Holland fic. Like a baas.
Title: (Zo Samen) Aan Het Stille Strand
Fandom: Hetalia
Characters: The Netherlands. England also makes an appearance about halfway through.
Warnings: Lol no. Except maybe for the length of the notes at the end. I apologise in advance about those, btw.
Word count: 2670
Disclaimer: Hetalia is defs not mine.
Summary: The Netherlands hangs out at his favourite beach and ponders his connection to the sea.
Note: So yeah, this has been sitting on my computer since, like, last June. And because I am the laziest person on the face of the planet it has taken me this long to finish the damn thing and post it. It wasn't supposed to be anything more than a drabble, but then England showed up and the whole thing got away from me.
(Zo Samen) Aan Het Stille Strand
Standing on the esplanade at Scheveningen, surrounded by chattering tourists and tacky gift shops, the ostentatious Kurhaus looming in the background, it seems difficult to get a proper sense of what the Dutch are all about. Despite this, the Netherlands can’t really think of anywhere he truly feels more at home than here, cigarette in hand, looking out over the Noordzee. He would gladly lecture any of his guests on the glories of moedernegotie and the importance of the ports of Amsterdam and Rotterdam to not just to himself, but the rest of world, or speak proudly of the innovation of his Deltawerken in the south and the beauty of the Waddeneilanden in the north. In the end though, he will always bring his visiting friends to Scheveningen, not just because they are, nations or no, tourists and therefore lovers of all things kitsch, but because, secretly, Scheveningen is his favourite stretch of sand and sea.
Above all things, the Netherlands is a pragmatic and straightforward man-shaped entity, and knows that his particular affection for Scheveningen stems mostly from simple convenience. The Hague has pretty much always been his seat of government, barring that little escapade with good old Lodewijk, and his primary residence has been there for as long as he can remember. The beach of Scheveningen, as the closest to the Binnenhof, would always have been the easiest to escape to on a stormy day, when the sky was grey and dark and forbidding, on a sunny day, when his people flocked with him, enjoying the sun and pretending the water was warm enough to swim in, and on all the days in between, when the wind pulled at his hair and clothes, and the salt of the air filled his nostrils and sat on his tongue, a taste of freedom that made his heart race and chest swell with longing.
He can remember the midst of battle, searching for England among the throng of men and ships, his eyes instead finding the beach, and just being able to make out the crowd of his people standing there, watching the distant battle. And he can remember standing in that same sand himself, many, many years later, watching Germany and his men build their wall and bunkers, and hoping with all his might that they would prove weaker than his navy had all those centuries ago. Still, all the wars he has fought, all the battles he has won and lost, and his oldest enemy, his oldest friend, remains the sea. Scheveningen itself stands as an example of the lives and land she has taken from him, but she has always made it up to him, always, and with the greatest of gifts.
It’s June now, seasonably warm and surprisingly sunny, but the ever-present wind keeps the beach comfortably cool. His new government cannot decide upon a coalition, and at some point the Netherlands had simply walked out of the never-ending meetings and hopped aboard Tram 1 before anyone could notice how long his cigarette break was taking. The Hague’s trams are always much emptier than those in Amsterdam, especially on a Tuesday afternoon, so he is easily able to find a seat in the back and sit down to enjoy the ride. The Hague is beautiful in its own way, not necessarily like Delft, Leiden, and Amsterdam, but it has its charms, and the Netherlands always enjoys observing his people as they go about their lives. He watches the expats get off at the World Forum and the Peace Palace and the tourists at Madurodam, although plenty of them stick around with him until Scheveningen. He spends the walk from the tram stop to the beach pondering the question of poffertjes or bitterballen. In the end he goes for Hollandse Nieuwe, because he was in South Africa for Vlaggetjesdag and June just isn’t quite June until he’s had his raw herring.
The Netherlands carries the fish with him to the beach, careful not to spill any of the onion, and sits himself gently down on one of the dryer patches of sand. He pulls the herring off its cardboard plate by the tail and is about to dig in when a young girl offers him a cheerful “Eet smakelijk!” as she passes with her family. He responds with ”En jij een fijne dag nog!” and a grin, and does just that. He continues to sit there, watching the British family in front of him play in the sand, listening to the German couple beside him argue about their plans for tomorrow (Amsterdam versus Delft. The Netherlands briefly entertains throwing in Haarlem as a suggestion, but he doubts they’d listen to him anyway), and he contemplates once again the sheer comfort he feels here, in this blatantly obvious tourist trap. Certainly his own people see this place as nothing but a watering hole for teenagers and Germans.
He ends up sitting there until the tide starts going out again and he gets a phone call from whoever it is they’ve got keeping checks on him, saying that it’s all very well that he skip important coalition planning sessions, but could he please come and deal with Arthur. He had apparently shown up out of nowhere on the government’s doorstep and someone had wisely intervened and decided that maybe the new government was a bit too new to be dealing with the stiff formality England tended to exert around strangers.
