Markus Anecdotes-Dutch Autumn

Written and with photos by Markus.

There is a particular moment in the Netherlands when summer does not officially end, but everybody somehow agrees that it is over. Nobody announces it, there is no ceremony, and certainly no warning. One week, people are still sitting outside cafés wearing sunglasses and ordering cold drinks because the sun has appeared for seventeen minutes.

The next week, every terrace chair looks slightly damp, half the parasols have disappeared, and somebody somewhere has lit a candle at four o’clock in the afternoon. That is when the Great Dutch Autumn Migration begins. Not south, of course. Indoors.

In September, people are still optimistic. September is treated almost like an extension of summer, especially when the temperature accidentally climbs above twenty degrees. Dutch people react as if they have been granted a surprise national holiday. Barbecues are uncovered, garden chairs come back out, neighbours suddenly reappear, and someone will inevitably cycle past in a T-shirt. Everyone knows perfectly well that the weather could collapse within two hours, but that is beside the point. Sunshine in the Netherlands is not something you postpone enjoying until tomorrow, because tomorrow may involve horizontal rain.

By October, however, the optimism becomes harder to maintain. The mornings feel different first. You open the back door and the air has that unmistakable cold dampness that somehow manages to enter your sleeves before you have even stepped outside. The grass is wet, the garden furniture is wet, the bicycle saddle is wet, the car is wet. Sometimes I genuinely wonder whether objects in the Netherlands generate their own moisture during autumn. Even when it has not visibly rained, everything looks as though someone has lightly sprayed the entire country overnight.

The garden changes personality too. In summer it feels like an extra room of the house. Doors stay open, people eat outside, dogs wander in and out, and cats stretch themselves across warm paving stones as though they personally paid for the property. Then October arrives, and suddenly the garden becomes something you admire through glass. You still appreciate it. You simply prefer appreciating it from inside.

Our animals understand this seasonal shift much faster than we do. Cats, especially, require no weather forecast. During summer they sleep in absurd places outside: under bushes, on garden chairs, on fences, sometimes directly in the sun despite wearing what is basically a permanent fur coat. Then one slightly chilly evening arrives and suddenly every desirable indoor surface has been occupied. The sofa, the chair, the windowsill above the radiator, the blanket you were planning to use, possibly even the laptop if it happens to be warm. There is an unwritten rule in a house with cats: if a cat has fallen asleep somewhere, ownership transfers immediately to the cat. You might have purchased the sofa, but that is no longer relevant.

Dogs react differently. They look outside, then at you, then outside again, with an expression that clearly says, “You cannot seriously expect me to go into that.” Unfortunately, unlike cats, dogs eventually have to. This brings us to one of the great Dutch autumn rituals: walking a dog in weather that no sensible creature would voluntarily enter.

The Netherlands has many different forms of rain, and after living here long enough you begin to recognise them. There is normal rain, fine rain that looks harmless until your clothes are completely wet, sideways rain, wind-driven rain, and that special Dutch drizzle that seems to float horizontally through the air and somehow reaches parts of your body that should have been protected.

The remarkable thing is that daily life barely changes. People continue cycling, children still go to school, people still walk dogs, and someone will inevitably pass by holding an umbrella in one hand while steering a bicycle with the other, which seems to violate several laws of physics but apparently not Dutch traffic culture.

What still fascinates me is that the weather is rarely accepted as a proper excuse. People complain about it, certainly. Complaining about the weather is almost a social bonding activity. But they complain while continuing whatever they were planning to do anyway. “Terrible weather,” someone says, and then cycles twelve kilometres through it. In other countries, bad weather can be a reason to cancel plans. In the Netherlands, it is often just an inconvenient detail.

Perhaps that is why Dutch autumn does not feel as bleak as you might expect from a country where daylight disappears alarmingly quickly. Instead of surrendering to the darkness, people simply change environments. Outdoor life moves indoors. Terraces become cafés, garden dinners become kitchen dinners, evenings outside become evenings around dining tables. And suddenly the Dutch obsession with gezelligheid makes complete sense.

“Gezellig” is one of those Dutch words that can be translated, but never quite perfectly. “Cosy” comes close, but it is not enough. A room can be gezellig, but so can a dinner, a conversation, a birthday, a café, a person or an atmosphere. Autumn seems almost designed for it. As the days shorten, homes begin to change. Curtains are drawn earlier, lamps are switched on sooner, blankets appear on sofas, and candles multiply. One candle is never enough. There must be several: on the table, on the windowsill, on a sideboard, perhaps inside some decorative glass object purchased for no practical reason other than that it looks appropriate in October.

