Spooky Dutch castles, mansions and former jails well worth a visit
The water taxi from Woudrichem, a town nearby, chugs along, then departs. Now, all that's left is the wind whistling around the castle, while the boards of the jetty creak below. The castle gate is tightly locked.
Sure, as a guest, you have a key - though doubts may arise as to whether it is really enough to open up the castle. But lo and behold, the gate moves and now, you're alone with the ghosts.
Behind closed doors
Waterfowl and wild cattle dot the landscape of ponds and flooded meadows, at the confluence of the Waal and Maas rivers, with the castle rising out of this solitude. It has hardly any windows, just bare, meter-thick walls.
It was once a prison for political prisoners, the most famous being Hugo Grotius. The father of modern international law became embroiled in a political power struggle in 1618 and was sentenced to life imprisonment.
He was held behind 13 locked and heavily guarded doors. Nevertheless, he managed to escape in 1621 with the help of his wife, Maria van Reigersberch. The scholar hid in an empty bookcase and the unsuspecting guards carried him out of the castle. By the time they realized what had happened, he was already on his way to Paris.
Today, you can have a much more pleasant stay in one of the 18th-century soldiers' cottages. And in the morning, in the annex, you can enjoy a lovingly prepared breakfast.
Buy your own prison
More known for tulips and windmills, the Netherlands also has plenty of castles and palaces. Muiden Castle, near Amsterdam, matches everyone's idea of a knight's castle with its four round turrets, moat and inner courtyard.
The castle is known as the setting for a medieval criminal case. When the Count of Holland, Floris V, acquired the walls in around 1285, he could not have imagined that he had bought his own prison. But in 1296 he was kidnapped by rival nobles and imprisoned in Muiden Castle before he was killed by being stabbed 20 times.
Another big draw in the world of Dutch castles is Doorn Manor. It's known for its interior, with furnishings dating back to German Emperor Wilhelm II, who resided there after his abdication and exile.
The emperor's old clothes
Wilhelm II lived in the manor house from 1919 until his death in 1941. His remains lie in a small mausoleum in the manor gardens, a few meters from the graves of his five dogs. In his will he stated that he could only be reburied on German soil upon restoration of the German monarchy.
When the emperor died, the house fell into a deep sleep, which is the reason why everything still looks as it did back then. The furnishings are mainly from the Berlin Palace, Bellevue Palace and the New Palace in Potsdam, Germany, and were transported to the neutral Netherlands on five different trains.
When he carried out his private correspondence, he did so in a horse's saddle screwed to a platform in front of his desk. The Wilhelmine slippers are still lying ready in the bedroom, one of his cigars is perched in an ashtray and the wardrobes are filled with the emperor's old clothes.
Denying history
His special fork is still lying on the dining table with a blade on the prong on the left so that the fork can be used for cutting. This was due to the fact that Wilhelm's left arm was shorter and paralyzed from birth.
You can even see the imperial toilet - although it doesn't look particularly luxurious by today's standards.
Perhaps as fans of popular TV series "Downton Abbey," today's visitors to Doorn Manor are also increasingly interested in the people from downstairs, the servants. Their living quarters in Doorn have also been completely preserved.
But see Doorn Manor as a denial of history, says curator Cornelis van der Bas. "The First World War doesn't occur here. Wilhelm II acted as if it had never happened and instead reenacted the 19th century."
