Havelte – The place that shaped my childhood

Can you grieve a place? A place that still exists, but no longer is yours?

This is a story about grief — not the kind that comes from losing a person, but the kind that comes from losing a place that shaped you. But it’s also a sweet story. About the warmth of childhood memories, the deep sense of belonging, and the gratitude for having known such a safe and magical place at all.

Grief and gratitude can live side by side. I carry both.

The pictures represent the feel of the house. All pictures are my own.

Havelte – The pearl of Drenthe

Havelte, a tiny town in the south of Drenthe, is lovingly called “the pearl of Drenthe.” Time seems to stand still there: it's peaceful, spacious, old farmhouses are scattered around the town, and there are still some sand roads! The latter make me so excited — I don't know why. Or maybe I do. I love all things natural; the more green and earth around me, the better I feel. And when you bike or drive over those sandy paths, you have no choice but to slow down. I think we could all use a bit more of that.

Holtingerveld

I came to Havelte all through my childhood. We went on many bike rides through the varied Drenthe landscape: the beautiful heathland, the forests with hilly paths that, as a child, occasionally made you turn 'as fast as an arrow'. Saying 'Good afternoon' to oncoming bikers because that was still done in Drenthe, according to my grandmother. The narrow bike paths consisting of shells made a familiar crackling sound. We climbed dolmens that seemed to shrink each year as we grew. We got soft ice cream with disco sprinkles, swam at de Kerkplekken, and danced at my first disco party in Hesselte. We hunted for Easter eggs in the woods, played at Ellert and Brammert, and bought fresh bread and keallepoat from the bakery.

Hunebedden, Havelte (dolmens)

The house that felt like home

My grandparents’ holiday home on the Konijnenbergen was the heart of it all. They lived there half the year, and I visited once or twice annually, from the west of the Netherlands or wherever my family had moved. Amid all the changes in my life, this house was my anchor.

It was warm, with wooden beams, a fireplace, and the scent of safety only grandparents’ homes seem to have. Sunlight streamed in through wide windows with views of meadows and forest. We’d wake early, step barefoot into the dew, feel the moss, listen for birds, and search for deer. Binoculars were passed from hand to hand. Later, when I lived in Amsterdam, I brought friends to “my Havelte.”

View over the Holtingerveld

Losing the house

It was 2014 when I woke up to a message I wasn’t prepared for. I was living in Berlin at the time, and my mom sent me a text: “The house is sold.” My throat tightened, and I felt a sharp pain in my chest. What? My beloved house? Sold? Why? I immediately called my mom, bombarding her with questions, tears streaming down my face. When my parents saw how deeply attached I was to the house, they tried to find a way to keep it. But the sale had already progressed too far, and there wasn’t much they could do. My grandpa, who was ill and nearing the end of his life, didn’t want to leave my grandma to handle the burden of selling the house, so he took matters into his own hands. I was devastated. My sanctuary, my dream house, the place where I could connect with nature, where I felt so much peace and security, was gone. Is gone.

Escaping the city

Fast forward to February 2025. For a while, I’d felt the need to leave the city. The other day, I came across an affordable holiday listing in nature. Without thinking too much, I booked a room. Somehow, I ended up in a place I must have biked past a hundred times as a kid. It wasn’t a conscious decision — I just knew I needed a break. I knew the house was nearby, but I hadn’t really thought about it. Even when I arrived in the area, visiting the house wasn’t on my mind. I was mainly focused on enjoying the peaceful, beautiful surroundings. I’d get up at sunrise and soak in the serenity of the winter landscape. Morning dew hung over the heath like something out of a fairytale, and the frost gave everything a soft white glow (most of the pictures in this story were taken around that time). During the day, I biked around and ate in the sun. Then one afternoon, as I finished my cappuccino on a terrace, a sudden feeling came over me — I’m heading there — and off I went.

The sand path by the church in Havelte

Returning to the house

Nothing had changed in all these 37 years that I had been visiting this place. The horses were still there (although probably a new generation), the same gorgeous trees, the remarkable sand paths, the quietness interrupted only by the sound of birds. It still feels like pure heaven.

I had barely come near the house when emotions flooded over me. At least a kilometer away, as soon as I entered that beautiful sand path past the church, which I already admired so much as a kid, I started bawling. Full-on tears, deep sobs. It was as if a lid had been lifted, and a flood of long-hidden grief surfaced. I couldn’t stop.

