Urk and beyond
We had reached the shores of the Zuider Zee – or what remains of it. Lemmer is a pretty enough town, with narrow haphazard streets and a motley collection of old buildings testifying to a long history. But leave the harbour and immediately to the south the long dead straight dyke of the Noordoostpolder makes a dreary coast, and behind it potatoes and corn grow where once the eels wriggled. The Ijseelmeer (for such the shrunken old sea is officially called now that it is dammed and tideless) would be a welcome change to the canals, and if I sailed directly across Amsterdam was a short days sail away with a fair wind.
I didn’t choose that route though – firstly I wanted to visit the little village of Urk, 15 miles south along the dyke. Who could hear that name and resist the alluring call, the way it rolls so melliflously and sonorously off the tongue? Not I. Besides, it was a place that Knight had written about in ‘The Falcon on the Baltic’, and I wanted to see how it had changed.
When the lock through to the sea opened in the morning I had a fast sail beside the monotonous dyke, a great flock of other yachts spreading white wings behind, and arrived in the little harbour at Urk before lunchtime.
When Knight arrived in this harbour he was astounded by the number of little oaken fishing boats. As a yachtsman he was a novelty to the men of the island. Now the yachts outnumber the fishing boats in the harbour ten to one. A couple of scruffy oceangoing trawlers were tied to a quay and some smaller open boats laid nets for eels in the Ijseelmeer itself, but today that is all that remains in Urk of the once famous fleet. I say all that remains in Urk, for it seems that a number of boats are still registered there, even if they rarely visit - it is now a long way from the open sea. In Delfzyl I had noticed a fleet of 10 or so beefy such trawlers registered with Urk registration.
On the top of the steep hill overlooking the harbour, where the fishwives used to keep watch for the returning men under the shadow of the lighthouse, is a monument to those of the village who have lost their lives at sea. The list of dead reads like a war memorial, for this island has lost many in its long struggle with the sea. Here a solitary name - a boy lost overboard perhaps, or badly injured too far out at sea to get medical help in time. All too often an entire crew is carved onto those stones, a boat foundering on the treacherous offshore banks, or silently far out in the stormy North Sea, with no-one to heed their passing and just the fishwives left here keeping watch for their return as day follows day and hope gradually ebbs away.
It was a sobering moment as I looked at those stones, reminding me of the unforgiving power of the sea. It is true that there have been fewer names carved on it in recent years, but there are still a few names fresh from the engravers chisel - and there was space on the most recent stone for more names to be added.
From Urk Knight had taken a different route to Groningen than the one I had used, I looked north-east, the way he had sailed, and imagined Falcons tanned brown sails disappearing into the horizon. No-one can sail that way now: Urk is no longer an island. Falcons ghost ploughs a furrow not through sunlight dancing on the moving waters of the sea, but through fields of crops and cattle as far as the eye can see.
The day the long dykes stretching out from the coast reached Urk, and the pumps began slowly to drain the massive area of sea they had enclosed, the character of the village must have changed completely and utterly. One moment here was an island not ˝ mile across, where houses were tightly crammed into the tiny amount of land that was available; that had never known cars, its little close-knit population isolated and protected from the world by a moat that stretched to the horizon. The next it was downgraded to a mere headland, and exploded into a town as the new land that had suddenly surrounded it was colonised. The roads came, bringing cars and buses, casual visitors, ease of travel for the inhabitants – and taking away that which had made it unique. There is no denying that the old part of the town is still pleasant, indeed beautiful, a lovely gem on a loveless coast. But its spirit left with the last of the old oaken fishing boats. I wonder what Knight would say of it now.
I did dutifully buy a smoked eel for lunch, for to leave Urk without eating a fish would be sacrilege. It was very tasty, although I wouldn’t like such an oily offering every day. It’s flesh to skin-and-bone ratio left a little to be desired, but I suppose that’s hardly a surprise in an eel.
