The beauty (and the paradox) of life with boats in the Netherlands

Last week, I wrote about the downsides of living on board, and came to the conclusion that there really aren't any. Not that I can think of, anyway. The only problem, it turned out, was winter.

Winter on the Vereeniging

But, as one of my friends and commenters mentioned, it's not even winter itself that's the downside, it's where we live in winter that's the problem: the Netherlands. And this got me thinking. Where else could I live on a barge all year round and not have to experience the winter chills? After wracking my brains, I couldn't honestly think of anywhere other than western Europe where living aboard is the norm unless you're in the commercial transport business. And of all European countries, the Netherlands is where liveaboard barges and boats proliferate the most.

Lying abreast a liveaboard barge in Cambrai
northern France

This, of course, means it's much easier to live on a boat here than it is elsewhere. I hasten to add that I don't include the UK in this comparison; they have their own canal boat system, which is totally different from ours. However, more even than in Belgium, France and Germany (where there are also many liveaboards), the Dutch are used to accommodating those of us who like life afloat, so much so there are even floating homes that are not actually barges. They're called woonarken and look more like mobile homes on the water, but they're hugely popular and fetch very high prices if you ever want to buy one with a mooring. Many of the cities, Amsterdam included, have miles of canals lined with these static, floating houses and that's quite apart from the harbours and marinas that house barges like mine.

Houseboats and woonarken in Amsterdam
(The woonark is beyond the second barge)

I would also imagine there are more marinas here in the Netherlands than there are in the rest of Europe too, and definitely more historic harbours for traditional barges and classic boats like ours. What this means is that almost everywhere we go, we can wander along quaysides, walk around marinas and visit harbours knowing there are likely to be boats on which people live. I don't think this is anything like as widespread in our neighbouring countries, do you? 

So, there's the paradox of the whole situation. If we want the (perceived) freedom of having a home we can take with us when we want to move, then we're limited as to where we can actually go and live. Taking that a step further, we're only really free to live this life in countries that have winters with a capital W. And even then, the choices are pretty limited unless you live in the Netherlands. 

Liveaboard boats everywhere we go

That brings me to another point. I love a good paradox and the restrictions on the freedom to live aboard are a perfect example. For instance, despite it being an accepted way of life in Holland, you can't just park your barge anywhere you like; you have to have an authorised mooring, and these are hard to come by. Added to that, there are all sorts of rules to be complied with that you don't have in a house. 

We have to have annual fire extinguisher inspections, and those who have gas on board have to have their installations checked regularly as well. Then there's the lift-outs for insurance inspections which are obligatory every six years (you don't have those for a house either!), while barges longer than 20 metres need to undergo quite extensive modifications for their cruising certificates (all compulsory). They're also obliged to have onboard electronic positioning systems so they can be seen and tracked wherever they go. And yet, ironically, it still feels like freedom, a feeling intensified when we cast off the ropes and say goodbye to the land.

Barges over 20 metres have to have extensive modifications

Koos and I are already busy preparing to do just that, hopefully this coming summer. I've been sanding and varnishing skylights and name boards, as well as planning a refurbishment of the interior of our Hennie H. We're also hoping to do a trip on the Vereeniging and the thought of that magical feeling when we reverse out of our mooring is what keeps the sense of freedom alive. That's real liberation. Normal life as we live it in the winter months is just enduring winter under different circumstances from land-based folk, and I love the circumstances, if not the winter. But the real thrill is when we throw off the ropes and go – armed with a stack of paperwork, certificates and permits, of course.

Have a good week allemaal. Keep healthy and keep busy and look after yourselves.

Our own harbour in Rotterdam

The downsides of onboard life?

I've posed the title to this post as a kind of question because it's something I'm thinking about at the moment while writing a piece about living in the Netherlands and what the challenges and charms of living here have been. And when I say I'm thinking about it, that's not quite true, because my mind's gone blank. I can come up with, and have written about, all the upsides of life on board, but for me it's hard to contemplate negatives when I have embraced the lifestyle so wholeheartedly.

