Stadhuis Haarlem

The City Hall of Haarlem dated from the 14th century with its location at the Grote Markt, in the heart of the city. Under the gaze of the St. Bavo Church, and its numerous restaurants, bars and shops.

I have walked passed by the entrance way multiple times but decided, now that the tourists have left, to have a closer look. The grey-toned brick pavement was inviting and through an archway was a courtyard built of the same narrow bricks.

Remnants of the past, the local well, now turned into a pleasing displace of blooming plants, bringing a calmness to the enclosure.


Then I spotted the unintrusive bronze wall mounting in the courtyard. In a short paragraph, it honoured the Canadian troops that liberated the area during world war 2.

The plaque conveyed many things and it made me proud to be a Canadian. It liberated the small seaside village, not far from Haarlem, where my family lived.  My father who had been an indentured labourer in Germany for five years was able to return to his family. Due to this event two years later in May 1947, I was born. After my 18th birthday, I immigrated to Canada and then became a Canadian.

Boys will be boys

Walking through the pedestrian shopping malls in Haarlem I came across these two boys. It had rained the night before with few signs left of the downpour, but one puddle.  

The only pool to be seen and the two towheads spotted it. While the mother was in a conversation with either neighbour or friend the two boys entertained themselves. They seem to be brothers, one older than the other. Mothers conversation ended and she called the boys. 

The two left, but the younger one turned around and had second thoughts about the puddle.

The little one now had it all to himself. 

The towhead tried out several maneuvers and turns. 

The mother called again. 

One more splash and it was time to go home.

Streets of Haarlem

Walking through the streets of Haarlem you are aware of the bricked pavement. Small narrow bricks dating back in time when they were fired in the area and laid down on a foundation of sand gathered from the dunes. They vary in colour from gray, charcoal, sand coloured and slowly turning to shades of red. Even in the red, there is a variation of colours depending mostly on the firing. Presently there is still a profession called Street Making. An apprenticeship was followed in that trade taking into account the curve and the drainage of the pavement. With modern equipment, it has made the task easier, but most of the digging has to be done by hand as pipes and cable are buried underground. 

There is not much distinction between the sidewalk and the road and the small commercial carts that once maneuvered through these narrow streets, have been replaced by bicycles. Bikes have become the mode of transportation and with the separate bike lanes, it has become the preferred method of getting around the city.

Although there is not much of a sidewalk, there is room for a bench and flowers pot and plants. The benches are to sit on, but mostly avoiding visiting cyclists placing their bike against the glass window  panes

The streets have become pedestrian walkways and cyclist have to dismount, otherwise, face a fine.  The pavement has also become part of the neighbourhood, while streets are swept and leaves gathered there is still time for a quick word to the neighbours between chores.

Away from the flowers and plants are the temporary units that sell their freshly baked goods. They make their circuit and move to different locations during the week.

The aroma of freshly baked waffles is hard to miss and difficult to walk past. It is amazing with all the freshly baked goods; obesity is rare.

There are narrow passageways that have been there for hundreds of years and invite you to follow it.

Some doors lead to a courtyard or a well establish gardens.

Some passage is the width of a wheelbarrow and has doors leading to it with plants hanging from brackets.

Traditionally, a small business was run by a woman as her husband held a full-time job. The business was on the main floor and the owner lived above the store. She ran the business and raised the children at the same time. It is closed during lunch hour and closed one day during the week and on weekends. 

Businesses spill out onto the sidewalks with their wares and displays. Bars and restaurants claim most of the sidewalks.

As I was looking for direction to the shortest route back to by hotel, I spotted the crow sitting on the information post and as I was looking for the shortest route, decide to follow it.

Not far from anywhere, is the cheese shop with its display on the sidewalk along with its cheese samples.

Walking from Woerden to Gouda

I had packed my walking boots and a small backpack for my brief visit to Gouda and Haarlem. As I was traveling with carry-on baggage only, it did take up most of the space but was well worth the effort.

