Hindeloopen is one of those antique Dutch villages, as cute as its name, that Disneyland might make a cheap replica of for snap-happy tourists to walk around in some incongruous southern California setting. Only this small town on the east side of the IJsellmeer is the real deal – and we’re lucky to be on this side of the busy tourist season (which only goes for the two warmest months of the year, July and August) so the number of gawking tourists – like ourselves – pointing their phones at every sweet little curved wooden bridge and basket of petunias reflecting in the tranquilly meandering canals are minimal.

We skip the Covid tests today (yesterday mine was still positive, Johan still negative) and since we’re feeling better and energized by the cloudless blue sky, we hop on our bikes for a day trip down the coast. On the way, we angle through a Dutch caravan park, well-ordered rows of neatly hedged cubicles where eight or ten campers park side-by-side according to assigned numbers, nice and close together, like their houses back home. We park our bikes atop a dune and while Johan watches the kite-surfers taking advantage of a windy day, I take in some qigong practice, which went a bit dormant during my period of illness.

We arrive in Stavoren around lunchtime but I’ve confiscated the last two rolls from breakfast, along with the remaining slices of cheese, salami and cucumber, so we sit on a grassy knoll overlooking the water to eat a “Dutch Lunch,” bikes parked appropriately close by. Stavoren lacks the charm of Hindeloopen, but is a busy port for sailboats and other yachts and we watch the locks let down half a dozen boats moving from the IJsellmeer to the lower inland canals.

We angle back through the country bike lanes to arrive back just at Hindeloopen in time for an afternoon beer. The local tavern has bench seats looking over the harbor and we sit for over an hour watching boats come and go and making up stories about the people we see languishing happily on the decks of their ships.

After a catnap back at the B&B we head out for dinner at a well-rated fish restaurant serving up the catch of the day from the local fishing boats. The outdoor patio overlooking the canal and the 17C. church is delightful in the early evening sunlight and we take our time with the 3 course meal. A last amble through the scenic little town and we end our day once again atop the dike, right on 10pm, watching the last sliver of the red sun sink behind the silhouette of the offshore windmills, their thin arms waving goodbye to the day.

Judging from the noise still emanating from Johan’s sinuses, we aren’t out of the woods yet. Still, our time is up at the Oosterland farmhouse. Riet and her husband Stef will come in later in the morning to deep clean away our sniffles and germs and make the apartment ready for their next guests, arriving later in the afternoon.

So we pack up and bike to the bus stop in Den Oever, where a free shuttle will take us across the Afsluitdijk. The legendary dike (which is technically a dam not a dike) is getting a facelift, two meters higher, and a reinforced wall on the windward side, made from mammoth Lego-like concrete blocks.

On the other side we walk through the new Afsluitdijk Wadden Center. An outside exhibit shows photographs of several places around the world which are suffering from the ravages of sea level rise, including Bangladesh, the South Sea Islands, Miami, Florida, and of course the Netherlands. The proactive high-tech (and expensive!) approach Holland is taking makes other countries protection measures look meager and pathetic, including Miami, which doesn’t really have a plan even though the projection is that 60% of its inhabitants will need to relocate by 2100.

Inside the center is a high-tech multi-media interactive display complete with an audio guide we can access through our own phones. The exhibit is interesting and educational, but an overload on our senses. In less than an hour we’re both feeling light-headed and slightly nauseous.

The dip down the east side of the Ijsselmeer is pleasant with only a few brief spits of rain. We arrive in Hindeloopen mid-afternoon and find a lovely café to eat some classic Dutch pannenkoeken. By the time we’re ready to check in to our B&B rain is falling heavily and consistently. We take our not-yet-quite-well bodies to bed for a good rest and warm-up.

“What do you think of the windmills?” Johan asks as we cycle the dike path on our way back from shopping in Hippolytushoef. The sun is just starting to shine, our bodies are somewhat stronger, and the wind feels good as it breezes past our faces.

He doesn’t mean the cute iconic wooden ones, with their quadrangle of plaited wooden wieken (blades) loosely covered in sheets of canvas to catch the wind, the giant girth of the mill covered in a womb of cozy thatch. So gezellig. No, he means the now pervasive steel pinnacles, same the world over, whipping their three thin straight arms round and round in a drone of mechanical monotony. “I don’t like ‘em,” I answer. A blight on the landscape. No character. Too industrial. But yeah, I get it. They’re saving the world – or at least trying to – and it’s better than mining and burning gas and coal. Right?

The thing about Holland, apart from its sub-aquatic position in the world, is the unique way it marries ancient and modern civilization, nature and technology, beauty and starkness. Whatever Holland was in ancient times bears little resemblance to the Netherlands of today. There's hardly any earth that hasn't been moved. From a house atop a small mound surrounded by a boggy marsh and prone to periodic inundation, the early Dutch started digging as means of survival. Gradually, day after day, year after year, generation after generation, they filled in the wetlands till their humpies became villages, towns, cities and eventually polders. But that wasn’t enough to keep the sea at bay so their earth-moving prowess turned to creating dikes, rims of earth and rock that circled their towns and blocked their views of the sea. At least they were protected.