So up he gets and a few minutes later he’s back on the tram towards the Binnenhof, now filled with a sizeable amount of people hoping to make it home in time for their six o’clock dinner.
“Arthur, good evening,” he says as he steps into his office.
“Good evening to you too, Boudewijn,” England replies as he stands up from the chair he’s been waiting in.
“Was there anything of importance you needed to discuss with me, or were you just feeling a bit peckish?”
“The latter,” England says. “I quite fancied one of those pancake things of yours, those ones that are wider than Alfred’s and thicker than Francis’, not those tiny sickening ones, so I popped over.”
There are a great many countries, most, in fact, to whom announcing in all seriousness that the only reason you have intruded upon their time is because you feel like eating some of their food would be seen as greatly impertinent. Even if it was the plain and simple truth, and even if you had known them for the better part of a millennium, they would expect some kind of an excuse, an adherence to the niceties and decorum that ought to accompany all social visits. The Netherlands frankly does not care for any of it. If England is here for no other purpose than to eat dinner, the Netherlands would rather he just come out and say it, instead of forcing them through the tedious and time-wasting business of social protocol. So rather than take offense at his answer, the Netherlands appreciates, as ever, England’s blunt manner. They’ve always, despite the four wars and numerous other clashes, been better friends than enemies, after all, and this is just one of the reasons why. For all that England still loves using his formal and flowery language, when it comes down to it, they both generally prefer to stow away airs and niceties in favour of efficiency and pragmatism. No need to waste their breath on unnecessary pretenses.
And there’s the sea, of course; the sea that sits between them and their shared history of glory and riches; their brightest and their darkest moments carried in whispers by the waves and told the world over. She called to both of them once, and they can still hear the lingering echoes, and find it a comfort to know that someone else does too. This, among other factors, has made for a rather easy camaraderie between the two that shows in the twenty-minute trip they spend in comfortable silence on the tram back towards Scheveningen and in the deep breath England takes as he walks onto the promenade.
“Nothing like a hearty pannenkoek and a sea breeze to top off a long day.”
The Netherlands grins. “So you do remember the name. One day you might even figure out the pronunciation.”
“Yes, yes, shoot me for not mastering your language as you’ve done mine, Baldwin.”
“You’ve been around since the creation of both, so don’t give me that, Arthur.”
England shudders. “Please don’t say it like that, you sound like that damn frog.”
“Or Matthieu.”
England gives him a look of deep resentment and pulls open the door to ‘t Pannekoekenhuisje open with a tad more force than the poor thing deserves. “Et tu, Brute?”
The Netherlands shrugs and follows him in. “I always liked that part of him.”
“What, the lecherous, treacherous French part?”
“Tafel voor twee graag. Buiten.” the Netherlands says to the waitress who meets them at the door, then turns back to England. “If you stopped treating him as an extension of the Hundred Years’ War, you might get along better.”
“Matthew and I get along just fine, thank you, Boudewijn. Not all of us feel the need to spell our friendships out in a constant public display of mutual adulation.”
The Netherlands glares briefly at England. “I could say the same about that millennial bout of sexual tension you and Francis have subjected the rest of us to.”
“Please don’t,” England says and retreats into stilted politeness as he takes the English menu the waitress is offering him.
Such moments of agitation are common enough when it comes to England, and easily dispelled, so the Netherlands simply orders them a beer each and gazes out at the sea while England peruses the menu in pointed silence.
By dinner he is over it and the conversation over their meal is the usual mish-mash of topics: some politics, some football, and the latest episode of Midsomer Murders. England comments on the progress of the Dutch cabinet formation. In retaliation, the Netherlands mentions England’s draw in his match against America. They both agree that the imminent retirement of John Nettles is unfortunate. Afterwards, they stroll back down to the beach, where they sit and wait for the sun to set, smoking and occasionally commenting on their surroundings. Mostly they’re silent, though, each watching the waves roll in and back out again.
A child’s cry grabs their attention and they look to where a mother is trying to drag her daughter away from her now broken shovel. Useless as it may be now, the little girl doesn’t seem to want to part with it.
“Humans form such odd attachments,” the Netherlands remarks, as the girl’s father scoops her up and carries her away.
He turns his head a few minutes later to find England looking at him curiously. He cocks an eyebrow in question to which England responds, “We’ve known each other for a long time, Holland, and yet I feel like I’ve seen very little of you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that you have spent many hours regaling me with tales of places with ridiculous names like Schiermonnikoog and ‘s-Hertogenbosch and yet we always seem to end up here in Scheveningen, which, while nice enough, really isn’t, let’s face it, all that different from Brighton.”
“You’re the one who wanted pannenkoeken, England,” the Netherlands reminds him.
“Surely that is not the only pancake restaurant you frequent.”
“It is the most convenient one, however. Give me a bit of notice if you want to go somewhere special, ja?”