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Newsweek
9 hours ago
- Newsweek
Woman Who Left US in 2017 Discovers Unexpected Consequence of Living Abroad
An American woman's TikTok video detailing the long-term cultural dislocation that comes from living abroad has gone viral on TikTok. Rachel Warren, 30, who goes by @sheislostinikea on TikTok, lives in Copenhagen, the Danish capital. In the viral video, she reflects on the strange feeling of being culturally frozen in time when living far from home. The clip has racked up more than 120,000 views since it was posted on August 3. "A lot of people don't really think about the consequences of living abroad," Warren says in the video. "And one of the weird ones is that your cultural context of your home country will forever be stuck in a sort of time capsule based off of the time you for cultural time capsule is forever stuck around 2017." Warren, who grew up in the suburbs of Washington, D.C., as well as northern Virginia, told Newsweek that she has been living in Copenhagen since 2019 but first arrived in the spring of 2016 for her studies and visited a few times between 2017 and 2019. "I did live in the U.S. for 10 months before I came over permanently," she said. "But during that time, I was living with my parents and saving as much money as I could for graduate school and the move that I wasn't really experiencing the culture, which is why I say I feel a bit more stuck around 2017." Warren's reflections on culture shock and time displacement come as more Americans are considering moving abroad. A February 2025 survey by Talker Research found that 17 percent of Americans said they would like to move outside the U.S. in the next five years, with Canada being the top choice. Another five percent reported they were already making plans, and two percent said they had begun the process of relocating overseas. Millennials made up the largest share of interested migrants, with 25 percent expressing interest, according to the survey. For Warren, her journey overseas was shaped by both curiosity and love. "I grew up around a lot of military kids and internationals so was always very curious about other countries," she told Newsweek. "In 2016, I studied abroad in Copenhagen and absolutely fell in love with the city and country. I also fell in love with a guy but didn't want that to be my only reason for being there, so applied for graduate school. He and I are still together." While her partner is not Danish—he is German—Warren said that fact has actually made her long-term stay more feasible. "Being an EU [European Union] citizen actually makes it easier for me to stay because partnership visas under Danish rules are much more difficult and expensive than getting partnership visas under EU rules," she said. Warren said the changes in the U.S. since she left, particularly following the era of President Donald Trump being in office and the COVID-19 pandemic, have been jarring when she returns to visit. "I am still in shock over the changes that came about because of Trump and COVID," she told Newsweek. "Some of the changes are good like the push towards more telehealth options and more digitalization in general. But other things are incredibly weird to me, like people ordering so many Amazon packages and DoorDash things even when they are living in a city. And overall people seem more isolated and don't seem to hang out with each other as much." Warren also noted how public life in the U.S. has changed in ways she finds unfamiliar. "I also forget how polarized things are. There have always been people with strong opinions but now it seems like people are living in different realities," she said. "The last time I was in the U.S. was in November and I was freaked out by the fact that so many stores have their items locked up now. Also, tipping culture has changed and people tipped more and for things that weren't tippable before I left." The distance has also impacted her sense of pricing and norms. "I don't know how much things cost. If you've ever watched Arrested Development [the television series], there's one clip that's like 'how much can a banana cost? $10?' and I feel like that," Warren said. Her time in Denmark has also reshaped her views on work and social welfare, noting that she used to a "little suspicious" about aspects of European and Danish life. "I couldn't imagine a company being productive when all their employees have so many days off but it works," she said. "Also, I cannot believe that the U.S. does so little when it comes to maternity care. In Denmark, they also have paternity leave, which I think is brilliant." She said: "My priorities have definitely changed. I care more about living a happy healthy life than individual achievements." A screenshot from a viral video posted by Rachel Warren (@sheislostinikea on TikTok), an American living in Denmark, talking about the long-term consequences of living abroad. A screenshot from a viral video posted by Rachel Warren (@sheislostinikea on TikTok), an American living in Denmark, talking about the long-term consequences of living abroad. @sheislostinikea on TikTok Do you have a travel-related video or story to share? Let us know via life@ and your story could be featured on Newsweek.


National Geographic
a day ago
- National Geographic
Explore Azerbaijan's wine history—and its unexpected German past
