Category: Uncategorized

Sunday 5 November

People put pumpkins outside their doors for Halloween here, but not carved Jack-o’Lanterns. Not surprisingly, they don’t celebrate today, but neither have there been any fireworks for Diwali. In fact, we are in an incredibly peaceful spot, where people go for Sunday morning jogs, walk the dog, feed the flocks of coots and sail traditional dinghies. My crew were glad to stay tucked in, warm and snug, as a weather system passed over, dumping rain, hail and a very brief thunderstorm.

Saturday 4 November

The day dawned optimistically, and in spite of feeling below par, Mate decided she’d rather make the most of dry daylight – the weather’s been very calm since we arrived in the Netherlands – to continue to make our way North. We slipped away from the wall, turned neatly in mid-channel, and immediately turned left onto the Oude Wetering for the Ringvaart van de Haarlemmermeerpolder: ooh, how I love trying to get my tongue around these wonderful compound nouns. Ringvaart is a ringway, and polder is a means of draining the land, like a bigger dyke (dijk in Dutch), so we were travelling along the Harlem-lake-ditch-ringway, but it’s so much more colourful in its native language.

Although cold in a fresh Nor’easterly breeze, it was a lovely day for a detour, as per the Pilot’s suggestion, into the Kagerplassen, a lake of many islands and depths varying from shallow to dry. Mate kept a close eye on the chart plotter, but was still able to enjoy the rural idyll of cattle grazing before a backdrop of windmills against a wide, wide sky. Being Saturday, a fleet of traditional gaff-rigged dinghies was out racing with the local Scout troop, and, apart from one German Hanse on transit a couple of days ago, it was the first day we’d seen any other yachts enjoying a late season potter.

We looked at a possible anchorage in the lake, but Mate was keen to keep going, feeling this spot would be rather bleak and exposed if the weather changed. Also, we needed to stop for a couple of nights, as the bridges into Haarlem don’t open on Winter Sundays, and she might want to go ashore…

Back on the Ringvaart, the bridges were coming thick and fast, and we had to weave our way around a number of rowing fours out training. During the afternoon it started to rain and became very unpleasant, and by now we were diligently searching for somewhere to stop, lunch still pending and Mate’s enthusiasm and energy having long since disappeared. Unfortunately, I am much bigger than most of the leisure boats on these waters, and the Dutch system of ‘boxes’ – piles at regular intervals instead of finger pontoons – are generally too narrow for my 4.5 metre beam. I know, I know, I’m a bit hippy and have a wide rear, but I’m very comfortable to live on: what can I say?

Anyway, after the double drawbridge at Cruquiusbrug, we turned left into the Zuider Buiten Spaarne (South Outer…Spaarne? The name of the river, I think) and Skipper spotted a small yacht haven at Spaarneborgh, just up a branch of the canal, nestled amongst a couple of apartment blocks. Mate was able to tuck me into an alongside berth at the entrance, long enough that I wasn’t sticking out into the channel. In the pouring rain, approaching dusk and general misery, happy hour was an extremely brief affair, not that I blamed them, and soon my heads and tech room were a wardrobe of dripping foul weather gear.

Mate managed a small bowl of homemade pumpkin soup and retired to bed, leaving Skipper to make contact with the harbourmaster, plug in the power and later cook himself supper.

Friday 3 November

Opting for the cautious method, Skipper reversed me back down the channel to the main canal, where we waited for the railway bridge to open for us to pass through. This was a more interesting and varied stretch of the journey, passing some very elegant riverside properties in a mixture of towns and villages. After following a barge through a very narrow part where the houses were close to the waterside, some leaning perilously askew from their neighbours, the vista suddenly opened up to vast swathes of farmland. Like railways and major roads, the canals are mostly built above land level, so my crew looked down on fields, many in their winter dormancy, some arable land for sheep, cattle, goats and horses, and acres of glasshouses where Mate imagined salad crops and soft fruit are produced, much of which are exported to British supermarkets.

By now my crew had established a routine for the frequent bridges: when they come into view, radio the watchkeeper to ask for it to be opened, hover at a safe distance until the lights change from red to red-over-green, which indicates the opening procedure has begun, listen for the bell that warns of the barriers coming down (red lights are flashing on the approach roads as well), watch the bridge open in one of three ways, gradually creeping forwards, and then when the lights change to green only, give Trevver a burst and through we go, giving a cheery wave of thanks as we pass the control booth or camera, as many are remotely operated.

Bridges are either swing, which pivot horizontally; bascule, which raise from one side to nearly vertical; or lift, where a central span is drawn up to the appropriate height. The operator of the latter assesses our mast height as we approach, and each time has lifted the bridge to 24 metres, as displayed on a light board beside the bridge. As soon as we are through, the bell sounds again and the bridge is closed for land traffic to resume its journey. In Holland, even motorways have bridges that open for canal traffic.

