Easter and Zeeland. That seemed like a good concept.
Friend Ernie once cycled to Cadzand Bad at the age of thirteen. We decide to transfer the ride to the motorcycle. The Netherlands has changed a lot in just forty + years. And four old motorcycles are different from a bicycle. Especially when a sidecar is driving. The ride follows the authentic route in a natural way. We drive on cycle paths, through now grown residential areas, public gardens and shopping centers. It is the middle of summer so everyone thinks we are a local holiday activity. The Kruiningen-Perkpolder ferry is no longer available. But such a tunnel also has something.
Storm in the tunnel
The old-timers thunder through the miles of pipe that fills with barks, bangs and grunts from front to back. Some play with the ignition produces a thunderstorm of thunderous bangs and blue-purple exhaust flames. The open megaphone of the tuned 140 cc Super Motor, a Chinese Honda Cib clone, sounds like anti-aircraft guns with ADHD. Vacationers and caravans whirl numb in our tracks. The noise hurricane is also ahead of us. Apparently this has something to do with resonance frequencies. Permanent hearing damage is a joy! On the other side of the tunnel we enter a somewhat gloomy climate zone, but we reach Cadzand Bad, the seaside resort conquered by the Flemish with the ugliest boulevard ever. Cadzand Bad is now quite full. A marina, a cottage park. Apartments. There are still a few houses that have not yet been sold to Belgian project developers. It has been a long day and so we have to forage first. We walk to the Zeemeeuw.
Nice on the terrace
There it is pleasantly busy on the terrace. Everyone winks happily at the sea. The clouds are increasing. Jackets and helmets can rest in a corner of the terrace. We do a beer and arrange ashtrays. There is a man with Harley tattoos on his anabolic shoulders. He has a considerably younger lady with him and is very busy ignoring motorcyclists without Harley tattoos. Would that actually hurt, put a tattoo?
Some drops fall. We order some beer and a triple bitter garnish. Fried things are good. Because an engine can't do without oil either. It is starting to rain seriously. The terrace people flee en masse. Summer rain is not bad. We just put on our motorcycle gear again. And why not put on your helmet because you happen to be sitting on a terrace?
The service understands it completely. Our croquettes and things are served under plastic. Cheerful umbrellas are placed in the food and are usually placed on sorbets. It is hard to drink to get the glasses empty. We search for our base. The next day is summer again. There is a mussel restaurant in Philippine, the owner of which we know. The man has a nice collection of Vincents behind the case. A day is over in no time.
Such a weekend is over quickly
On the way back there is only some consternation at the toll gate. We say that we do not have to pay because there is a man on the other side of the tunnel with a bag who arranges the ticket sales. Immediately two tunners with a service car go in search of the newly conceived entrepreneur at the other end of the pipe. The return journey is on beaten track. If you drive on motorways with eighty, you create your own island of traffic silence.
Such an Easter weekend is over in no time.
Unfortunately.
