Fifteen modern fables are told along the fifteen kilometre long cycle route through the UNESCO area De Maasheggen and the nature reserve De Vilt. The key players in all of the fables are animals and plants that also appear in the natural surroundings of Oeffelt and Beugen. Would you like to hear them?
Panels with a QR code are scattered along the route. Scan the QR code with the camera on your mobile phone and listen to the exciting, amusing fables that are educational as well. The fables have been revised and recorded by author Geurt Franzen from Boxmeer.
The fox without a tail
A fox with the most beautiful tail of all,
Falls into a trap one night on the Maasheggen trail.
His tail is caught. He manages to escape,
But his tail is torn off and his hole laid bare.
The shame is so great for this tailless creature,
No other fox must ever know. So, he comes up with a plan,
And invites all the foxes to a fantastic feast that day.
There, with his bum on a box, he addresses them one and all.
‘Friends,’ he says, the tailless fox,
‘Let us move on with the times.
That fluffy tail gets entangled in every hawthorn bush,
Our tails get in the way, it’s time we let them go!’
There are cheers all around, crying out for scissors
Until the youngest pup pipes up.
‘Your tail is the most beautiful of all time,
Please before we shear, show us its glory once more!’
When tailless refuses, nervously rocking,
The youngest grabs the box and all is revealed.
No fox is still willing to cut off its beautiful plume,
As a fox without a tail, is not a sight to be seen.
Text by Geurt Franzen
Based on Aesop, English translation by Justine Meredith.
The frog and the cow
He croaked so loud, he croaked so hard,
But he still could not tempt the ladies.
So, without a mate and with a sad heart,
He hopped sadly over the Maasheggen fields.
There he encountered a cow, slowly rechewing,
A grazer so large was a new sight to him.
He had an idea and a sprinkling of hope:
Would a frog ever be able to get so big?
‘Why not?’ said the cow. ‘Give grazing a go.’
But the vegan diet, did not work so well.
To which the cow said, ‘Why not try blowing
And pump yourself up a little bit more?
The frog filled his cheeks with plenty of air
And croaked,’ ‘Tell me, am I so big now?’
But the cow shook no, he just let out a sigh
And the frog kept on blowing until his face was on fire.
The frog kept on blowing, giving it his all,
And the cow was worried, ‘Please stop it now!’
But it was too late, and the frog exploded
into multiple pieces in front of his eyes.
To himself said the cow, after that terrible matter
It is better to stay as you are.
‘Imagine a cow would croak like a frog
I think the bull would flee as fast as he could.’
Text by Geurt Franzen
Based on a fable by Aesop, English translation by Justine Meredith.
The hare and the hedgehog
On Sunday, the hare goes training in the early morn,
He hops through the meadow in exceptional form.
He’s suddenly pricked, his shin is painful and stinging,
A hedgehog, the fool, has ruined his training.
‘I’m sorry,’ says the hedgehog, ‘but I just want to know:
Why all the speed, why not just go slow?’
‘This is the fast lane,’ says the hare grim and berated.
‘Such a slow-mo on my path that’s what has me deflated.’
‘A slow-mo,’ says the hedgehog, ‘in your dreams,
I can be faster than you if need be.’
‘Ha ha,’ says the hare, ‘I’d like to see that revealed,
We’ll race to see who’s the fastest across the field.’
‘That’s fine,’ says the hedgehog, ‘But I’d like some sleep,
And that contest, we’ll do elsewhere, is my plea.
The Hazewinkel, that’s the perfect place for a race,
Round the corner, after the bend, to finish in place.’
The hare runs away, he is as sure as can be
that the hedgehog will soon be puffing terribly.
The hedgehog, meanwhile, colludes with his wife
To stand round the corner of Hazewinkel and hide.
At the start of the race the hare runs so incredibly fast,
And the hedgehog simply settles down in the grass.
At the corner of Hazewinkel, the hare drops shocked to the ground,
‘I told you so,’ says the hedgehog, ‘I wear the winning crown.’