Having joined the Oude Rijn, we paused for fried cheese sandwiches with salad for lunch on the town quay at Alphen aan de Rijn, a busy shopping centre with another church with a carillon sounding every half hour.

Following the channel across Braassemermeer, a shallow lake, as the evening sun sank below the cloud base to give a last burst of golden light across the water, huge skeins of geese were spotted, first by their calls, streaming across the sky towards the Northeast.

Having been on the helm most of the day, Mate brought me neatly into another alongside mooring for the night, next to a fairly quiet road on the edge of a small town just North of the Meer.

Thursday 2 November

This morning my crew walked into town to catch the market, and Mate was delighted to find it was a ‘proper’ one, with a colourful array of beautifully fresh fruit and vegetables, and a stall offering only fungi, but more types of edible mushrooms than she knew existed. There was also a wide range of fresh and smoked fish and shellfish, breads and bakery goods, cheeses (as well as every vintage of the eponymous Gouda) and a variety of other goods.

After a reviving coffee and samples of excellent local patisserie at a heated pavement café, they wandered through the shopping area to visit St John’s Church, the longest in the Netherlands at 123 metres, and famous for the ‘Gouda Windows’, enormous panels of stained glass dating from the Sixteenth Century. The building was originally dedicated to the Roman Catholic faith, but since the Reformation was donated to the Protestant community and now represents the Dutch Reformist tradition. The organ is stunning, pipes towering to the roof, and the floor is laid with flagstones carved in memory of wealthy and influential parishioners who were buried in the church until 1832.

Walking back home along some of the attractive canal sides in the town centre, they noticed square brass plaques inlaid into the pavement. These are engraved with the names of Jewish people who lived in the houses above the plaques, who were lost to the Holocaust during the German occupation of the Second World War – a simple but powerful memorial.

Wednesday 1 November

I knew it was going to be a different kind of day when it began with two unusual events: first, we were ready to leave Veerhaven on time, and second, Mate was at the helm to take me away from the pontoon and back out into the river. Granted, it was a pretty straightforward departure, but there wasn’t a lot of spare space, should anything have gone wrong.

We rejoined the river traffic safely, and then dawdled ahead of a huge barge attended by two tugs, while we waited for the nice man to lift the opening part of the Erasmus Bridge. This is an enormous piece of engineering, as the bridge carries road traffic, trams, the ubiquitous bicycles and pedestrians from the North to the South side of the city, and the whole operation took fifteen minutes. There are special traffic lights, which go from red to red-over-green and eventually to green, far too slowly for my impatient Skipper, nervous of bigger ships bearing down on me from behind.

Mate kept her cool, and further up the river was to need it a lot more, as I passed under a motorway bridge with a clearance of 24 metres. My air draught is 21 metres, so from down at deck level the underside of that bridge looked very close to the top of my aerial, some 30 centimetres higher than the masthead. With the relief of that particular clearance still fresh, it was time to cross the channel to follow the Hollandse IJssel river to the North.

It’s all very well being a river/canal barge for a while, never feeling the wind in my sails, but it’s a bit undignified for my fenders and mooring ropes to just be left lying along my side decks. I suppose it makes sense, when I passed through a number of locks and under bridges that open over narrow channels at the side of the waterway, but still.

Gradually we left the city wharves and apartment buildings behind, and the scenery became more attractive: smarter houses with their own river frontage and moorings, the occasional windmill, a ferry, trees… and reeds. Apparently it’s very like sailing on the Norfolk Broads, where the dykes are high enough to contain the water, and seriously limit the view.

It was a dry day, but overcast and the light breeze was quite chilly. Still on the helm, Mate was glad to make the final turn into a narrow channel to our mooring for the next two nights, on the edge of Gouda.

Tuesday 31 October

Two curious points about the church in Maasluis: at night, the face is lit with little dots of light at each hour, and the hands are lit with lines of dots of light; on the hour and half hour (in daylight hours) a carillon plays a different tune every time. Maasluis is a pleasant town, with a museum including two traditional ships, and a good selection of food shopping, fashion boutiques, hair salons and restaurants. There is some attractive architecture among the buildings lining the waterways on which the town is built.

After a successful first attempt at pump out (already enough information), we left smoothly for the nine miles upriver to Veerhaven in Rotterdam. On the way we navigated heavy traffic of all shapes and sizes, while being handed on like a relay baton from one sector control radio to the next. Fortunately, English is the international language for VHF.

