The Netherlands sees an average of 15 rainy days each month — a scientific way of saying it pours damn a lot here! And the rest of the days are overcast (okay, just kidding). Anyway, those idyllic images of sunlit mills surrounded by blooming tulip fields don’t really reflect the country’s everyday mood. In this late-autumn, early-winter wander, I want to show you the real rural gothic: somber, solitary, melancholic.
I started with a not-so-faraway area, Leiden, just 18 kilometers from The Hague. It was during that ride that the idea of exploring the countryside and windmills came to me. Oksanka and I stopped by the gorgeous sawmill “De Heesterboom” from 1804, and all of a sudden, I thought, “Hell yeah, I want to explore them all!”
Of course, that particular mill stood within the city. By the end of this exploration, we would find ourselves wandering into areas few people visit for leisure after dark.
“De Heesterboom” literally means “the shrubby tree,” and you see that kind of tree on the emblem above the entrance.
Did you know the Dutch invented saw windmills? Cornelis Corneliszoon van Uitgeest is credited with creating the wind‑powered sawmill in 1593. His innovation greatly increased the speed of lumber processing, which, among other things, helped the Dutch Republic become one of Europe’s leading shipbuilding nations.
After finishing our errands in Leiden, Oksanka and I were heading home through the town of Leidschendam. I couldn’t stop thinking about mills, and then we stumbled upon another beautiful sawmill: “De Salamander”! It was older than the one in Leiden, dating back to 1777.
At home, I looked up more about “De Salamander.” It’s hard to believe that only a few decades ago, this beautiful mill was little more than a ruin. Local volunteers carefully dismantled what was left and stored the parts until they were able to crowd-fund its restoration. In 1995, the mill got a new lease on life at the Vliet Canal. Like most sawmills, “De Salamander” has a ramp leading down to the water: this is how logs carried by the river’s current are taken inside to be sawn.
I was so excited about the new obsession that I returned later that night and took a few long-exposure shots. Just as I finished photographing, the rain started, and I rode back home completely soaked.
Meanwhile, I wanted to push much farther than Leiden, into something that actually felt like wilderness. But I have to admit, we didn’t quite pull that off on the first try. In the end, this “expedition” turned into a string of rides spread over a week — some solo, some with Oksanka — instead of one grand journey.
So, first we headed northeast, toward Alphen aan den Rijn, where my company’s headquarters are. We, the arrogant citizens of The Hague, like to joke that Alphen is “in the middle of nowhere,” so I thought it was time to challenge myself and actually go see this “nowhere.” The region around Alphen is known as the Green Heart: fields and pastures run in every direction you look.
It took us about half an hour to leave The Hague with its metropolitan area, and soon we were approaching the village of Stompwijk. It’s known for the “Molendriegang” — a row of three mills, built around 1672 to drain the nearby polder.
If you’re wondering what the heck polders are (like I once did), they are low-lying areas that the Dutch reclaimed from lakes or marshes. They’re usually below sea level and stay dry only thanks to dikes and constant water drainage. Stop pumping, and all those beautiful fields would slip back underwater.
We rode closer to the mills, and a few friendly sheep wandered over to inspect us. Their wool looked smooth and even, without any scruffy patches, despite all the mud. Oksanka wanted to touch their coats, but they kept a careful distance, and I somehow managed to photograph them from just a few steps away. Maybe it helped that I tried talking to them: “Baa-baa!” They probably thought, “What an idiot. Why is he suddenly discussing quantum physics?”
We cycled around for a while to see what else was around. The light faded, and the sky shifted into deep ultramarine, my favorite.
The three mills of Stompwijk seemed even more mysterious now. Their edges glowed, backlit by the remote streetlights, while the rest of the scene remained in deep shadow.
Then I remembered I had a flash with me and captured an image of the windmills framed by the surrounding trees, shrubs, and reeds.
But we were still practically on The Hague’s doorstep. I set the route to the next stop, and as I pedaled on, a massive pipe-shaped structure rose on the horizon — the indoor ski slope in Zoetermeer. The Netherlands hasn’t seen real snow in years; those white hills and frozen rivers with skaters exist now only in old paintings.
The temperature had dropped to around +2 °C, and the humidity was relentless. The wind froze the tip of my nose, and Oksanka said she could barely feel her fingers. Clearly, we weren’t dressed for this weather. That’s why we made the tough decision to turn back.
I wasn’t thrilled about returning early, but freezing far from home and risking a cold wasn’t a better option. Luckily, I planned the return route to pass by one more historical windmill from 1621 without any extra detours. It stood in Voorburg, a town just east of The Hague, and was called “De Vlieger,” meaning “The Kite.”
Even though the area around the mill had been left mostly untouched, it still sat within a dense residential neighborhood. One can also tell it’s no longer in the wild by the way it’s lit up at night, like a historical monument.
At home, we drank a couple of liters of tea, devoured a kilo of tangerines, and drifted off to sleep chatting about the cute sheep we’d seen.
