Back from Cadzand
As an early teenager, Henk cycled from Tiel to Cadzand Bad. With his panniers full of Chocomel as a power drink. We decide to transfer the ride to the motorcycle. The Netherlands has changed a lot in forty years. And four old motorcycles are different from a bicycle. Certainly if there is a sidecar with which there is no disabled fellow human being, but packing and spare items for four motorcycles.
The ride follows - purely on memories - the authentic route so naturally. We drive on cycle paths, through now grown residential areas, public gardens and shopping centers. Summer is over, so everyone thinks we are a local holiday activity or something good-natured. And so driving all the way in, you experience a whole new Netherlands. No problemo! The Kruiningen-Perkpolder ferry is no longer available. But such a tunnel also has something. The old-timers shudder through the kilometer-long pipe that fills with barking, bangs and growls from front to back. Playing with the pre-ignition produces a thunderstorm of thunderous bangs and blue-purple exhaust flames. Holidaymakers whirl the caravans stunned in our wake. The sound hurricane is also ahead of us. That apparently has something to do with resonance frequencies. Sustaining permanent hearing damage is a party!
The Zeeland Flemish side
On the other side of the tunnel we enter a somewhat gloomy climate zone, but we get to Cadzand Bad, the seaside resort that has gradually been taken over by the Flemish occupation force that turns the once ugliest boulevard in the Netherlands into a Klein Knokke Clone. That sounds critical , but stands for progress. Really. It has been a long day, so we have to forage first. We walk to the Seagull. There it is pleasantly busy on the terrace. Jackets and helmets can rest in a corner of the terrace. Everyone winks happily at the sea. The clouds are increasing. 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. After all, an engine cannot do without oil. It is starting to rain seriously. The terrace people flee en masse. Late 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.
Self-conceived officials
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. That keeps the journey calm. Oh yes: the outward and return journeys went virtually without technical defects. And that on motorcycles that are all at least 50 + ers. Well yes: except one. But he pretended ...
Such a weekend is over in no time. Unfortunately.
But the weekend of 9 and 10 September was a hit.
