Transformed

My roommate can dance tango. The days are for biking and singing but by night we follow our noses and explore grachts and churches and cobblestoned streets. Not unlike a sheep I faithfully follow Theo as he navigates us through the old cities looking for interesting sights and sounds. Last night our wanderings found a Spiegeltent, which was part of a tango festival in town. To begin with I did my usual trick of running a mile but he slowly reeled me in and before long Vicki, Susie and I were sitting in a booth surrounded by tight skirts and intense looks, hot bodies and sultry moves, wondering where Theo had got to. The music danced the knife edge between frantic and controlled, accordion running and falling and up again, tripping over the bass and drums and then leaving them behind.


And then there he was. In the centre of the dancers, a woman in his arms. Holding her, leading her, guiding her confidently around the floor. A man amongst men.

Elly says the weather is unusual as it hasn’t rained the whole tour. The last couple of days we have been riding through sand dunes under bright blue skies, stopping to eat chips and swim in the North sea. By lunch yesterday we were in Haarlem and I went looking for second hand stores and antique shops. I have been finding lots of treasure and if it’s cheap enough and small enough and I’m feeling a little crazy I just buy it. It’s not often I’m in Holland.


Late afternoon we had a workshop in a Mennonite church, a big resonant space that could support both the rich, resonant basses and the soaring, angelic sopranos, along with a touch of echo. We give ourselves, our voices and our trust, to Rachel and she slowly, deliberately, gently weaves us together until we have been transformed into a giant willow sculpture, moving in the wind. A choir. And not just any choir but a community choir. We are the folk and this is the music we make, no union card required. And it is beautiful.

Cheese and churches

My father was fairly rigid, controlled and controlling so I treasure my gentle memories of him, the intimate moments. Our Dutch guide on this trip, Bert, reminded me of one of these memories and now I’m sitting in Gouda, disinterested in cheese and churches but with tears in my eyes, feeling connected to something from a long time ago. One of those deep places inside.


As kids my brothers and I used to play a game with Dad where we would draw pictures or letters on each other’s backs with our fingers and the person would have to guess what it was. A deep, treasured memory brought back to the light in Gouda. Bert reminded me, talking of the games he plays with his grandchildren and how they learn their letters in school this same way.


As we sit and talk we drink coffee and eat stroopwafels. Stroop is like golden syrup and a stroopwafel has a layer sandwiched between two very thin round waffles. They are slightly larger than the top rim of your coffee cup, which is where they sit to warm up or if they have gone a little stale.


I think this is what I look for in my travels, moments where something personal collides with something local. Like childhood memories and stroopwafels. It doesn’t seem to happen for me in churches or museums so I don’t usually bother going to them anymore.


The weather is beautiful, never truly cold, even when out walking after dinner or climbing a tree. The evenings only slowly give up their light, the colours softening slowly in the gradually fading light. Another delight is having the landscape change without having to change beds.

The Dutch are nice people. I’ve had ideas of national character and landscape bumping together in my head, trying to work out how they fit together. Everywhere is reclaimed marsh, the water pumped up and over the dykes, as it still is today. Not exactly prime real estate so why did the Dutch end up here when they could potentially have ended up somewhere else? My theory is because they are so friendly and polite they ended up giving everyone else first pick of the prime spots to settle.


One of the consequences of such flat land is that everyone rides bikes, which further imbues the Dutch psyche with both a fairly down to earth quality, as well as democracy. It’s hard to be a bastard and make your exit on a bike. And democratic because everyone rides bikes. Old women in long flowing dresses, young girls in miniskirts, men in suits, mums on cargobikes with the kids and the shopping in the front. Is this why it’s so rare to see anyone overweight?


A lack of curtains is typical here, almost as though you are being invited to look in, which I do. And then they take it further by adding ornaments and flowers, supplementing voyeurism with aesthetics. All these observations and thoughts come to me as we ride along, chatting and enjoying each other’s company – learning new songs, singing in windmills, waiting for bridges to let boats through, riding along dykes, eating chocolate for breakfast. Bliss really. Exactly what you want from a holiday.

Except for the sore bum.