When I got itchy feet and left Dublin for Toronto “for a few months”, farming in Holland was certainly not part of my life plan.
Well, I met a Dutchman in Toronto, got married, had children, bought a house and struggled with a mortgage. It looked as though my future was mapped out. Mind you, I should have read the signs.
While all our neighbours planted flowers and pretty hedges in their gardens, we grew things: tomatoes, cucumbers and melons, peas, beans, potatoes…
I knew my husband’s brothers had, like him, bolted away from anything to do with agriculture – and their father’s concept of farming – as soon as they could. But, over the years, the others had slowly drifted back.
When his brother offered a half share in his expanding farm, resistance was futile. The children were still young enough to adapt to a new life. So we sold the house, packed our furniture and our Canadian life into shipping crates and moved to Holland.
My first hurdle was the Dutch language.
“I will be fine,” I said to myself, “haven’t I been taking Dutch lessons for months?” Dream on.
When I went to the butcher’s, the whole shop went silent as I made dumb clucking noises to explain I wanted chicken. With the help of everyone there, I went home with meats I had never dreamed of.
We lived in the south of Holland, below the three great rivers. We were close to Germany and Belgium, the people mostly Catholic. It was a crossroads for Europe, the names giving the history: The Roman Way, Napoleon Avenue.
We bred pigs and our neighbours reared turkeys and chickens, grew tomatoes, lettuce, cucumbers and flowers, in small holdings, intensively. To me, the whole area felt more like the suburb of a city than a farming area – except for the all-pervading aroma of pigs.
I ‘helped’. My father-in-law was not impressed with me. I didn’t know a thing about farming – and I wore make-up.
Early each summer, my husband helped out getting the white asparagus in. Called “white gold”, this was grown for the French gourmet market. Every day before dawn for about six weeks, the crop was harvested. It was explained to me that if the asparagus was allowed to grow out into daylight, it would turn green and the profit margin would be lost. It was a punishing regime but the family made enough money in those six weeks to take away financial fears for the rest of the year.
As time went on, I learned:
1. How to cycle – a little wobbly at first.2. To visit people on their birthday, bring a little gift, drink coffee and eat “vla” (a Dutch dessert).3. That they never ate parsnips and equated lamb with something like kangaroo.4. That despite all my efforts to learn Dutch, the local people spoke a dialect for everyday conversations.5. Never, ever to hang out my wash to dry on Sundays.Some things surprised me. Most women had their babies at home with a midwife. Hospital births were for medical emergencies. Despite their general pragmatism, when a local person got burned or scalded, he went to a healer first to ease the pain before going to the doctor.
Then, in the run-up to Lent, there was Karneval, which was celebrated with great enthusiasm in the southern part of Holland. All through the year, I saw every little village and town make Karneval floats and design and sew Karneval outfits. All the local marching bands practiced and practiced.
Closer to Lent, the year’s Karneval Prince was chosen – a singularly great honour. Then, as Lent approached, they all held their parades. As my kids and I looked on, we saw the local marching band, then the equestrian club, followed by majorettes in white boots (don’t mention the horse droppings), then all the homemade floats, each vying for the top prize.
Every year around Lent, I think of Karneval again. While we were living in Holland, my husband got sick and sadly died, and myself and my two children came back to Ireland. So I’ve come full circle.
Looking back at my time in Holland, I found the Dutch language the biggest barrier. It left me feeling vaguely isolated, vaguely lonely, never skilled enough to have a deep conversation with another person. But sometimes, having to face up to and overcome a problem is good for you. My natural tendency would have been to run away, to find an escape route, but that was not on offer here. I had to be a big girl. I had to grow up.
Adapting to farming expanded my horizons. I began to see, do and appreciate the work and care that went into producing the food that ended up on my plate. Up to this, I had taken it for granted. Now when I eat food, I quietly thank all the people involved.
When I lived in Holland, I also found I had to think before I put my foot in it. It is easy to give offence by accident. Most countries think the way they do things is the right way and don’t take kindly to what you might see as “constructive criticism”. (I am very good at that – the constructive criticism bit!)
But we have kept in touch. We visit the Dutch side of the family, they visit us. They love Ireland – but just for a holiday.
But even now, every time the phone rings, I freeze a little. Is it someone ringing from Holland? Do I have to get the Dutch speaking part of my brain in gear… quickly? CL
When I got itchy feet and left Dublin for Toronto “for a few months”, farming in Holland was certainly not part of my life plan.