Azerbaijan's relationship with wine is a resilient love affair marked with cruel and often surprising twists and turns. We visit the city of Göygöl, in the country's northwestern foothills, where, in the 19th century, German settlers forever changed the game for local winemakers. Raul prepares the wine-tasting table inside Göygöl cellar, which was discovered by accident two years ago. Photograph by Nick St Oegger Photographs by Nick St Oegger This story was produced by National Geographic Traveller (UK). Three years ago, these wooden double doors were buried under a mountain of rubbish. The building behind them was dirty and derelict, shrouded by the gargantuan plane trees that line this quiet residential street. Locals in Göygöl, a small city in northwestern Azerbaijan, passed by on their way to the bazaar or to meet their friends for a daily gossip. None of them gave the abandoned structure — and certainly what might lay within it — much thought. Until one day, a man did. 'I'd amble by all the time and always wondered what the air vents were for,' says Raul Abbaszadeh, a local youth worker and tour guide. 'The older villagers would tell stories of the wine cellars down there.' Eager to find out if those stories were true, Raul convinced local authorities to help clear the 70 truckloads' worth of rubbish in front of the doors on Yakob Hummel Street. The discovery they made was astonishing: a wine cellar and a warren of narrow corridors that were home to termite-chewed wooden barrels and dust-blanketed inventories dating back to the 1930s. Everything they found once belonged to German winemaker Christoff Vohrer, who lived upstairs, Raul tells me. He leads me down a rickety staircase towards a cold and shadowy vault room, where the smell of fermented grapes still lingers in the air. Since Raul's discovery, the cellar — which has yet to be signposted from the street — has been cleaned, supplied with electricity and transformed into a simple wine-tasting hall for tourists. But this isn't just some run-of-the-mill wine cellar. It's a window into the birth of commercial winemaking here in Azerbaijan, a former Soviet Republic on the western shores of the Caspian Sea. This is a tradition that started in 1819, when around 500 families from the Kingdom of Württemberg (now Baden-Württemberg) fled the turmoil of the Napoleonic Wars. The Russian Empire's immigration programmes allowed them to settle first in the western Azerbaijani cities of Göygöl and Shamkir, then later in Helenendorf and Annenfeld. 'When the Germans came here, every family planted more than 15 acres of vineyards and would make their own wine at home,' says Raul, laying out bottles of local wine for us to try. A small group of us sit down at the candlelit table, where the colourful tablecloth resembles one of Azerbaijan's beloved carpets. I immediately tuck into the selection of pickles, cheeses and cold cuts as Raul regales us with stories of this Azerbaijani city's surprising Germanic past. Vohrer's homemade wines caught the attention of French traders who visited the nearby city of Sheki to buy silk, says Raul. They likened his wines to those from Burgundy, which gave Vohrer's family the confidence to open Azerbaijan's first commercial winery, Göygöl Wine Plant, in 1860. But don't be fooled into thinking Azerbaijan is some new kid on the viticulture bloc. Locals have been making wine for personal consumption here since ancient times, and archaeologists have even unearthed jugs in Göygöl that contained traces of wine dating back to the second millennium BCE. The types of wines at Raul's tasting events include indigenous madrasa and bayanshira, as well as more widely known varieties such as chardonnay and pinot noir. Photograph by Nick St Oegger (Top) (Left) and Photograph by Nick St Oegger (Bottom) (Right) Since then, Azerbaijan's love of winemaking thrived under some empires, and declined under others. In more recent times, former Soviet President Mikhail Gorbachev's 1985 anti-alcohol campaign led to the demise of most of the country's vineyards, and it wasn't until the 2000s that Azerbaijan started to revive its wine industry. 'Göygöl is the cradle of industrial winemaking in this country,' explains Aziz Gasimov, a vintner and oenologist who joins us for today's tasting. 'The entire wine industry of Soviet Azerbaijan was built on the basis of wineries founded by German colonists.' When the Germans were exiled after the Second World War, the Azerbaijanis took over their vineyards. Today, Rasim Omarov, chief winemaker at the 517-acre Göygöl Wine Plant, continues Christoff Vohrer's legacy by producing wines made with both indigenous and European grapes, under the brand Xan 1860. I listen as Raul explains the various types of wines we're trying from Rasim's winery. There are two indigenous grapes in Azerbaijan, he tells me. The first is madrasa, a semi-bold, thick-skinned red which, according to Raul, is what the locals call the 'Azerbaijani pinot noir'. The other is bayanshira, a light and fresh white, which is 'just how the locals like their wine' he says. We also taste the more widely known chardonnay and pinot noir — which were introduced to Azerbaijan by the Germans. For good measure, there's also a bottle of the semi-sweet saperavi and the crisp rkatsiteli, both grapes from neighbouring Georgia. 'Here, in the foothills of the Lesser Caucasus, are ideal conditions for growing grapes,' Aziz tells me. 