Homecoming

As soon as I entered the narrow street leading to the house, all the pleasant memories of my childhood resurfaced. I felt as if I were coming back home. Back to my roots. Which is funny because I’m not even sure what roots are. Having lived abroad for 18 years — 8 of those before the age of 12 — where my roots truly are, has always been questionable. Sure, I feel connected to the Netherlands, but don’t ask me where about in Holland I’m from. But now that I was here, this felt like a place I had roots. It was the only place that was consistently in my life since I was born. All other places came and went. It was also the only place that felt like home, a place that represented how I would have liked to live as a kid if I could have chosen. Having been uprooted many times, this place was a safe haven. It is also strongly connected to my grandmother, with whom I have a great bond — she is still present at 95 years of age!

Carefree childhood memories

I remember how much I loved lying in the small room in the back with the tilted roof and red wool 70s curtains, and how the forest doves woke me up with that distinctive sound. I remember the excitement of hearing my grandma already in the kitchen prepping breakfast. How I would get up, walk to the big windows to look at the gorgeous landscapes, occasionally seeing a family of deer. It was always pleasantly warm in there. Tea would be ready, served with lots of milk and sugar. A true delight. And I remember the excited greeting from my grandmother, who I almost always saw smiling. She wore these long red pyjama dresses, and it was all part of this feeling of coziness and security. In winter, they would light a fire, and I would sit in front of it on the carpet, mesmerised by the flames and feeling fuzzy from the warmth.

Other times, we would stay with my family in a house a few doors away. As soon as I’d wake up, I biked over to my grandmother’s to drink tea there. My grandma and I would sing or talk in made-up languages as we did the dishes. My grandma was a great storyteller. She would lie between my brother and me in bed and tell us exciting stories of beetles and ladybirds on an adventure in the forest. My oma would also regularly cut little pieces of cheese (probably not healthy, looking back), and I got to lay them outside in the bird feeder. I had the biggest joy watching the feeding frenzy. I ran around barefoot in the garden, played on the swing for hours, baked sand cakes, and hid in the bushes in my brother’s and my secret pathway. Looking back, those were the most magical and carefree days of my life.

A longing that remains

Here I am again, ten years later, still crying as deeply as the day I heard the house was sold. Grief is a peculiar thing. I’m beyond grateful for the place this house had in my life, what it brought me, and the fact that it gave me something to long for, to dream about. A place that showed me, amidst all the turbulence of my childhood and the frequent feelings of not belonging, what a safe haven actually feels like. I’m not sure whether the universe has other plans for me, but my dream is to buy that house back one day. If you have ever experienced something similar, you may understand.

Ringing the doorbell

As I rang the doorbell, I stood there, trying to wipe away my tears and appear collected, but the tears just kept flowing. I wasn’t sure what I was going to say or whether it would be weird for the new owners to see a stranger at their door, visibly upset, telling them about the significance of this house. Maybe they would understand, feel compassion, and offer me to stay there some time? I saw a cat in the garden — maybe it was theirs, and I could take care of it sometime? As all these hopes and wishes crossed my mind, I stood in silence at the door. No answer. I guess not today, maybe not in this way.

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Final thoughts

It's a bit like a childhood love, you never completely get over it. That's Havelte for me. A special place in my heart with a raw edge. Sad because I miss such an anchor point in my life and grateful that I was able to experience such a magical place in my youth.

One day I will live in my own dream house with wooden beams, a vegetable garden and a view of deer walking by. Until then I cherish this dear place with a tear and a smile.

A little more on grieve...

I know I’m fortunate. At 38, this is the deepest grief I’ve known. I don’t hear many people talk about mourning a place, but surely, I can’t be the only one. Therefore, this story deserves to be told. Because as I finished writing this, I realised — a place is never just a place. It holds experiences, memories, and emotions, and sometimes, we spend our lives searching for what it once gave us, without ever quite finding it again.

Just as joy is real and valid (imagine telling someone not to “overreact” when they’re ecstatic over a perfect piece of fruit—we never would), grief is just as legitimate. I say this because once, a friend told me I was overreacting. As if emotions could be measured. As if grief were a competition. But we don’t need permission to grieve. If something mattered to us, then so does its loss.

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