Text by Geurt Franzen
Based on a fairy-tale by the Brothers Grimm, English translation by Justine Meredith.
The donkey and the ox
In Hagelkruis in Beugen, in a stable,
Stood a donkey next to an ox under the gable.
The donkey, he could enjoy each day
But the second always had dues to pay.
The ox pulled the plough from morning to night,
The donkey slept well, happy with his lazy plight.
On Mondays he took a load to the market, a few kilos that’s all,
The rest of the time the farmer left him in his stall.
Plagued by compassion, the donkey said one dawn:
‘Just pretend you are sick, this fine morn!’
‘Good idea,’ said the ox on seeing the farmer coming,
His stomach was causing him all kinds of trouble.
The ox stayed at home, but the plan had failed,
Now the donkey had to work hard on the field.
He slaved and sweat and the ox, he shone,
And the donkey thought: oh, this has all gone wrong.
‘Dear Ox,’ said the donkey, after a day of toil,
‘My news is sad; I fear your health will be spoiled.
For tomorrow, if you’re not fit for the plough
The butcher will come, do you realise that now?’
The ox had a fright - is that not a falsehood?
But at the crack of dawn, the beast went and stood,
as fit as a fiddle, waiting by the gate
And the donkey brayed with relief: ‘Life is to celebrate!’
Text by Geurt Franzen
Based on a fable from Egypt, English translation by Justine Meredith
The cricket and the ant
In a bend in the Meuse lived a cricket and an ant
As two friends, cosy alongside.
Whereas the cricket like parties and fun,
The ant was the working one.
When the sun with a yawn, woke from its sleep,
The ant was already working away.
In the meadow by the Neuse sounded her diligent hum:
She searched for food all day long.
Now that her shed was soon filled as planned,
From her neighbour’s house came the sound of a song.
It was the cricket chirping his shrilly tune,
Ach, all that food, to that he was immune.
As the winter draped its ermine fur
Over the hedges and meadows all round
The ant looked in her shed, happy with her foraging
And it is the cricket who is almost perishing.
A knock at the door, it’s the hungry neighbour,
‘Dear Ant, do you have any nibbles for me?’
But the ant is frugal and asks stuffily:
‘What, can’t you dance on an empty tummy?’
Text by Geurt Franzen
Based on a fable by La Fontaine, English translation by Justine Meredith.
How the redbreast got its colour
A bird deserves its own name,
Its own colour, perhaps even two.
So God got out his palette
And painted happily in his studio.
He coloured from dawn to dusk,
The sparrows became brown.
The Flemish jay got a funky buff,
The woodpecker was given a red crown.
All the birds but one, passed by
And were given beautiful colours,
Then God decided, he’d had enough for one day.
‘But what about me?’ the angry redbreast cried,
‘Am I to stay dull and grey?
Please reopen your box of colours,
Don’t leave me so pale.’
But God said: ‘Go do as you please,
I’ve had it with painting today.’
The redbreast flew away from its nest
In search of a vibrant red ink.
He found a rosebush, so lush and crimson,
And he snuggled right up to the leaf.
But he did not take on the colour,
He did not change one hoot.
But love brought him new hope,
He whistled a cheerful song.
Yet only his cheeks blushed red,
His breast did not join in.
Then the redbreast went into battle
With a magpie, mean and unkind.
His breast swelled up in envy,
But his feathers stayed faded and bland.
Nothing worked, how very sad indeed,
So, he flew back to his little nest.
On his way, he saw a crucifix,
In Oeffelt by the bridge.
Christ’s son wore such a strange crown
Of thorns, so brutal and so cruel.
From the crown, the redbreast plucked
a thorn and it cut his little body.
A drop of blood dripped from the wound
And landed in his feathery plume.
‘Well, then,’ said the bird, with a red breast,
‘Now my name is finally displayed.’