The next day, Oksanka decided to stay home: she’d had enough of that freezing night riding and let me explore the area alone first, promising to join later. So, I rolled along the familiar northeastern route through The Hague and Leidschendam in the Alphen direction and soon found myself amid the Green Heart region.
I came across a mill called “De Blauwe Wip” (1636), a name that wasn’t that easy to translate. “Blauwe” clearly meant “blue,” while “wip” was short for “wipmolen,” a Dutch term for this type of mill — a hollow-post mill.
Unlike the mills I’d visited earlier, with their thatched, round bodies and small rotating caps, hollow-post mills rotate their entire upper part around a hollow shaft set into the pyramidal base. Because of this design, the mill shakes when it’s working — “wippen” in Dutch — hence the name.
“De Blauwe Wip” was one of several 17th-century hollow-post mills built near the Old Rhine River for water reclamation. But before I could visit them all, I needed to eat something. I had brought food from home: bread, cheese, ham, and tomatoes. I found a quiet spot near the canal and enjoyed the meal amid a truly Dutch scene — rainy clouds overhead, the smell of wet earth, and the gentle lapping of water.
In the meantime, evening had cast everything into a soft gloom, and I was on my way to the next stop — “De Grote Molen,” meaning “The Great Mill,” which was built in 1626. It looked almost identical to “De Blauwe Wip,” just noticeably taller. I suppose that explains the name.
Threatening yet still rainless clouds could barely hold their drops, and a drizzle began. I opened my backpack, swapped my cycling gloves for thicker waterproof ones (less comfortable but warm), and pulled a rainproof shell over my breathable jacket. As you can tell, I’m not one of those fast cyclists in skintight suits who never get cold because they’re always moving. When I stop for photos, I often stay in the same spot for half an hour, not to mention quick pauses for unplanned captures along the way. Multiple layers are a must for me.
A little further along, I came across another hollow-post mill, this one painted red, and its name made that clear — “De Rooie Wip.” It was completed in 1639 as a replacement for a smaller predecessor. Like the other mills near the Old Rhine, it’s still functional, though no longer used for water management.
The wind picked up, and I had to work hard to stabilize my flexible mini-tripod. I knew I’d end up deleting most of the photos once I got home, but a few turned out to be decent. One side of the mill faced a noisy arterial road, where the constant flow of cars made it hard to enjoy the view. The other side, though, opened onto fields and farms.
The drizzle thickened into an annoying light rain, and I pedaled through it toward my next stop, “De Nieuw Leven.” Originally a 17th-century polder mill, it was moved to its current location inside the village of Hazerswoude-Dorp in 1815 and repurposed for milling corn — giving it a “new life,” just as its name suggests.
Imagine my surprise when I saw the mill was green! I’d already seen two blue ones, a red one, and now a green. “Hmm…” I thought, “Will I later come across a yellow one? Just to complete this traffic-light palette.”
Since this mill stood in the middle of the village, I could walk right up to it and see all its details. I was fascinated by the size of its tail, which was used to turn the mill into the wind. The miller would operate a winch wheel at the bottom of the tail, using chains attached to posts in the ground to pull the entire upper structure around.
I was saving the trickiest-to-reach windmill, “De Groenendijkse Molen,” for the end of the ride. My map showed access via what looked like a village street, but it was paved only partially and then continued between houses as a muddy, dead-end path for tractors. I wasn’t sure if I could walk there, and there was no one around to ask for permission. Knocking on doors felt too intrusive, but then I noticed someone driving out of that area. I asked if I could take a photo of the mill. The man nodded, though he looked rather surprised to be asked that this late.
I moved along cautiously, keeping to the path. And you know what? When I got close, set up my camera for a 30-second exposure in near darkness, and I saw the final shot — the mill was yellow! I couldn’t help but wonder whether the mills in this region had always been this colorful, or if they had been painted more recently.
At first, my eyes couldn’t make out the mill, but as I adjusted to the darkness, I saw it under the starry sky with streaking clouds as clearly as my camera did.
On the opposite side of the field, the pointed silhouette of the village church pierced the horizon.
It was time to wrap up. Despite wearing multiple layers, I was starting to feel cold after a long time barely moving. Also, I didn’t want to return too late and spend the next day half-asleep. I rode home as fast as I could, eager to see what I had captured on a bigger screen. I knew Oksanka would be a little jealous that she hadn’t joined me — but not too much, given the weather.
A couple of days later, we were ready for the next chapter of our rural adventure — this time better dressed and with a thermos of tea in the bag. For a change, we headed south toward the Vlietlanden Nature Reserve. And, of course, it was a cloudy day, as is typical in autumn and winter here, but thankfully, without rain or strong wind.
As we were passing by the village of Schipluiden, we noticed an old mill on the other side of the River Gaag. Its name, “De Korpershoek,” comes from the carp that spawned in the waters nearby. The original mill on this spot sadly burned down in 1945. To replace it, a 1772 mill from a village about 40 kilometers away was moved here. It was no longer in use at its former location, and everyone agreed that this well-preserved mill deserved a new life in Schipluiden.
