North and South

North and South Again

It has been a while since have had a good opportunity to catch up on our journal; We are now in Dwingeloo, a charming little village in the Drenthe countryside (in Holland), and the home of Gert, (Ella’s older brother) Desiree, Liza and Charissa, along with their horses, dogs, cat and a group of very shy chickens that hide in their hen house, refusing to come out, in spite of my assurances that I have no intention of placing them on the menu. The horses are very friendly, although the colt gave Roger a good nip when he did not produce the required apple. The dogs, albeit trained to tear the postman (or any other intruder) into pieces, accepted us as friends immediately upon learning that we have access to their cookie container (which Roger does every time he goes near them.)
Dwingeloo is in the northern part of the Netherlands, and is the apex of our loop through Europe. From here we shall venture directly south, hopefully following the sunny weather that has been with us since we left Jersey.
Gert & Desi, have, as usual, been exemplarary hosts: We made a day trip to Amsterdam, including a boat tour of the canals and harbor. Suus and Frank came over from den Haag, and spent the day with us there; it was great fun spending the day with the family together, just like the old days, when Ella & I would come to visit, and we’d all go off to do something together.
Gert also took us on a bicycle tour of the Dwingevelder National Park, and also a visit to Giethorn – a village of old houses, serviced by canals and footpaths – no streets – followed by lunch in Blokzijl, an old harbor town, from the days of yore, when the Dutch East India Company plyed the oceans from ports in the Zuyder Zee. That was before the polders were built, and the access to the outside ocean cut off. The harbor is, of course, still used, but now by inland recreational sailors.
We left St Ouens (Jersey) on the morning of Friday Sepember 26, arising early for the bike ride into St Helier to catch the ferry to St. Malo. The ferry was due to depart at 0715, so we pushed ourselves along at full steam in order to complete the nine km distance in time. Arriving at precisely three minutes after seven, we presented ourselves at the ticket booth, credit card in hand. The ticket agent looked at me down his nose, and in his best Monty Python accent, informed us that the ticket office had been closed since seven. When I threatened to take my business to the competition (sailing an hour later) he back tracked a little, allowing that he would be able to sell us tickets for the evening boat. Thinking that I might be on camera as part of a British comedy skit, I wisely kept my temper, went next door to the other ferry company, and bought tickets for the eight fifteen ferry. We then retired to the café, that had a grand view of the forbidden ferry, loading those few who had arrived in time to purchase the hallowed pieces of pasteboard that granted them access on board. We were mopping up our egg yolks and baked bean gravy with the last piece of soggy toast (an English delicacy: always toasted the day before, and carefully aged to perfection overnight, preferably in a damp fridge) when the ferry captain decided that it was time to pull out, and make room for the competition’s boat, which of course by now had a full load of passengers waiting to board it.
Upon arrival in France, we breezed past the French douanes, muttering our greetings in rusty Quebec accents, no doubt reassuring the agent that it was a good thing that he had not chosen us for inspection. We the pedaled our way through the Brittany sunshine across the polder (complete with Dutch style wind mills) to Mont St Michel. The Mont is a volcanic plug that protrudes from the tidal coast on the boundary of Brittanny and Normandy. It is adorned with a medieval French town, and topped with a grand Abbey, complete with sandaled monks, many stone stairways for them to atone themselves by climbing every day, and the requisite souvenir shops and overpriced cafes. The Mont is surrounded by tidal sands, and connected to the mainland by a causeway, closed to cars (unless driven by one of the aforementioned monks) but open to bicycles. Signs cautioned us about wandering off onto the tidal flats, where unsuspecting tourists, if not consumed by quicksands, are cut off by the rapidly rising tides and quickly drowned. Of course, for a small fee, you can hire a “guide” to accompany you through these dangerous hazards, and with much waving of Flags (I gathered their way of announcing how many clients were missing) and much chatter over walkie talkies, circum-navigate the famous Mont at low tide. Because this feat required the removal of foot wear, and rolling up of trousers, we graciously declined. One does not want to be photographically recorded looking like the bucket and spade brigade on Brighton beach. We went to the pub instead, which was far safer, much cheaper, and definitely more fun.