“I’m simply saying that perhaps you’re more similar to the humans than you think.”
The Netherlands frowns at that, and then looks back out at the sea. “Perhaps.”
England smiles before a look of horror crosses his face. “Oh God,” he says. “Please tell me you don't consider this place the epitome of Dutch culture. I think I’d have to leave right now on principle and never return.”
The Netherlands shakes his head. “It’s not that. God no. It’s just - do you ever miss those days when you spent more time at sea than on your own land?”
England sighs. “You know I do. Seems wrong, doesn’t it?”
“I wouldn’t be what I am today without the sea,” the Netherlands says, “I like to be reminded of that sometimes, is all.”
There’s no response from England, but his silence speaks volumes to his understanding. Neither of them speaks again for a while, until England stands up, stretches, and says, “All right. I’m off. Tram 1, was it?”
The Netherlands looks up. “Don’t you want me to go with you? I’m not giving you my keys. Not after last time.”
“‘Last time’ was 1924. Do you think you could maybe get over it? But no, I think I’ll stay in a hotel tonight; get up early tomorrow to catch the Thalys and go bother France about that pathetic game he just lost. Should be a laugh.”
“Depressing is what it’ll be. Maar goed, wat jij wil. I think I’ll stick around here a bit longer.”
“This sentimentality is very unlike you, Holland,” England remarks, and then he is gone, leaving the Netherlands to stare at the dark water ahead of him. Scheveningen is far too popular with the night-crowd for him to ever be alone on the beach, but it’s quite emptied out and so he is alone enough.
England is right, of course. He is not generally prone to bouts of maudlin thought, but if anything manages to wring them out of him, it’s the sea. For at moments like these, when he’s sitting at night on the quiet beach, he feels a lightness and ease unlike any other, like anything is possible, like he can do anything at all, anything that comes to mind. The sea breeze whispers around him, filling his chest with its coolness and pulling him into motion with its gentle tugs. The waves move in and out and lull him into recalling the rocking motion that was the constant backdrop to his life for so many centuries. In his mind, there is nothing more powerful than the sea, and even though he must now be content with simply sitting by her side, with nothing but brief nips at his toes for touch, he will never forget that, for a while at least, she lent him some of that strength, lent him a glimpse of that awesome power.
Well, it’s all in the past now, and it is nice to be able to meet with England and France and all the others without the threat of war looming over every disagreement, and the memory of it embittering every else.
He gets up, brushes the sand off his pants, and looks out over the water one last time. “Jou zie ik morgen wel weer, mên mêd,” he says, and then he leaves, back up the beach, back up the esplanade, and back into the city. As he trudges through the sand, he wonders what he’ll do now. Maybe he can call Canada and persuade him to come over for the rest of the WK. It’s not like he’s got anyone better to root for.
More likely than not, though, he’ll cycle home and cherish the breeze on his face as if it were the sea breeze of the past. And in the morning he’ll give England a call, asking him to stop by on his way back from France so they can go sailing together. Hell, if he’s in a good mood, he’ll probably even invite France, who’ll invite Spain and then it really will be like the good old days. Maybe they’ll pair up into teams. Protestants vs. Catholics, Germanic vs. Romance, North Sea vs. Mediterranean, Hundred Years’ War vs. Eighty Years’ War, WWI Neutrals vs. WWI Participants. The possibilities are endless, as is their future, and as is, in his mind, the sea.
FIN
NOTES
1. Boudewijn = The Dutch version of the English Baldwin (and French Bauduin). Still a fairly popular name for boys in the Netherlands. I chose it because I like it and because I like that it is uniquely Dutch.
2. Zo samen aan het stille strand = Together at the quiet beach. Yanked directly from a song about Scheveningen that I found in my desperate search for a title.
3. Noordzee = North Sea.
4. Moedernegotie = Mother of all trade. A term that has to do with trade between the Netherlands and the countries around the Baltic Sea from the late Middle Ages until around the middle of the 17th Century. The trade was mostly in staples, like grain and wood, and was very profitable for the Dutch economy, paving the way for the Dutch Golden Age. The term ‘moedernegotie’ was created to emphasize the importance of trade over other economic pursuits.
5. Deltawerken = Delta Works. A number of construction works in the South-West of the Netherlands that prevent the potential flooding of major parts of the Netherlands during storm surges and the like.
6. Waddeneilanden = A chain of islands off the Northwestern coast of the Netherlands. Apparently known as the West Frisian Islands in English.
7. Binnenhof = Lit. ‘inner court.’ The Dutch government buildings.
8. Poffertjes = A type of little puffy pancakes. Usually served in portions of ten or so and kind of considered a beach snack. They’re what Arthur’s referring to when he says the “those tiny sickening ones.” (They tend to be served smothered in butter and powdered sugar.)
