... Sunrise. Dog swims to right bank, picks goose, swims back to left bank ...

One morning sunrise, I saw a dog crossing the Linge, then back with a goose. Some days later shots were fired from the river bank right opposite me. I looked out and was greeted by a hunter, two geese, tied around his neck (and theirs) with a rope.
"Do you sell any!!!!", I shouted across the river.
"These ones I want for myself!!!".
"If you ever have a spare, I buy!!!"
"OK I come bringing you one one time!!!"

A few days later, I good knock on my land side window. I turned around and saw my view totally filled with a goose, held at its neck with a firm hand.
"Wow, come in!"

... I turned around and all I saw was a goose, held at its neck with a firm hand. ...

A steaming hunter handed me the bird before I got time to hesitate. I put it down. While making his coffee he looked around in my hut and said: "This is life!". We had our coffee and quickly exchanged our basics. He had been a hunter all his life, doing everything from dike protection (catching muskrats, coypus ("beverratten"), to what he is doing now: chasing and hunting geese off lands where such is required for government damage reimbursement. But he had his connections in Germany and Eastern Europe and went hunting there as well. And he is a shooting teacher and hunting dog trainer.

... my solidly reliable goose cuisine teacher, retired political philosopher Bert Kerkhof (born Veendam) ...

Fortunately one of my friends is a philosopher like me, who obviously had an equal amount of leisure all his life, but spent it in more Francophile areas, one of which, I was not surprised to learn, was turning geese from flying objects into delicate plats. I had a teacher!

... I discovered the main hurdle is a psychological barrier, after which any philosopher naturally finds his way ...

In Bert's garden, I discovered the main hurdle is a psychological barrier, after which any philosopher naturally finds his way. This is, so to say your jihadist conversion. Easy. Requires no brains. Afterwards you wonder why you ever had trouble killing anybody. Things seem to get more civilised once you enter the kitchen. At least: I got thrown out with a good wine to wait for eating the delicious result. No hard feelings, in that part I may blow it at first, but not for long.

And delicious it was! Meanwhile Bert instructed me in more details about his political philosophy, in which, he argued skillfully from rational principles, people like Piet should receive a royal decoration every single year.

After this highly educating event I checked some YouTube slaughters, and found that rivaling currents in goose slaughter are not less than in philosophy: skin it, pluck it, or just open the front to go for the two mighty breast pieces. Anyway, no reason could be too bad to visit Piet in Heukelum, 12 km downstream. Untie the warps!

90 minutes, 6 liters of petrol en 12 km later I moored at Heukelum's quay, 200 m from Piet's stylish old village house full of hunting trophies, stuffed birds and mammals. I enjoyed the company of Piet's wife, three top trained hunting dogs, the small one ("Heidi", with the reputation to steel Piet's pullover to sleep in) all over me most of the time, a sympathetic marten ("marter") of Aaron's colour (photo below) and good German liquor. He smokes cigars! Of course, I should have known. My chance to offer something. Though highly interested in my friend Bert's method, Piet turned out to be in the school of goose cleaners directly going for the breast (cutting the legs for soup). No regrets for the rest if you have dogs to feed (who neither skin nor pluck). So direct breast digging will be my next exercise.

... saying goodbye at the quay: from left: Marjolein, three top trained hunting dogs: Aaron, Heidi, Black (whom I saw swimming on picture 1) and  Piet  (see also pic: Piet with East African Alsatian Koco) ...

... goodbye Heukelum, under threatening thunderstorm ...

... on the way home thunderstorm approaching, no wind yet ...

... first wind gusts at the curious Linge lock island near Asperen...

After the Asperen locks my speed went up remarkably due to heavy rear wind gusts. At dusk I reached my mooring site, lee shore so I simply steered my boat beam reach and let it blow aside, forewarding and reversing to stay on the right level. I blew exactly on my place, tied the rear warp (which was windward) and left the boat on that one line pressed to the bank, fleeing inside for a hailstorm with gale 8 gusts.

... Piet's hare in gale 8 thunderstorm, no cleaning: already marinated in caster sugar and Jägermeister (German hunting liquor)...

... no words ...

... Piet does not seem to waste shot ...

Thank you Piet!