Veerhaven is a complete contrast to the quiet, snug marina at Maasluis: just an inlet from the river, so quite bouncy from the wash of vessels constantly passing the entrance, and full of beautiful classic Dutch barges and herring fishing boats. My crew found themselves just a few minutes’ walk from a reasonable supermarket, the ‘West End’ quarter full of bars and restaurants, a peaceful park and an Oriental supermarket. This is afloat in the next inlet West, at the foot of the Euromast, a popular tourist attraction. Also afloat is the building housing ‘our’ facilities; it’s already obvious why Holland is known as the Venice of the North.

It’s an easy city to walk around, as long as you remain alert for trams, traffic on the wrong side of the road, and bicycles all over the place, in heaps at every building and street corner, and whizzing along their own traffic lanes, merging with vehicles and pedestrians at junctions.

Saturday 28 October

Between Wednesday 25 and Friday 27 October, we have crossed the southern North Sea, leaving England away beyond our stern, and arriving, albeit tired and a little bedraggled – well, my crew were, anyway – at Hoek van Holland, some while later.

New records set:
Longest non-stop passage so far: 294 nautical miles sailed (and we did sail all the way, maintaining an average passage speed of 6 knots)
Longest time at sea: 52 hours, including a couple up-river from the Hook of Holland to Maasluis, our first resting place in the Netherlands
Longest period sailing without any sleep: approximately 20 hours each
Highest wind speed in sustained gusts: 31+ knots (Force 7 – Near Gale)
Biggest waves: 2-3 metres (6-10 feet), enough to obliterate the horizon as they rolled under us
NO SEA-SICKNESS SUFFERED

We left Whitby on the beginning of the ebb tide at 0900, passing safely through the one span of the bridge the watchkeeper opened for us, and out into the calm, grey sea. The crew soon settled me into a comfortable beam reach as the miles began to tick away, enjoying their last views of the English East coast as it gradually faded into the haze. As the day drew towards dusk, and a pretty sunset, Skipper produced his gourmet version of two ready meals: he put the hot dishes into bowls, and supper was enjoyed in the cockpit in the dark.

The sky was mostly overcast, masking a quarter moon, so it was unusually dark, the water reflecting not at all. The first night was eventful, with a selection of vessels to be avoided on both watches. Skipper came up with the ingenious idea of calling the ships over the VHF radio to check they were aware of little me ahead of them, showing only my masthead lights. Thanks again to our very clever chart plotter, displaying AIS details of all these big boys, my crew were able to call them by name, and they were always courteous and confirmed we were showing on their radar and their course would pass us safely.

On Thursday morning daybreak was merely a gradual lightening of the sky, but the huge golden orb lifted itself out of the sea, only to disappear into a blanket of cloud for the whole day. However, a pleasant breeze, more than had been forecast, kept me sailing along at a good pace, with Trevver only needing to run for the odd hour to keep the batteries charged for the chart plotter and Jeanny, my autopilot friend. Skipper produced perfect softly scrambled eggs, with fresh coffee and toast, and all was well with the world. However, he was required to make regular sail changes to optimise the wind and keep me moving in the right direction.

In spite of the sun not having shown himself all day, the most stunning red and orange sunset washed the western evening sky; but beware – the old adage “red sky at night, sailor’s delight” is rubbish – in future, Mate will remember that a display such as that is a sure portent of difficult conditions ahead. Meanwhile, Skipper was busy in the galley again, soon delivering baked salmon in herb butter, courgettes and crispy seasoned potato wedges into the crew’s eager hands. Little did they realise it was the last square meal they’d enjoy for many hours.

After supper, with the mainsail reefed in anticipation of the wind increasing overnight, as suggested in the forecast, to a moderate Force 4-5, Mate attempted an off-watch sleep below, but was disturbed by a rolly motion. Unwilling to worry Skipper, she was concerned that it was coming down from further North, for where a surprise gale warning had recently been issued. After only an hour, she dressed in all her warm layers and returned to the cockpit, where Skipper was heard to heave a sigh of “it’s going to be a long night”.

By now we were well on our way out across the North Sea, having seen remarkably few oil and gas rigs, and only a couple of wind farms in the distance, nearer the coast. The crew had to keep checking our position in the hourly ‘log and plot’ they still use to back up the chart plotter routing, to be sure of avoiding three tricky big ship routes off the Netherlands coast. Mate decided it was just as well it was another very dark night, so that she couldn’t see the surface of the sea, now large rolling waves, first lifting me high on the crests, then plunging me deep into the troughs. Steering only by the compass rose, feet planted firmly wide in a classic sailor’s pose, she hung on gamely to the wheel, concentrating on trying to anticipate my slewing as the waves washed under me. Occasionally the cloud cover broke enough to glimpse the canopy of stars overhead.