9. Bitterballen = A Dutch snack food usually eaten at pubs and bars and social events (that include alcoholic beverages). They’re some kind of deep-fried meat mixture thing (look, most people don’t think too deeply about what’s in these things).
10. Hollandse Nieuwe = Basically, herring. Hollandse Nieuwe refers to a specific type of herring caught at a specific time of year and treated in a specific way. Eaten raw and, often with onion, by holding it by the tail and lowering it in its entirety into your mouth.
11. Vlaggetjesdag = Lit. ‘flag day.’ Usually held in early June these days. Remnant of an earlier herring fishing-related festival that involved decorating boats with flags. Celebrates the return of the ships with the herring that is then sold as Hollandse Nieuwe. The first boatload is auctioned off and the money goes to charity.
12. Eet smakelijk! = Bon appétit/enjoy your meal!
13. En jij een fijne dag nog! = And you have yourself a nice day!
14. Pannenkoek = Dutch pancakes. They are, as Arthur suggests with his description, wider than North American pancakes, but thicker than French crepes. The basic toppings are butter, powdered sugar, or ‘stroop’ (syrup. Usually apple syrup). Or some combination of all three. But the possibilities are endless.
15. ‘t Pannenkoekenhuisje = Lit. ‘the little pancake house.’ A pannenkoeken restaurant in Scheveningen.
16. Tafel voor twee graag. Buiten. = A table for two, please. Outside.
17. Ja = Yes.
18. Maar goed, wat jij wil. = But sure, whatever you want.
19. Jou zie ik morgen wel weer, mên mêd = You, I’ll see again tomorrow, my girl. ‘Mên mêd’ is actually the Scheveningen dialect of Dutch, although the rest of the sentence is standard Dutch.
20. WK = Wereld Kampioenschap = World Cup. Here it refers to the soccer/football world cup.
21. Arthur: When Arthur calls Boudewijn ‘Baldwin’ and he replies ‘Arthur,’ the implication is that he’s pronouncing it with a typical Dutch accent. I couldn’t really show that through spelling, seeing as Arthur is just spelled Arthur in Dutch (sometimes Artuur, but that’s really a minority spelling). The Dutch have a number of ways to pronounce the ‘r’. Originally, it was a more Spanish ‘r’, with the tip of the tongue. Once French gained status as a prestige language, the upper class started shifting their ‘r’ to a more French ‘r’ (with the back of the tongue/in the throat). These days the French ‘r’ is dominant over the Spanish ‘r’ in most dialects. Most people have now also thrown in a more English ‘r’, but always in combination with one of the other two (mostly the French). The Dutch that is used on television uses a combination of the French ‘r’ and English ‘r’. For instance, most people on the news would say ‘Arthur’ with an English ‘r’ in both instances. Boudewijn would be using either the Spanish or French ‘r’ for both. Probably the French, just to piss Arthur off more. Using the French ‘r’, the Dutch pronunciation of ‘Arthur’ would sound very close to the French pronunciation.
22. Scheveningen is an area of the Hague, situated right on the North Sea. It’s generally quite touristy, especially around the beach.
23. The Kurhaus is a big, fancy hotel that has become one of the identifying images of Scheveningen.
24. Madurodam is tourist attraction that basically consists of miniature versions of major Dutch landmarks.
25. World Forum/Peace Palace: The World Forum tram stop is named for the conference centre it’s next to. It’s also the tram stop closest to the headquarters of Europol, the OPCW, and the ICTY. The Peace Palace is the home of the ICJ.
26. Lodewijk: A reference to Louis Bonaparte, who was made king by his elder brother Napoleon of the short-lived Kingdom of Holland (1806-1810). He couldn’t decide on a capital and kept moving it around throughout the duration of his rule.
27. The Battle of Scheveningen was fought in 1653 as the final naval battle in the first Anglo-Dutch War. The battle could be seen from the shore and thousands of people gathered on the beach to watch. (Both the English and the Dutch claimed victory.)
28. WWII bunkers: During WWII, Scheveningen was one of the places in which the Germans built fortifications for the Atlantikwall.
29. Amsterdam/Delft/Haarlem: Three cities well known for their beauty/history. I honestly don’t know how popular Haarlem is with tourists, but both Amsterdam (naturally) and Delft are generally considered must-visits.
30. 2010 election/coalition shitstorm: The 2010 Dutch general election took place on June 9th. It took them until September 28th to reach a coalition agreement. Nobody was happy with this.
31. Midsomer Murders: A charming British detective series broadcast by ITV in England and Nederland 1 (the first of the national television channels) in the Netherlands. John Nettles played the main character for 14 years until he recently retired from the show.
32. Schiermonnikoog/’s-Hertogenbosch: Schiermonnikoog is one of the Waddeneilanden and ‘s-Hertogenbosch is a city in the south.
33. Thalys: A high speed train network that runs a number of train lines from the Netherlands, Belgium, and Germany to Paris.