This is also the season when garden centres become dangerous. You may enter intending to buy one practical thing, perhaps potting soil or a plant, and then you encounter the autumn displays. Suddenly there are pumpkins, lanterns, blankets, decorative mushrooms, artificial branches, miniature wooden houses and objects whose purpose is unclear but which look extremely convincing next to a candle. Two hours later, you leave with €86 worth of autumn.

Dutch garden centres are masters of seasonal psychological manipulation. They do not simply sell products; they build an entire mood and then persuade you that your living room is incomplete without it.

By October, Christmas also begins creeping in from one corner. At first it is subtle: a few lights, a star, one suspiciously festive reindeer. Then suddenly half the building has become December while outside it is still October. This happens every year, and every year I somehow act surprised.

Supermarkets change as well. Salads begin losing territory, soups return, cinnamon appears everywhere and the shelves seem to accept that humanity now requires carbohydrates. Warm food starts tasting better simply because it is cold outside. Soup feels more satisfying. Coffee feels more necessary. Tea acquires purpose. Summer drinks are about refreshment; autumn drinks are about survival. Coffee is no longer just caffeine. It is a personal heating system.

And then there are bitterballen. Few foods make more sense in bad weather. In summer, you may sit on a terrace eating something light and pretending you are interested in freshness. In October, after cycling through wind and rain, nobody wants delicacy. You want something hot, fried and immediate. Cafés become refuges. You come in from the cold, remove a wet coat and suddenly everything feels unusually pleasant: fogged windows, people talking, coffee machines hissing, glasses clinking, someone eating apple pie nearby. It is at moments like this that you understand why northern European cultures have spent centuries perfecting indoor comfort.

Restaurants change character too. In summer, everyone wants the terrace and a table inside can feel like a disappointment. By October, the same outdoor table looks like punishment. The preferred seat is now somewhere far from the door, preferably near a radiator and definitely away from any draft.

Town centres feel different as well. During warm months, life spills into the streets. Chairs and tables fill pavements, squares are busy, people linger. In autumn, everything compresses. The street becomes the corridor between indoor places: shop, café, restaurant, cinema, home. People walk faster. Nobody stands outside chatting for twenty minutes in a cold October wind unless they have made a serious error in planning.

There is something almost comforting about this annual retreat. Summer in the Netherlands encourages people to spread out. Autumn pulls everyone back together. The house feels smaller, but also warmer. Meals become longer. Lights become softer. Evenings slow down. Pets occupy every warm surface available, and people suddenly remember that doing nothing at home can actually be quite pleasant.

That may be one of the biggest seasonal differences I have learned to appreciate here. In summer, there is a subtle pressure to make use of good weather because everyone knows it may not last. If the sun is shining, it feels almost irresponsible to remain inside. You should be on a terrace, in a park, on a bicycle, beside a canal, at the beach, in the garden, or at least somewhere that proves you noticed the weather. Staying indoors on a beautiful Dutch summer day can feel like wasting a rare resource.

Autumn removes that pressure. Once it is dark at six in the evening and raining against the windows, nobody judges you for staying home. In fact, staying home suddenly becomes the sensible choice.

There is freedom in that.

You can put on comfortable clothes at an embarrassingly early hour and call it seasonal living. You can make a large pot of something that takes three hours to cook. You can watch two films in a row and not feel guilty because outside is clearly not offering a better alternative. You can fall asleep on the sofa while pretending you are still watching television, only to wake up because one of the cats has decided your stomach is the warmest sleeping location in the room.

Even sound changes in autumn. Summer homes are full of outside noise: lawnmowers, children, birds, neighbours talking, bicycles passing, doors opening and closing. In autumn, the world becomes more muffled. Rain against glass becomes background music. Wind moves through trees. Heating systems click into life. The kettle seems to be used twice as often.

And then there is that first moment when the heating goes on.

This is surprisingly controversial.

Nobody wants to be the first person to admit they turned it on.

There seems to be an invisible competition every autumn to see how long people can survive without heating, as though medals will eventually be awarded.

“Have you turned yours on yet?”

“No, not yet.”

This is often said by someone sitting indoors wearing two sweaters.

There is a certain pride involved, especially after years of conversations about energy prices. You might be freezing, but at least you are freezing economically.

Eventually somebody gives in. The thermostat rises by one degree, radiators become warm, and every cat in the building somehow receives the information instantly. Within minutes, they are positioned beside or above the heat source as if responding to an emergency broadcast.