Oude Haven, Rotterdam

Admittedly, I don't live on board all the time these days. I've never been a city person, so as soon as I could, I found a weekend getaway. At first, that was the barge in Brussels, but since 2007, it's been the crumbly cottage in Zeeland, and for the past ten months, I've been there more than in Rotterdam, so the balance has changed somewhat. Being rural and quite remote, Zeeland has given us space to breathe during Corona time. I also have a better internet connection there, which has been important for conducting online lessons. But I'm still in Rotterdam for some part of every week, and hope that will increase in the coming months as things settle (fingers crossed!)

Space to breathe in Zeeland

In a sense, then, living in an inner-city harbour is a downside, but it's not a negative of life on a boat as such. So what are the real drawbacks?

I think part of it depends on the kind of boat you have. Mine is classified as a monument and so I can't change its outer profile. This means I can't have windows in the sides as it wouldn't comply with the authenticity requirements. It also means it can be rather dark in winter when I have to keep the hatch closed. With the ceiling being low and little light coming in through the roof window, it can be a bit gloomy inside. But that's just my Vereeniging. On our holiday boat, the Hennie H, there are windows all round; it remains light and airy and I'd happily stay on board all year round if it were big enough.

The Hennie H has windows all around it

Okay, so cancel that one. What else is a downside? Well, maybe filling the water tanks and diesel tank during the winter? That can be a mission if it's raining and cold. I normally try and time it for a dry day at least, if not a sunny one. The routine itself is something I enjoy and is part of what makes onboard existence special, but it's definitely less fun when the wind is howling, the temperature is below zero or the rain is lashing down. Do you sense just a slight hint of understatement here?

A gloomy, wet day in the harbour

There's also the issue of the floor being cold in winter. Because I don't have insulation or underfloor heating (which many more luxurious barges have), I can walk around in a tee-shirt inside when the heater is on; my upper half is toasty warm, but I always need thick socks and furry boots on my feet. The floor never warms up. Ever.

My winter foot warmers

So what else is a minpunt? (as the Dutch would say). Well, living on a tidal river certainly has its plus sides for sure; I like the rhythms of the tides and the life they bring to the water. However, it can be tricky when you want to transport heavy stuff onto the boat. If the water is very high, it means carrying things up a steep ramp from the quay and then having to get down onto the deck from an angle – not handy if you're clutching a big box and can't see where you're going. 

High water on the terraces
(Photo borrowed from Picuki.com)

Many's the time I've had to put my load down on the gangplank, climb over or shuffle round it, step back onto the deck (hoping my feet will land and not slide out from under me) and then haul said box up over the edge and down again, trusting that we, the box and me, won't end up in an awkward, slightly embarassing horizontal embrace; after all, it's where the verb 'to deck' someone came from, I'm sure. If you bear in mind the gangplank is only about 50cm wide and I wear boots with dinner plate souls, it's the boaty version of a tightrope. By the way, it's even more fun when the tide is out and the water is very low, but I've written about that challenge before. Mount Eiger comes to mind when climbing up to the quay. Generally speaking, though, these extremes only happen in winter.

Extreme low water in the Oude Haven

The only other downside I can think of is when it rains heavily. The noise on the hatches can be deafening. I don't like it much then because not only am I shut into the gloom with everything closed, the drumming of the raindrops can make me feel quite claustrophobic. However, this is mostly a winter problem too, as (of course) is snow and ice on the deck, which can be very unnerving. Skating down to my entrance hatch is not my idea of fun, especially if it's on my rear end.

So, when it comes down to it, it's not the boat that's the problem, is it? It's winter. Everyone one of my downsides is related to that most unfavourable of seasons, which brings me back to my question: what are the downsides of living on board? Well, none, actually ... However, if we could only banish winter...

Happy new year, allemaal, keep healthy, keep busy and above all, keep visiting my blog. I enjoy your company and am ever grateful for the interest, comments and kindness I've received here over the years.

A look back on my 2020 in words and pictures

Oh well, I didn't manage that other post before Christmas, but at least this one is before the new year...just! So before I forget completely, I hope you've all had the best Christmas possible in the circumstances and that 2021 will bring a much brighter year with a real hope of recovery.

On that note, it's been a tough one, hasn't it? I can only imagine the hardship some people are suffering and I am forever grateful I work in education, which has kept going in spite of the universities and schools closing. As a freelancer, things could have turned out badly for me, but I am fortunate I was able to continue with all my teaching online, and in fact was even swamped with work before the summer break. 

