Land of Dreams

Land of Dreams

Here, by the old Zuider Zee, the horizon seems to stretch to infinity. This huge expanse of water, now known as the Ijsselmeer (an inland lake), was once open sea that the ingenious Dutch have enclosed in an intricate system of dykes and concrete. You can see for miles. The distance is pregnant with possibilities. Traditional Dutch communities, with their wooden, painted houses, share the horizon with lines of gigantic, twirling, modern windmills – old and new in an intriguing blend, so typical of the modern Dutch landscape.

Those flat, wide, open spaces imprint themselves indelibly on my mind’s eye. This huge stretch of water, surrounded by a tiny ring of land, is adorned with a low strip of houses around the basin’s rim. Above them are vast expanses of sky with low banks of white cloud. We call them this land the Netherlands – the flatlands of northern Europe – with their well-known landscape that the old Dutch masters loved and made forever famous. Jacob van Ruisdael and Aelbert Cuyp, to name just two, had a profound influence on the way we view the Dutch landscape even today.

It’s a land for dreamers. Nothing is distinct; the sunlight glints on the water and the waters are whipped up and ripple in the cool, brisk breeze. But the view is a distant one and there is plenty of scope for speculation. What is out there, beyond the rippling water and the colonies of seabirds bobbing up and down on the waves? What will I find if I journey to the distant horizon?

Dreams are always best, I find, when you cannot see too clearly. Too much detail and my dreams are shattered. Too much reality and I lose faith – there are too many obstacles in my way; too many flaws in the raw materials of my imagined future. If I half close my eyes and squint into the distance all things are possible. There are a myriad of possibilities and the horizon is a circle of gold where the rainbow ends. But all that glisters is not gold and if I open my eyes wide and peer too hard I discover all that is wrong, inadequate, impractical and badly thought out in my precious dreams.

No, the Netherlands is a good place for dreamers. Those big, wide skies hold out vistas full of hope. There are no mountains to climb, no valleys to cross, only a clear, flat run at my far distant goal. Let us hope that the wind is behind me as I run for it is my only obstacle. But it is a long way to the end of the rainbow.

No, I must keep looking ahead, my eyes focussed on that far off, misty horizon, not paying much attention to the detail on the way, if I am to reach my goal, fulfil my dreams.

The good, the bad and the ugly

The ice and snow have melted here in the Netherlands and the world has reverted to its proper colour (glorious green - at least that's the colour I would paint it!). We can breathe again and stroll about looking at the melting ice on the canals and hunting for signs of spring.

It's a time for observation again, no longer cooped up within four walls and feeling stodgy and stifled, wrapped up and pinched against winter's harshness. Time to re-invent my much-loved outdoor life and for a spot of poetry - two poems which reflect the Dutch landscape in different ways, good and bad, which many of us will remember long after we have returned to our home countries, wherever they may be:

Heron’s Reach

Hunched, poised,
By the water’s edge,
A sentry on duty,
Awaiting the changing of the guard.

Not resting, but silent,
Ever watchful,
Surveying his territory
As the sun falls beneath the reeds.

A breeze springs up,
Ruffling his head feathers.
Head swivels,
Beak pointing this way and that.

Softly, softly,
Creeping forward,
No sharp movements,
Then a sudden plunge.


This one I wrote after a trip back home. The rhyme seemed to fit the neat, regimented landscape:

Thinking in straight lines

I’m back again in Toytown
Where the roads are made with bricks,
Where the trees all grow in straight lines
And other clever tricks.

The water flows in channels;
The river’s bends are gone.
The croaking heron, honking geese
Drown out the chaffinch song.

Beneath the neat lace curtains
The plants all stand in twos,
Purple orchids in square pots
Make up for country views.

What happened to the softness?
Where are those fine green hills?
The mountain’s purple grandeur
Replaced by twirling mills.

No time to sit and ponder
On how life ought to be.
The holiday is over;
Too wasteful just to ‘be’.

I’m back again in Toytown
Where thoughts run in straight lines,
Where black and white, not shades of grey,
Regale my weary mind.

Marken, Netherlands

My Own Space

Trespass on my private space and I will react instantly with discomfort. I will wriggle awkwardly, move a little further away and try to avoid answering your too personal questions. Those who feel threatened may react more violently. Individuals, it seems, and especially English ones, have invisible boundaries around them, like continental fishing limits – no-go areas with a keep-out sign erected.