Thanks so much for reading! I hope the notes didn't make your eyes bleed too terribly.
Fandom: Hetalia
Characters: The Netherlands. England also makes an appearance about halfway through.
Warnings: Lol no. Except maybe for the length of the notes at the end. I apologise in advance about those, btw.
Word count: 2670
Disclaimer: Hetalia is defs not mine.
Summary: The Netherlands hangs out at his favourite beach and ponders his connection to the sea.
Note: So yeah, this has been sitting on my computer since, like, last June. And because I am the laziest person on the face of the planet it has taken me this long to finish the damn thing and post it. It wasn't supposed to be anything more than a drabble, but then England showed up and the whole thing got away from me.
(Zo Samen) Aan Het Stille Strand
Standing on the esplanade at Scheveningen, surrounded by chattering tourists and tacky gift shops, the ostentatious Kurhaus looming in the background, it seems difficult to get a proper sense of what the Dutch are all about. Despite this, the Netherlands can’t really think of anywhere he truly feels more at home than here, cigarette in hand, looking out over the Noordzee. He would gladly lecture any of his guests on the glories of moedernegotie and the importance of the ports of Amsterdam and Rotterdam to not just to himself, but the rest of world, or speak proudly of the innovation of his Deltawerken in the south and the beauty of the Waddeneilanden in the north. In the end though, he will always bring his visiting friends to Scheveningen, not just because they are, nations or no, tourists and therefore lovers of all things kitsch, but because, secretly, Scheveningen is his favourite stretch of sand and sea.
Above all things, the Netherlands is a pragmatic and straightforward man-shaped entity, and knows that his particular affection for Scheveningen stems mostly from simple convenience. The Hague has pretty much always been his seat of government, barring that little escapade with good old Lodewijk, and his primary residence has been there for as long as he can remember. The beach of Scheveningen, as the closest to the Binnenhof, would always have been the easiest to escape to on a stormy day, when the sky was grey and dark and forbidding, on a sunny day, when his people flocked with him, enjoying the sun and pretending the water was warm enough to swim in, and on all the days in between, when the wind pulled at his hair and clothes, and the salt of the air filled his nostrils and sat on his tongue, a taste of freedom that made his heart race and chest swell with longing.
He can remember the midst of battle, searching for England among the throng of men and ships, his eyes instead finding the beach, and just being able to make out the crowd of his people standing there, watching the distant battle. And he can remember standing in that same sand himself, many, many years later, watching Germany and his men build their wall and bunkers, and hoping with all his might that they would prove weaker than his navy had all those centuries ago. Still, all the wars he has fought, all the battles he has won and lost, and his oldest enemy, his oldest friend, remains the sea. Scheveningen itself stands as an example of the lives and land she has taken from him, but she has always made it up to him, always, and with the greatest of gifts.
It’s June now, seasonably warm and surprisingly sunny, but the ever-present wind keeps the beach comfortably cool. His new government cannot decide upon a coalition, and at some point the Netherlands had simply walked out of the never-ending meetings and hopped aboard Tram 1 before anyone could notice how long his cigarette break was taking. The Hague’s trams are always much emptier than those in Amsterdam, especially on a Tuesday afternoon, so he is easily able to find a seat in the back and sit down to enjoy the ride. The Hague is beautiful in its own way, not necessarily like Delft, Leiden, and Amsterdam, but it has its charms, and the Netherlands always enjoys observing his people as they go about their lives. He watches the expats get off at the World Forum and the Peace Palace and the tourists at Madurodam, although plenty of them stick around with him until Scheveningen. He spends the walk from the tram stop to the beach pondering the question of poffertjes or bitterballen. In the end he goes for Hollandse Nieuwe, because he was in South Africa for Vlaggetjesdag and June just isn’t quite June until he’s had his raw herring.
The Netherlands carries the fish with him to the beach, careful not to spill any of the onion, and sits himself gently down on one of the dryer patches of sand. He pulls the herring off its cardboard plate by the tail and is about to dig in when a young girl offers him a cheerful “Eet smakelijk!” as she passes with her family. He responds with ”En jij een fijne dag nog!” and a grin, and does just that. He continues to sit there, watching the British family in front of him play in the sand, listening to the German couple beside him argue about their plans for tomorrow (Amsterdam versus Delft. The Netherlands briefly entertains throwing in Haarlem as a suggestion, but he doubts they’d listen to him anyway), and he contemplates once again the sheer comfort he feels here, in this blatantly obvious tourist trap. Certainly his own people see this place as nothing but a watering hole for teenagers and Germans.
He ends up sitting there until the tide starts going out again and he gets a phone call from whoever it is they’ve got keeping checks on him, saying that it’s all very well that he skip important coalition planning sessions, but could he please come and deal with Arthur. He had apparently shown up out of nowhere on the government’s doorstep and someone had wisely intervened and decided that maybe the new government was a bit too new to be dealing with the stiff formality England tended to exert around strangers.