It was surprisingly calm. Chilly, but calm. Oksanka had already chosen the route to the next stop when I happened to glance back and saw a perfectly serene scene: a bridge, a rosy boat, and a sky turning the same soft shade. What a color rhyme!
The water was so still that it mirrored everything around it, with almost no ripple breaking the surface.
Oksanka navigated us to a beautiful viewing point with five giant elevated chairs. The fields stretched endlessly in every direction, and the dusk light made it all feel slightly unreal.
South Holland is so built-up that greenhouses, housing, or farmland cover much of the land. The Vlietlanden Reserve, however, is a rare remnant — a low-lying peat region that was never turned into a polder. It was refreshing to finally find open nature like this.
I must have said, “Holy cow! This is freaking beautiful!” a hundred times as we rode. At one point, I nearly veered off the bike path because I kept turning my head left and right, trying to take it all in.
Then we reached the second scenic spot with a small viewing tower. There wasn’t a single person around, and that fiery sunset felt like it was meant just for us. We sat on a bench below the tower, drinking tea from the thermos and talking about what to do next. Unlike that first ride, we weren’t cold at all, and the forecast promised a dry night.
We decided to keep going and look for a few more interesting places, turning northeast to make a loop and return to The Hague by a different route. We rode through the rural strip between The Hague and Rotterdam, toward the River Rotte, which gave Rotterdam its name.
As we neared the area, something in the sky stopped us in our tracks. At first, I thought it was light pollution from the nearby cities, but the glow was unusually pinkish. Then I remembered the aurora borealis sometimes reaches the Netherlands — and unlike in more northern countries, it often appears pinkish rather than green-blue.
But it turned out to be the famous “Dutch glow” from red and blue LED lights in greenhouses, which appears pink to our eyes. Red light drives photosynthesis, while blue helps regulate plant growth. Unlike real aurora, which hangs in the sky, this glow comes from the ground and reflects off the clouds. If you see clouds blocking it from spreading up, you can be 100% sure it’s greenhouse light.
As we were discussing the glow, we didn’t notice how we had reached the lowest point in the Netherlands — 6.67 meters below sea level! “We haven’t fallen this low before…” Oksanka joked. The sign stood on a platform surrounded by water, and I had to leap from a slippery grassy bank onto the equally slippery platform to get a photo.
One slip into the water, and our ride would have ended right there. But I stayed careful through all five attempts to get a sharp shot.
Next, we reached the village of Bleiswijk, which had a historic wooden lock from 1772, connecting the Rotte River to a canal. The lock was made of wood, not brick, which I imagine was much harder to preserve over the centuries. It’s no longer in use, but it gives a sense of what water engineering looked like back then.
The greenhouse glow was clearly visible and seemed to follow us from the moment we first noticed it.
I looked at the source of the glow beyond the river, and saw the fascinating silhouettes of the “Molenviergang,” a cluster of four old windmills near Zevenhuizen. They were built starting in 1722 for land reclamation and remain, according to local traditions, capable of resuming their function if electric‑powered pumps fail — as was once done during crises and wartime.
I balanced my mini tripod on the bike saddle and pressed the shutter. In front of us was a unique scene: pitch-black windmill silhouettes, as if cut from paper, against a fiery sky lit by the greenhouse glow over reclaimed land below sea level. A place where nature meets humanity’s urge to reshape the environment to its growing needs.
We were almost ready to call it a day and head home, but at the last moment, I convinced Oksanka that we had to make the most of the calm, windless, rain-free weather — and visit the places I’d explored solo some time ago. I steered us toward the “Rooie Wip,” and it happened to be lit up that night. The first time I saw it, it was in pitch darkness, and the chilly wind was blowing straight into my face.
But I didn’t want this stretch of the ride to feel like a repeat of places I’d already shown Oksanka in photos. That’s why I prepared a small surprise, a spot that was new to both of us. Ta-da! The “Green Cathedral” in Hazerswoude-Dorp, a real rural gem.
We arrived just as the near-full moon climbed high in the sky, casting a soft light over the area. Everything was quiet — no sound at all, except for the faint squeaking of birds from the shrubs.
The “Green Cathedral” began in 1999 as a private art project and walking garden by Tom and Conny van Dijk, who have kindly kept it open to the public at all hours — even arriving this late, we didn’t have to peer in from behind a fence. Over the years, the project expanded, gradually adding stained glass windows, statues, and a variety of new plantings.
By the time we visited, all the leaves had fallen, but the tangle of branches and metal frames was mesmerizing, almost hypnotic. Moonlight striped the ground in shadows, and we just stood there charmed by the deafening clearness of the air. Finally, Oksanka and I looked at one another, wordless, and knew: nothing that day could surpass this; our adventurous minds were full to the brim.
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