From MSM we cycled over the cols of Normandy, and after an overnighter in a closed and deserted (and thus free) campground at Conde sur some river (the Noireau, je pense,) a stop at the onion festival at Trun, and brief visit to Camembert, we arrived in Vimoutiers, just in time to pitch the tent before it rained, quite heavily, all night. The next day we visited St Foy de Montgommery, the old family seat, where I showed Roger the château that would still be ours, if his forebear had not decided to go off and conquer England with Guillaume le Conquerant. We were not invited in for tea, or even a glass of Calvados, so I broke the chain on my bike, forcing us to return to Vimoutiers, where we had to wait for the bike shop to open (at two pm, because the French do NOT work on Monday mornings.) After Roger had purchased a chain tool, and effected the necessary repair to my bike, we cycled on to Orbec, a delightful little Norman town where the campground was also closed, but this time, unfortunately, also fenced and locked. We found accommodation in the only pension in the ville, very comfortable, and open on Monday because it is run by a Belgian couple. All the restaurants except the one next door to our pension were also closed up (the Monday thing again) so we marched past the tuxedoed maitre D’ in our wrinkled (and no doubt, Camembert ripe) road togs, and were fed an excellent meal. Roger was a little confounded by the array of cutlery, but after a little coaching, was able to discern between the butter and fish knives, and not to blow his nose in the linen napkin. The bill was surprisingly light on the wallet (Amex actually, because the banks had been closed. Monday.), so we didn’t have to go pearl diving in lieu of payment.
The next day, we continued northwards, crossed the Seine on the ferry at Duclair,and pedaled until darkness forced us off the road. We spent the night as guests (for a small fee, of course) at a dairy farm near Totes. We had not been able to find a campground, or any other accommodation, for that matter, but were very comfortable in the centuries old farmhouse, where they fed us supper in front of a cozy wood fire.
Arriving at Dieppe the next morning after a pleasant pedal down the river Scie, we shared a baguette, some saucisson and fromage by the harbor. I washed it down in good Gallic fashion with a half a bottle of red wine (Eu 1.50, at the local market , and quite drinkable) but had to pack the other half, as Roger did not want any. (But he does like the cider!) We then wobbled on up the coast road to the Royal town of Eu, where we overnighted in the youth hostel. The hostel was very big (located in the former kitchens and servants quarters of a large chateau) and very empty. I think we were the only guests.
The following day brought us to Abbeville, where we boarded the train for Arras, our next destination, about an hour by train, thus avoiding some of the industrial centres that were looming up on the map. From Arras, we cycled to Vimy, where we visited the Canadian Memorial. Very humbling, and highly recommended. The land the memorial rests on is actually Canadian soil, with the Maple Leaf flying proudly over the magnificent sculpted edifice, staffed by a cadre of real Canadians, looking very out of place in their ugly Parks Canada uniforms. (That was the first clue – no self respecting French person would be caught dead wearing such a terrible shade of green!) Sadly, they do NOT serve bloody caesars.
Hence across the Belgian Border to Ieper, another testament to the terrible price paid by the World during that awful conflict. We were lucky to arrive in time for the sounding of the last post, played by buglers of the local fire dept. at the Menin Gate every night at eight pm – every night……… since 1920 something. The night we attended, we were rewarded by the presence of an Australian Army contingent, complete with a couple of Generals, a colour guard to salute them, and a bugler and piper to keep them awake on parade. It was very moving, especially when they all marched off into the darkness. (except the generals, who had limos).Thankfully they spared us the singing of Waltzing Matilda, although I believe it would have been very appropriate under the circumstance. The piper and bugler performed flawlessly, as did the Fire Dept. contingent.
We camped outside the city walls by the moat, took it easy the next morning, and left around noon, pedaling across the flat fields of Flanders to Brugges, where we set up camp again for the night. Brugges is a very old city, well worthy of a couple of days visit, but we were lagging behind our schedule (such as it is), so we cycled around that evening, had a late dinner, and cycled on through a heavy morning fog over the border into the Netherlands, crossing the river Schelde by ferry from Breskens to Vlissingen. Although impressed by the provision of cycle paths in Belgium, Holland is definitely THE paradise for cyclists. Dedicated paved cycle ways, with excellent signage from just about anywhere to everywhere. Evening found us on an island in Zeeland, where we camped in an old apple orchard, now a “Mini Camping”. Small campground, very adequate, very quiet, and very safe. Sunday brought us to the Hague where we imposed ourselves upon Susan (Ella’s niece, Gerts daughter) and Frank. We enjoyed a fun couple of days as their guests, and went for dinner at Els’ place, (Susan’s mother), where Roger got into deep and enthusiastic discussion with Leen, Els’friend. Leen is a retired engineer, who spent about a third of his career in the US and another third in Germany. He speaks many languages, and is an authority on just about everything. Roger, having just finished reading “ A Short History of Just about Everything”, by was an easy mark.
From Den Haag, we charged across Noord Holland to Hoorn, an ancient seaport on the old Zuyder Zee (now Ijsellmeer), where we stayed as guests of old and very dear friends Lodewijk and Gretha.
From there, a ferry ride across the Ijsselmeer from Enkhuizen to Stavoren, followed by a five hour ride through the fields of Friesland, Overijsell and Drenthe to Dwingeloo.
Tomorrow, we venture south……………………….

A huge thanks again to all of our wonderful family and friends who have harboured us as guests and been so willing to show us around the countryside. Please come visit us anytime.
(Roger will miss the soesjes and mergpijpjes in holland, not to mention Gerts most unabashedly humourous comments to all manner of people, a true Snijders no doubt!)