'Moderately hot days and cool nights, as well as just the right amount of rainfall during the ripening period.' The region of Ganja-Gazakh, where we are today, is one of several key winegrowing areas in Azerbaijan. Others include the Shirvan Valley in the north, the Caspian shoreline in the east, Lankaran-Astara in the south and Karabakh in the southeast. The architecture of Göygöl is an interesting amalgamation of German-Azerbaijani heritage. Photograph by Nick St Oegger Yet if those ancient jugs are anything to go by, Azerbaijan has always had a taste for wine — but it was the Germans who showed them how to bottle it, market it and sell it. Taking a sip of the bayanshira, which has notes of peach and apple, I notice a rusty metal contraption hanging on the stone wall behind us. It's a cooper's tool, says Aziz, and it dates to when the Germans crafted barrels in which to store their wine. But the German footprint here runs deeper than just grapes and barrels. The centre of Göygöl, roughly 230 miles west of the country's capital Baku, is a living pop-up book of German-Azerbaijani heritage. From one perspective, it's unapologetically Azerbaijani: Soviet-era Ladas grumble by, their boots stuffed full of honey-dew melons, while men in flat caps pass the time, one hand on the backgammon board, the other twiddling their prayer beads. From another, it's surprisingly Germanic: standing solemnly behind rows of houses with ornate woodwork is the neo-gothic St John's Church, the first and one of three German Lutheran churches in Azerbaijan. Down the cobblestoned street, visitors peep through faded curtains into the empty home of Viktor Klein, the city's last German citizen who died in 2007. His house is currently being turned into a museum. Back at the cellar, it's time to raise a toast. 'Azerbaijan has enormous, untapped potential', says Aziz, pausing to unfurl the citrussy and tropical notes of the sparkling chardonnay. 'We want to make our presence known and surprise the world.' He's right — whether it's through developing tastings in Göygöl or expanding vineyards across the Caucasus foothills, for oenophiles looking for something a little different: the next great frontier could well be beneath a set of unassuming doors. Vascular surgeon Farhad Agayev grows six Italian grape varieties at his vineyard in Khachmaz. Photograph by Nick St Oegger Three more wineries to visit in Azerbaijan FA Valley, Khachmaz When vascular surgeon Farhad Agayev decided to start making wine, his neighbours thought he was mad; they warned him he'd never make any money. His vineyard and boutique winery in Khachmaz — a northeastern district sandwiched in between the Caspian Sea and the Caucasus Mountains — is where he uses six Italian grape varieties to produce 'simple, honest wines'. 'Soil, wine, bottle. That's it! No preservatives,' he says. Standouts include the dry and crisp 2024 Colorino Pet Nat (made using an ancient method of producing sparkling wine), and the medium-bodied 2020 Fratello, which has notes of blueberry. Chabiant, Ismayilli On the southern slopes of the Greater Caucasus in northern Azerbaijan is the village of Hajihatamli, where Italian winemaker Marco Cetalani champions native grapes. 'Five years ago, Azeris didn't drink native wine,' he says. 'But we focus on indigenous grapes first, then European.' The community-led winery, which now boasts recently renovated rooms for overnight visitors, invites villagers to work each harvest and supports local artists who sell their work on-site. Book a stay for winery tours, a wine-pairing dinner where Mamet the chef rustles up local delights like a chicken and lamb saj, and tendir bread (similar to tandoori bread) made each morning by Lulu, Chabiant's resident 'grandma'. Marco also works with nearby wineries like Qalaciq, which is run by renowned local food blogger Ehtiram Farzalibayov. Savalan Aspi Winery, Gabala 'We make European-style wines, but with an Azerbaijani accent — the accent being our terroir,' says Aygun Atayeva, PR & sales manager and the first female sommelier in Azerbaijan. Savalan is in the country's mountainous, orchard-filled Gabala region, backed by forests where the likes of raccoons and wolves roam free. Spanning almost 900 acres, the winery produces floral viogniers, fresh verdejos and fruity and delicate merlots, but there are plans to plant native grapes, too. Each bottle's label mimics patterns of kelagayi, a traditional UNESCO-listed scarf from the city of Sheki. Tastings include dinner overlooking the hills, with traditional dishes like chestnut soup with beef and triangular-shaped paxlava (a sweet pastry) unique to this region. To subscribe to National Geographic Traveller (UK) magazine click here. (Available in select countries only). WINE VINEYARDS FOOD FOOD HISTORY


NBC News
5 days ago
- NBC News
Going Dutch: LGBTQ Americans find Trump-free life in Netherlands