Cats are experts in energy efficiency because they never waste body heat when somebody else can provide it.

I sometimes think they understand Dutch autumn better than we do. Their strategy is simple: move less, find warmth, sleep more and wait for spring.

Humans complicate matters with decorative cushions.

Another sign of the indoor migration is how social life changes. Summer gatherings can be spontaneous. Someone sends a message asking if you want to sit outside, and within an hour people are drinking something in a garden or on a terrace. Autumn socialising often feels more deliberate. Someone invites you for dinner. There is actual food involved. Coats pile up near the entrance. Shoes may or may not come off depending on the household rules. People remain at the table much longer.

Dutch birthday parties also become more intense indoors.

In summer, extra guests can spread into the garden. In autumn, everyone occupies the same living room. Chairs are pulled from every corner of the house. Somebody sits on a dining chair next to the sofa. Someone else ends up on a footstool. Coffee circulates. Cake circulates. Eventually snacks circulate.

There is something very Dutch about the way a room can contain far more people than it was clearly designed for, yet somehow the gathering continues perfectly well.

At some point everyone begins discussing whether it is cold outside.

This may lead naturally into a conversation about rain, heating, energy costs, traffic, roadworks or how dark it has become.

Seasonal conversation has its own ecosystem.

October also changes the way evenings feel. In June, eight o’clock barely feels like evening. There is still light outside, and your brain remains convinced the day has hours left. In autumn, five o’clock can look like bedtime. By seven, it feels as though the entire day happened long ago.

This can be disorienting at first.

You look at the clock expecting it to be 21:30 and discover it is 18:47.

Then comes the annual clock change, when the Netherlands officially moves one hour deeper into darkness. Technically, we gain an hour, which sounds generous, but psychologically it feels as though somebody has stolen the afternoon.

The first Monday after the clocks change is always strange. You leave work or finish whatever you are doing and darkness has already arrived. The world looks completely different from the week before.

Suddenly bicycle lights become essential again.

Dutch cyclists seem to divide into two autumn species: those with extremely powerful lights that could guide aircraft to an airport, and those with one tiny blinking lamp attached somewhere to a coat sleeve.

Cars move through wet streets surrounded by reflections. Red tail lights stretch across the road. Street lamps shimmer on wet paving stones. Even ordinary neighbourhoods become more atmospheric.

There is a beauty to it.

Dutch autumn is not spectacular in the same way as mountain forests turning bright red and orange, but it has its own quieter character. The light becomes softer. Mist hangs over fields in the morning. Trees along canals turn yellow. Fallen leaves gather against bicycle paths. On dry days, the low autumn sun can make everything look unusually golden.

Those are the days that make you briefly forget the rain.

You walk outside and think, “This is actually beautiful.”

Then a wet leaf sticks to your shoe and follows you into the house.

Autumn also reveals how many leaves the Netherlands actually possesses.

During summer, trees appear innocent.

By October, they begin dropping their entire inventory.

Leaves collect in gardens, gutters, pavements, parking spaces and every corner where wind can push them. You clear them and feel productive. The next morning, the same quantity has returned.

It becomes a negotiation with nature.

You rake.

The tree responds.

You rake again.

The tree has more.

Eventually you accept defeat.

Wet leaves also make bicycle paths interesting. Dutch infrastructure may be excellent, but no engineering department has yet solved the physics of a bicycle tyre meeting a layer of wet autumn leaves.

Every cyclist develops a slightly more respectful attitude towards corners.

Dog walks become colourful but messy. Dogs discover muddy areas with astonishing efficiency. It does not matter how large the park is; they will find the wettest section.

A clean dog can leave the house and return looking like it participated in agricultural work.

This creates another autumn routine: towels near the door.

Summer dogs simply enter the house.

Autumn dogs require processing.

Paws must be cleaned. Fur must be dried. A suspicious amount of sand appears on the floor anyway. Five minutes later, the dog is asleep on the sofa looking completely innocent.

Meanwhile, the cats have watched the entire operation from somewhere warm and are clearly satisfied with their life choices.

Autumn weekends change too. In summer, there is often a feeling that weekends should involve going somewhere. By October, the definition of a successful Sunday becomes more flexible.

Sometimes the perfect day involves a late breakfast, a walk during the brief period when the weather is dry, perhaps a visit to a market or garden centre, and then returning home before the rain starts again.

You begin checking weather apps with unreasonable frequency.

Not because the forecast is reliable, but because hope is powerful.

At 09:00 the app says rain at 14:00.

At 11:00 it says rain at 13:00.

At 12:30 it says it is currently dry while rain is visibly hitting the window.

