The 70’s and Me

The 70’s hit me like a storm. At 17, I was at the Art Academy in Den Bosch, still living with my parents—but it was a ticking bomb. One winter evening in 1970, a shouting match with my dad exploded. It nearly turned physical, but I bolted out the back door, cursing, and vanished into the night. My brother tracked me down, offering a spot in his Agricultural College’s clubhouse. Weeks later, I landed in a hippie house with art academy friends—heaven! For the first time, I felt understood. At 17, I was free, living proudly among kindred spirits. Golden days of parties, soft drugs, music, and everything the hippie life tossed my way—good and bad, all magnetic.  

The Art Academy? A letdown. The teachers pushed their styles, leaving no room for my own. Young and wild, I skipped classes, caught up in my rough new world. I struggled through five years, never grabbing that diploma. But life as a hippie was my real education—politics, society, the world’s future. I knew then I didn’t want kids, and travel called, even if my wallet was thin. Cars fueled my freedom. By my mid-20s, I’d owned ten: My very first car was a $200 Ford Anglia, a VW van, a Chevrolet Impala, a Fiat 500, and a string of Volvo wagons. I renovated a Volvo Amazon and a Peugeot 404, engines and all, hands deep in grease. Those wheels carried my dreams. 

After the Art Academy’s haze, I craved a new chapter. The 70’s were my playground, and by my early 20s, I was ready to build—literally. I had been living in the hippie house for 4 years, 3 of them with my new love Martha. Together we had decided to exchange our hip life for a more active and adventurous existence. As a surprise a new project arrived, Me and Jan (who’s father, Mr. Daudey, has bought an old church) we went building: turning an abandoned emergency church, in Bokhoven near Den Bosch, into a sprawling family home. For three years, I learned to lay bricks, fit windows, and plumb pipes. My hands grew calloused, my mind sharp. It wasn’t just a house—it was a gym for body and brain, prepping me for the next leap. Those years in Den Bosch were healthy, grounded, and alive with purpose.  

Later the rear part was converted into a beautiful quiet Bed and Breakfast bedbreakfastgroensteeg.nl Say hello to Louise and Marcel, they are the owners of this old little church. She is the daughter of the original owner and also worked on the renovation. I have known Louise all my life.

Then came another big one: The renovation of the ‘Zorg & Vlijt’, an old 1917 Dutch cargo ship/barge 27 x 4.88 meters, bought cheap with dreams of grandeur. For four years, I poured my soul into it—welding steel for the superstructure, crafting wood for a luxurious interior. It was a beast of a job, but every rivet felt like freedom. By the end, that ship was a floating pearl, gleaming on the water. The sale brought a tidy profit, enough to fund my first world trip at 27—a year of wandering, from dusty roads to far-off shores, with nothing but a backpack and hunger for the unknown. 

Meanwhile, I sailed as a sailor, later as a cook on the Condor, a massive pusher-boat hauling 10,000 tons of iron ore up the Rhine to Duisburg Germany. At 188 meters with 4 barges, it was a beast. That grit earned me a professional boating license, a ticket to later Amsterdam adventures.  

My photos—of the barge from rust to glory, the Condor’s might—tell this tale better than words. In 1971, as I dodged lectures, a computer engineer sent the first e-mail, a quiet spark of connection. Like my church, ship, and sails, it was about building something new. The ‘70s forged me, and with Agnes on the horizon, I was ready for more.