Canals are for cruising, rivers for watching

My Vereeniging was built as a delivery vessel for the smaller waterways of inland Holland - specifically for the Oude Rijn, which in the area of Utrecht is narrow and winding, and in fact is the original course of the Rhine in this part of the world. Its now larger and more important successor is a re-routing of that waterway, widened and deepened to accommodate the heavy traffic that it now bears across the continent from East to West and vice versa.

In the days when the Vereeniging was used for transporting goods, it pottered along the Oude Rijn and the Vecht rivers, carrying goods from one town to the next, very much as a local delivery service would do today by road. Indeed it was in use up until the 1960's, but then road transport took over as faster and more economical, and so my little barge was put aside by the family firm that owned it. It was only at the end of the 1990's that they finally agreed to sell what was now a rotting hulk to the old boy from whom I bought it. This remarkable old man set about restoring it to what it was in the days of its cargo carrying glory, and when I eventually bought it from him in 2001, the exterior had been substantially if not sufficiently restored (as I was to find out later).

Since I've had it, though, there's one thing I've learnt through harsh experience. The Vereeniging does not like faring the big waters, and as a result, neither do I. It is long and narrow with a flat bottom that causes it to roll like a porpoise on the swell, and if the waves break over it too strongly, then water gets in. I've partially cured that risk now by having steel welded under the side panels which used to be completely removable, but even now, water could still get in between the sides and the roof hatches. It has always been a canal boat, and it always will be, and for me, these smaller waterways, passing through quiet rural scenery, are what I love the most.

Nevertheless, I live in a city dominated by its river - the Nieuwe Maas - a magnificent river that I never fail to enjoy. I walk a length of it every day with Sindy, and the sight of heavily laden barges ploughing deep through the channels and massive container carriers steaming alongside hefty tugs and push barges never fails to fascinate me. The light can change in a second and you see the weather rolling in from the west or the sun breaking through towering clouds over the water. I have taken many many photos of the Nieuwe Maas myself, but none so breathtaking as this one of Koos's that I've published here. For me it sums up the drama, the magnificence and the beauty of the Maas. I maybe a canal cruiser by choice, but for sheer inspiration, it is this river that I am drawn to daily and irresistibly.

Life on a Barge - romantic or just hard work?

Thanks to friend Marcel for this great angle on the Vereeniging

I often get comments from new acquaintances about living on a barge. They see it as a mixture of extreme eccentricity and dreamlike romanticism. Quite often too, they regard me personally as some kind of oddity and question my sanity, while simultaneously being fascinated by the practical aspects of how we barge owners live. And why on earth would a woman from South Africa come to Holland and live on an ancient binnenvaartschip anyway?

It's actually quite simple really. Life on a barge is the realisation of a desire to retain an illusion of freedom. We aren't really free. Not physically at any rate. We cannot just throw off the ropes and move to any other spot we choose. We have to apply for permission to move to a new mooring, and such permission isn't always easy to come by. Still, we can moor up in other places and other towns for short periods of time without a problem, and it most definitely is very special to be able to go on holiday and take your house with you. Quite apart from this, living on a boat is like having your own island. It is 'own ground' of a special sort, and there is no troublesome noise from neighbours..on a barge, you just don't hear them. Okay, the midnight revellers in the bars and cafes are another story, not to mention being a real pain, but noisy neighbours not.

I wouldn't say life itself is all that romantic. A lot of it is plain hard work. For instance, you can't take anything for granted, even your ability to stay afloat! We have to fill water tanks every week; to fetch heating fuel and to take washing to the mini laundromat at the yard. We have to take our barges out of the water every two years to scrape the foul smelling mussels off the bottom, check for thin patches, do some welding on any deterioration and paint the bottom again with the evil smelling black goo that is now a substitute for the old tar that used to be used. Then every summer, there is the need to scrape, paint and varnish every other surface of the boat. Not that we ever manage to finish this, given the uncooperative climate in which we live.

