Holland speaks to much of my soul. Lush and green. Friendly. But mostly because the national foods are cheese, pancakes and frites with fritessaus - otherwise known as chips drowning in mayonnaise with a fat content on par with cheese. I'm not even kidding. It's so freakin' delicious. I think my first week here I put on a kilo despite all the walking. I digress.
Our hosts, Ari and Mayke, are brilliant cooks. Not a night goes by without a new culinary adventure. Last night was "different potatoes" which are predominantly potatoes, cream and cheese. After three helpings of this I was beginning to think my holiday here was really a return to the mother ship. Fresh raspberries, oodles of free cheese, amazingly dense food and we live next door to one of the chocolate capitals of the world? HOLY CROW THESE ARE MY PEOPLE. Then Mayke said we should go for a bike ride while Dad and Ari do the dishes to work off some of the potatoes. Excuse me? Bike riding? AFTER THAT?! I revoke my former statement, we have nothing in common.
Unwilling to appear too sloth-like and keen to spend some time with Mayke, I saddled up and we headed out. Five minutes in when we reached the canal I regretted not heeding the photographer's first rule - I didn't take my camera. Postcard after postcard flew by while Mayke and I chatted. The Dutch really ride for pleasure. The land is so flat that exercise is not really a good description for it. Mayke commented that I was riding fast but I was really just riding. Riding is lazy here. Pedal continuously and you're some sort of athlete training for the tour de France.
We started out on a bike path. We switched to a country road that looked like it may have been built by the Romans and destroyed by a tank in WWII. Then it became a dirt track. And finally we were really in the country, everything smelled of cow and the track became sand that made my bike slew out from under me. Noticing that it was quarter to eight and knowing we were supposed to be leaving for a party at eight I ask whether we should be heading back. Secretly I wonder if I'm being led into the woods so she can kill me because there's no longer a lot of eye contact or talking. Ja, she says, but I think it's faster now if we keep going.
I'm sceptical about this but I run with it. Twenty minutes later and I know we're hopelessly lost. We ride for ages and I suggest we ask someone the way. I flag down a cyclist and gesture for Mayke to ask for directions. Weirdly she does it in English. Since Mayke doesn't speak good English I pay attention. As we ride away I ask why she asked in English and she laughs nervously and confesses that she's so embarrassed about being lost that she didn't want to admit that she's Dutch. "It's better if they think we're tourists".
Despite not knowing where I am at all I know we're not getting closer to home. I get the sense that we're going in different directions and the signs pointing to towns keep shifting. Six kilometres from Lieshout...now four, now seven. The countryside is taunting me shamelessly with things like a field of yellow flowers with a gorgeous windmill in the middle. The lack of camera makes me want to cry but there's a more pressing issue... It's nine o'clock now, the party started an hour ago and Mayke is obviously distressed. I suggest we call Ari - if not to come and get us then to either give us directions or at least stop worrying that we've been Hansel and Greteled by a Dutch Ivan Milat.
We find a lovely lady who makes the call for us. No one answers. Mayke calls Rogier and, mercifully, he comes to get us. We follow his car, riding hard. Embarrassingly we have to backtrack over a kilometre. We finally make it home three hours after we left. We've covered 40-50 kilometres and my butt hurts. On the plus side, I've seen most of south Holland, some of Belgium (probably) and the potatoes are definitely not making their way onto my hips. In fact, I think we've finally stripped off the birthday frites that were consumed in Amsterdam.
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