I do not love biking. I would far rather pound the pavement with my runners, but I did it for Vincent. He and I had grown pretty close this year, and seeing that thick impasto right up close was a marvelous thing.
Lured by the fanning arms of a Deventer windmill, we parked and made an afternoon of this pretty town. The windmill was in working order. The men were hauling huge logs into place in preparation for the fair that weekend. Dad commented that there is no way we would have been allowed to be inches from the huge moving parts of the windmill in Canada without thick rope cordoning us off. For the most part, I liked this free and easy way of things, until we found Norah hanging out of our fourth story hotel window in Brussels. . .