Well, I met a Dutchman in Toronto, got married, had children, bought a house and struggled with a mortgage. It looked as though my future was mapped out. Mind you, I should have read the signs.
While all our neighbours planted flowers and pretty hedges in their gardens, we grew things: tomatoes, cucumbers and melons, peas, beans, potatoes…
I knew my husband’s brothers had, like him, bolted away from anything to do with agriculture – and their father’s concept of farming – as soon as they could. But, over the years, the others had slowly drifted back.
When his brother offered a half share in his expanding farm, resistance was futile. The children were still young enough to adapt to a new life. So we sold the house, packed our furniture and our Canadian life into shipping crates and moved to Holland.
My first hurdle was the Dutch language.
“I will be fine,” I said to myself, “haven’t I been taking Dutch lessons for months?” Dream on.
When I went to the butcher’s, the whole shop went silent as I made dumb clucking noises to explain I wanted chicken. With the help of everyone there, I went home with meats I had never dreamed of.
We lived in the south of Holland, below the three great rivers. We were close to Germany and Belgium, the people mostly Catholic. It was a crossroads for Europe, the names giving the history: The Roman Way, Napoleon Avenue.
We bred pigs and our neighbours reared turkeys and chickens, grew tomatoes, lettuce, cucumbers and flowers, in small holdings, intensively. To me, the whole area felt more like the suburb of a city than a farming area – except for the all-pervading aroma of pigs.
I ‘helped’. My father-in-law was not impressed with me. I didn’t know a thing about farming – and I wore make-up.
Early each summer, my husband helped out getting the white asparagus in. Called “white gold”, this was grown for the French gourmet market. Every day before dawn for about six weeks, the crop was harvested. It was explained to me that if the asparagus was allowed to grow out into daylight, it would turn green and the profit margin would be lost. It was a punishing regime but the family made enough money in those six weeks to take away financial fears for the rest of the year.
As time went on, I learned:
1. How to cycle – a little wobbly at first.2. To visit people on their birthday, bring a little gift, drink coffee and eat “vla” (a Dutch dessert).3. That they never ate parsnips and equated lamb with something like kangaroo.4. That despite all my efforts to learn Dutch, the local people spoke a dialect for everyday conversations.5. Never, ever to hang out my wash to dry on Sundays.Some things surprised me. Most women had their babies at home with a midwife. Hospital births were for medical emergencies. Despite their general pragmatism, when a local person got burned or scalded, he went to a healer first to ease the pain before going to the doctor.
Then, in the run-up to Lent, there was Karneval, which was celebrated with great enthusiasm in the southern part of Holland. All through the year, I saw every little village and town make Karneval floats and design and sew Karneval outfits. All the local marching bands practiced and practiced.
Closer to Lent, the year’s Karneval Prince was chosen – a singularly great honour. Then, as Lent approached, they all held their parades. As my kids and I looked on, we saw the local marching band, then the equestrian club, followed by majorettes in white boots (don’t mention the horse droppings), then all the homemade floats, each vying for the top prize.
Every year around Lent, I think of Karneval again. While we were living in Holland, my husband got sick and sadly died, and myself and my two children came back to Ireland. So I’ve come full circle.
Looking back at my time in Holland, I found the Dutch language the biggest barrier. It left me feeling vaguely isolated, vaguely lonely, never skilled enough to have a deep conversation with another person. But sometimes, having to face up to and overcome a problem is good for you. My natural tendency would have been to run away, to find an escape route, but that was not on offer here. I had to be a big girl. I had to grow up.
Adapting to farming expanded my horizons. I began to see, do and appreciate the work and care that went into producing the food that ended up on my plate. Up to this, I had taken it for granted. Now when I eat food, I quietly thank all the people involved.
When I lived in Holland, I also found I had to think before I put my foot in it. It is easy to give offence by accident. Most countries think the way they do things is the right way and don’t take kindly to what you might see as “constructive criticism”. (I am very good at that – the constructive criticism bit!)
But we have kept in touch. We visit the Dutch side of the family, they visit us. They love Ireland – but just for a holiday.
But even now, every time the phone rings, I freeze a little. Is it someone ringing from Holland? Do I have to get the Dutch speaking part of my brain in gear… quickly? CL
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