From Leeuwarden, hopped on a southbound train to Meppel, and then back up north a few stops to the smallish –and definitely off the tourist track—town of Beilen. Our B&B host was kind enough to pick us up from the train station so we could more easily get to the renovated farmhouse that would be our home for the next several days.
The incessantly bleating sheep directly behind our room emphasized that we were literally in the middle of the fields at the edge of a small town. We walked the couple of kilometers back into town and rented bikes to begin getting our bearings. By evening we’d checked the weather—through the website of a fairly reliable weather forecast site , and began planning our bike tours.
Our first loop took us northwest to the Remembrance Museum for Camp Westerbork, a transit and labor camp, first for German Jews, but later principally for Dutch Jews and for a significant number of gypsies. There are a series of unusual short video clips taken secretly in Leeuwarden of the Germans entering that city, and subsequent clips of the rounding up of local Jews. There are droves of letters and postcards that are heartrending in their innocence. Especially in the early part of the war, many people truly believed they were off to a work camp, little understanding that most would end up in the extermination camps of Auschwitz, and Bergen-Belsen. By 1942 there were weekly train trips out of Westerbork, and perceptions began to change. By early September of ‘44 close to 100,000 Dutch Jews had been transited through the camp,the exodus of Jews ended and the Germans were ready to declare the Netherlands as a “Jew-free” area. The camp was liberated in May of ‘45. After the war Westerbork was used by the Dutch to house Moluccans as retribution for their help in the Indonesian war for independence from the Dutch in 1949.
Now all remnants of the infrastructure of the camp are long gone. Upon leaving the remembrance center/museum, we biked to the area that was the actual site of the camp, where there are a few different memorials, amongst which, stars of David for each Jew held at the camp, and the upended train tracks. As always, it is gratifying to see the efforts to remember—to NOT forget---, while simultaneously horrifying to read the post cards and letters, to look in on the hope and innocence that was so utterly in vain, in light of the single-minded drive to exterminate.
Leaving the ghosts behind in the renewed beauty and tranquility of the woods, we rode into the actual town of Westerbork, and eventually home. Although the countryside is similar throughout Holland, the province of Drenthe struck us as far more forested, and ideal for riding.
Our second ride took us back to the town of Westerbork, but this time coming up from the south, visiting the stunning old farmtown of Aalden, followed by Orvelte, which while agreeable, is essentially an inferior version of Aalden, spritzed up for tourists. Aalden, on the other hand, is inhabited and has a number of farms and farm-related buildings that qualify for the Dutch version of registered historic buildings. The village sports a handful of gorgeously maintained and restored farmhouses invariably topped with breathtaking thatched roofs. Note the tremendous thickness of the thatch—all local reeds. While these are common throughout the area, Aalden is especially picturesque and authentic. The beautiful ride meanders along quiet country trails, across fields and in and out of small farm villages. Simply a delight.
Our final trip in the province of Drenthe took us southwest of Beilen to the town of Ruinen by skirting the eastern edge of the Dwingelderveld National Park. This area is rimmed by a margin of woods, which surround a combination of heath(scrubby open brushland) and wetlands. The wetlands are a birdwatcher’s hang-out, and there are blinds in many areas to facilitate getting quite close to the aquatic species. Moving back north out of Ruinen, we crossed the open area of the heath, which is reputedly a dream of purple in the springtime, From there into the pretty town of Dwingeloo, which was in the midst of a market day—a flea market with some food thrown in for good measure—and there was also a huge crowd, easily five hundred people walking through the village behind the casket of a police(?) or firefighter(?) big shot. Actually quite moving to see. Everyone was on foot, and the church bells tolled for at least 15 minutes. We had a pic-nic on the main square, enjoying every moment of available warmth and sunshine, and then headed back home through still more fields, impossibly lovely thatched farms, and teems of farm animals aimlessly chewing the afternoon away.
No comments:
Post a Comment