An Amazing Clock Tower (Day 6)

Another night of storm and wind did not prepare us for the mild and sunny day that dawned.  As usual, we did not leave the house until close to noon (all of us being slow starters in the morning—must be genetic).  We barreled our way down the A7 freeway and raced around the Ring of Groningen, skirting the city and heading north for the country and the little town of Bedum.  We were on a mission:  to find the childhood home of Lambertus Pieter Van Dyken, my father’s father, born in 1877 in the province of Groningen, in the village of Zuidwolde, to Lambertus van Dijken and Anje Wigboldus.

I remember Grandpa only as an elderly, white-haired gentleman—a bit stiff and formal, but of upright character and a firm posture.  All of us grandchildren (and there were many) were expected to go up to him at Sunday morning coffee and give him a peck on the cheek and remind him of our names.  He was kindly, but a bit distant.

So it was with some anticipation that we looked forward to seeing the place where he had played as a boy, running through the pasture, climbing up into the clock tower next to his home and winding the clock—his special chore as a jonge.

Driving north from Groningen toward Bedum, we resumed our count of windmill sightings.  Suddenly there flashed by on the right a most lovely windmill, standing by itself a few hundred yards distant, on the side of a canal.  By common consent we turned down the first lane to the right and drove slowly down its neatly cobbled surface until we were within camera range.  It was greatly satisfying to finally have an opportunity to look at one of Holland’s magnificent windmills up close, and to take as many pictures as we wished:

I think the skyscape is as magnificent as the windmill.  And I like to think that the mill is old enough that Grandpa knew it as a boy, having been born in the town of Zuidvolde, only a kilometer or so down the road. 

Not more than a quarter mile further, we stopped at our first antique store and browsed for a few gifts to bring home with us.  Antique stores are not common in Holland, but we managed to find a few on our travels.

By the time we reached Bedum, it was time for lunch.   We drove into the charming, clean town (as is almost every other town in North Holland) and headed for the tallest church tower, hopeful to find a cemetery with a few Van Dyken names and also a place to eat.

We found the Nederlanse Hervormde Sint Walfridus of Grote Kerk by spotting an immense, ancient, and leaning church tower rising above the roofs of the town.  (The magnificent structure was built around 1050 AD; the rest of the church building was built after 1450.  Grandpa would have known this familiar landmark as well.)  A hearse parked outside told us that a funeral was in progress, so we walked around to the back of the churchyard and sat on a bench in the sun to eat lunch. 

Behind us, beyond the churchyard fence, spread a large and amazing garden, now in the fading glory of late summer.

A few slices of moist raisin bread, fragrant Gouda cheese, crisp apples, and water made for a good lunch.  As we finished, the church tower bell began to toll for the dead—long, mournful peals that kept going even after we had driven back into the town. 

Following instructions from my cousin Roger, who had traveled this road with his own father some years ago, we found the road going west out of the town center, and drove to the edge of Bedum, where we found Lanting’s antique shop and stopped to purchase a few more mementos of our Dutch heritage.   The road we drove on was raised slightly from the rest of the farmland, and we noted that it was called the “Oude Dijk” road—very likely one of the hundreds of dikes that were built over the centuries as the Dutch reclaimed more and more of the land.

Turning left at the row of trees and small stream, we found the tiny hamlet of Westerdijkshorn—and the strange anomaly of an ornate clock tower rising out of what appeared to be a sheep’s pasture on our left.

This was it!  According to Roger, the old farmhouse immediately to the south of the clock tower had been Grandpa’s home for perhaps about five years, from age 7-12.  Here he had taken on the responsibilities of an oldest child and son, helping out on the farm, going to school, and daily winding the clock.

We took many pictures of the clock (still working and ringing out the hours), the graves surrounding it, and the house next door, which is the typical Friesan farm house, consisting of a huge barn area included under the same huge, sloping roof as the family's living quarters.

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A young woman approached us from her home across the road, and we asked her about the history of the clock tower.  She said, “I can tell you a little, but my husband can tell you a lot more.  Why don’t you come inside for tea and we can talk?”  We followed her into her kitchen and, warmed by tea and by the views of pasture and cloud and sky through her large windows, listened to the history of the clock tower.

Centuries ago—earlier than the Reformation—a  large and important church had stood on this spot. But after the Reformation  attendance fell away, and there was eventually only one priest to share between the church in Westerdijkshoorn and in a neighboring village.  Services alternated between the two, until people got tired of walking all that distance, and it was decided to let the church in Westerdijkshorn fall to ruins. 

In 1872, however, the village decided to salvage some of the building and use original stones to build a clock tower, using the same bell that had rung in the tower since the 1500s.  Someone from the village would have to wind the clock gears regularly.  This task fell to little Pieter Lambertus during the five or six years that his family lived next door.

Interestingly, the man who told us this history had also been the village clock-winder for a time, until the job was taken over by a blind man.

We thanked the couple for their kindness, their tea, and their hospitality, and as we were taking our leave, the residents of Grandpa’s childhood home came out and invited us to walk through the barn portion of the house.  What a treat to see the beams and cow stalls and roof that Grandpa must have seen daily during his chores.  

Meeting the family’s children (all blonde little tow-heads), I thought again how fleeting this life is, how quickly we pass through it and are gone.  When I and my siblings have left this life, there will be no one with living memory of Peter Lambertus Van Dyken.  His memory on earth will be like grass that withers in the wind, and blows away.

We drove away feeling blessed and refreshed, not only by human kindness but by the far vistas of fields and sky and clouds that had formed the early childhood of someone very dear to us, whose genes are in our blood.

We drove to Winsum, attracted by the name of the town and by its description in our guidebook.  It was truly winsome, with a large windmill standing over the central part of town, used in centuries past for grinding grain.  We bought some flower bulbs for planting next spring, to bring some of Holland to our own homes in America.

And then  home again, retracing our route and settling in to a warm meal of chili and toasted cheese sandwiches—comfort food in a very comfortable cabin.  Over grace we gave special thanks for the unexpected gifts of hospitality and serendipity that God had given us in this day!