I spent a couple of hours in Urk, and set sail mid-afternoon to make my way a little further along the coast. I had decided by now to sail through the Randmeren. The most recent polder to be drained from the Zuider Zee is Flevoland, but the Dutch decided that for a change they would leave a channel round the back so that it is surrounded by water. Sailing through the Randmeren you have the old shores of the Zuider Zee on one side, and on the other the new dykes of the polder, protecting the drained land behind. The Randmeren is heavily but reasonably thoughtfully landscaped, and in some places is only a few hundred yards wide while in others it widens into largish lakes. Two locks isolate it from the Isjeelmeer proper, and a couple of opening bridges and tunnels cross – as well as two fixed bridges, although they were both high enough for Teal to pass under.
We were soon under the first bridge, and tacking up the first stretch of open water. We passed the weird artificial island of Isjeeloog, and just beyond the channel narrowed considerably. To starboard was the boring dyke of the polder, very steep-to, while to port a line of red buoys marked the shallows lying off the picturesque reedy mud that had once been tidal flats of the Zuider Zee. The channel was dredged up to these buoys to maintain enough depth. The wind was light, and I was tacking at the last moment to make the most of each tack. The first few tacks I had no trouble, but then came a tack on the line of red buoys where she started to come round, was nearly there... and then there was a little stagger as we grounded. No trouble though – Teals head was already through the wind, so in moments I had backed the jib and staysail and she had blown off. ‘Better be a bit more careful next time’ I thought as I sailed back in towards the polder. We tacked back out again, and just as we reached the line of buoys I tacked as before. We started to turn, the sails began to flap, and suddenly we lurched and were going nowhere.
We’d hit a bit harder this time, but we were still just through the wind and after backing the headsails she slid off after a few moments. ‘Right - really must go earlier next time’ I said to myself.
Another tack towards the polder, and once again we were sailing towards the line of buoys. Well, I didn’t want to make the tack too short because the channel was only 100m wide, and all this tacking was hard work. I did start to turn a couple of metres before the line though.... and no sooner had I put the helm over than wallop! There we were, stuck fast again! This time we had hit hard, and we hadn’t come round sufficiently to back the sails. Pushing with the pole didn’t get us off, so, sighing, I changed into shorts and jumped off the foredeck to push us off. It really was shallow – the water didn’t even reach my knees. One good shove and I was back on board without getting more than my ankles wet.
We soon rounded a corner and had the wind free, and the last hour in the evening sun was very enjoyable, the reeds waving gently in the slight wind and the first skeins of geese of the autumn flying south overhead.
We moored by the first lock, which meant a lie-in in the morning, for the lockeepers have a late start on a Sunday. Beyond, the Randmeren alternated between narrow channels and wide lakes, which as the day went on became packed with craft of all types. Jet skis, wind surfers, dinghies, powerboats, yachts large and small, inflatables, water-skiers, catamarans, and kite skiers zipped about in all directions, while the artificial beaches of Flevoland were packed with thousands of sunbathers.
The densely packed boats made for exciting sailing when a decent force 5 picked up in the afternoon. But the day was uneventful, and just after dark, in a dying wind, I anchored off a little island towards the southern end of the Randmeren.
A following breeze in the morning blew me quickly across the Markermere, which is intended to be the next polder to be drained. The dyke is already built, although there seem to be no plans at present to complete the project.
Very soon I found myself approaching Amsterdam. A bridge on the outskirts was marked with an air draught of 8.9m, which I wasn’t confident Teal would fit under. So I moored up with a few other yachts to wait for it to open, and one of them offered me a tow through. With the wind behind I would have been perfectly happy sailing, but I suspected sailing in the busy Nord Zee canal would be strictly illegal, so I took the rope. ‘Bries’, built solidly of steel, was owned by a chap about my age, chief officer on a cargo boat he told me, but he spent much of his holidays sailing. He sailed single-handed most of the time – he’d built his own self-steering gear. He dropped me off at the Sixhaven marina in central Amsterdam, and I soon tidied up and caught a ferry across the river to the city centre.