So up he gets and a few minutes later he’s back on the tram towards the Binnenhof, now filled with a sizeable amount of people hoping to make it home in time for their six o’clock dinner.
“Arthur, good evening,” he says as he steps into his office.
“Good evening to you too, Boudewijn,” England replies as he stands up from the chair he’s been waiting in.
“Was there anything of importance you needed to discuss with me, or were you just feeling a bit peckish?”
“The latter,” England says. “I quite fancied one of those pancake things of yours, those ones that are wider than Alfred’s and thicker than Francis’, not those tiny sickening ones, so I popped over.”
There are a great many countries, most, in fact, to whom announcing in all seriousness that the only reason you have intruded upon their time is because you feel like eating some of their food would be seen as greatly impertinent. Even if it was the plain and simple truth, and even if you had known them for the better part of a millennium, they would expect some kind of an excuse, an adherence to the niceties and decorum that ought to accompany all social visits. The Netherlands frankly does not care for any of it. If England is here for no other purpose than to eat dinner, the Netherlands would rather he just come out and say it, instead of forcing them through the tedious and time-wasting business of social protocol. So rather than take offense at his answer, the Netherlands appreciates, as ever, England’s blunt manner. They’ve always, despite the four wars and numerous other clashes, been better friends than enemies, after all, and this is just one of the reasons why. For all that England still loves using his formal and flowery language, when it comes down to it, they both generally prefer to stow away airs and niceties in favour of efficiency and pragmatism. No need to waste their breath on unnecessary pretenses.
And there’s the sea, of course; the sea that sits between them and their shared history of glory and riches; their brightest and their darkest moments carried in whispers by the waves and told the world over. She called to both of them once, and they can still hear the lingering echoes, and find it a comfort to know that someone else does too. This, among other factors, has made for a rather easy camaraderie between the two that shows in the twenty-minute trip they spend in comfortable silence on the tram back towards Scheveningen and in the deep breath England takes as he walks onto the promenade.
“Nothing like a hearty pannenkoek and a sea breeze to top off a long day.”
The Netherlands grins. “So you do remember the name. One day you might even figure out the pronunciation.”
“Yes, yes, shoot me for not mastering your language as you’ve done mine, Baldwin.”
“You’ve been around since the creation of both, so don’t give me that, Arthur.”
England shudders. “Please don’t say it like that, you sound like that damn frog.”
“Or Matthieu.”
England gives him a look of deep resentment and pulls open the door to ‘t Pannekoekenhuisje open with a tad more force than the poor thing deserves. “Et tu, Brute?”
The Netherlands shrugs and follows him in. “I always liked that part of him.”
“What, the lecherous, treacherous French part?”
“Tafel voor twee graag. Buiten.” the Netherlands says to the waitress who meets them at the door, then turns back to England. “If you stopped treating him as an extension of the Hundred Years’ War, you might get along better.”
“Matthew and I get along just fine, thank you, Boudewijn. Not all of us feel the need to spell our friendships out in a constant public display of mutual adulation.”
The Netherlands glares briefly at England. “I could say the same about that millennial bout of sexual tension you and Francis have subjected the rest of us to.”
“Please don’t,” England says and retreats into stilted politeness as he takes the English menu the waitress is offering him.
Such moments of agitation are common enough when it comes to England, and easily dispelled, so the Netherlands simply orders them a beer each and gazes out at the sea while England peruses the menu in pointed silence.
By dinner he is over it and the conversation over their meal is the usual mish-mash of topics: some politics, some football, and the latest episode of Midsomer Murders. England comments on the progress of the Dutch cabinet formation. In retaliation, the Netherlands mentions England’s draw in his match against America. They both agree that the imminent retirement of John Nettles is unfortunate. Afterwards, they stroll back down to the beach, where they sit and wait for the sun to set, smoking and occasionally commenting on their surroundings. Mostly they’re silent, though, each watching the waves roll in and back out again.
A child’s cry grabs their attention and they look to where a mother is trying to drag her daughter away from her now broken shovel. Useless as it may be now, the little girl doesn’t seem to want to part with it.
“Humans form such odd attachments,” the Netherlands remarks, as the girl’s father scoops her up and carries her away.
He turns his head a few minutes later to find England looking at him curiously. He cocks an eyebrow in question to which England responds, “We’ve known each other for a long time, Holland, and yet I feel like I’ve seen very little of you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that you have spent many hours regaling me with tales of places with ridiculous names like Schiermonnikoog and ‘s-Hertogenbosch and yet we always seem to end up here in Scheveningen, which, while nice enough, really isn’t, let’s face it, all that different from Brighton.”
“You’re the one who wanted pannenkoeken, England,” the Netherlands reminds him.
“Surely that is not the only pancake restaurant you frequent.”
“It is the most convenient one, however. Give me a bit of notice if you want to go somewhere special, ja?”