Then in the autumn, during that brief calm before the recent resurgence of the storm, I had a mix of face-to-face and online courses, which also kept me very busy. But for those in the hospitality and entertainment industries, it's been crippling. No work means no income and these are people with mortgages to pay; some are faced with losing their homes, which is devastating for them. My heart goes out to them all as well as those who have lost loved ones or whose health has been damaged by the virus.

Like everyone, though, we've also missed the travel possibilities. Koos has felt this deprivation particularly as he would normally have been away to Poland and Moldova about three times during the year. However, we've been much less restricted within our own country than many in other parts of Europe. Firstly, we managed a holiday in Portugal in January before Mr Corona swept into Europe creating havoc for us all. But since then, I haven't ever been prevented from going up and down between my cottage in Zeeland and my Vereeniging in Rotterdam, not even when things were at their worst in April. 

This relative freedom has been a relief given that we have two boats a hundred and fifty kilometres apart and they both need constant vigilance. The Vereeniging is my work base as well, so it was important for me to be able to commute and some of you might remember I did several posts about going to and fro, up and down, there and back, hither and thither...well, you get the idea. At one point I felt that was all I was doing.

But I think that being long-term boat dwellers means we are used to keeping to ourselves more than most people, so self isolation hasn't been much of a problem for us. I drove up to the city, parked my car, cycled to the boat and to work and often didn't meet another soul. I even took my food with me much of the time. On the other hand, I was also able to keep seeing my daughters, albeit it only outside most of the time. We got together while I had my barge on the slipway, for outdoor birthday picnics and dog walks. When that wasn't possible, I sat in my car outside my younger daughter's house and we chatted on the phone while waving to each other through the window.

So in the greater scheme of things, we've been blessed and are very grateful for it. Neither of us has been unwell at all, and haven't had so much as a cold (cross fingers), so we'll keep downing our vitamins and taking our regulation exercise – not so much fun in these icy winds, but needs must. The worst that's hit us recently is Storm Bella, whose untimely visit was decidedly unwelcome immediately after Christmas, but even then, she walloped poor England much more than us. My sister lives in the Bedford area and sent me photos of all the flooding, none of which we had. It must have been miserable for people whose homes were in the path of the rising rivers. Awful, in fact, after the war of attrition the virus has waged on us.

So, I really haven't got anything to complain about, have I? It's humbling to look back and see how much we have to be thankful for after this strange 'year of the pandemic'. On that note, then, I'll count my blessings, thank my lucky stars and wish all of you a happy New Year's Eve with a wish for better things to come during 2021. 

Here are a few photos of the sunnier moments our 2020 year in the order of the months that I took them.

January

March

April

A zoom meeting with my grandpup
before any kind of get together was possible

April

May

May (slipway time in Rotterdam)

Going down the slipway

My geraniums in June

June at the local gliding airstrip

July

August

September

October

November, the Hennie Ha's first trip out

November

December

Have a good one allemaal. Here's Koos in his Christmas outfit and facemask on: the face of 2020 past. See you all next year!

The artistic skipper

Some readers of this blog will already know that Koos, my partner, is the son of a commercial barge skipper and that it was his childhood on the waterways that inspired me to write my novel, The Skipper's Child, a story about a similar barge family. Now, although the influence his barge background had on my book was intentional, what I didn't know when I wrote it was that his father was artistic, a talent he must have passed to his son. After all, Koos's special photographic view on the world, especially that of old industry in eastern Europe has more than a few admirers. 

Anyway, going back to father Fernhout, it's not the usual idea one has of a skipper, is it? Well, not mine, anyway. I'd never have envisaged a barge owner sitting on deck with a sketchpad and pencil drawing the views around him, or making studies of birds and people. I don't know why, but it just doesn't fit my general image of the working barge world. As a result, you can imagine it came as a huge surprise to me when at one family birthday party, Koos's sister (who is ten years his senior) produced two sketchbooks full of charming pencil and charcoal drawings all done by their father.

I think even Koos had forgotten about them, but when going through the books, he realised some of the more elementary drawings were probably his own early artistic explorations. Hendricus Fernhout usually signed his drawings with distinctive initials and the date, but these were lacking on some of the pictures, suggesting he was only too ready to encourage his son.