Then came the windmill, clever Dutch devices to pump water along the canals that were invented to channel the excess water that comes with living on a boggy land. The Dutch windmill was never meant to generate electricity but to move water, eventually all the way back to the ocean where it gets pumped up and over the dike and dumped back into the sea. The iconic totem of Dutch civilization became an endearing trademark of the earnest and industrious low-landers the world over.

So it seems a shame to me that, as technology continues to gobble up our cities and landscapes with its mundane, homogeneous aesthetic, we’re forced to accept the modern windmill, perhaps the world’s most uninteresting vertical architecture. You can’t complain about it, even as hundreds, thousands of them pock the landscape of nearly every country on earth (and surrounding sea), or you’re accused of being a climate denier, which is akin to being stupid. So we’re stuck with these steel monoliths, ravaging what’s left of the bucolic countryside in the name of Progress and Saving The Planet.

‘What do you think of them?” I ask back later. Johan’s eyes are puffy and a bit moist from his not-Covid illness (he tests negative again this morning) but they grow even more so as he ponders my question. “I love them! They’re so much a part of the Dutch landscape, my history, the image I have of what Holland is—”

“Wait,” I stop his gush. “I’m talking about the steel ones. The energy-generating modern windmills you see everywhere.”

“Oh,” he says, and the fire goes out of his eyes. “Well, I can’t say much about it. As a good Dutchman I have to look at the practical side first, the value they offer. I don’t really give it much thought about how they look; what’s the point?”

Well, for one, the point is that we’re losing the loveliness of the land, the amazing way the Dutch have managed to weave beauty into an otherwise dull panorama. Living on a flat land doesn’t offer much help in creating stunning natural landscapes, so the Dutch figured out early on how to micro-manage beauty: by creating quaint villages with meandering streets, Hobbit-like dens, decks, and moorings all nestled in verdant gardens that delicately twine down to the ubiquitous canal that seems to be a given in everyone’s backyard. Habitable land is a prime commodity in a watery bog so the Dutch have also become masters of tiny living: their houses for starters, but every one seems to have an even tinier hut in their remarkably tiny backyards. I guess these are used as garden sheds, or art studios, or -- for the modern entrepreneur -- a rentable room on AirB&B.

Spending the afternoon cycling through Den Oever, Hippolytushoef, and back to Oosterland has renewed my appreciation for Dutch ingenuity and artistry. These charming ancient villages, once so remote and independent, are slowly getting swallowed up by the Modern World – fast-paced highways, industrial enterprises, and fields upon field of whirling windmills stalk the landscape. But viewed from a bike on a slightly balmy afternoon, the wind at our back and our illness abating, it can still bring a smile to your day.

Ik weet weer waarom ik in Australië woon. Buiten is het grijs en koud. Lage wolken die het er op gemunt hebben om je kletsnat te maken. Binnen zitten is nog het veiligste alhoewel het in deze voormalige paardenstal niet bepaald warm is. Het Amerikaanse woord is cabin fever, het gevoel dat je naar buiten moet anders houd je het niet uit. Nu zou een autootje toch wel lekker zijn.
 
Natuurlijk verandert dit ook wel weer. Dit natte en winderige weer is voor mij verbonden met de Oranje  Buitensluis. Wij twee broertjes en een “grote” zus reden op de fiets naar school vanaf toen we zes, misschien wel vier of vijf waren.  Vijf km heen en weer vijf km terug, elke dag onafhankelijk van het weer. Als het erg koud was in de winter deden we krantenpapier onder onze jassen en in onze lang broek. Dat hielp wel wat. Maar onze neuzen, oren en vingers bevroren. Daar denk ik aan als ik nu naar buiten kijk. Er zijn nog vele mensen hier op het platteland die nog steeds op die manier naar school of werk gaan.
 
Een paar dagen geleden keken we vanuit onze B&B kamer op de straat beneden. Het schooltje was niet ver weg. Er was bijna geen auto te zien, alleen moeders op de fiets met hun kinderen of de kinderen samen zonder enige begeleiding.
 
Soms denk ik dat er niet veel is veranderd hier op het boeren platteland.
Maar dat is natuurlijk ook niet waar. De grote, machtige tractoren die men nu heeft met verwarming in de cabines. Iedereen heeft nu natuurlijk een of meer auto’s. Enz. Wat wel waar schijnt te zijn is dat het stedeleven in vele opzichten anders is dan het landelijk leven.
 