Text by Geurt Franzen
Based on a story by Selma Lagerlöf, English translation by Justine Meredith.
The badger and the pigs
As the days grew shorter and leaves started to drop
A farmer from the Helbroek set his pigs free to trot.
The swine left to the Vilt, where between the woody thicket
The acorns, on nutritious moss, waited for the picking.
Where the pigs gobble and devour, such a lovely sight
And their bellies grow rounded to the farmer’s delight.
Then one day, a badger lying in the bushes, thinks
It’s time that I got to feast on such wonderful things.
A badger among the pigs is not an ado
So the badger gobbles, chomping on acorns for two.
His belly gets fatter and fatter and round
The badger soon counts as part of the crowd.
The day that then dawns is one you’d rather forget,
sharp is the knife the farmer’s about to present.
‘Come here tender animals and thanks for my dinner.
It’s my turn to eat now until I’m rounder and fuller.’
‘But, oh, stop there, wait,’ says our badger,
As the animal is grabbed in his neck by his catcher:
‘I’m not a pig, leave that knife well alone,
Look at my head, at the stripes down my nose!’
‘That may be the case,’ says the farmer, ‘each boar an excuse,
But no single pig will escape their fated route.
I’ll butcher you as should be, so say your farewells
Because your meat will sell so very very well.’
Quick, a plan, thinks the badger, the knife is closing in,
And then he yells: ‘A dog, I am man’s best friend!’
And he pulls out his claws like a Frisian pointer
And digs deep, deep into the ground, to avoid his hunter.
Ach, the farmer feels sorry seeing the piggy’s plight,
With the stripes on his cute snout such a brilliant white.
He lets him go, and the badger digs deeper,
Building a fortress, keeping him safe forever.
Text by Geurt Franzen
Based on a fable by Phaedrus, English translation by Justine Meredith.
The fox and the stork
The stork from the Beugen nest
is as happy and gleeful as can be.
He goes to the fox for some dinner
At his den by the Viltse lake.
But there is no fun to be had that eve,
The plate with the soup is flat like a pancake.
The beak ticks – what sadness it brings!
In the bottom, there is an open hole
To which, the fox giggles at his clever ploy,
At his joy at teasing the bird!
The stork stares hungry and pale,
While the fox devours it all.
With an empty belly, back at his nest
The stork comes up with a sneaky plan.
That fox too, with its endless jest
Is invited to the stork’s cunning scheme.
The fox drools at the lovely aromas
Of well roasted pork tenderloins.
He is keen to give his opinion,
But it is served in the deepest of urns!
‘Enjoy your meal,’ says the stork
And he sticks his beak down inside.
With an empty belly, the fox goes away,
He sighs, he can’t beat that bird anyway.
Text by Geurt Franzen
Based on a fable by La Fontaine, English translation by Justine Meredith.
The crow and the fox
A crow as dark as a moonless night
Took his chance at a Beugen farm.
There some cheeses sat ripening away,
The crow stole one to chomp and devour.
In a boom in Vilt, high up above,
The bird feasted on the tasty cheese.
But there came the fox, who had yet to eat,
He too wanted to fill his belly and feed.
‘Dear Crow, best friend,’ the fox spoke politely,
‘Ach, how shiny your feathers truly are.
‘I believe there is no other animal in the forest,
To be honest, that is as beautiful as you by far.’
And the crow, with the cheese clasped in his beak,
Enjoyed the fox’s praise with glee.
‘The most beautiful of all,’ said the fox, ‘must be your voice,
Seldom have I heard a song so sweet.’
‘Dear Crow, will you surprise me with a song,
So your lovely voice fills the forest again?’
Blinded by flattery, the crow started cawing
And the fox’s open mouth caught the falling cheese.
Text by Geurt Franzen
Based on a fable by La Fontaine, English translation by Justine Meredith.
The heron and the fish
As the sun shows itself at the Kleine Vilt,
A heron slowly alights on the bank.
This place by the pool is his favourite spot,
And sir loves the good things in life.
