A dribble was perhaps an unfortunate word to use, as we would find out
later in the week. On monday morning however the conditions were perfect, with the wind
astern and the sun shining. Having originally
decided to take it easy, the sight of a French ketch gaining on us with a
spinnaker flying awoke our competitive instincts, and we soon hoisted ours to
maintain our lead, while keeping an eye on the depth, which seemed painfully
shallow after Norwegian waters!
Approaching Marken the depthsounder remained stubbornly on 0.0, but as we still seemed to be moving we carried on
and tied up alongside the quay as the sky turned a worrying shade of purple –
which, though we didn’t realise it at the time was perhaps a foretaste of
things to come! As it approached we put the tent up and explored Marken, a strange mix of souvenir shops and traditional
Dutch culture. In a small museum deep
within the town, we found ourselves watching an in-depth History of Marken, from which we were too cowardly to escape - the exit
was guarded by two, slightly fierce looking elderly women.
Back at the boat we battened
down the hatches and enjoyed large quantities of stroopvafels,
as the rain lashed the decks and the wind started to howl. During the evening
the wind increased to gale force and we were glad to be snugly moored up as we
watched other boats trying with varying degrees of success to enter.
Next morning, despite it
being Ben’s birthday, Bryony dragged us all up early so (as she brightly put
it) ‘we could enjoy the day in
Amsterdam
’.
We were a little apprehensive about leaving as the breeze still sounded fresh,
but as ever it sounded far worse in the harbour than it was outside – the
wind’s bark was worse than its bite! As we motored out of the entrance who
should follow us but the French boat we had raced the day before, and so our
relaxing morning passage turned into another unofficial race, which we are
pleased to report that we won. More
importantly, these efforts meant that we unwittingly made the early bridge and
lock opening, whereas les francais had to wait
another 45 minutes.
We were shoehorned into a space in Sixhaven by a man who had the world’s smallest bike yet the world’s loudest whistle.
After tying Festina in a cat’s cradle of warps, we set off into
Amsterdam
. Here two thirds of the crew indulged in some
retail therapy while Ben pretended to himself that he was doing some
dissertation research in the Scheepvaartsmuseum,
while actually indulging in one of the many varieties of Applegeback on offer.
Big cities are always tiring, and we returned to Festina in Sixhaven to put our feet up. The tiny harbour now resembled the proverbial
tin of sardines, with Festina stuck firmly at the back. This put paid to our plans to leave that
night to catch the midnight run through the railway bridges, so we relaxed with
a DVD and a birthday cheese (a long story), and resolved to leave as soon as we
could escape the next day.
Next morning we were ready as soon as the large German boats ahead of
us had gone, and set off down the Nordsee kanaal in pouring rain, breakfasting en route. Our hygiene standards improved considerably when
one particularly huge barge went by, causing the contents of the breakfast pan to
transfer themselves to the washing up bowl. Still, washed down by rain we didn’t notice too much. Shortly afterwards however we missed our
first bridge (perhaps due to translating the winter opening times by mistake), but
soon afterwards caught up with a veritable armada of boats heading south. The rain intensified as we went through
Haarlem
’s many bridges, and this, combined with the tendency of
the other boats to behave like dodgems meant that we appreciated less of the
lovely surroundings than we might have done without these distractions. Two British boats in particular were so inept
that we seriously considered sewing stars onto the Red Ensign to pass ourselves
off as Australians.
Once through Haarlem we chugged through the
Dutch countryside in convoy, reconvening at the frequent bridges, where it
could be guaranteed that at least two boats (guess which!) would collide with a
large immovable object and a large ex-minesweeper would lose steerage way and be
blown onto the waiting yachts, all the while honking his foghorn and shouting
through his megaphone in a panic. All
this meant that we were very glad to be able to take a different, much quieter detour
to
Alphen aan den Rijn
at our own pace, where we tied alongside an old tug for the night.
Next morning we cast off to be greeted by the sight of two of the most
nerve-shreddingly cavalier boats from yesterday. So once again in the rat race, we continued
on our way to
Gouda
hoping to make the infamous bridge that we had missed on our previous visit to
the Dutch canals. The rain increased
from torrential to monsoon strength as we approached and we waited a damp hour
for the bridge. We were cast off with 20
minutes to go by a twitchy man who was paranoid about missing bridges, but this
was probably a good thing as it meant that we were first through, followed by
about 20 other boats. This large number
of boats meant that the next lock, containing a barge and a minesweeper was a
nightmare, but we escaped scratch-free and joined the procession once more,
roaring through
Rotterdam
at a rate of knots. At
Dordrecht
the
monsoon increased to biblical proportions, but our schedule meant that there
was no time to skulk inside. Instead we were
forced to discover Festina’s top speed under engine as
we more or less planed towards a bridge which looked as though it would close
at any moment. We made it by a whisker,
and as we went through it closed behind us, stopping the remaining half of the
flotilla in its tracks. Breathing a sigh
of relief we carried on to
Dordrecht
, where we had two hours
to wait for yet another railway bridge. To the harbourmaster’s dismay we shot under another almost-closing
bridge (a manoeuvre that was fast becoming a force of habit)… into the wrong
marina! Here we had to wait guiltily until the bridge would let us out
again. With the heater on inside and
having barely stopped since Tuesday, it was very tempting to stay the night and
relax in one of
Dordrecht
’s many cafés, but a quick glance at the chart showed us
that we still had 40 miles to go to get to
Vlissingen
by the
following evening.
There were by now only two of the many boats we had come through the
canals with remaining. It was with some
relief that we found ourselves in (relatively) open water once more as we made
our way to
Willemstad
,
where we arrived fairly late.
With 35 Miles to go, we had to have another early start. The bridge over the lock into the Volkerak was at 18.4 metres (Festina’s mast we had measured at 18.5), and so we had a nerve-racking start to our last
day. Luckily the water level in the lock went down
before we had to go underneath the bridge, and once through we breathed a sigh
of relief and were able to sail for the first time in days. This was short-lived, however, as the wind
came ahead as we were going through a narrow channel. The next bridge was even lower than the
previous one, at 18.3 metres, and another stressful 15 minutes passed before we
were clear, fortunately with the wind instruments intact! Once in the Oosterschelde,
the wind increased to 25 knots and it started to rain and hail alternately
until we were able to bear away for the lock into the Veerse Meer, surfing downwind in 20 knots of hail.
The Veerse Meer is
a lovely area, but unfortunately the driving rain meant that
we were unable to sail slowly through admiring it, so once again we dripped
through in full oilskins until we reached Veere and
the entrance to the Kanaal door
Walcheren
, where we could finally feel that we
were nearly there. We stopped off
halfway to
Vlissingen
at Middelburg, a lovely town where we did some
shopping and half hoped to hear news that Philip’s flight had been cancelled so
that we could stop the night, relax and sleep. However, we heard nothing and so carried on for the last leg to
Vlissingen
,
once more in torrential rain, eating in shifts to keep the food dry! Four bridges later it was a weary, but
relieved crew that tied up in
Vlissingen
for a few hours before
Philip rejoined us for the ‘last push’ home.
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