“I’m simply saying that perhaps you’re more similar to the humans than you think.”
The Netherlands frowns at that, and then looks back out at the sea. “Perhaps.”
England smiles before a look of horror crosses his face. “Oh God,” he says. “Please tell me you don't consider this place the epitome of Dutch culture. I think I’d have to leave right now on principle and never return.”
The Netherlands shakes his head. “It’s not that. God no. It’s just - do you ever miss those days when you spent more time at sea than on your own land?”
England sighs. “You know I do. Seems wrong, doesn’t it?”
“I wouldn’t be what I am today without the sea,” the Netherlands says, “I like to be reminded of that sometimes, is all.”
There’s no response from England, but his silence speaks volumes to his understanding. Neither of them speaks again for a while, until England stands up, stretches, and says, “All right. I’m off. Tram 1, was it?”
The Netherlands looks up. “Don’t you want me to go with you? I’m not giving you my keys. Not after last time.”
“‘Last time’ was 1924. Do you think you could maybe get over it? But no, I think I’ll stay in a hotel tonight; get up early tomorrow to catch the Thalys and go bother France about that pathetic game he just lost. Should be a laugh.”
“Depressing is what it’ll be. Maar goed, wat jij wil. I think I’ll stick around here a bit longer.”
“This sentimentality is very unlike you, Holland,” England remarks, and then he is gone, leaving the Netherlands to stare at the dark water ahead of him. Scheveningen is far too popular with the night-crowd for him to ever be alone on the beach, but it’s quite emptied out and so he is alone enough.
England is right, of course. He is not generally prone to bouts of maudlin thought, but if anything manages to wring them out of him, it’s the sea. For at moments like these, when he’s sitting at night on the quiet beach, he feels a lightness and ease unlike any other, like anything is possible, like he can do anything at all, anything that comes to mind. The sea breeze whispers around him, filling his chest with its coolness and pulling him into motion with its gentle tugs. The waves move in and out and lull him into recalling the rocking motion that was the constant backdrop to his life for so many centuries. In his mind, there is nothing more powerful than the sea, and even though he must now be content with simply sitting by her side, with nothing but brief nips at his toes for touch, he will never forget that, for a while at least, she lent him some of that strength, lent him a glimpse of that awesome power.
Well, it’s all in the past now, and it is nice to be able to meet with England and France and all the others without the threat of war looming over every disagreement, and the memory of it embittering every else.
He gets up, brushes the sand off his pants, and looks out over the water one last time. “Jou zie ik morgen wel weer, mên mêd,” he says, and then he leaves, back up the beach, back up the esplanade, and back into the city. As he trudges through the sand, he wonders what he’ll do now. Maybe he can call Canada and persuade him to come over for the rest of the WK. It’s not like he’s got anyone better to root for.
More likely than not, though, he’ll cycle home and cherish the breeze on his face as if it were the sea breeze of the past. And in the morning he’ll give England a call, asking him to stop by on his way back from France so they can go sailing together. Hell, if he’s in a good mood, he’ll probably even invite France, who’ll invite Spain and then it really will be like the good old days. Maybe they’ll pair up into teams. Protestants vs. Catholics, Germanic vs. Romance, North Sea vs. Mediterranean, Hundred Years’ War vs. Eighty Years’ War, WWI Neutrals vs. WWI Participants. The possibilities are endless, as is their future, and as is, in his mind, the sea.
FIN
NOTES
1. Boudewijn = The Dutch version of the English Baldwin (and French Bauduin). Still a fairly popular name for boys in the Netherlands. I chose it because I like it and because I like that it is uniquely Dutch.
2. Zo samen aan het stille strand = Together at the quiet beach. Yanked directly from a song about Scheveningen that I found in my desperate search for a title.
3. Noordzee = North Sea.
4. Moedernegotie = Mother of all trade. A term that has to do with trade between the Netherlands and the countries around the Baltic Sea from the late Middle Ages until around the middle of the 17th Century. The trade was mostly in staples, like grain and wood, and was very profitable for the Dutch economy, paving the way for the Dutch Golden Age. The term ‘moedernegotie’ was created to emphasize the importance of trade over other economic pursuits.
5. Deltawerken = Delta Works. A number of construction works in the South-West of the Netherlands that prevent the potential flooding of major parts of the Netherlands during storm surges and the like.
6. Waddeneilanden = A chain of islands off the Northwestern coast of the Netherlands. Apparently known as the West Frisian Islands in English.
7. Binnenhof = Lit. ‘inner court.’ The Dutch government buildings.
8. Poffertjes = A type of little puffy pancakes. Usually served in portions of ten or so and kind of considered a beach snack. They’re what Arthur’s referring to when he says the “those tiny sickening ones.” (They tend to be served smothered in butter and powdered sugar.)
9. Bitterballen = A Dutch snack food usually eaten at pubs and bars and social events (that include alcoholic beverages). They’re some kind of deep-fried meat mixture thing (look, most people don’t think too deeply about what’s in these things).
