old graveyard offers me the best of both worlds: plenty of small birds to watch and some large birds of prey which prey on them and can be watched in turn.
Below is my favorite small bird, which travels in cheerfully chattering flocks. Isn't it pretty?!

There's something about graveyards, isn't there? They either frighten you or appeal to you, hardly anyone refrains from having an opinion about them.

I fall into the "I like 'em!" category. Why? Because they are very peaceful, no pun intended, usually well-tended and a safe haven for birdlife in our built-up stony suburbia.

Whenever I find myself in a large city in a foreign country I always make a point of visiting a cemetery or two; Pere Lachaise in Paris being one of my favorites. Below is one of the photos I took in the Montmartre one, mainly because I took a shine to the name and the way his bronze sheet was wrapped. 

But I remember visiting a large one in Nürnberg and liking it very much.
Morbid? Perhaps. But not so much when you spot a fellow like this one flying out of the trees.

Owls are rare so near to my town, so spotting one is a festive occasion for me.
We mainly have field owls and screeching owls, and the occasional barn owl (which are very rare due to there hardly being any barns with access for them anymore).

Yesterday, it being a beautiful frosty quiet morning when I walked old Gina along the sloot next to the graveyard, I was stopped in my tracks by a kestrel almost bumping into me. He was carrying away a living blackbird and I don't know who was more shocked by our meeting, the bird of prey or me. Gina gave a little yelp, she has an inbred dislike of large birds, probably because they vied for food on the same rubbish dump as herself when she still lived in Istanbul as a pup.

But name a small bird which lives in my part of the country, and you'll be able to spot it in our graveyard. I get their point; plenty of fresh water in the trough for filling up the watering cans, plenty of cover in all those pretty flowering bushes and in the pruned ones as well and plenty of berries and insects to eat.
Obviously it's hard for the birds now that we are having a cold spell, so I provide seeds, nuts and other tidbits for them in my garden. They reward me by pooping all over the garden furniture... Oh well.

Viggo's Blog: Viggo Goes Existential

Hi fans, Viggo here!
Oh my, what a week we've had!
David Bowie passed on and now a black star, Alan Rickman waving to him in passing, that husband of what's-her-name as well...It does give the astrological sun sign of Cancer an entirely different aspect, doesn't it?

Meanwhile I have had to do my business in the garden under atrocious conditions this week.

You lot in the UK think you are having it hard, do, you, with your nice fluffy snow? Well...I have had rain, rain, rain, and rain again.

It was so bad I have taken to spending my entire nights snuggled up to my woman. Which is hard work in itself, as she tends to shove me to the side of her bed and I have to shove back and bite her nose.

Besides, she needs a lot of convincing I do not want to go out after 10 pm. "But you always go out at night, Viggo?" (note the question mark, for it isn't a question really!) I swear she can purr if she wants to.

Still. What I really wanted to pose to you is this:
Samuel Butler once said the following:

Life is not an exact science

it is an Art

I see my woman struggling with life at the moment, and she has put this quote on her door. (How on earth it is going to help her, only Frith knows. It's not going to step down from that door and invite her out to the pub, now is it?)
And then again, Alan Rickman (yes, him) has also quoted something worthwhile:

If only Life could be a little more tender

and Art a little more robust...

So what we are looking for here, is a Life which is arty and tender and robust at the same time, right?

Translating this into Viggo-Speak this would mean: redecorating my latest customised box, whilst being tickled on my robust belly, I suppose.

Hm. Could do.

Right. Enough of this deep shit.

I wish you a wonderful Sunday! Spend it wisely! Visit friends! Go to the pub! Write a quote on your door!

Tarrah!XX

A Tribute to David Bowie

How do you pay hommage to and write a tribute to an icon? 
Without it being trite, undeserving, not good enough, not nearly being able to cover or even touch the massive and unending and everlasting impact this artist had on your life and on the lives of hundreds of thousands (perhaps millions) of people?

Millions? I can hear your skeptical grunt.
But yes, think about it. He sold millions of albums. That means millions of us, of you and me, listened to his songs and have an opinion about them.
Many of us (and I am certain I can use this pronoun) can vouch that his music can be called life-changing. And sometimes even life-saving.
Ridiculous?
Not really. Besides, at the start of his career he was no stranger to ridicule himself. He continued on his creative path regardless.

A classmate introduced me to Bowie when we were 13. He had just bought the newly released Aladinsane (at great cost; vinyl albums cost us teenagers 4 to 6 weeks pocketmoney at least!) and raved about it. I had not heard of this British guy, but was fascinated by the album cover even before I heard the music. Who was this? It's hard to imagine these days, but I had to wait for weeks before I finally spotted a tiny item on Dutch TV about this singer. But after that, seeing him move, hearing him sing and speak, I caught up with a vengeance.
I got an after school job with the aim to buy all the albums released so far, and I managed so in quick succession.

It didn't stop there. Oh...sure, I developed a massive schoolgirl crush and dreamed of Bowie coming to the windy Wetlands and rescuing me from my humdrum unhappy life.
But as I grew older and slightly wiser, I began to realize the worth of his lyrics.
His promise that I could hold on to his hand has helped me through many a dark night. And I can (but will not, for fear of boring you to death) quote many, many, many of his song lines that have defined me and my life and have indeed helped me through bad times.

He has been an example. Not just to me, I'm sure, but to many around the globe. Ground-breaking, taboo-shattering, refreshing yet humble and always honest.

He will be missed so effing much. I will miss him so effing much...

Eddy Izzard has just Tweeted that all radio stations should play just Bowie songs today, to pay him a compliment. What a great idea.
But I would like to take it a step further. 
Why not live the rest of our lives with the colourful Bowie in mind? We can be heroes, right, (even if) just for one day?