Veenwouden, Kollum & Ternaard

Saturday dawned and I arose to a breakfast of freshly-squeezed orange juice, whole wheat toast, Gouda and Hagelslaag (loosely, “chocolate sprinkles”). This was followed by a beschuit and a slice of suikerbrood (Sûkerbôle in Frisian, but neither word is easy to pronounce!), all washed down with tea. Scrumptious.

Then it was off for the grand tour… my great-uncle was determined to show us all the necessary sights (and sites). First it was the Elfsteden monument in Gytsjerk, commemorating the 200km ice skating race held in Friesland and passing through 11 towns. The first race was held in 1890, and since then it’s been held only 15 times, with the last being in 1997. Now it looks like the Elfstedentocht has become a victim of climate change… while the Dutch winters were never as long or as severe as Canadian winters, it seems unlikely that the canals will ever freeze over again. The monument is a mosaic of individual tiles decorated with the pictures of Elfstedentocht finishers, and the tiles form a larger picture in the traditional blue-and-white of Dutch ceramics. My grandmother’s picture dates from 1942; in it, she’s a demure 22-year-old wearing a light-coloured scarf. Finding her tile on that bridge was unreal. Ang and I, along with my great-uncle and aunt stood on that little pier in the marshland in front of the bridge, smelling the cows and pigs, hearing the reeds rustling and seeing the flat, open land… and it was a moving experience. I can’t really explain why.

Next .. to the pretty, quaint town of Kollum to see the house where my grandmother lived before she was married. It was a stately, square house that had aged gracefully. My grandmother’s father was a burgameister (mayor) and she was thus born into a higher social class than my grandfather. After my determined grandfather wooed her over (via hand-written letters, frequent excursions to the beach, and many long bike rides between villages), she also had to convert to my grandfather’s church. I always liked to hear their courtship story, the old-fashioned “triumph of love” told better than Disney!

Driving off yet again down those narrow roads with perfect pavement (we’re not used to that in Canada!) we passed a few cyclists with racing bikes and matching gear. I had not yet seen any cyclists of this type since arriving in Europe! Ternaard was our next stop; the town my grandparents lived in when my dad was born. It was run-down and abandoned (my dad called it a “dump”), but it was still good to see. First a house and then a shop, the thing was filled with miscellaneous junk and a mannequin dressed in sports gear. Glaring through the window, I initially thought the mannequin was a person and ran back to the car… strangely enough, the second mannequin that I encountered in Europe! I mean, since when do mannequins figure so prominently in my daily life?

The church in Ternaard is special to my family, as it is where my great-grandfather and grandfather played the organ, and where my grandparents attended. In the adjoining cemetery, my great-uncle picked out the gravestones of my great-grandfather and great-great-grandfather, which were in immaculate condition (in surprising contrast to many of the others of similar age), and also the monument dedicated in part to Albertus Nauta, my grandfather’s older brother who died in WWII, and the other fallen soldiers.

I didn’t know if we were going to be able to see the interior, but my great-aunt can work magic, and she found the gentleman with the keys at his house across the road, just on his way out for a bike ride. He let us in and played the Dutch national anthem on the organ, so I could hear the instrument myself! And what a gorgeous old pipe-organ it was.

I climbed the narrow, almost vertical steps to the loft, and Ang took a picture of me standing there. Strangely, I struggled to keep my tears from overflowing as I stood there in that old church and listened to that old organ. It was as if for one instant I felt close to my own heritage and history… for the first time I felt my roots in this country.

Below our feet there were worn, ancient slabs marking tombs of founding church members and royalty. Most of the inscriptions were barely legible, and some were completely erased with time and foot-traffic. I was astonished that in modernity, we can just walk over those pieces of history, slowly erasing vestiges of the past. At St. Patrick’s in Dublin, slabs of similar age were protected, cordoned off and sealed or guarded. But here…we lived, breathed, and trampled it.

Before leaving Ternaard, my great-uncle drove us to the street named after Albertus Nauta. Most of the streets in the Netherlands were named after someone or other; I didn't see many "Main" and "King" signs...

Back to Veenwouden for lunch, and then a drive around the dunes, eyes open wide at the vast and flat expanse of grass, sky and water. We stopped at the seaside and climbed up onto the dijk. My great-uncle pointed at the stretch of sandy soil in front of us... Over time, the sea washes soil up to the land… and after 100 years or so, the Dutch will build another dijk to keep the water out. Amazing to see.

Next, the town of Dokkum! On this, a Saturday, it was positively buzzing with tourists, lovers and weekenders. The atmosphere was set by the organ-grinder in the centre of the square, and Ang captured it all with a video from her camera. Just lovely, even without the monkeys. Cobblestone streets, 400-year old houses in the traditional Dutch style, and several restored windmills made this a very picturesque little place. We walked around for a bit and took pictures.