All fine and well, he stands on guard as if frozen,
There comes a fish, not so big, not so wide.
It’s a stickleback, who, so early in the morn,
Thought he’d escape being the heron’s tasty delight.
With one foot on the ground, the other stretched,
The heron pretends not to see the fish swimming by.
With my stunning beak, my chic apparition,
Thinks the heron, such a tiny fish won’t do me at all.
The heron stands watch the entire day,
Each fish that passes by is unworthy.
Or it’s too small, too salty or the scales too doubtful,
Or too bony, or it has too grey a fin.
When the sun sets again, a sound is heard over the lake:
It is the heron’s stomach rumbling away.
The heron, having been so fussy for so long,
Is now gobbling on a simple snail.
Even a dignified heron, even a bird so finicky,
Should not be so choosy when hunting.
He stands on the bank for hours, for nothing,
And must beg for a handout to still his hunger.
Text by Geurt Franzen
Based on La Fontaine, English translation by Justine Meredith.
The bee and the stinger
Each animal had a gift, a purpose in life
So God’s creations gave him such contented delight.
A bee flew past and zoomed in a seething tone:
‘What’s in store for me, you’ve gone and left me alone?’
‘Oh, that’s true,’ said the Lord, ‘it had simply skipped my mind,
For you, I have something wonderful you’ll find.
Make friends with all the sweet-smelling flowers you meet,
And you can touch them too, every flower you see.
Each flower will gift you nectar, without any fight,
In your hole it will become honey after days and nights.’
On hearing that, the bee flew at speed to the meadow,
Hence forth, he knew where to go led by his nose.
His hole soon filled up and it did not take long
Before the scent of honey drifted over the woods and further along
Every animal God created, joined in the line
Waiting under the bee’s hole for their allotted time.
But the bee did not flinch, he was not willing to share,
‘The honey is mine, I earned it plain and fair.’
Any creature who dared to steal his honey for dinner
Was rewarded with a sting of the bee’s mighty stinger.
God up high called the bee over to him,
saying: ‘What you’re doing is totally forbidden.
This gift I created is indeed yours alone
But not all the honey you have in your home.
Every animal has the right to eat some honey
And you will serve their rumbling tummies.
Just in case, you would think to forget
As of now, one prick with your stinger and you’ll be dead.’
Text by Geurt Franzen
Based on a story by Selma Lagerlöf, English translation by Justine Meredith.
The mill mouse and the field mouse
In the windmill in Oeffelt, there lived a mouse
And there, hunger was a stranger to him.
That mouse had a friend out of the house
Who lived in the field beyond the urban rim.
That field mouse was thin, yet as happy as can be
But living alone, was not so fine.
He invited the mill mouse for a simple tea,
And he came with a thimble of wine.
Placed on the table were rye and a raisin half-dried,
A crust of cheese, a very quick snack.
But the mill mouse, oops, he felt terribly denied
By all this frugality, he was taken aback.
‘Dear Friend,’ spoke the mouse from the mill,
‘The way you live, it is simply forlorn.
It is tidy and cleaner, yet so barren, and miserable
Then any hole I’ve seen, ach your harvest is poor.’
‘I suggest,’ says the mouse, after a sip, candidly,
‘That tomorrow you visit the mill and me.
It’s the miller’s birthday and after the party,
There’ll be biscuit crumbs all over, you’ll see.’
The party is done; the miller lies in bed,
And the field mouse creeps, unnoticed, right in.
The mill mouse has already set out a plate to provide
And the banquet for the two mice can begin.
There are biscuit crumbs, crumbs from the cake
And what’s left of a waffle so sweet.
But before the mice one bite can partake,
The mill cat pounces on the table for its treat.
The cat’s paw misses a mouse by a whisker,
And the two make their escape across the floor.
Back in the hole, the field mouse says in a whisper,
‘Live simply and you have nothing to fear.’
