Memories of Wassenaar
I could feel the waves licking at the sides of the ferry, tossing it back and forth as I did everything that I could not
to go running for a bathroom.Read more >
Eventually, I stumbled and swayed my way back to our cabin. My gran and mum welcomed me; I envied them, comfy in their make-shift bunk beds and clearly having gotten the worst of the seasickness over and done with, my mum even managing to pop a few sweets in her mouth as she offered me a seasickness tablet. My brother however, had his back pressed against the bathroom wall breathing heavily and I definitely felt as if I would join him soon. I made my way over to my bunk, lifting the ladders up onto the edge of it, and getting my dad to support them and me, I managed to blunder up them and onto my bed. I fumbled in my pocket for my phone and scrolled through the photos I’d taken over the past few days.
The first one that I came across was a cobbled street lined with shops and from the high windows of the terraced houses, strings were suspended and hanging from said strings were umbrellas all of different colours – from bright, vibrant red’s to deep purples.
After settling into the mobile home at Camping Duinrell, we’d made for the nearby town, Wassenaar, beside the campsite. The streets were paved in an orange cobblestone that reflected the sun that was glowing above us. As I looked up towards the sun, my eyes drifted downwards again, strained by the sun as we turned the corner of the cobbled street which housed a pet shop and onto the main street where colours flooded into my line of sight. The street was paved in the same way as the others, but they were lined on both sides with gorgeous terraced houses, either white, or made of grey stone, and hanging from the highest windows on either side, were what looked like washing lines, and suspended from them were umbrellas, first blue’s, then green’s, red’s, purple’s, pink’s and oranges. Looking behind me the steeple of the church I’d seen on the way towered above the rainbow the umbrellas had made. They looked as if they were floating in mid-air, held up by invisible crowds of people.
We dithered in the town for hours, devouring ice cream from a sweet little shop in the square, and visited the shops whose windows had just been too inviting to ignore. We came across one that I simply couldn’t have walked past had I tried. The windows were filled with ceramics and pottery, little dogs and houses and windmills and from the window, in the back of the shop, I could see row upon row of jars of sweets, and with that I was pulled into the shop by an invisible hand.
My family and I were greeted by an elderly looking man, probably in his mid-sixties and his smile seemed to fit in perfectly with the shop itself as if he were part of it, the little animals and ceramic houses and foxes, were so intricately painted with details I couldn’t see before, I found myself captivated by the blue brushstrokes on the white backgrounds, painting scenes and feelings that couldn’t be expressed with words.
Despite this, I was quickly pulled away from the shelves and over to the opposite side of the shop where there were more shelves, but these were lined with row upon row of sweets, most of which I’d never seen before. I looked over to my brother, and I could swear he was drooling, his eyes lit up and he was instantly looking towards a particular jar full of small hard candies that were shaped, and later that day he swore tasted, like buttered waffles.
As the sun started setting over the steeple of the church my legs felt like led, I couldn’t help but dread the walk back to the campsite.