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’Floating into the tent…’

Bloemendaal – Blonde duingras in razor-sharp separations blowing, white schapenwolkjes to a strakblauw firmament. Except for one deep modderplas remember nothing on Camping Bloemendaal is still the storm of the previous night. Because in that inky hours hoosde the rain, there near the north sea Beach. Cloudbursts. Or all the rain in the Netherlands over the past three months haven’t, all of a sudden right on top of the Dunes was poured out.

After a soggy night, breaks Harm Jacobs his tent. “Everything is soaked! And I have no eye closed.”

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