Upon a certain warm, sunlit morning I crossed this bridge and turned down along the canal, following one of the many labyrinthian pathways under the spreading trees. Soon I came upon what anyone on not too familiar terms with the customs of the country might have supposed to be a public café. It was neither fenced nor hedged in, and the path I was following led straight as a die to its low, broad veranda, carpeted and freely sprinkled with comfortable wicker chairs. Little round tables were scattered here and there, and I concluded that the place lacked nothing for the enjoyment of a glass of liquid refreshment.
Accordingly, I followed the course of least resistance, and presently found myself reclining deeply and luxuriously in one of the wicker armchairs on the veranda.
After a short struggle, my thirst overcame my lethargy, and I summoned enough energy to push a convenient electric button.
No response.
A second, and then a third push at the button.
Still no response.
As a drastic last resort, I arose with no little effort, and wended my angry way into the building to ascertain the cause for such delinquent service.
I was approached by a gentleman who, having observed my impatience, had come to my rescue from his little secluded corner in the reading room.
The best of Kampen’s gateways, of which architectural features the town originally possessed seven