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Brrrrr! The wind was killing – it seemed to be blowing a gale – so chilly was it that holding the bricklike Minolta SR-7 steady was an ordeal in itself! To the locals however, it was a gentle, soothing, refreshing breeze typical of fall, bringing with it a sense of “the last happy days” – epitomised so well by Keats - before the harsh, frosty, gloomy win
ter sets in. I was freezing on the outskirts of a Dutch village.
Village??! Ha! Well, that’s what they call Breukelen. However, to one for whom the visual association of the word is a multitude of mud huts, some covered with thatched bamboo and some with red clay tiles, cow dung slapped on the walls of almost all of them - connected by a network of uneven threadlike patches of land - de-grassed by ages of footfall, this was a far cry. This was a regular township. Rows of pretty cottages with even prettier little gardens in front – flowers of different hue and size popping out from the grass, with furry little kittens crouched between the stalks, fenced by uniformly pruned small hedges – the entrance marked by a waist high whitewashed wooden gate and little children playing with their roller skates nearby - pretty much reminiscent of the world of fairy tales one found oneself steeped in as a child. Probably due to reduced pollution or probably due to some unknown reason, the colours here appear so much brighter, the images so much sharper, as if suddenly, the brain was manipulating the images formed by the eye using its own Photoshop!
I walked along the canal, past a few cherry orchards towards a bridge that crosses into Breukelen. The bridge appeared like a mirage at a distance – and as I came closer, human forms seemed to emerge from the fog as if some conjuring sorcerer was flaunting her wizardry. This was one long row of fishermen sitting still like sculpted works of art with fishing rod in hand and a bag of bait next to the portable chair. For nearly more than half a minute no one moved! No one spoke! They just sat there as if glued to their seats with sealed lips and gaze fixed on the rod as if strength of mind was all it took to get a finned one to swim into its grave! Fishing, I learnt later, is a major leisure activity with the Dutch, across all age groups. Thursday being working, understandably, this was an old men’s troupe.
Leaving the fishermen to their meditation, I took the bridge. I had walked no more than a few feet, when a blast of cold wind caught me unawares and threw off the scarf that wrapped my ears. Groping about for a few minutes, for it was difficult to keep ones eyes open, I managed to recover. The wind surging down the canal was, by virtue of being able to flow
unobstructed, much stronger. I somehow managed to cross over, stopping only for a few seconds midway to drink in the breathtaking view!
Breukelen bears some resemblance to colonial small towns in India – albeit it is much more beautiful. There is a main thoroughfare that cuts through the village and connects it to other towns. Branching off from this artery are narrow lanes on which the residential and other town buildings stand. Running parallel with the road system is an intricate canal system which enhances the beauty of the town. Some of the houses in fact directly open onto the canals with small paddle boats tied to the entrance. What with ducks quacking and the flame coloured leaves – characteristic of autumn – scattered all around, “idyllic” was the only adjective that came to mind that could aptly depict the scene! The houses here are almost all built in the same style with sloping roofs and never more than two stories in height – most of them being cottages with only a few apartments – the situation being entirely different in larger cities like Amsterdam. Even the colour combinations and decoration are same creating a notion of uniformity. The windows typically are adorned by white laced curtains with small flower pots on the sill. The entrance is usually through a ubiquitous small garden in front of the porch and a yet smaller backyard bringing up the rear. The public houses like the bars, cafes restaurants, grocery stores, banks are all lined next to each other near the town centre. The eating houses with their pretty interiors done up entirely in wood and often lit be a few candles render a distinctive old world charm. Coupled with the whiff of some exotic dine, the feel is enthralling, delightful and unreal!