Dutch weather apps teach humility.

Still, people use them constantly. If there is a two-hour dry window on Sunday afternoon, plans are constructed around it.

“Walk the dogs at one. Rain starts at three.”

This sounds almost military.

Sometimes it works.

Sometimes the rain starts at 13:07.

The indoor migration has economic consequences too, at least in my house. Once autumn begins, there are suddenly things we apparently need.

New candles.

A warmer blanket.

Maybe a lamp.

Tea.

More tea.

Some seasonal food.

Possibly a new cushion because apparently the existing cushions are too summery.

The concept of a seasonal cushion is something I once would have questioned. I no longer do.

You adapt.

That may be one of the funniest parts of living in another country for years. At first, certain habits seem strange. Then slowly, without noticing, you adopt them. Eventually you find yourself participating fully while still believing you are observing from the outside.

You laugh at Dutch people putting candles everywhere, then one evening realise you have lit six.

You wonder why people own so many blankets, then discover there are three on your own sofa.

You find seasonal decorations unnecessary, then stand in a garden centre considering whether a small wooden mushroom would improve the living room.

Integration can be subtle.

Sometimes it costs €12.95.

Food may be the clearest sign that the season has changed. By October, I want dishes I barely think about in July. Stews, soups, roasted vegetables, mashed potatoes, anything that stays hot long enough to warm your hands through the bowl.

Dutch autumn food understands the assignment.

Erwtensoep begins making emotional sense again. Stamppot stops looking heavy and starts looking practical. Apple pie becomes almost medicinal when served warm with coffee.

There is also something comforting about cooking when it is dark outside. In summer, spending two hours in the kitchen can feel like missing the evening. In autumn, the kitchen becomes part of the evening.

Windows steam slightly. Something simmers. The smell fills the house. Animals begin appearing because they believe all cooking activity concerns them personally.

Cats become especially interested whenever meat is involved.

They may have ignored you for six hours, but the sound of a packet opening transforms them into devoted family members.

Dogs are less subtle.

They position themselves directly in the most inconvenient location and stare.

This is apparently their contribution to meal preparation.

The dining table itself feels different in autumn. Meals stretch longer. There is less urgency to finish and go outside. Conversation continues after plates are empty. Another drink appears. Someone makes coffee. You suddenly realise you have been sitting at the table for three hours.

That is perhaps when gezelligheid becomes easiest to understand. It is not something you can manufacture by simply decorating a room. It comes from people being comfortable enough not to hurry away.

Autumn creates the conditions for that.

The outside world becomes slightly less inviting, so the inside world becomes more important.

Even public indoor spaces gain a different appeal. Museums, cinemas, libraries and shopping centres suddenly become much more attractive. A rainy Saturday can transform an ordinary cinema into the perfect destination.

There is something deeply satisfying about entering a cinema while it is raining, watching a film for two hours, and emerging to discover that it is still raining.

You have not missed anything.

The weather waited for you.

Shopping centres become temporary climates of their own. You remove your coat because it is suddenly too warm, carry it around for two hours, then put it back on before stepping outside into cold wind.

This coat management is an underrated aspect of Dutch autumn.

Every indoor place is approximately ten degrees warmer than outdoors.

So autumn dressing becomes a system of layers that are constantly added and removed.

A coat.

A scarf.

Possibly a sweater.

Then inside a shop everything comes off.

Five minutes later you leave and everything goes back on.

Repeat this process six times and you have completed a small workout.

Cyclists face an even more complicated problem. Dress warmly enough for standing still and you overheat while cycling. Dress correctly for cycling and you freeze the moment you stop.

Dutch people seem to solve this instinctively.

I am still negotiating.

Rain trousers deserve a special mention because they represent Dutch practicality in its purest form. They are not glamorous. Nobody becomes more attractive after putting on rain trousers. But after being soaked enough times, appearance becomes secondary.

There comes a stage in life when arriving dry is more important than arriving elegant.

The Dutch reached this conclusion generations ago.

Children learn it early. You see them cycling to school in rain suits, apparently unconcerned, while adults from warmer climates look at the sky and reconsider every decision that brought them here.

Yet there is also something admirable about it. The weather does not control life as much when you are equipped for it.

Perhaps that is the real secret of Dutch autumn: acceptance combined with preparation.

You cannot stop rain, darkness or wind.

But you can have good lights, waterproof clothing, warm food, candles, coffee and somewhere comfortable to return to.

That is a fairly reasonable philosophy.

