Across the river is a secret place, which very few people know about: not just the privileged readers of "The Elephant in Codfish Lane", but even the inhabitants of Gorinchem in general. It's the market stall on the Steenenhoek Canal.
I've been taking pictures of it every time I walk past during the last year and every time there's something else on offer: from kid's toys, flowers, tools, purses and plates to watering cans and pepper pots. You takes what you wants and - observing the exhortation on the sign above the stall - deposit an amount which you deem reasonable in the letterbox of the houseboat opposite.
I have no idea where these people get all this stuff. I keep saying that one day I'll ring on their houseboat door and ask them, but that would perhaps destroy the mystery of it. The not-knowing is half the fun.
I've bought flower-pots and plastic doo-hickeys for Josephine, plants and bags. Most recently Bart bought a pristine current weekend edition of the FD (equivalent of the Financial Times) on a Saturday morning, apparently unread. He paid 1 euro.
Rain or shine, snow or howling gale, the anonymous market stall ALWAYS has something to offer. I think I prefer to not research who maintains it and keep on believeing in a kind of Harry Poteresque entrepreneur.
I've been taking pictures of it every time I walk past during the last year and every time there's something else on offer: from kid's toys, flowers, tools, purses and plates to watering cans and pepper pots. You takes what you wants and - observing the exhortation on the sign above the stall - deposit an amount which you deem reasonable in the letterbox of the houseboat opposite.
I have no idea where these people get all this stuff. I keep saying that one day I'll ring on their houseboat door and ask them, but that would perhaps destroy the mystery of it. The not-knowing is half the fun. I've bought flower-pots and plastic doo-hickeys for Josephine, plants and bags. Most recently Bart bought a pristine current weekend edition of the FD (equivalent of the Financial Times) on a Saturday morning, apparently unread. He paid 1 euro.
Rain or shine, snow or howling gale, the anonymous market stall ALWAYS has something to offer. I think I prefer to not research who maintains it and keep on believeing in a kind of Harry Poteresque entrepreneur.
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