Below are some of my favourites of the drawings and I hope you'll agree they are really lovely.

Maastricht in charcoal

The title here is 'filosoof' (philosopher) showing
the gentle humour that was characteristic of Hendricus

Rotterdam's Koningshavenbrug De Hef

The family's barge

Ijssel brug, Kampen

In some ways I wish I'd known about his artistic leanings when I wrote The Skipper's Child. It would have given my 'papa,' Hendrik Kornet, another dimension. But then it's also added to my inspiration for the next novel I want to write: a story that will be built around a young barge skipper during the war. I rather like the idea of a somewhat dreamy, idealistic and arty bargee, don't you? So maybe it's not such a bad thing I was ignorant of this aspect of his personality.

Lastly, I don't really like pushing my books on my blog here, but if anyone does happen to be interested in my novel, there's a link here if you'd like to take a look. It's very much a cat and mouse suspense story, but it's suited to all ages, from ten to...well, let's say plenty! 

Have a lovely weekend allemaal and I'll try and do another post before Christmas and fill it with good Christmas cheer.

Moving experiences

I'm struggling a little at the moment. There's so much to do and yet so little of real note to report that I'm sometimes hesitant to write another blog post when everything seems so kind of 'samey'.

This past month has been a particularly hectic work month and I've had little time to indulge in social interaction of any kind, let alone social media. In the meantime, we're scooting up and down between Zeeland and Rotterdam attending to two boats between my online lessons (in Zeeland) and my face-to-face classes (in Rotterdam and Dordrecht). 

In Rotterdam, the council decided to replace the mooring poles in our harbour with new ones, so several of us had to move from our usual positions. Such upheavals are always inconvenient, but in a way, they also give us a change of scene which can be refreshing. Even having the light coming in from a different angle makes a difference... that's if the sun shines at all. For our part, we had to move the Vereeniging to the other side of the harbour and it was lovely to see her in a different setting.

The only downsides were firstly that the internet connection was almost non-existent and very erratic, and the second was the discovery that the stern gland was leaking, something that happens if you only start the engine and move once in a while. The solution for the first problem hasn't been solved as yet, and as for the leaky gland, Koos has tightened it and I've mopped up all the water that came through, but we'll have to see what happens next week when we move back again. There's always something with boats, especially very elderly ones.

Back in Zeeland again, it's become very cold but yesterday, Koos and I worked on the Hennie H. The cooling system is still a not-quite-resolved issue, but Koos is getting there. As for me, I cut out a section of the interior wooden panelling that was totally rotten as a consequence of a leaking window. I'm happy that I've started on that because it's given me a winter project to occupy me and take my mind of the fact we won't be going to Portugal in January as planned.

Which brings me to the sad fact that due to the current situation with COv (as I call it), the airlines aren't getting the numbers they need to fill the flights. We'd booked to leave from Rotterdam on January the 14th on a flight to Faro. Last week, Transavia wrote and informed me they'd cancelled that flight and offered me an alternative a day earlier from Amsterdam. Well, there were three problems with that: my work commitments, the extra travel time to Amsterdam and the extra night's accommodation in Portugal. And this was just the beginning, I'm sure. When Koos booked to go to Bulgaria in October, they changed his flight three times before he eventually decided it was too much, especially with the quarantine requirements. With that as history, we decided it would be best just to cancel and postpone the trip until later. Sun therapy will have to find another form this year, but hopefully we can go a bit later when the situation has settled. 

What else is there? Well, as they say, little things please little minds. At our crumbly cottage we have a new neighbour. The Polish family who moved in earlier in the year moved out again at the end of August, finally realising that five people in a one person cottage was really beyond reasonable squeezing point. The little house remained empty for a few months, but has recently been let to a single woman. All well and good and much more suited to the size of the house... at least, that's what we thought anyway.