In the winter, the decks get frozen over, so climbing on and off board can be hazardous (and hilarious), especially if there's an east wind when the tide is out and the water in the harbour is very low. It's a bit like scrabbling clumsily up the Eiger to get onto land, quite apart from feeling like a pack animal as you cart heavy school bags laden with student assignments and books on and off the ship. I have stopped wearing skirts and heeled shoes. It's just not worth the hassle or the indignity when your spiked heels gets stuck between the mesh of the gangplank.

On the other hand, the incredible sense of liberation when you cast off the ropes and your home floats free of the harbour wall - that is indescribable. Well almost. There is also the joy of listening to the water slap against the hull as you cruise along silent canals with the sun setting behind trees already black from the dusk. Then, there is the sense of excitement as you tie up in a strange place, but go inside where everything is still home. All of this, including the drudgery, is why I still keep living on my barge, but most of all, it's because I love its charming sleek lines and its old fashioned grace, and I have put so much of my energy and my self into this century old hull that I could no more think of giving it up than of giving up life!

Not forgetting the Hennie H

Update: Saturday 1 November



As promised below, here is a pic of the Hennie H at its mooring in Sas van Gent on the Dutch/Belgium border. Well, the weather and an unexpected Belgian public holiday have put paid to Koos's hopes of fixing the steering as when he went to buy the parts at the local hardware store in Zelzate, he found the whole town closed. I suppose they are celebrating All Souls or something like that? Anyway, the weather is also horrible today and I got very cold and just a bit grumpy while we were pulling our little barge into its proper and official place. Maybe tomorrow will bring some warmth and sun....








This past week Maryssa and I have been on our own in Rotterdam, because Koos has been in Zeeland investigating the steering problem on the Hennie H that so nearly could have been a disaster when he was crossing the Westerschelde.

Having now arrived in Zeeland myself for the weekend, Koos tells me that there is a good chance it will all be fixed tomorrow after we've moved the little Snik to its new official mooring. He seems to think it won't be too difficult, which will be great as I've been looking forward to dawn raids and incursions into Belgium to spice up the colder months. The autumn colours are spectacular at the moment and it would be so lovely to view them all from the water, which is of course what we bought the HH for in the first place. I will post some pictures of the HH at its new home tomorrow, but for now, here are a few that our friend Jan took just before we left Rotterdam to bring it south. Koos and Bruce were testing the little barge in the Leuvehaven where Bruce and Jan live, so Jan snapped these from their wheelhouse. Nice, hey?

Watery Ways gets a boost

The Oude Haven when I first lived there

Last Tuesday I was invited to give another talk about my books and writing, so this time I chose to focus on Watery Ways. The talk was at ANCOR, which sounds very grand but is just the name for the American Netherlands club of Rotterdam. The funny thing is that nearly half the people there were Dutch and not American at all. In any event, thanks to Hazel, the lovely English coordinator who organised it all!

In any event, it went down very well, and my Jodie was there doing a grand job of being my 'rent a laugh'. I explained how I'd come to write the book after my first year as a water dweller had proved to be so eventful. I then read a section of the chapter in which I describe trying to make a special stairway for my arthritic dogs to assist their passages in and out of the Hoop's roef - the Hoop being the barge on which I was living at the time. Jodie, bless her, found it so amusing all over again and was crying with laughter so convincingly that the rest of the audience were laughing with her too.

I think I'll have to give her an official cheer leading job....



It was good to go back and read some of those stories again, and even better to share the whole writing and publishing experience with some other people. Being a small group, I didn't sell all that many books, as I don't think they'd been primed about that possibility, but what does seem possible is that more talks could come out of it.

The pictures I am showing here are scans of the Hoop. It was such a beautiful barge, and I still wish I could have bought it for myself, but then again, I wouldn't have bought the Vereeniging, and that was meant to be. Even more importantly I wouldn't have the material for the sequel to Watery Ways, which is churning around in my head as I write...

Happy Travels Philip!

The video clip below is one that Koos made of our dear friend Philip last year. To me, it is the essence of this very special man who has been one of the truest, but least demanding friends I have known in my life.

This last Sunday, Philip left the harbour for an extended trip down the waterways of Holland and Belgium and into France where he intends to spend several months, if not a year or more. It has been his dream for as long as I can remember, and despite all the sceptics, he has finally embarked on his travels, along with Joop his little jack Russel-cross, and Bram, his cat with no tail. We shall all miss him. He has been so much part of the colour of our life that the harbour will seem a greyer place without him.

