Well, Schützenfesters certainly know how to party. They didn’t keep me awake, but when I opened the window at 1.30 a.m. the marquee down the road was still jiving. The church clock struck at 5.30 a.m. and I swear I could hear the brass band playing somewhere. As I dressed, somebody was singing alleluia several times over to the accompaniment of the band outside the church. Our breakfast was slightly delayed by the waitress having to serve a few beers . . . and the first parade of the day started just as we were leaving. I really don’t know what to make of it: history, community spirit, unsettling vibes under the cheerful booziness, the self-deprecating silliness of carrying wooden sticks (representing rifles?) topped with flowers so that they looked like a morris-dancing local militia. Had I lived in the town during the Thirty Years War, I might have been glad if a group of trained men were ready to defend it – and perhaps there were similar groups in Ukraine until three years ago.



The rest of the day was a return ride unto the Netherlands in hot sunshine and a gentle headwind. Piet Mondrian lived in Winterswijk for a time, but that is as much as I know.




