10. Hollandse Nieuwe = Basically, herring. Hollandse Nieuwe refers to a specific type of herring caught at a specific time of year and treated in a specific way. Eaten raw and, often with onion, by holding it by the tail and lowering it in its entirety into your mouth.
11. Vlaggetjesdag = Lit. ‘flag day.’ Usually held in early June these days. Remnant of an earlier herring fishing-related festival that involved decorating boats with flags. Celebrates the return of the ships with the herring that is then sold as Hollandse Nieuwe. The first boatload is auctioned off and the money goes to charity.
12. Eet smakelijk! = Bon appétit/enjoy your meal!
13. En jij een fijne dag nog! = And you have yourself a nice day!
14. Pannenkoek = Dutch pancakes. They are, as Arthur suggests with his description, wider than North American pancakes, but thicker than French crepes. The basic toppings are butter, powdered sugar, or ‘stroop’ (syrup. Usually apple syrup). Or some combination of all three. But the possibilities are endless.
15. ‘t Pannenkoekenhuisje = Lit. ‘the little pancake house.’ A pannenkoeken restaurant in Scheveningen.
16. Tafel voor twee graag. Buiten. = A table for two, please. Outside.
17. Ja = Yes.
18. Maar goed, wat jij wil. = But sure, whatever you want.
19. Jou zie ik morgen wel weer, mên mêd = You, I’ll see again tomorrow, my girl. ‘Mên mêd’ is actually the Scheveningen dialect of Dutch, although the rest of the sentence is standard Dutch.
20. WK = Wereld Kampioenschap = World Cup. Here it refers to the soccer/football world cup.
21. Arthur: When Arthur calls Boudewijn ‘Baldwin’ and he replies ‘Arthur,’ the implication is that he’s pronouncing it with a typical Dutch accent. I couldn’t really show that through spelling, seeing as Arthur is just spelled Arthur in Dutch (sometimes Artuur, but that’s really a minority spelling). The Dutch have a number of ways to pronounce the ‘r’. Originally, it was a more Spanish ‘r’, with the tip of the tongue. Once French gained status as a prestige language, the upper class started shifting their ‘r’ to a more French ‘r’ (with the back of the tongue/in the throat). These days the French ‘r’ is dominant over the Spanish ‘r’ in most dialects. Most people have now also thrown in a more English ‘r’, but always in combination with one of the other two (mostly the French). The Dutch that is used on television uses a combination of the French ‘r’ and English ‘r’. For instance, most people on the news would say ‘Arthur’ with an English ‘r’ in both instances. Boudewijn would be using either the Spanish or French ‘r’ for both. Probably the French, just to piss Arthur off more. Using the French ‘r’, the Dutch pronunciation of ‘Arthur’ would sound very close to the French pronunciation.
22. Scheveningen is an area of the Hague, situated right on the North Sea. It’s generally quite touristy, especially around the beach.
23. The Kurhaus is a big, fancy hotel that has become one of the identifying images of Scheveningen.
24. Madurodam is tourist attraction that basically consists of miniature versions of major Dutch landmarks.
25. World Forum/Peace Palace: The World Forum tram stop is named for the conference centre it’s next to. It’s also the tram stop closest to the headquarters of Europol, the OPCW, and the ICTY. The Peace Palace is the home of the ICJ.
26. Lodewijk: A reference to Louis Bonaparte, who was made king by his elder brother Napoleon of the short-lived Kingdom of Holland (1806-1810). He couldn’t decide on a capital and kept moving it around throughout the duration of his rule.
27. The Battle of Scheveningen was fought in 1653 as the final naval battle in the first Anglo-Dutch War. The battle could be seen from the shore and thousands of people gathered on the beach to watch. (Both the English and the Dutch claimed victory.)
28. WWII bunkers: During WWII, Scheveningen was one of the places in which the Germans built fortifications for the Atlantikwall.
29. Amsterdam/Delft/Haarlem: Three cities well known for their beauty/history. I honestly don’t know how popular Haarlem is with tourists, but both Amsterdam (naturally) and Delft are generally considered must-visits.
30. 2010 election/coalition shitstorm: The 2010 Dutch general election took place on June 9th. It took them until September 28th to reach a coalition agreement. Nobody was happy with this.
31. Midsomer Murders: A charming British detective series broadcast by ITV in England and Nederland 1 (the first of the national television channels) in the Netherlands. John Nettles played the main character for 14 years until he recently retired from the show.
32. Schiermonnikoog/’s-Hertogenbosch: Schiermonnikoog is one of the Waddeneilanden and ‘s-Hertogenbosch is a city in the south.
33. Thalys: A high speed train network that runs a number of train lines from the Netherlands, Belgium, and Germany to Paris.
Thanks so much for reading! I hope the notes didn't make your eyes bleed too terribly.