Dinner time… and my great-uncle drove us to Lauwersoog to sample some Frisian fish and watch the sea. We ate at a cute little restaurant called “Pierenend” (Pier’s End) where almost nobody spoke English. (Ang and I had fun trying to decipher the menu, but for the most part, we let my great-uncle choose for us). The fish was good, and I personally devoured every morsel of every vegetable abandoned by Ang and my great-uncle and aunt. (Hey, as every Dutch girl knows… you just can’t waste it!) Dessert was spectacular enough to merit its own set of photos: roomijs = ice cream, or “cream ice” as our friendly waitress tried to explain to us, topped with a Dutch biscuit, slagrom (whipped cream) and various syrup flavourings.

All four of us were tired out by the day in the sun… but my great-aunt still had enough energy to whip up a great cappuccino, accompanied by a stropwafel, those sweet flat waffle-cookies which I fondly remember from my childhood. Some more Dutch TV, where I tried in vain to decipher news about the Amstel Gold race, and then Ang and I watched the tail-end of Spiderman 1 (with Dutch subtitles, of course).

On to Friesland...

Paranoid for pickpockets, I put on my most aggressive face and we got on the train to Leeuwarden. Several English-speaking folks were quite helpful as we tried to navigate the dizzying train system and use the automatic ticket machines which didn’t accept our PIN-less North American cards. I felt proud that we actually made it to Leeuwarden in one piece.

Ok, my first experience with being the obvious foreigner. I look like everyone in that station, but I can’t understand a word of the language (either Dutch or Frisian). Many times while in the Netherlands, I had to stop a person after several moments of Dutch came careening my way, saying I didn’t understand. I felt kind of ashamed; I didn’t feel like this was my homeland... in fact, standing in the station at Leeuwarden, I’ve never felt so alone and far from home.

Also my first experience with having to pay to use the toilet. Something I definitely don’t miss now that I’m back in Ottawa. Cripes. 0.60 EUR (almost $1.00) to use the toilet... makes you think twice about staying hydrated.

My great-uncle and aunt picked us up, and after my initial nervousness re: not being able to recognize them! we got along famously. This was helped along by a generous serving of red wine and some home-made Dutch soup, baguette and various cheeses… the first home-cooked and non-processed dinner we’d had in some time. My eyelids were drooping by 10pm, and after a struggle to understand Dutch television, it was early to bed for all of us.

Bikes & Dijks

Yesterday I didn’t even bother to get dressed; I just spent the entire day at the computer, planning my itinerary for the Netherlands and doing so much research that my head is still spinning. I managed to get a 12k run in before bed, make my monthly phone call to the folks (who are leaving for the Dominican tomorrow morning… will wonders never cease??), and that was Sunday down the drain.

Apparently my great-uncle lives in a town called Veenvouden in Friesland. I don’t know how much about it, or even the population, but it is situated along the train tracks so it is definitely connected to the main urban areas (approximately 2.5 hours / 35 Euros from Amsterdam by train). A daytime excursion from there to Leuwaarden or Groningen would be quite feasible. I suspect that my dad would be delighted if I also made it to Workum (an old shipping village 2km inland along the Ijselmeer, where my family name is said to have originated) and took oodles of pictures, but I’m not sure we can—or would want to—hit every rural area in that vast marshland (!) When I delicately queried my father on the paucity of hostels and other accommodations in northern Friesland, he said: “That’s because it’s basically a muddy backwater”.

Straight from the horse’s mouth!

I read a lot about the history of the Netherlands (specifically, water management, wartime reparations, and architectural and agricultural developments), as well as the cultural significance of its various regions… and there is much more to learn. I knew that my grandparents had come to Canada on emigrant ships in the early 1950’s, and that the Dutch government was encouraging emigration at the time… but for reasons unfathomable until now. As I read through pages of Dutch history, I began to get a sense of the devastation of WWII and the despair that many citizens must have felt after the bombs finally stopped raining on their beloved country. Reading about the destruction of the city of Arnhem was especially saddening, as was how Nazi Germany used the Netherlands’ ports and cities to help wage their horrific monstrosities against humankind. At that time, my paternal grandparents were active in the underground, and my maternal grandparents managed to survive the occupation in Meedenblik (where my grandfather was once stopped and questioned by German soldiers who thought he was using Morse code to signal to the Allies, when in reality he was testing his bicycle light).

The terror of the German occupation, the massive destruction of history and infrastructure with Allied bombs, and the economic devastation which loomed over a people not quite recovered from the ravages of the Great Depression… when my grandparents looked around at the country they knew and loved, that crazy country of polders reclaimed from the sea with dijks, and saw it had been raped and pillaged by careless and inhumane warriors, and that the future seemed dismal… perhaps I can understand their choice to take their young families to Canada for the chance at a better life.

It was saddening, I just can’t explain.