We don't know her yet at all, so this is absolutely no reflection on her character or person but we've been totally fascinated by the amount of stuff she has moved into this tiny house. It reminds me of Mary Poppins' handbag, except it's all been going in, not coming out. Firstly, there were numerous small van loads of boxes and bags, and I mean numerous – dozens, in fact; our other neighbour has been helping her (still is) and for a time he was beginning to bear a strong resemblance to an ant as he scurried to and fro. Then followed a big van with furniture and still more small van loads; the ant was back with friends. Well, we thought it would end there, but for the past couple of weekends, more and more stuff has arrived in a seemingly endless stream and even today when she finally moved in, there were still bags and boxes being carried in. Just as a joke, Koos threatened to go and ask her when her real furniture was going to arrive.

It's hard to fathom where it's all going to go and I hope that she can fit herself in between her mountains of belongings. And how did they get everything up the stairs, which are so narrow and steep, our previous neighbour didn’t even use the bedroom? I’m still playing with that puzzle. Luckily, the new tenant is tall and slim, so she should be able to slip between the gaps easily enough, but it's given us some good entertainment value. But what is it about this tiny house that attracts people to cram it full to the gunwales? We'll have to wait and see, but for now, her move has made all of ours look modest in the extreme.

Have a good week allemaal. Here are some photos of yesterday's brief visit by the sun during our afternoon walk.

Flamingos and flowers

Well, here it is. Another two weeks since I last posted a blog. The speed at which the time seems to fly past is really quite phenomenal. Admittedly, work is taking up much of my time at the moment. I wish I could say I'd been somewhere interesting, or even cycled somewhere new. But my pedalling activities have ground to a slushy halt because of the rain and wind we've been having since last weekend. I'm not a stoic when it comes to two wheels – not anymore, although time was when I'd cycle through rain, wind and snow. Even I find that hard to believe now, but it's true. 

The only things I can really report on are somewhat random. One thing I forgot (I think) to mention last time was that one of my daughters had her birthday at the end of October. However, because it was just after increased restrictions came in and we couldn't have an indoor party, we decided to have a picnic. Just my two girls and me. It was actually great. Despite being windy and blustery, the three of us met at a harbour in Zeeland close to a spot where flamingos gather. Yes, I did say flamingos, and no, they aren't put there for show. They come to Battenoord Haven on the Grevelingenmeer every winter from October to April. Isn't that special?

There are three types of flamingos that gather near the harbour: European, Caribbean and Chilean flamingos, but so far I haven't found much about why they come from such different parts of the world to spend their winters here. The only explanation I've read is that the marine life in this enclosed 'sea' must be very much to their taste. Apparently they haven't always been there, though. Earlier they spent their winters in other Zeeland locations but it seems Battenoord on the Grevelingenmeer has been their winter home for several years now. Here's a post about them. It's in Dutch but can be translated quite effectively by Google Translate.

Photo thanks to VVV Zeeland

When we walked along the dike from the harbour, we could see the flock standing in the water, but they were quite far out so it was more like a pink blur – well, it is if you have my dodgy sight. Even so, it was quite a thrill to be able to catch sight of them. 

A lovely picnic with my girls

And it was a memorable and special way to celebrate a birthday. The food was laid on largely by my other daughter, who loves baking as the goodies on the table demonstrate. She'd also bought these very pretty tea cups and saucers from a charity shop so we could drink our thermos coffee in style. It was all really lovely, and of course the dogs came too.

Despite the wind and weathering we've been suffering with lately, it's been quite mild so my geraniums at the crumbly cottage are still in fine fettle and flowering enthusiastically. To add to their efforts at providing us with good cheer, the little chrysanthemums that we had on the roof of the Hennie H in 2017 are still going strong and have come into flower for the third year running. They give a wonderful burst of colour before everything dies off for the winter. Apologies for the fuzzy photo (a bit like my sight), but you can get a Val's eye view of what I mean below.

Geraniums and Chrysanthemums abound

Last but not least (I hope), I managed to roll a layer of green paint on the Hennie H's hull before the rain started to fall in earnest. This is about as pretty as she'll get this year, and again, distance helps. Don't look too closely, in other words, but we'll still be working on her as soon as the weather permits.

Clean and green again

I'm sure there are other things I should be adding to this post, but I think I'd best stop here and leave you with a couple of photos I snapped of the one sunny day we've had this past week or so. It gave us the chance to get out for a walk along the estuary...a wonderful opportunity to stretch our eyes.

 Have a good week allemaal. Stay well and keep taking those vitamins!