With a short train ride to Woeren and following the signs to the historical village and then into the marshlands. The village is old and was part of the Northern borders of the Roman Empire with the first stronghold built in 40AD.

With lush green field and well-maintained houses and gardens I started the walk back to Gouda.

Outside one of the farms was a table, selling jam, with a beautifully handpainted cabinet and small pouch attached for coin. 

I could not resist but opened the door to find a display of homemade jams, handwritten labels and finishing it with a small cover. 

Not far from the road were some goats who posed for a photo and then continued with their graze.

A curious goat wanted a better look and in this flat terrain, he could probably see for miles.

An apple tree is heavily laden with fruit and ready for some Dutch Apple Pie.

With the sun now losing its strength, it gave a glow as it filtered softly through the trees. 

Canals open up to a larger waterway 

and an escape route for the ducks.

Decorative urns are everywhere even in the algae waterways, making it look like a lawn. 

After four hours it was time to catch my train in the outskirts of Gouda back into town. 

It has been a terrific walk.

Jackass

I came across this statue along the canal in Gouda and it caught my eye and needed a  closer look. I was a bit puzzled and looked around for a plaque of explanation: a fable or perhaps a poem, but there was none.

It is a statue of a man carrying a jackass on his back, heading in no particular direction. Made in bronze in 1998 by the sculptor Gijs Assmann, perhaps it was a play on his name and might have been called an ass before. 

Assman translates to Ashman.

Gouda Cheese

The name Gouda is world famous and synonymous with cheese. The first mention of Gouda cheese dates from 1184, making it the oldest recorded cheese that is still presently produced.


The cheese named after the city of Gouda, not for its local production, but for the town where it has traded since the Middle Ages. Gouda acquired the sole right to trade in the cheeses produced by the Hollandic farmers. It was at Gouda city market square that the cheeses would be laid out and displayed.

On Thursday mornings, the dairy farmers from the surrounding area gather at the market square to have their cheese weighed, tasted and priced.

They dress for the part and lay out their cheeses. The young milkmaids are there as well, dressed red-white-and-blue outfits wearing white lace caps, handing out cheese samples for tasting.

The term "Gouda" is not protected and therefore is used around the world for cheese made in Gouda-style. "Noord-Hollandse Gouda" and "Boerenkaas" are registered in the EU as a Protected Geographical Status and can be made only in the Netherlands and only from milk produced by Dutch cows. Some 300 Dutch farmers still produce cheese and "Boerenkaas", Farmers Cheese, is made in the traditional manner using unpasteurized milk.

As I left the cheese market, the simplicity of the street names caught my eye. They are called Achter de Vismarkt, behind the fish market, Achter de Kerk, behind the church, Achter de Waag, behind the weigh house. I guess they had no mail delivery in those days and everyone knew their neighbours.

.

My Father the Artist

My father carried the family's given name Jan Jacobus that can be traced back into the 1700's. For centuries they had been house painters, glass repairman and stained glass artists. My father was one of a twelve children, most of whom helped in the family business of house painting. His apprenticeship started at the age of twelve and he joined his father and older brothers in that trade. Besides the cleaning of brushes, the brothers taught him to roll his cigarettes, a habit that remained with him until the end.

My father belonged to an artist group in Haarlem, which was part of the Dutch Federation of Artists Sculptors and Engravers. For acceptance into the guild, the artist's work has to be juried by nine art professors. It required five votes to qualify and his self-portrait received all nine votes; he was granted professional artist status and accepted into the guild. A portrait is a difficult object to paint and a self-portrait the most difficult, as the artist has to look into a mirror and paint what he sees. Jan Jacobus had been accurate in what he had seen.

In the later part of his life, he took private lessons from the Rijksmuseum's restorer. He experimented with methods known to the Dutch Masters mixing their paints and he learned their style of application. His goal was to become an art forger, which thankfully was short lived, as the restorer was caught and sentenced to jail as an art forger himself. My father's unfiltered smoking caught up to him and he passed away at the age of sixty-six at home.

Quite often I am asked about the family name. Could it have been Van Rijn? …probably not.