Text by Geurt Franzen
Based on a fable by Aesop, English translation by Justine Meredith.
The winter king
With the umpteenth fight between the partridge and the crow
The owl turns to all and lets them know: ‘It’s about time
that we appointed a king, one so smart and so wise
To end this constant bickering.’
The king of birds, everyone wants the crown
So the twittering chatter fills the air.
But the owl suggests: ‘That the battle for the throne
Will be won by the bird flying highest in the sky.’
In the Oeffelter Meent, the contest commences,
Anything with feathers does their utmost best.
From great heights, the eagle looks down below
And sees he is flying higher than all the rest.
‘I am the king!’ the eagle cries, a tear in his eyes.
‘No, it’s me,’ chirps a bird no one has seen
Flying under the eagle’s feathery plumes
And on whose back he peruses his kingdom.
But the birds are not charmed by this form of cheating,
And lock away the bird in a darkened hole.
With the owl as a guard, in an oak as its watch tower
Sometimes with one eye open or with one eye closed.
But when two eyes close, he guards no more:
And gone is the bird, escaped from his cell.
Only at winter, he creeps out from under the bushes
And mockingly calls: ‘The King of Winter, that is me!’
Text by Geurt Franzen,
Based on a fairy-tale by the Brothers Grimm, English translation by Justine Meredith.
The pigeon and the ant
At the Oeffelt creek, by the bank
A pigeon went for a liquid snack.
He heard a call for help and looked, frowning:
An ant was floundering and drowning.
The pigeon not a moment did falter
And managed to poke a stick in the water.
The ant was fished out and just in time
As he was struggling hard to stay alive.
The half-drowned ant bowed deeply,
‘My gratitude is beyond big,’ he said sweetly.
‘Ach,’ said the pigeon, ‘it’s part of life,
You help each other in trouble and strife.’
The rain fell for days and days on end,
The hunting season began once again.
The pigeon flew over the Oeffelt watercourse
To take another drink from the flowing source.
A hunter looked through his vizor,
He saw the pigeon as a tasty plunder.
With his gun at the ready, the ant appeared by him
And he bit the hunter shamelessly hard in the shin.
A bang sounded, someone yelled, ‘Ow!’
But the pigeon was as safe as ever now.
The ant turned and said with a smile, ‘Now I help you.
I learned the lesson that that’s what we do.
Text by Geurt Franzen
Based on a fable by Aesop, English translation by Justine Meredith.
The pumpkin and the acorn
A farmer from the land where the Maasheggen grow
was headstrong and rigid and as stubborn as a mule.
He thought it his place to interfere in all things,
And rebut everyone with no evidence in sight.
Then one day, he crawled through his pumpkin field
Where the harvest was taking its time to grow.
His knees gave him pain, the sand filled his shoes,
And the fruits were so heavy, ach, it was taking so long.
At night in his bed, his bones again burning
with pain, he knew, the creation is erred.
Pumpkins, they should grow on oak trees,
Then they will fall by themselves from the green bough.
The following day, after a few hours toil,
the farmer decided it was high time for a sleep.
Near the Cold Haven, he sampled the pleasure
Of resting under an oak and he slid into a dream.
A gust of wind, sent, ach, perhaps from above
That wind came to shake the branches of the tree.
An acorn plopped precisely on his head, and
woken, hmm thought the farmer, not a pumpkin at least.
Text by Geurt Franzen
Based on a fable by La Fontaine, English translation by Justine Meredith.
De Vilt nature reserve
De Vilt nature reserve, 140 hectares in size, is the property of Brabants Landschap and is located between the villages Beugen and Oeffelt. This natural pearl contains two large watery areas, De Beugense Vilt and De Oeffeltse Vilt, that are surrounded by flowery grasslands, marshlands, hedges and woods. De Vilt is one of the forty places designated by the region that tell the story of the origin of North Brabant. De Vilt is a former bend in the Maas that became silted up over time. The area was formed around fifteen thousand years ago.
