Netherlands/Germany Trip - Harlingen      5th June:

    A quick shower in the morning, and we were soon off to cross the Waddenzee to Harlingen. We were joined by a gaggle of yachts plus a few training ships.
    A fair wind swept the sea, and the flotilla took full advantage of it, like a pack of hounds they raced off, all desperate to become leader of the pack. It was literally a three hour race through the narrow winding channels, with periodic scatterings as the ferries carved a furrow right through the middle of them. Terns hovered above crying, "Why are these fools racing like this?", before they swooped down for another fish. Even a seal popped his head up to blink at the spectacle.

The Race from Vlieland to Harlingen

    While we tried to hold our own against these boy racers, Rex spotted we had lost our flagstaff and ensign overboard. Perhaps the wood had been weakened, and a sudden gust just wrenched it away. Harlingen soon came into focus, and then we were entering the outer harbour. A German boat was still determined to overtake us; a national trait I think to be first in the queue, but Rex cut right in front of him. Curses emanated from the German vessel.
    Passing through the Tsjerk Hiddessluizen and into the Van Harinxmakanaal, we soon found ourselves in the HWSV marina again with many other boats. The only berth Frank, the harbour master, could offer us was by the waste pump-out machine, a little out of the way, but nevertheless welcome.
    Frank had an appointment, so he advised we pay him after a couple of hours or so. "Excuse me, is there a chandler in town?" I asked a Dutch sailor in the marina. He emerged from his cabin beaming with a twinkle in his eye and a little laugh. "Our flagstaff is floating in the Waddenzee." He smiled from ear to ear, "There is one at the top end of Voorstraat, near the bridge. They will have one." "And will they have a British ensign too?" I asked jokingly. He laughed, "Perhaps not."

Zoutsloot

    We wandered into town via Zoutsloot (literally "salt ditch"). An old chap ambled up to us in this street, and explained how he had been employed as a top civil servant for many years without knowing what he was doing, and without really working. Was he worth his salt I asked myself. Zoutsloot's name was derived from the salt industry, important to Harlingen for many centuries. The salt was used for pickling meat, fish, and vegetables. Salt was also needed for dying fabrics from Harlingen's weaving mills. Most salt refineries were located in this neighbourhood. Street names, such as Westerkeetstraat, Oosterkeetstraat, Zoutsloot, and Zoutstraat, still refer to this past. There used to be a discharge channel on the seawall side of the Zoutsloot. The discovery of salt in Twente caused the salt industry in Harlingen to disappear. Incidentally, one of the punishments for criminals in Harlingen consisted of making them stand in a pickling barrel, a large container filled with salt water, for extended periods of time. The neighbourhood was considerably neglected in the first half of the 20th century, and many houses became decrepit. In 1964, the butter manufacturer Hein Buisman from Leeuwarden created the Hein Buisman Foundation. This foundation has since then restored many houses in Harlingen. The house at 43 Zoutsloot was the first house to be restored by the foundation.
    We found the chandler where there was a flagstaff of almost the correct size, but we could only buy a British courtesy flag. "I don't think you'll be able to buy a British ensign in the Netherlands," said the chandler. Rex is like a child in a sweet shop when he is in a chandlers, he bought another chart.
    As a jubilant Rex and I walked back to the boat, I noticed an advert for an art exhibition in the museum. Once, back and I was paying Frank, I commented about the exhibition. "I spent two years working for Christies," he told me. "In London?" I asked. "No, they had a branch in Amsterdam. I used to handle very expensive paintings, and hung them up for the photographers. It was a fun time. I met the directors and other officials, plus all the young female art students who worked there part time. I really enjoyed my time there." "So what made you want to leave it?" I enquired. "I was laid off," he continued. "About fifty of us worked there, and the number was reduced to twenty. Now there are only four, whose sole job is to wrap and box paintings up and dispatch them to main Christies centres."
    Once I had whittled the flagstaff down to the correct shape for its metallic holder on the transom, we headed off into town to the art exhibition at the museum. I found the exhibition a little disappointing, but I soon forgot that while we sipped coffee at a streetside cafe, people watching.
    Rex spotted a shop where he could buy cigarettes; he just couldn't resist passing by without a purchase. He returned with his purchases like a jubilant schoolboy. The woman assistant who served him recognised him from two years ago when we were cooped up here for two weeks. Good grief, he must have been their best customer. She even threw in a free lighter with his purchase.

Plaques Recording Jews Who Had Lived in a Building Before Being Led Away by the Nazis

    In the evening, on our way to 't Lichtboei, we passed a building that had two small plaques laid into the pavement just before its door. The plaques presented details of Jews who had lived in that building during the Second World War, and had been led away from the building to their fate.
    't Lichtboei is a favourite haunt, a charming pub where we got to know the locals well. The woman who served us seemed to have a Geordie twang. "Are you speaking Geordie?" I asked. "No, Scottish," she replies. "I spent ten years in Scotland," she continued, deliberately adding an enhanced Scottish accent. The woman had also sailed extensively down the Great Glen and amongst the Scottish Islands.
    As we sat outside sipping a beer and putting the world to rights, a voice called out, "Dooi!" Then a woman came up and greeted Rex with a face full of smiles. "Nice to see you again!" she piped up. Rex got up and shook hands with her, and soon the two were nattering together in Dutch. When she prised herself away from Rex, he told me it was the lady who had served him in the tobacconists.
    We ate well in the Eetcafe Nooitgedagt restaurant again, a perfect way to end the day.