The boat in the clip is not the one he is travelling on! I can just imagine you all picturing him folding himself into this tiny space...no, this is just his 'toy' albeit a useful one, and his own, rather beautiful barge is about 24 metres long and 4.5 metres wide with plenty of living space in the hold. I'm sure he will be very comfortable there with Joop and Bram, as he has recently finished the interior and it looks stunning from the photos Koos took of it.

To quote what I wrote in my book Watery Ways "Philip is distinguished by his almost ever present smile. It is wide and dominated by very white teeth. The rest of him varies from dark to black depending on how much welding he has been doing when you happen to bump into him." Well, the film clip and the photo here bear me out forcibly, don't they?

Philip has started a blog of his own, so hopefully it will keep us up to date on his adventures....but since he is known rather more for his kindness and generosity than for his good memory and reliability, we shall see, won't we?

All I would really like to say here is to wish him a wonderful journey and the fulfilment of the dream that he is finally following.

The Ducks have a great view

This afternoon, Maryssa and I decided to blow the cobwebs out of our hair and take the rowing boat out for a run with the ducks and swans. We left the outboard motor on board and with a pair of paddles, ploughed our way through the harbours against the current, which was rushing in at almost obscene speed, and swirling round the piers of the bridges for all the world like white water rapids! All I can say is that I've gained a greater appreciation for our water borne feathered friends - those ducks must have really strong legs, as it was unbelievably hard work.

Still, we really enjoyed ourselves and I took some snaps of some of the barges in the harbour from a very different angle. This is pretty much how the ducks see our floating homes, and I must say, it's quite impressive. We don't often see them ourselves from this angle and they look much larger and more imposing from the bottom up so to speak...Here is a link to the full slideshow

Our neighbouring village

 

 I am hopelessly busy at work at the moment and have had no time to attend to my Vereeniging, which isn't a good feeling. Still, I like to keep my blog alive, so I thought I would say something about our neighbouring floating village in the Leuvehaven. 

This is the main part of the maritime museum in Rotterdam, and mostly the barges on display are empty exhibits of the country's inland waterways history. However, this is also where our friends Bruce and Jan have their beautiful Belgian spits (see last pic), along with several spitsen of a similar style. Spitsen are the Belgian and Dutch versions of the standard French peniche which determined the size of the Freynicet locks and canals in France.

The Levenhaven harbour itself is always lively, even if it is a museum, as the water taxis zoom in and out like demented flies, and commercial barges often find a place here to stop over and rest awhile. With its old style cranes and historic tug boats, it is always a pleasure to walk around the perimeter and watch the activity that goes on here. It is a major tourist attraction in the city, but my favourite time to follow my harbour 'circuit' is early in the morning when everything is waking up. Then the harbour has its own dynamic and you can almost feel the flavour of the days gone by when these were the real docks of Rotterdam, full of shipping from all over Europe. All photos courtesy of my sister and brother in law, Chris and Toots Bland

The boats lie down at Lillo

Last Monday, on the way back from Zeeland, Koos and I stopped for a cup of coffee. Nothing strange in this, but what was unusual was where we stopped.

Surrounded by industry and dockland, and tucked inside a tiny fortified oasis, there is Lillo. A lovely gem of a village, largely populated by artists and craftsmen, it exists in its own bubble of tranquillity within the massive complex of the port of Antwerp. It isn't easy to find, despite signposts off the highway, but once you enter its environs, you are struck by its remoteness, its green lushness and its quaint and historic charm.

Lillo also has a small harbour for pleasure craft. The interesting thing, though, is that because the harbour is on the River Scheldt (Schelde over here), it is completely tidal, so at low water, it is empty and all the boats simply sit on the mud flats - not handy if you happen to want to go out for a jolly and you haven't checked the tides! I must say I love tidal reaches like this. There is something wonderfully untamed about mud flats, and waders and great jetties standing sentry with only the rippled sands around them. Once again, the only camera I had with me was in my phone, but it served quite well on this occasion, don't you agree?