Markus Anecdotes - Beneath the Windmills: A Month Finding Beauty Where No One Looks

Written by Markus with Photos by Markus

I didn’t plan to spend the month wandering through random Dutch towns, but that’s exactly what happened. It started on a Sunday morning when the weather forecast looked like the chaotic mind-map of someone who had too much coffee and too little sleep. The “Rain Radar” website animation kept spinning patches of rain in circles, as if the Netherlands were a washing machine stuck on the “extra rinse” cycle.

Every time I checked it, the predicted rain zone seemed to move directly over my house—as if it had personal beef with me.

I knew that if I stayed home, I would do the same thing I always did: start reorganizing a cabinet I’d already reorganized three times, clean the same invisible dust particle from the same countertop, and then complain that the weekend vanished without anything memorable happening. So I stared at the map, saw the cluster of towns I had never visited, and thought, Why not? This country is tiny. Worst-case scenario, I end up somewhere with cows.

That’s how Heusden became my first accidental destination.

When I arrived, the first thing I noticed was how suspiciously perfect everything looked. Heusden is the kind of town that seems as if every resident has signed a contract promising to never leave trash outside, to clean their windows weekly, and to maintain a minimum level of adorableness at all times. Even the cobblestones looked brushed, as though someone took a giant Swiffer and dragged it across the town before sunrise.

Walking through the narrow streets made me slow down automatically. Something about the place makes you feel like you’re interrupting a medieval postcard. The café terraces were still quiet, chairs stacked neatly, and only one very dedicated old man was sitting outside sipping coffee like he’d been waiting since dawn for the first stranger to appear so he could judge their outfit.

A fluffy white dog trotted toward me with the confidence of a creature who knows it is universally admired. The woman holding the leash gave me that standard Dutch small-talk line, “Mooie dag hè?” (it’s a nice day, right?) even though the weather was ninety percent clouds, ten percent pretending-to-be-sun. But I agreed because refusing a Dutch weather comment feels like refusing entry into society.

As I walked deeper into Heusden, I passed a bakery where the smell of fresh pastries came out with such force that I’m pretty sure I levitated the final few meters to the door. Dutch bakeries have this superpower: you walk in telling yourself you’ll buy one little broodje, and walk out holding a bag full of items with names you can’t pronounce but trust completely. In my case, I walked out with something flaky, something sugary, and something I absolutely did not need but got anyway because it had a “limited seasonal glaze,” whatever that means.

Further on, I found myself on a street so picturesque it made me wonder if residents had to apply for a license to live there. Each house looked like it had been curated by a lifestyle influencer with an affection for matching shutters. A man was sweeping the pavement in front of his house, even though I could not see a single leaf or crumb. I think the broom was more of a prop—a visual symbol of tidiness, rather than serving any real function.

Heusden’s canals were calm, and the windmills stood like polite giants, not moving but still somehow looking busy. The town is small enough that I accidentally walked in a circle twice, which made me question whether the locals secretly rotate the buildings to confuse outsiders.

Leaving Heusden with pastry crumbs on my jacket, I felt oddly refreshed. Not in a dramatic life-changing way, but more like someone who accidentally inhaled too much fresh air and now had to adjust.

My next escape, on another weekend with a confusing weather forecast, led me to the Oisterwijkse Bossen en Vennen, a forest so full of lakes, you begin to suspect the ground is simply tired of being land. The air smelled clean in a way city air can never smell. It was the smell of pine needles, damp soil, and possibly moss that was getting a bit too confident about its role in the ecosystem.

I hadn’t even taken five steps before I was ambushed by ducks. Dutch ducks have a certain attitude—like they know they’re living in a rich, well-maintained country with benefits. These ducks waddled toward me in formation, like a gang, staring at me with the expression of creatures certain that you have snacks hidden in your pockets. When I didn’t produce food offerings, they turned around with dramatic disappointment, shaking their tails in clear judgment. Honestly, I’ve never felt so inadequate in front of birds.

The forest paths were packed with hikers who looked like they were training for a survival documentary titled “Lost in Noord-Brabant.” Dutch hikers take their gear very seriously. They all had identical backpacks, walking poles, sturdy shoes, and energy levels I can only describe as unrealistic. Meanwhile, I was just there with normal sneakers and the confidence of someone who had done zero preparation beyond charging their phone.

While crossing a small wooden bridge, I glanced at the still water and saw a reflection so perfect I briefly thought the universe glitched. But the moment I lifted my phone to take a photo, the wind blew my hair into my eyes, the light shifted, and the lake suddenly looked like a disappointment. Nature doesn’t like to be photographed when it hasn’t done its makeup.

