GRONINGEN
- 15 hours ago
- 8 min read
The province of Groningen is the northernmost part of the Netherlands, where urban energy meets the horizons of the Wadden Sea, fortresses, manor houses, terp hills and architecture that is not afraid to challenge.
GRONINGEN: ICONIC LANDMARKS
From a tower that has survived many adventures to a fortress that was never taken by enemies.
The province and its capital, Groningen, offer a rare sense of compactness: everything is close together, yet nothing blends in. The province's culture is close to that of the neighboring German state of Lower Saxony, and many residents still speak Low German in everyday life.
Five minutes into the city, you're already climbing the Martini Tower, which has survived fires, lightning, and wars for 500 years, been rebuilt, and yet remains the city's main landmark. From its 97-meter height, the northern landscape opens up — calm and almost endless.
Below is the Groningen Forum, the city's modern "living room": cinemas, exhibitions, a completely cosmic library and a rooftop where the sunsets compete with the architecture.
And if you're looking for a change of pace, just travel a little further. Lauwersmeer National Park is a former sea, converted into a lake in 1969. No one originally planned for such enchanting beauty, but it happened: birds, silence, water, and the horizon.
A little further away is Fort Bourtange, a fortress famous for the fact that neither the Spanish nor the Bishop of Münster were able to take it. Today, it looks like a carefully restored geometry of stubbornness.
And finally, local villages on artificial hills — terps. A small reminder: even in the flattest country, people knew how to raise the earth for themselves.
GRONINGEN: COAT OF ARMS' HISTORY
An unusual coat of arms for the Netherlands, between a city and the wind of the plains.
Behind Groningen's seemingly simple exterior lies a complex history of balance between the city and the surrounding lands. Due to its remoteness, the province never developed into the usual feudal structures: no duchies, no counties — only a gradual accumulation of independence.
When it's not the grand titles that matter, but stability, this is reflected in the coat of arms, where every detail speaks of a balance of power, not dominance.
Groningen didn't grow by chance, but literally "on the terrain." It was founded on the northern point of the Hondsrug ridge — an elongated sandy ridge that rises just a few meters above the plain, yet stretches for 70 kilometers, a strategic advantage for the area. Between the Hunze River and the pretentiously named Aa River, this ridge became a natural landmark and defense.
Unsurprisingly, the city's early coat of arms was almost a geographical diagram: a silver shield and a green horizontal crossbar. Moreover, according to one theory, the city's name derives from the ancient Groeninge — "green place" or "settlement on a green hill."
And here, the coat of arms suddenly becomes an almost literal translation. It turns out that the crossbar is not simply Hondsrug as a geography, but also a hint at the very idea of the "green ridge" that gave the city its name. Sometimes heraldry doesn't invent symbols — it simply subtly emphasizes an existing meaning .
The name "Hondsrug" sounds too figurative for strict geography. It is believed that it originally meant "Hunze-rug"— "the ridge of the Hunze River." Over time, the language simplified and smoothed it out, resulting in Hondsrug . In modern Dutch, it literally means "dog's back."
Here the imagination begins to play: a long, elongated ridge, slightly raised above the plain — isn't it a Rhodesian Ridgeback, that very dog with the distinctive stripe running down its back? Coincidence? Of course. But heraldry loves such coincidences.
By the 15th century, Groningen was no longer just a convenient point on the map and had become a serious player. The Hanseatic League, trade, and influence — the city began to speak louder. An eagle appeared on the coat of arms: first single-headed, then double-headed imperial eagle. This was a direct statement: the city's status as an imperial city, its ambitions, its involvement in the great European game.
But the strangest, almost theatrical, story concerns the weather vane. The gilded eagle bearing the city's coat of arms, according to legend, was intended not for the roof, but for a gallows — where they planned to hang Duke Henry of Saxony, who had waged war against Groningen in the 15th century.
The plan, to put it mildly, didn't come to fruition. Instead of a triumphant ending, the plot turns to the opposite: the Saxons capture the city, take the weathervane as a trophy, and the duke himself, rumor has it, keeps the chain from the "failed gallows" as a personal souvenir. The weathervane, in turn, ends up in Dresden, in the ducal collection. A symbol of power, intended as a sign of victory, turns into an ironic reminder of how easily things can go wrong.
Groningen cannot be understood without the Ommeland — the surrounding lands. The very name "Stad en Ommelanden" ("city and surroundings") sounds almost like a diplomatic formula. These lands, with their Frisian past, long retained their identity, even under the influence of the city.
