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blackheaded gulls. The horn of a car that wants to pass on the narrow dyke makes me jump.
     
'Why did you stop on the dyke anyway?' asks Ada, who can't tell a great tit from a blue tit. She's wearing a black midlength coat and looks a little pale.
     
In Hoorn I have to leave the dyke for a while. The weather is still and misty, in the distance the water of Lake Ijssel merges imperceptibly with the sky. Something is rattling under the bonnet of the Opel Kadett, I'll have to take the car to the garage again. At Oosterleek I turn left and ten minutes later I park the car in front of the Venhuizen funeral parlour, which is next to an old people's home.
     
'How could they come up with something like that?' asks Ada. 'How can they be so cruel?'
     
There are a lot of farmers, you recognise them straightaway from their clothes, they're almost all wearing 'a good jumper' over a clean shirt. From the funeral parlour we follow the hearse on foot to the Roman Catholic church, where Arie's wife addresses the coffin, or rather, tries to address the coffin, because once she's said, 'Arie is dead,' she can't go on. Two young women – her daughters, presumably – get up and lead her back to her pew. The priest takes care of the funeral service and a local choir sings a sad song. After a brief silence, six pallbearers in dark-grey top hats come in, lift the coffin onto their shoulders and carry it out. Ada walks beside me, as my wife. She has taken me by the arm and is crying. Wim, her husband, didn't want to come. According to Ada he's scared of death and always keeps a safe distance. What's more, he had better things to do. The cemetery isn't directly behind the church, we have to walk a fair distance. On the way we pass a De Boer's supermarket. It's a good funeral: the pallbearers lower the coffin and Arie's wife and daughters throw earth into the grave. When we're walking back to the church the young tanker driver comes up behind us. 'I'm glad you could make it, Helmer,' he says. 'And you too, Ada. Solidarity is a beautiful thing.'
     
'Ah, Galtjo,' says Ada, her voice sounding more like cotton wool than ever, 'it's the least you can do.'
     
I don't say anything, I'm touched by the young tanker driver's reaction. Galtjo , no wonder I keep forgetting his name. Even here, at the cemetery, he's smiling. He can't help it. We've fallen a little behind. When I turn around, I see that two men have started to fill the grave, not carefully one handful after the other but with enormous shovel loads.
     
Then everyone returns to the funeral parlour to offer their condolences to the wife and daughters and the rest of Arie's family. We drink coffee and Ada eats a slice of cake. I eat two.
     
Ada wants to take a different route back. We drive through Hem and Blokdijk to Hoorn.
     
'Let's go through the Beemster,' she says. 'The Beemster is lovely.'
     
I cut through Berkhout to Avenhoorn and Schemerhoorn. I follow the signs for North Beemster. 'The villages?' I ask.
     
'The villages' says Ada.
     
I turn right and take the road through North and Middle Beemster. 'Imagine living here,' Ada says. 'Just look how much space there is. And the land is so nice and high, ours is always wet. Cramped and wet.'
     
'Has Jarno Koper gone to Denmark yet?' I ask.
     
'No, he leaves in January.' She looks around longingly. 'Wim would love to have something bigger. Not a lot bigger, just a bit. Ten or so cows, a few hectares.'
     
'You should go to Denmark too then.'
     
'God, no. Can you see Wim ever leaving?'
     
'No,' I say. 'I can't see that happening.' Wim's lived next door all his life, but I hardly know him.
     
Just before we turn off to Southeast Beemster, Ada asks me to slow down so she can have a good look at The Unicorn. 'Yes,' she says, peering at the renovated farmhouse, 'we drive off home, but they're left behind, without a husband and without a father.'
     
I stop the car just before the junction and get out. The bare branches of the windbreak