As the wind continued to build, Skipper decided (to Mate’s relief) it was time to take in a second reef in the mainsail. This was quite a challenge and not pretty, but the sail was soon reduced, although it did nothing to diminish my rollercoaster speed. He furled the foresail as well, which didn’t improve the steering, but did slow my breakneck passage a little. As we approached the Dutch coast, Skipper called Maas Approach to inform them of our presence, and obtain clearance to traverse the traffic lanes onto an inshore course for Rotterdam.

Another beautiful sunrise backlit the city skyline and heralded our second day at sea, revealing the true ferocity of wind and waves in the near storm conditions on this notoriously shallow, lumpy stretch of the North East Atlantic. Mate thought privately that this was her Southern Ocean, and she’d be quite content never to experience it again. An exhausted Skipper went below for an hour’s rest and warm-up, and was soon back on deck as moral support and sometime helm relief for Mate, who’d long since decided she was better off staying up. It proved to be a long last few hours’ slog as we crept South along the coast, gradually making our way to the entrance to the Maas, that will eventually take us to Rotterdam and thence the inland canals to Amsterdam.

We made a final controlled gybe and left the sail hauled in, the better to maintain steering over the last of the breakers and in behind the sea wall, where the water finally began to calm down. Dodging large vessels as we carefully followed the channel, and the instructions of the sector traffic centres, we cruised upriver, Mate clearing the decks in preparation for tying on lines and fenders for mooring.

We were passed by a number of commercial Dutch barges, longer and wider than British narrowboats, with the central section designed for carrying cargo, and cabins fore and aft providing liveaboard accommodation for their Masters, evidenced by windows decorated with curtains and houseplants. A vehicle was parked on the rear deck for transport ashore.

It was with huge relief all round that we finally crossed the river to enter the Buitenhaven (outer harbour) of Maasluis, and made our way under three swing bridges and round the corner into a small marina, tucked behind Church Island.

Sunday 6 August

Once the rain eased, l’arrêt was brought into commission to putter the crew ashore to explore the delights of Portree. In spite of the hype Mate read in the tourist brochure, they didn’t find it especially inspiring, but a little too ‘tacky touristy’, with one notable exception:

MATE RATES
Skye Batiks on The Green – beautiful hand-woven fabrics made into practical, functional tops and accessories, as well as pretty batik prints for skirts, pants and more. Ethical, honest, genuine interesting people and great coffee!

Sometimes Mate’s motivation for wanting to visit a particular place verges on the completely barmy. We know ‘Rona’ as a training vessel based on the South Coast of England, that was crewed by a schoolfriend of Second Mate while the latter was enjoying trips aboard ‘John Laing’. Here it is an island between Skye and the mainland, with an anchorage renowned as one of the most beautiful on the West Coast of Scotland. Not surprisingly, it was very busy with moored boats, but the wet and windy weather discouraged my crew from venturing ashore to explore.

Saturday 5 August

The seals were basking in the sunshine as we raised the anchor to depart for Loch Alsh and the Skye Bridge. Yesterday we enjoyed a high level fly past by a couple of military jets; this morning they were obviously suspicious as they came straight at us up the loch, very low, very large and very noisy: balls of steel and phenomenally quick reactions in this land of high peaks and low cloud.

Today was a day of glassy calm sea and no wind, an opportunity for reflection and realisation for Mate, that she’s becoming accustomed to the weather, wind and sea state, worrying less about water and food stocks, and enjoying moving frequently to new places.

Skye was high on her list of destinations for this season, and has exceeded all expectations: the scenery is magnificent, and the people friendly. It only falls short of perfection through a lack of sighting of the elusive sea eagle, and less than spectacular weather. It’s already beginning to feel like Autumn’s in the air, and the nights are noticeably drawing in at this Northern latitude.

It was good to simply pick up a mooring buoy, without drama, in Portree Harbour, toss together a quick stir fry for supper, and retire early in anticipation of a good night’s sleep.

Friday 4 August

The laundry was up to date, the provisions stowed and the passage plan said it was time to leave – shame about the weather: another typically dreich day with thick mist quickly saturating the sad helm. After a warming lunch of Skye Beans (see Recipe page), the rain eased and the mist lifted, revealing the mouths of Lochs Nevis (Heaven) and Hourn (Hell), and the Sound of Sleat leading to the beautiful Kyle of Lochalsh. Accompanied by several small groups of harbour porpoise, seals and a deer were also spotted en route. We anchored in a beautiful little cove opposite probably the most photographed castle in Scotland: Eilean Donan, and were checked out by the local otter. The resident colony of around 14 seals seemed bored by our presence.

After sunset it was completely still, and Mate returned to the cockpit to try to photograph the castle, beautifully floodlit. She was enchanted by the sound of a lone bagpiper standing in a gateway of the castle, apparently serenading her alone, as the haunting strains drifted across the water. Definitely one of the season’s highlights.