In the 16th century, they created their own coat of arms: three blue diagonal stripes — the three main regions — and eleven red figures. Traditionally, they represent hearts. In practice, they represent the eleven districts. Sometimes they are interpreted as water lily leaves — and this is a subtle heraldic debate. But the essence remains: this is the coat of arms not of a center, but of a multitude, not of a vertical power structure, but of a horizontal one of communities.
The similarity to the Friesland flag is a sensitive issue. Yes, the stripes are similar, yes, the shapes are similar. But Groningen wants to be different. And the provincial flag achieves this neatly: a green cross in the center represents the city, surrounded by squares symbolizing the Ommelanden. The composition becomes almost a geometric compromise.
But the question "Water lily hearts or leaves?" remains open to this day. Some see emotion, others botany. And perhaps that's what Groningen is all about: not debating completely, but leaving room for interpretation.
The Groningen coat of arms isn't about a single symbol, but about balance: the city and its surroundings, the empire and local identity, hearts and leaves. And somewhere in between, the north wind, which puts everything in its place without further ado.
GRONINGEN: FUN FACTS
Of how a supermarket becomes an architectural experience, and the first electric car appears in an unexpected place.
One of the national phenomena in the Netherlands is the Albert Heijn supermarket chain, which defines the local gastronomic rhythm of life: from morning coffee to evening "something to go with wine." But in Groningen, even grocery shopping becomes a small cultural event. On Vismarkt square stands the Korenbeurs building, a former grain exchange in a strict neoclassical style. Once a place for grain trade, today it sells avocados and prepared salads.
The irony is almost perfect: the functions are the same, the scale is slightly more compact. This Albert Heijn is recognized as the most beautiful in the country. High vaults, columns, a sense of space — and somewhere between the shelves, students from the neighboring Academy hunt for discounts. Perhaps this is the only place where 19th-century architecture organically combines "2 for 1" deals .
Long before Tesla and any talk of the future of transportation, Groningen had already tried a different way of driving. In 1834, chemistry professor Sibrandus Stratingh, along with his mechanic Christopher Becker, drove a self-propelled vehicle through the city streets. Yes, it was a steam engine — noisy, heavy, and not particularly practical — but the fact itself seemed almost fantastical. A year later, it traveled further — about 20 kilometers from Groningen to De Punt. Without any accidents, which is an achievement in itself.
But the most intriguing thing was yet to come. In 1835, Stratingh created a model of an electric car, considered one of the world's first. Not a concept, not an idea, but a working prototype. King William I even awarded him a 600-guilder prize — a rare case of the future being officially rewarded. Groningen, it turns out, is not only adept at preserving the past but also quietly ahead of its time.
GRONINGEN: LOCAL HERALDRY
How the Egyptian pyramids unexpectedly met the swamps of Groningen, and how a snake turned out to be a symbol of family history.
Two coats of arms: one a neat stepped pyramid of dark blocks. The other a hand with a snake coiled around it. If shown to someone without explanation, they're more likely to recall Ancient Egypt than the northern Netherlands, or perhaps a sphinx somewhere between the canals.
Let's start with Wildervank . The coat of arms does indeed depict a distinctive pyramid, but it's made not of pharaonic stone blocks, but of peat. Peat sounds rather prosaic to modern eyes, but in the 17th century, it was the region's true "black gold." It heated homes, fueled workshops, and fueled the local economy.
That's why the coat of arms looks almost like an accounting report accidentally transformed into a work of art. There's a very specific person behind it — entrepreneur Adriaan Geerts, better known as Wildervanck. Thanks to his canals, mines, and projects, the swamps were gradually transformed into habitable land. It's a remarkable thing: some towns grow around castles, while Wildervanck grew around a business plan.
Nearby is Veendam, whose coat of arms is even more mysterious. The hand and the snake entwined around it immediately evoke associations with medicine and the Egyptian goddess Hathor, who was often depicted with a sacred snake as a symbol of protection and wisdom. But the local story is far more human.
According to legend, Margaret Jans Hardenberg, the wife of that very same Adriaen Geerts, fell asleep one day while walking on the moor. She awoke to find a viper on her hand. Under such circumstances, philosophical reflections usually end quickly, so Margaret made a simple vow: if she survived, she would build a church here. The snake didn't bite, the church was built, and the memory of the event remained on the coat of arms. Today, this symbol is interpreted as a sign of wisdom, self-control, and faithfulness to one's word.
The most curious thing is that both coats of arms arose not from military victories, noble dynasties, or church intrigues, but from the same family history. One recalls a man who built cities, the other a woman who kept her promise. For heraldry, this is a surprisingly warm and almost homely theme.
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