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10.04.1825
The first hotel opens on Hawaii.
06.08.1825
Bolivia gains independence.
27.09.1825
Maiden voyage of the world's first public railway service, the Stockton & Darlington Railway.
13.10.1827
Russian troops capture Erevan, Armenia's capital.
The mysterious Dutchman
On a sunny Saturday in July 1827, as Simon is clambering down one of the narrow, rough and steep paths that lead down the vineyard's slope, he pauses to catch his breath for a moment and realises that he's in 'the Dutchman's' vineyard. It looks different to the locals' vineyards because the owner uses a different variety of grapes. Simon takes a look around. Yes, he can see 'the Dutchman's' estate, although it's a little obscured by the vineyards. He can hear his mother's voice ringing in his ears: "Simon, don't hang around there. That man is supposed to be a little peculiar. Promise me that!"
Simon's father has told him that the man everyone calls 'the Dutchman', is a former seafaring man who settled near Nierstein a few years ago. People say that he makes outstanding wine. But because he only sells it in the Netherlands and leads a very reclusive and private life, hardly anyone has any contact with him. According to the rumour mill from Nierstein to Mainz, 'no one knows what he does up there'. Simon has already heard some scary stories about 'the Dutchman'.
Driven by curiosity, Simon continues further down the bumpy path, through the vineyard and towards the estate. The path gets narrower and steeper, and suddenly a stone gives way under Simon's foot, sending him off balance. Before he knows it, he has slipped a few metres down the hill, falling between the grapevines. Green vine leaves flash quickly before his eyes, then the Rhine, the ground, the sky, the Rhine - and then a pain shoots into his knee before he sees the sky - and then nothing else.
As he regains consciousness and opens his eyes, the sun is shining blindingly in his face. Simon presses his eyes shut again and everything is spinning behind his eyelids. Only now does he realise what has happened. His knee hurts and he can hear someone saying something.
"Are you hurt, boy?", murmurs a calm voice. Simon squints with eyes that are slowly becoming accustomed to the brightness and makes out a figure standing before him. “What happened?", he asks.
"Well you must have fallen from up there."
Simon examines the white-haired old man and his wrinkled face - a face wrought by sun and sea. "Are you the one everyone calls 'the Dutchman'?"
"Are you the snotty-nosed brat called 'the German'?", comes the sharp reply.
"I'm sorry. I haven't fully regained my senses yet. My knee!", moans Simon. "The pain is piercing."
The old man bends down and peers at Simon's knee with a scrutinising eye. "There's nothing to worry about. It's bleeding, but it looks like it's only skin-deep … We just have to clean it. Do you have any other pains, or do you think you can walk?"
"No, I think I can manage." Simon bravely tries to get up with the old man's support.
A short while later, he finds himself recovering in the estate's sun-drenched courtyard. 'The Dutchman' is sitting beside him on the teak bench.
"Just take it easy, boy. I'll be right back." The old man stands up and disappears into the house. As Simon watches him go, he notices that he feels strangely safe and secure here.
A few minutes later 'the Dutchman' returns with a bandage and a clean, carefully folded white towel in one hand and a wine bottle without a label in the other. Sitting down next to Simon on the bench, he dabs a colourless liquid onto the towel before saying, in a steady tone, "You're a right strong lad! This will sting a little, but I have to disinfect the wound with alcohol." And without hesitating another second, he presses the towel against the boy's bleeding knee. Simon's face seems to take on the old man's wrinkled features. A cry escapes his lips, but he instantly bites down to suppress it, so as not to show any weakness.
"Very courageous, my boy."
"It's not the first time you've done that, is it?", asks Simon.
'The Dutchman' chuckles. "During my long life I have seen, experienced and done so much."
At this point, Simon remembers his manners. "Thank you very much for your help," says he. "Braun, Simon Braun is my name."
"Braun … hmm … Balthasar Braun's son?"
“Yes, that's my father."
"I've heard a lot about him. He must be a decent, upstanding man. My name is Jan ter Bruggen."
He rises and with hurried footsteps, disappears into the house once more, taking the bandage, towel and bottle with him. Simon notices the man's broad shoulders and large stature. A few minutes later, he is sitting beside him again. Now standing between them on the bench are two glasses, a bottle and a plate of bread and sausage. The old man raises the bottle. "Grape juice."
He cuts several slices of bread and puts sausage on them. He then fills the two glasses with juice.
"You have to build up your strength now. That will do you good. As you already correctly mentioned, I come from the Netherlands - from Dordrecht on the Oude Maas. For almost three decades I sailed around the world for the Dutch East India Company, The VOC. I spent most of my time in South Africa and Asia. A couple of years ago, I came here to retire. And now I spend my time watching the grapes grow and producing wine."
"Where did you learn to make wine?", wonders Simon aloud. "It's really not easy."
"For a few years, I was stationed by the VOC as a merchant at the Cape of Good Hope in South Africa. And it was there that I met a few winemakers. You know that in 1652, the Dutch set up a resupply outpost at Table Bay for the company's trading ships to use en route to India and China. Even its founder, Jan van Riebeeck, had grapes in tow from Europe. But many of the Germans - and especially the French Huguenot immigrants - brought a lot of 'wine knowledge' into the country."
"What are the Dutch doing in India and China, then?"
"Those of us in the company started trading with the Indians and the Chinese. Porcelain, tea and above all, spices, all come from those countries. We then sell the products in Europe. But that's a long story."
"I would love to keep listening, but I have to go home now. Otherwise it will get too late. By the way, I know an Indian, too. I met her when I was in London with my father. She's a girl named Marala and she's as pretty as a picture."
"Marala, hmm, that means 'beautiful swan'. Do you think you can walk?"
"Yes, I'll be fine Mr. … ter Bruggen."
"Why don't you call me Jan? Just say Jan. You're welcome to come by again."
"Thank you, I will. Perhaps as soon as tomorrow!"
So that was my first encounter with the mysterious Jan ter Bruggen. I had to come up with a story about where I injured my knee and who bandaged it up for me. There was no way I could mention 'the Dutchman' to my mother… I knew I would think of something. Jan really seemed like a very friendly person. He gave me the impression that he was confident and worldly.
Over the next few months I spent a lot of time with Jan ter Bruggen. His way of explaining the really important things in life really fascinated me. He gave such good advice as: "People will judge you by your deeds - not your words"; "Don't rush through life chasing unattainable goals, because if you spend all your time looking up at the stars, you will no longer know which path you are on"; and "Never give up or lose sight of your aims, because success is often a long way off in the distance."
For Jan, each individual grape from which a wine is produced was paramount. He would say, "Pay attention to nature. You should develop a good sense of each specific occurrence. Only healthy, perfectly ripened grapes can produce a good wine. In the vineyard, that means a lot of care and smaller yields, because less is more. In the wine cellar, you should interfere as little as possible, only doing what is absolutely necessary so that the individual elements fall into place to produce a truly great wine."
Over the following two years I helped Jan a great deal with whatever work came up in his vineyards. And he in turn, showed me all his tricks and strategies. His almost loving handling of the grapes really captivated me.
I believe my parents knew with whom I was spending my free time, but they very nobly stopped short of mentioning anything to me.
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