AMSTERDAM — It had been months since Alex and Lucy, a trans couple from Arizona, felt safe enough to hold hands in public. They rediscovered that pleasure after moving to Amsterdam this year. The couple, who did not want to give their last names because of the sensitivity of the subject, decided to leave the United States soon after Donald Trump was re-elected last year. They arrived in the Netherlands on Jan. 19, the day before Trump was inaugurated and swiftly issued an executive order saying the government would only recognize two sexes — male and female. 'We're both visibly trans and faced growing discrimination. It ramped up right after the election,' said Lucy, sitting alongside Alex in their De Pijp apartment in Amsterdam's south. 'It felt like people had taken off their masks — waiting for an excuse to finally say what they wanted. We went from being tolerated to openly despised,' she added. Alex, who is disabled, feared staying put might also mean losing access to their federal health insurance. 'In the end, it became a matter of life and death,' Alex said. In his first six months in office, Trump has enacted multiple policies affecting the lives of LGBTQ Americans in areas from healthcare to legal recognition and education. In the face of this rollback of rights, some LGBTQ people have voted with their feet. While there is little official data, LGBTQ people and activists told the Thomson Reuters Foundation that many people head to Portugal and Spain, while Costa Rica and Mexico are also popular destinations, alongside France and Thailand. The Netherlands stands out, though, for its strong legal protections, its record on LGBTQ+ inclusivity, and due to a Dutch–American Friendship Treaty (DAFT) and its affiliated visa. DAFT — established as a 1956 act of Cold War cooperation — enables U.S. citizens to live and work in the Netherlands if they start a small business investing at least 4,500 euro ($5,200), can secure Dutch housing, and are able to prove they have enough money to live on. The permit is valid for two years and can be renewed. 'Europe was always on the cards, but the Netherlands had a really high percentage of queer folks, and we knew people here (who) were trans and happy,' said Lucy, who got a DAFT visa. 'Numbers increasing' While the Dutch Immigration and Naturalization Service (IND) does not keep statistics on the sexual orientation or gender identity of DAFT applicants, overall applications have increased since 2016, with January 2025 registering the highest number of any single month on record — 80. 'The numbers are increasing. We don't know why,' said Gerard Spierenburg, IND spokesperson. Immigration lawyers also report an increase. 'From the day after the election, my inbox began filling up with requests of U.S. citizens wanting to move to the Netherlands,' said lawyer Jonathan Bierback, adding that about a fifth came from the LGBTQ+ community. Three other lawyers in Amsterdam confirmed the trend in interviews with the Thomson Reuters Foundation. Jack Mercury, a trans adult performer from California, moved to Amsterdam almost a year and a half ago — 'literally the moment I knew Trump was going to be re-elected'. He said the DAFT visa was 'one of the few financially accessible visas' for him. He now lives in west Amsterdam with a partner and two cats. 'The words to describe the U.S. in the last 100 days are uncertainty and fear. For trans people, it's fear that they'll lose access to healthcare, rights like housing or the ability to work. And for gay people and lesbians, it's that they will become the next targets,' Mercury said. This year, more than 950 anti-trans bills were introduced in U.S. state legislatures, according to the Trans Legislation Tracker, of which 120 have passed, 647 failed, and 186 are still under consideration. 'I feel very lucky. I know many people who cannot afford to move, because they're not high earners, they are sick, have family or children,' said Mercury. His friend Topher Gross, a trans hair stylist from New York who has been in Amsterdam for four years, offered housing tips and recommended a lawyer. 'Everyone's exploring any possible way to get out,' said Gross. 'But not everyone can — many trans people of colour can't afford to leave. It's terrifying.' He noted that the climate of fear was exacerbated by deportations under Trump's crackdown on illegal immigration. 'Basic rights are being stripped away.' Jess Drucker, an LGBTQ relocation expert with U.S.-based Rainbow Relocation, said many U.S. clients choose to go Dutch. 'People see how quickly rights can erode, with the global rise of right-wing extremism, and want to move somewhere where those rights are more likely to hold,' Drucker said. 'We've seen a major increase in requests for consultations. We are absolutely full.' Because not everyone can afford a DAFT visa, the Dutch NGO LGBT Asylum Support is urging the government to consider asylum options for LGBTQ Americans. Spokesperson Sandro Kortekaas said about 50 trans Americans had contacted the group since Trump's inauguration. In June, the group asked the government to reassess the status of the United States as a safe country for queer asylum seekers. However, Bierback does not expect success as such a shift would be seen 'as a provocation towards the U.S.' Spierenburg from the IND said there had been more asylum applications from the United States this year than last, although the numbers were still low — 33 against 9 in 2024. Lucy and Alex are grateful for their new life. 'When I came here, I felt more at home than I ever did. I have so much hope,' said Lucy. But she does worry that a future Dutch administration — a right-wing coalition collapsed in June — could kill off DAFT. 'I'm really concerned that the treaty is going to be damaged by current political agendas. And so I'm doing everything I can to make sure that I stay within the rules. I don't want to be extradited for any reason.'