Nature, as has often been observed, is notorious for its unpredictable bearing. Though we often lament at her inconsistency, this diversity and the consequent mood changes on offer, holds us in significant awe. Within a quarter of an hour of entering the village, a swirling motion began in the air and the mist began to thin out and disappear, reminiscent of the last cold winds of winter being shoved out by the first spring air, bringing with it a fresh lease of life, in Fellini’s Amarcord. Slowly, the sun peaked out – a mild patch of light on the church spire to begin with, it brightened with every passing minute till the entire town basked in the bright, warm light. Even here, the indiscernible presence of a fairy Godmother waving her magic wand and directing the change of scenes, stupefying us, mere mortals was unmistakable!
ter sets in. I was freezing on the outskirts of a Dutch village.Village??! Ha! Well, that’s what they call Breukelen. However, to one for whom the visual association of the word is a multitude of mud huts, some covered with thatched bamboo and some with red clay tiles, cow dung slapped on the walls of almost all of them - connected by a network of uneven threadlike patches of land - de-grassed by ages of footfall, this was a far cry. This was a regular township. Rows of pretty cottages with even prettier little gardens in front – flowers of different hue and size popping out from the grass, with furry little kittens crouched between the stalks, fenced by uniformly pruned small hedges – the entrance marked by a waist high whitewashed wooden gate and little children playing with their roller skates nearby - pretty much reminiscent of the world of fairy tales one found oneself steeped in as a child. Probably due to reduced pollution or probably due to some unknown reason, the colours here appear so much brighter, the images so much sharper, as if suddenly, the brain was manipulating the images formed by the eye using its own Photoshop!
I walked along the canal, past a few cherry orchards towards a bridge that crosses into Breukelen. The bridge appeared like a mirage at a distance – and as I came closer, human forms seemed to emerge from the fog as if some conjuring sorcerer was flaunting her wizardry. This was one long row of fishermen sitting still like sculpted works of art with fishing rod in hand and a bag of bait next to the portable chair. For nearly more than half a minute no one moved! No one spoke! They just sat there as if glued to their seats with sealed lips and gaze fixed on the rod as if strength of mind was all it took to get a finned one to swim into its grave! Fishing, I learnt later, is a major leisure activity with the Dutch, across all age groups. Thursday being working, understandably, this was an old men’s troupe.
Leaving the fishermen to their meditation, I took the bridge. I had walked no more than a few feet, when a blast of cold wind caught me unawares and threw off the scarf that wrapped my ears. Groping about for a few minutes, for it was difficult to keep ones eyes open, I managed to recover. The wind surging down the canal was, by virtue of being able to flow
unobstructed, much stronger. I somehow managed to cross over, stopping only for a few seconds midway to drink in the breathtaking view!Breukelen bears some resemblance to colonial small towns in India – albeit it is much more beautiful. There is a main thoroughfare that cuts through the village and connects it to other towns. Branching off from this artery are narrow lanes on which the residential and other town buildings stand. Running parallel with the road system is an intricate canal system which enhances the beauty of the town. Some of the houses in fact directly open onto the canals with small paddle boats tied to the entrance. What with ducks quacking and the flame coloured leaves – characteristic of autumn – scattered all around, “idyllic” was the only adjective that came to mind that could aptly depict the scene! The houses here are almost all built in the same style with sloping roofs and never more than two stories in height – most of them being cottages with only a few apartments – the situation being entirely different in larger cities like Amsterdam. Even the colour combinations and decoration are same creating a notion of uniformity. The windows typically are adorned by white laced curtains with small flower pots on the sill. The entrance is usually through a ubiquitous small garden in front of the porch and a yet smaller backyard bringing up the rear. The public houses like the bars, cafes restaurants, grocery stores, banks are all lined next to each other near the town centre. The eating houses with their pretty interiors done up entirely in wood and often lit be a few candles render a distinctive old world charm. Coupled with the whiff of some exotic dine, the feel is enthralling, delightful and unreal!
Nature, as has often been observed, is notorious for its unpredictable bearing. Though we often lament at her inconsistency, this diversity and the consequent mood changes on offer, holds us in significant awe. Within a quarter of an hour of entering the village, a swirling motion began in the air and the mist began to thin out and disappear, reminiscent of the last cold winds of winter being shoved out by the first spring air, bringing with it a fresh lease of life, in Fellini’s Amarcord. Slowly, the sun peaked out – a mild patch of light on the church spire to begin with, it brightened with every passing minute till the entire town basked in the bright, warm light. Even here, the indiscernible presence of a fairy Godmother waving her magic wand and directing the change of scenes, stupefying us, mere mortals was unmistakable!
