Quintessential Netherlands.
Somewhere at the indistinguishable horizon is the island of my forbearers, Terschelling.
Let's put it this way, she wasn't bothered by our visit.
Meditation in the church yard.
Just leaves and light.
The designer of the 20-mile afsluitdijk, immortalized along the highway.
One can make friends easily along the canals.
Familiar names in the Wiewerd churchyard.
It could not have been a better day.
Day #4 began, once again, with the the motel's bountious gift of the kind of meaty breakfast only the Dutch dare offer. Ought to make Siouxland livestock growers happy. On to Dokkum, where the Frisians, long ago, lopped off the head of St. Boniface, who'd come to bring them the gospel. Not kindly of them, I know, but the Fries, it seems, rather like taking no prisoners. A few hours on our own in Dokkum, then on to the small town of Wiewerd, where the dead (four of them) tell lots of tales. Some mysterious chemistry in the air keeps the bodies mummified. Strange. A churchyard that reads like a northwest Iowa phone book. A bus trip across the earthen Afsluitdijk, and a wonderful, memorable homecoming. Dinner--guneau hen!--in Alkmaar at yet another top-notch hotel.
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