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C2A: Into the Real Netherlands
The area around Standaarbuiten and Moerdijk seems to be one sprawling industrial/farming estate. Long stock-straight rows of potatoes on one side, idling lorries and docking bays on the other. Just beyond, a set of bridges and new housing estates. The houses are manicured and stylish, and a few of them confusingly have thatched roofs? Canals start to wind their way amid the fields on the way out to Hollands Diep.
We’re entering the Real Netherlands.
We pass through a sleepy town called Zevenbergen and then a village called Moerdijk, where the locals mounted a resistance to the invading Nazis who sought to control the Hollands Diep estuary. On both sides of the estuary there are the remnants of lines of concrete bunkers, placed by the Germans as defense and now scrawled with graffiti about love and totally caved in with dirt and nettles. We climb a hill on the far side of the town and find, at the top of the hill, the Hollands Diep itself, broad and roaring with traffic.
This is not the first time that we find rivers at the top of hills. (The hills are, it scarcely needs to be said, actually embankments keeping the North Sea out of the country.)
We cross the Moerdijk bridge into Zuid-Holland and the cut through the fields to the south side of Dordrecht. The suburbs are quiet and green and launch us with very little fanfare into the heart of the town, where we stop at Nobel Brood for a bit of brunch. I get a kanelbulle, which transports me directly back to Sweden a couple of years ago (although it’s nowhere near the real thing). Then we board our first waterbus across the Oude Maas: a pound each saves us going back on ourselves to cross the river via bridge.
On the way out of Dordrecht we pass through a type of residential area I’ve never seen before: houses on narrow islands abutting a tiny canal. There are gardens watered by the canal and little canoes moored at wooden decks, all abutting a cyclepath frequented almost entirely by girls in baggy jeans and pensioners in wraparound sunglasses. It seems somehow so idyllic. And then we climb a hill and find another canal crossing the previous one at a higher level than all of the houses.
We turn off and make our way through Nieuw-Lekkerland to catch our second waterbus of the day across the Lek. We time it perfectly and fly out of Lekkerkerk with the wind behind us.
From here it just gets more Dutch. On both sides now are long, narrow patches of grass, sometimes with cows or sheep or goats, sometimes with a couple of lapwings or seagulls, alternating with long rows of water, only a couple of inches below the land. I don’t know how the whole thing doesn’t flood under rain. There has got to be some seriously engineering at work here.
We fly past kids coming home from school, pitying their battle against 20 kph headwinds, before rolling into Gouda and joining the rush hour bike traffic. Sitting in a queue of bikes at a traffic light makes me feel extremely smug.
Eventually we arrive at the summerhouse where we’re staying for the night. It’s rustic and cosy in perfect proportions, so we settle in. I make a quick run to the shop for groceries on my bike. I think I could make a good Dutch person, if only I could learn the language.
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C2A: Into the Netherlands
Late now and I want to get to bed so today’s a short one.
The road out of Belgium is long and straight, except for the part that winds through Antwerp. In the city we cross under the mighty Schelde via pedestrian tunnel, the big brother of the one under the Tyne in Newcastle. Then along the railways towards the Dutch border.
Stop in Essen at an extremely local pub, where we chat briefly with the owner and a couple of regulars about touring and where we’re going. Get a bottle of Leffe Bruin for the road, gratis. Belgians are good folks.
Passing into the Netherlands we wave sayonara to the straight, immaculate paths and greet winding roads and fields of corn bowed under the weight of the wind. Have a late lunch of dubiously Mexican food in Roosendaal and then push on for Standaarbuiten where we camp for the night. Shower, wash clothes, peep the “extraordinary pigs” snoozing in their hut, spooning like humans.
Then bed.
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C2A: Ghent and environs
Up at the luxuriant hour of 7:30. The sun’s shining when we awake but coyly retreats behind a veil of cloud while we pack. I’m fine with that. My skin needs a break.
Easy riding out of Bruges, following the cyclepath alongside a broad, straight road headed due east. There’s a bit of a tailwind so we get a good clip going. I’m sore but I don’t feel bad; I wonder if this is what being a cyclist feels like.
Clouds roll in, relieving us of the burden of the sun for a few hours.
Outside of a town called Adegem we pass a Canadian war cemetery; we stop and dismount. Some combination of physical exhaustion and the distance from home makes me emotional. A lot of the graves have personal messages from family and friends; most of them are quotes from the bible or from psalms but there are a few demonstrating unconcealed grief from parents or wives, and these are very moving.
I try to read a few out loud but feel myself on the verge of tears, so I don’t.
We ride on for a while and join the Schipdonkkanal for some easy riding through the fields. There are cows and donkeys and potatoes on the one side and long rows of old trees on the other.
We stop for early lunch in a town called Lovendegem, which seems to have been put up in the 1980s as a community for upper-middle class retirees, folks on a Good Pension. Apart from the church there are no old buildings anywhere, only brick and tile abutting perfectly laid paving-stone sidewalks. It’s incongruous; I’m used to stone villages with bad roads laid out 700 years ago.
I spy a group of middle aged men in pastel-coloured button downs drinking beers, so I figure it’s a safe bet to start drinking at 11am on a Sunday in Belgium. I pick a name I don’t recognise off the beer list: Fourchette. Imagine my utter humiliation when the beer comes out in a long-stem red wine glass; delicate logotype on the side and a whiff of 30-year-old eau de parfum and baby powder in its wake. I drink it slowly. Midway through lunch, a retired couple walk in and the woman comes over to ask me what I’m drinking (in Dutch-accented French: a first). Then she turns to the waitress and gives her the old “I’ll have what he’s having”. My mortification is complete. Joke’s on her though because the lunch is delicious.