How do we acquire these boundaries? Some of it depends upon our race or nationality; sometimes it’s about our upbringing. Some of us live in detached houses, behind security fences, reclining in our luxury living rooms several feet apart. Our physical contact is minimal. We are used to a lot of space. Not everyone’s sense of space is the same. Some cultures and backgrounds teach us to need a lot of space; others live with a much cosier, relaxed attitude. But each of us has limits – stand too close and I feel threatened and will take a step backwards – especially if you had garlic sausage for breakfast!

Some of us inhabit crowded tenement buildings and huddle together in front of the TV, three in a row on the battered old sofa, sharing our bags of crisps and showing our affection by means of hugs and a very physical, affirming body language. Our more aggressive feelings may take the form of fist fights or wrestling. We are used to engaging closely with each other.

Some of us snuggle up to each other like hamsters in a pet shop. Others prefer a more ‘arm’s length’ approach, despite our warm feelings towards each other, and our communication is verbal and from a safe distance. Why is this? Maybe big families have more of a ‘snuggling’ instinct. What about ‘only’ children? Are they used to more of their own space? What about twins? Does it make a difference in life when you spend the first nine months of existence in a shared space, even in the womb? And how do families behave where children routinely share bedrooms and have no private space of their own? As we grow up we crave a bit of privacy and room to breathe.

What makes one person reserved and another one ‘chummy’? Why do some nationalities link arms or wrap their arms around each other as they walk down the street? Why do English strangers often smile at each other in the street but in other nations this is out of the question? Why do we greet each other when out walking in the countryside or in village streets but rarely in the city? Is it about feelings of security and identification with each other or the lack of them?

There is a growing desire, often expressed these days in modern Western cultures, to return to our roots and rediscover that sense of community many of us feel we have lost. We long to exchange our ‘four walls’ mentality and our sense of isolation within our immediate family circle with that sense of well-being we imagine belongs to those who live with their extended family and enjoy being known in the wider community. We long for a bit more intimacy and expressiveness with our friends and family.

However, whatever the reason, we all like a bit of our own space. It’s a deeply rooted human instinct but is one that lies dormant until someone steps over the limit. Living in another culture that is not our own can be our first awakening of this instinct and takes a lot of adjustment and a good sense of humour to adapt. Even our search for a better experience of ‘community living’ takes some adjustment and is a process which we can only undertake a step at a time, with due respect for our own and other people’s needs for privacy. My invisible keep-out sign is still up and you will eventually bang your nose on it if you make a wrong move! So is yours, so I will try to be careful.

Wearing your Heart on your Sleeve

"Write from your heart" wrote my friend. Write about those things you are passionate about and you're onto a winner! Your writing will flow. Write from your heart, the good and the bad, and you will find the cure to writer's block - that fearsome, stultifying condition that terrorises all professional writers as they watch the words that routinely drip from their pens like liquid gold solidify into clumsy lumps of unyielding rock, like the petrified objects at Mother Shipton's well.

"Friends of mine are suffering from writer's block" wrote my friend ominously. "You know who you are and your names begin with J."

"Is it I?" I panic instinctively, feeling like some Judas who has betrayed his master for thirty pieces of silver. Do I write from the heart? An interesting question and the honest answer is probably both yes and no. What are my passions in life? A piece of writing I read out at my writers circle elicited a response which showed that, unwittingly, I had exposed a piece of my heart. Following a reading of an article I wrote concerning my annual 'escape to the country' as I like to think of my summer holiday, this time to an idyllic spot on the coast of Wales, there was a moment's silence. Then my impassioned outburst about the impact of this rural seaside experience and the subsequent depression I felt at returning to my city home and routine, provoked an exclamation from the other end of the table where we were gathered: "oh, but when you retire, the two of you" (meaning myself and my husband) "must buy a little cottage in the country and grow vegetables!" Exactly! Did I betray my heart so obviously? Apparently so.

One of my passions - the outdoor life, the countryside, nature, the sea, the birds and the butterflies... I write easily about such things. Another is rooted in location - places I have known and loved that have become a part of me. There are others, like the value of human life, the plight of the homeless, the need for tolerance and sensitivity, the embracing of diversity and a 101 ideals that I uphold but do not always succeed in achieving. And it's true, when I write about these things the words flow and the gentle humour which also an intrinsic part of my view on life comes into its own.

But my heart embraces other things too. I have a gentle husband and a generous daughter, the loves of my life. Do I write about them? No, rarely. But they occupy a sizeable place in my heart. I am a very private person, it seems, and what I love most in life remains locked away in my heart. To write from the heart about them might well release a flood of golden words, but some things are more precious even than words to me. SoI will guard these things jealously in my heart and go back to writing about those other things. I hope you will forgive me. I am no harlequin or clown, dressed in coloured patchwork and covered with hearts. I am not one who wears my heart on my sleeve all the time - at least not in my writing.