By late October, the transformation is complete. Terraces have largely emptied except for the bravest smokers and tourists who underestimated the temperature. Gardens are quiet. Windows glow from inside. People hurry home carrying groceries in the dark.

From outside, Dutch houses look particularly inviting at this time of year because many people do not close their curtains completely. You can walk through a neighbourhood and catch brief glimpses of warm interiors: lamps, plants, bookshelves, dining tables, someone cooking, someone watching television.

There is something characteristically Dutch about that openness.

In some countries, curtains close tightly after dark. Here, many homes remain visually connected to the street.

You are not really looking inside, of course.

You are simply noticing atmosphere.

At least that is what I tell myself.

The windows become little scenes of indoor autumn life.

And every house seems to have at least one lamp whose sole function is to make the room look warm from outside.

Perhaps that is deliberate.

Perhaps everyone is unconsciously participating in the same seasonal project: making darkness feel less dark.

Halloween has also become more visible in the Netherlands over the years. Pumpkins appear outside houses. Shops sell decorations. Children sometimes dress up. It still does not dominate autumn in the way it does in the United States, but it fits naturally into the season because by late October everyone is already comfortable with candles, darkness and decorative objects shaped like pumpkins.

Then almost immediately, attention begins turning towards Sinterklaas and Christmas.

Autumn in the Netherlands does not really end; it simply becomes festive.

The first pepernoten appear absurdly early, often while summer technically still exists. By October, resistance is pointless.

They are everywhere.

This creates another seasonal mystery: people complain every year that pepernoten are being sold too early, while simultaneously buying them.

Dutch seasonal traditions depend on this contradiction.

“I cannot believe they are selling these already.”

Adds bag to shopping basket.

By November, the indoor migration becomes even stronger. Darkness arrives earlier, temperatures drop further, and houses fully enter winter mode.

But October is the transition month, and that is what makes it interesting.

You can still remember summer clearly. There may even be one unexpectedly warm afternoon when everyone rushes outside again as if the season has reversed.

Then two days later, you are scraping condensation from the car windows.

October refuses to commit.

It gives you sun, fog, rain, wind, blue skies and grey skies, sometimes before lunch.

It is the month when sunglasses and umbrellas can both be necessary.

And perhaps that unpredictability is why indoor comfort becomes so important. You cannot control what October is doing outside, but you can control what happens inside.

You can make coffee.

You can cook something warm.

You can light candles.

You can put a blanket on the sofa.

You can let the animals occupy most of it and squeeze yourself into whatever space remains.

You can invite people over, eat too much, talk too long and ignore the rain.

There is something simple and satisfying in that.

When I first came to the Netherlands, I probably thought of autumn mainly as bad weather between summer and winter. Now I see it differently.

It is a season with its own routines.

It changes the pace of life.

Summer encourages movement. Autumn encourages settling.

Summer asks, “Where are we going?”

Autumn asks, “What are we eating?”

And I am not convinced that is a downgrade.

The funny thing is that Dutch people often speak about autumn as if they dislike it. They complain about the rain, darkness and wind, and all of those complaints are completely justified.

But at the same time, they are remarkably good at living in it.

They know how to create warmth.

They know how to turn a cold evening into something pleasant.

They know that a café can feel better because it is raining outside, that soup tastes better after a bicycle ride in the cold, and that an evening at home can be an event in itself.

Perhaps that is what years in the Netherlands have taught me most about the season.

Autumn does not have to be endured.

It can be arranged.

You cannot make the weather warmer, but you can make the room warmer.

You cannot extend daylight, but you can switch on lamps and light candles.

You cannot stop the rain, but you can listen to it from the sofa.

And if you are lucky, there will be a dog at your feet and a cat occupying the blanket you wanted.

The Great Dutch Autumn Migration is therefore not really a retreat from life. It is simply life changing location.

The barbecues disappear, but dinner tables fill.

Terraces empty, but cafés become lively.

Gardens become quiet, but living rooms become warm.

People spend less time outside together and more time inside together.

The country seems to contract a little, and perhaps that is exactly why everything feels closer.

By the end of October, I barely notice the transition anymore. The blanket is always there. The kettle is used constantly. The animals have established their winter territories. The garden is viewed through glass. Outdoor furniture looks abandoned and slightly tragic.

And then one evening, I will find myself sitting inside with a warm drink, rain tapping against the windows, one cat asleep somewhere inconvenient and a dog completely unwilling to go outside again.

I will look around and realise that the migration is complete.

Birds may head south for winter.

The Dutch simply move three metres closer to the radiator.

• And after enough years here, apparently so do I.