Somewhere along the way, I took a wrong turn and ended up in a muddy patch where the ground tried to swallow my shoes whole. Every step made a wet suction sound that felt like the forest mocking me. I managed to escape with both shoes still attached, but I’m pretty sure the mud whispered “come back” as I fled.

Later, near another lake, I encountered a goose that behaved like the self-appointed security guard of the entire area. It stared at me with the intensity of someone who had already written three complaint letters about my presence. When it honked, I jumped, and the couple behind me laughed—not maliciously, but in that friendly Dutch way that says, “We saw that. We’re having fun. You’re having fun too whether you like it or not.”

Zutphen was next on my accidental tour, and stepping out of the station felt like stepping into a parallel universe where everything is old but functional, peaceful but alive. The town doesn’t shout for attention. It whispers, and you only hear it if you’re paying attention.

The first thing I did? Walk into a second-hand bookshop. The wooden floorboards creaked loudly, as if reporting every step to management. The smell of old books is something I don’t know how to describe except to say it hits you in the soul. The woman behind the counter greeted me in Dutch, then switched to English so effortlessly that I wondered whether she actually had some supernatural ability to detect my accent before I even opened my mouth.

I stood there flipping through books I had no intention of buying, but which convinced me to pick them up because they looked intellectual. People around me spoke in soft voices. Even the coughs were polite. Outside the shop, the weather alternated between dramatic grey clouds and sudden sunshine like a light-switch controlled by a bored weather intern.

Wandering through Zutphen’s alleys felt like participating in a treasure hunt without clues. Every corner revealed something unexpected—a hidden courtyard, an old wall that clearly had witnessed centuries, a bicycle leaning perfectly against a brick façade like it had been placed there for a magazine photoshoot.

Mid-walk, I overheard an elderly couple arguing about whether a certain house was older than Napoleon. They didn’t look like historians, but the passion with which they debated the topic suggested they might start a museum just to settle it.

Later, I bought a stroopwafel from a small stall because I felt obligated, and while trying to eat it discreetly, I managed to get syrup on my jacket. Stroopwafels are like gremlins: cute but dangerous.

Toward the middle of the month, the weather forecast again lied to me, showing two hours of dry skies. Instead of staying home, I drove to the Loonse en Drunense Duinen—the so-called Sahara of the Netherlands. You don't really believe the nickname until you see it. Sand everywhere. Rolling dunes. No sea in sight. It feels like someone poured a desert into the middle of Brabant and just left it there.

Walking on sand is exercise disguised as leisure. Every step sinks just enough to make your legs question your life choices. Before I even reached the higher dunes, my shoes had become portable sand containers. I could feel grains in places sand shouldn’t be.

The wind was in a dramatic mood. One moment the sun warmed the sand so much it felt like standing in a natural oven; the next moment the wind hurled sand into my face like nature’s exfoliating treatment. Kids were running up dunes with zero effort, while adults huffed behind them, wondering why gravity worked harder on grown-ups.

At one point, I stood still to admire the view—and a sudden gust of wind pulled my hair horizontally across my face, making me look like a haunted mop. A dog ran past me with a stick longer than its body, chased by an owner who clearly regretted ever coming outside.

Despite the chaos of wind and sand, there was something mesmerizing about the place. The mix of forest and desert created a strange contrast—a patchwork of landscapes stitched together by stubborn Dutch weather.

My final accidental exploration of the month took me to Maastricht, though I avoided the tourist-heavy areas on purpose. Instead, I slipped into the quieter side streets where charming old houses lean slightly, giving each street a cozy unevenness. Plants climbed lazily up stone walls, and the smell of something delicious floated from a nearby bakery where I immediately went inside and ordered a slice of vlaai (a local pastry). You can’t go to Maastricht and not buy vlaai. I’m convinced it’s a regional law.

The woman behind the counter had that warm Limburg accent that sounds friendly even when she’s just telling you the price. I walked out with a slice so large it could have fed a small family.

Finding a bench near the river, I sat and watched the world move slowly. Cyclists passed in quiet rhythm, a man walked by humming loudly, and a tiny dog wearing a sweater glared at me as if judging my fashion choices. Someone somewhere was playing soft music, the kind that blends into the air instead of demanding attention.

As I looked around, I realized something funny: none of these places were far or exotic. I didn’t need a plane ticket or a detailed itinerary. I just needed curiosity—and maybe a willingness to get lost occasionally or be bullied by ducks. And somehow, that made the whole month feel like a spontaneous, low-budget adventure, one where the scenery kept shifting and the Netherlands kept surprising me in small, delightful, ridiculous ways.