In Bant I found a feather.
A large, soft feather with brown crossbars. Probably from a tawny owl, said the expert at a distance. That was possible. There were enough trees, and at night it was quiet.
I put it in the camper. Not because I collect feathers, but because sometimes you pick something up before there is a system behind it.
A few days later we were in Limburg. There lay another feather: larger, smoother and grey, with a broad black edge. Probably a wood pigeon. That one came inside too.
Within three days we had two feathers and therefore, officially, a collection.
One feather is coincidence.
Two feathers are administration.
While I inspected the Limburg addition, a friend sent a message. He was parked with his camper near Bruges. Did we want to visit the city together?
“No,” I replied. “Tomorrow we are going to Zeeland.”
Ten minutes later another message arrived. On reflection, Zeeland sounded better to them too. Where exactly were we?
So it would not surprise me if tomorrow two Frisian campers are standing beside the Veerse Gat. One arriving from Limburg, the other by way of a prematurely abandoned international expedition to Bruges.
Not because of a careful itinerary, but because someone said “Zeeland” and it sounded better.
Only the next feather is missing.
Flevoland probably gave us an owl. Limburg supplied a wood pigeon. Zeeland will no doubt provide a gull—loud, uninvited and moments after inspecting our chips.
I still do not collect feathers.
But H11 now contains the beginning of an archive. An archive without catalogue numbers, retention periods or any intention of becoming complete.
Exactly right, really.