A bit of rain on the paths around lunch; the smell of wet asphalt evokes memories of childhood. I know it’s called petrichor, but I think that word is for redditors ONLY ok.
We roll into Ghent under a threatening but ultimately toothless sky. Tourists crowd around the Gravensteen, a big castle from the 1100s with a rich history that we learn nearly nothing about, because we’re three market squares over getting waffles and you guessed it more beers. We both agree that Ghent is nicer than Bruges, though: more oriented towards the locals, less dominated by tourism.
Leave Ghent via the F4 cycleway, following the railway on a long, flat, perfectly straight course. The smooth, even surface of the path makes our wheels sing, a high hum like a glass harmonica. A few trains pass while we go. We eat up the miles, making great time towards Sint-Niklaas even with a break for stretches along the way.
I’m a bit queasy for some reason by the time we get to town, so we get an inoffensive dinner at an Asian fusion place and look with awe on the massive works being undertaken on the Grote Markt, the largest market square in Belgium. Photos of the market from before the with started indicate that it was a bit of a grim spot, just a big empty paved space. I don’t envy the pavers.
Then up the road to our host for the night, a man who works for the city with a fantastic house: modern yet cosy, with a signature Belgian massive plate glass window. We chat for a bit about politics and work and the Dutch language, and then we turn in early for bed.
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C2A: The road to Bruges
We set off early. Pack up the tent, hit the road. It turns out that lots of people are hitting the road on this bright sunny Saturday morning, namely a bunch of older guys named Jan who ride their €12,000 bikes at like 35 kph past unwary English bikepackers.
We take a wrong turn early but it turns out to be a blessing, as the detour sends us past a pizza vending machine. Yes you read that right. Honestly goated, cannot glaze the pizza vending machine enough. While we’re waiting for the pizza to heat up a man arrives to collect from the adjacent potatoes vending machine. We chat briefly about how Belgium has all the great vending machines.
A little while further on we have to wait for a boat to pass through a series of swing- and draw-bridges. On the far side of the canal a group of identically-dressed blokes cruise by at a Professional speed. The boat, which has a playboy bunny tramp stamp and which is called “Bunny”, passes through the bridges and we’re on our way.
We pass “Bunny” in short order.
From here, a long stretch of canalside riding, relatively boring but easy going. I wonder if Belgian cyclists quake at the sight of a hill. I wonder if I’m getting into something serieus by slagging off Belgian cyclists, all of whom have a penchant for passing me at high speed.
Soon we’re at the outskirts of Bruges, on the route of a triathlon later in the afternoon. We make a detour through the burbs for a stop at Decathlon during the hottest part of the day; it is unbearably warm in the car park. We meander around the city to the campsite where we’re staying for the night.
The campsite is quiet. The Germans and English who make up its residents are out in town during the day. We pitch the tent and head out for a late lunch.
The typically siesta-oriented Europeans are all on their afternoon breaks but we find a spot to scarf down some good Quality food to keep our spirits buoyed throughout the afternoon. Then we make a trip into town by bicycle but get no further than the corner of the Grand Markt before retreating before the hordes of tourists and the waves of heat coming off the cobbles. Instead we retire to a bar just outside of the tourist district and knock back a couple of fancy Belgian beers.
Then we both get extremely sleepy.
We ride back to the campsite by way of the grocery store, where we pick up the essentials for pasta. The essentials for pasta includes beer. We make at least three wrong turns on our way back to the campsite but arrive safe and sound, eventually. A German couple asks us for permission to park their bikes within their own campsite; I wish I had the gumption to try to speak with them in German.
We rustle up a quick dinner of spaghetti, then lie around for a bit watching the magpies in the trees before going to bed.
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C2A: Into Belgium
Wake up very early for the ferry. I feel like what I imagine the grave feels like. My joints creak and my head pounds. I fill up a Gatorade bottle with tapwater and chug it down.
Then we head out the door and ride down to the ferry.
We’re the first ones on but the last ones off. We doze and then we debark and we’re in France. We ride through Calais on the right side of the road. My phone provider sends me a threatening text indicating that overages on data will cost a heady sum. (This is why I haven’t attached images to this one: no WiFi at the moment.)
Shortly we leave the road for a winding set of cyclepaths through the fields. The paths are paved marble-smooth and well-signposted. We follow them for 20km without seeing a car.
Through Gravelines and into a town called Loon-Plage for lunch. I get a Flemish dish with a bunch of aspic and Sam gets a cheesy chicken casserole. Both of them are fantastic. I hadn’t realised how much I missed European food. They go down with good Belgian beer. Propa stuff.
On to Grande-Synthe and Dunkirk, where we join a cyclepath along the railway lines. Long local electric trains whiz past as the landscape turns more and more to dune. We arrive at the Fort des Dunes, which has something to do with the Dunkirk evacuation, though it’s not clear quite what.
A little further on we come to the border with Belgium. We stop for water at a petrol station. On the other side of the border, the trails are tidy and straight, the cyclepaths well marked and freshly painted. The towns are all immaculate and posh-looking, although strangely empty of people, given that it’s a Friday evening. We pass through Veurne and then Avekapelle and then turn off into a dusty lane between rows of wheat and potato.
Soon we’re at the garden where we intend to camp for the night. We pitch the tent in the shade of an old farmhouse and are invited to join our host for dinner. She keeps horses and chickens on a smallholding in a quiet part of the countryside. The far-off sound of electric trains comes to us now and again, and the evening call of a peacock. We sit with them at the table and talk about Europe and about Flanders and the Dutch language until the sun goes down and the dogs, Venn and Bob, need walking. While our host is away, we zonk hard.
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