Gisteren avond, tussen de buien door liepen we de hoge dijk op. Groene, open landerijen aan de ene kant, de grijze uitgestrekte Wadden aan de andere kant. Een plaatje! Een geniale kunde! En wijzend  naar de reden, de bedreiging. Heerlijk om die wind de voelen en die uitzichten te ervaren. Dan weer terug naar onze verbouwde paardenstallen. Ons verblijf is vrij primitief. Er is niet veel aandacht besteed aan het esthetische. Het is functioneel; er zijn twee bedden, een douche, een waterkraan en koelkast. Er is licht en een electrisch blazertje voor wat warmte. En het past totaal! Riet de boerevrouw is oud Hollands gul. Ze komt met zelfgemaakte soep, een eitje op rijst, een soufflé die misschien uit een ouderwetse trekken-uit-de-muur komt. Heel lief! En voldoende voor wat nodig is.
 
Morgen nog een dag hier in de paardenstal. Dan weer op pad. We hopen dat we morgen echt zullen opknappen.

English translation:

I know again why I live in Australia. Outside it is grey and cold. Low clouds that aim to make you soaking wet. Being inside is still the safest although it is not exactly warm in this former horse stable. The American word is cabin fever, the feeling that you have to go outside otherwise you can't stand it. Now a car would be nice.
 
Of course, this also changes again. This wet and windy weather reminds me of the Oranje Buitensluis where I lived my first twelve years. We two brothers and our "big" sister rode our bikes to school from when we were six, maybe even four or five.  Five km to school and five km back, every day regardless of the weather. When it was very cold in the winter we put newsprint under our coats and in our long pants. That helped a bit. But our noses, ears and fingers froze. That's what I think about when I look outside now. There are many people here in the countryside who still go to school or work that way, minus the newsprint as they have better insulated coats now.
 
A few days ago we looked from our B&B room on the street below. The school was not far away. There was almost no car to be seen, only mothers on their bikes with their children on their bikes or the children together without any guidance.
 
Sometimes I don't think much has changed here in the farming countryside. But of course that's not true. We see the mighty big tractors that farmers now use with heated cabins. And of course everyone now has one or more cars. Etc. What seems to be true is that urban life is in many ways still different from rural life.
 
Yesterday evening, between the showers, we walked up the high dike. Green, open farmlands on one side; the grey vast Wadden Zee on the other. A picture! A genius skill! And that huge dike was pointing to the reason of it’s existence, the threat. It was wonderful to feel that strong wind and experience those fabulous views. Then back to our converted horse stables. Our stay is quite primitive. Not much attention has been paid to the aesthetics. It is functional; there are two beds, a shower, a water tap and fridge. There is light and an electric blower for some warmth. And it fits totally! Riet de boerevrouw is old-Dutch generous. She offers homemade soup, an egg on rice, a soufflé that might have come from an old-fashioned pull-out-of-the-wall vending machine. Very sweet! And we have all that we need.
 
Tomorrow one more day here in the horse stable. Then back on the road. We can only hope that our health will sufficiently improve.

This morning marks a turn: for me, better; for Johan, worse; for the weather, a torrent of wet. Today’s Covid test still claims Johan is negative, though his cough and congestion and general weary demeanor suggest whatever’s ailing him is growing worse. Trapped inside all day, the incessant rain drumming against the glass door, filling the air with a grim grey -- nothing to do but continue hunkering down and waiting it out.

In the early evening, it finally lets up. Bundled in layers of warmth and our rain gear to shield us from the wind, we head out of our cave for an evening stroll. Just south of the farmhouse a lane heads west towards a pocket of neatly trimmed Dutch houses and the dike that fronts the Wadden Sea. A tangle of scrap metal by the side of the road blights this idyllic scene, but rather than rusty abandoned farm equipment as we expect, a nearby sign tells us these are remnants of war planes from WWII. Many landed in these fields as they were hunted down by the Germans. Those pilots that survived were cared for by the local farmers.

At a curve in the dike, we encounter a low-lying wetlands, full with birdlife. Another sign tells us this area was settled by Vikings well before the Dutch claimed it. When the earth was excavated from what is now the wetlands to build the dike, ancient Viking coins and other metals were found as evidence of their habitation here.

We find a long roping walk trail through the grass-covered dike heading north along the beach. Others are out, walking their dogs, jogging, taking photographs of the compelling grey landscape. Despite the apparent misfortunes, there is still a sense of gezellig. “The adventure of the mis-adventure,” Johan quips as we circle back through the village to our den.

We spend the rest of the evening watching a movie on my little 12” laptop. Later in bed, Johan reads an article he’s found in the New York Times about other, and not infrequent, cases where family members all get sick, but don’t all test positive for Covid. Apparently the vaccine, diligently doing the job it's intended for, can make it difficult to detect the virus, even when symptoms are rife. So perhaps it is safe to assume we’re both infected with the dreaded disease?

"I understand now why people can die of Covid," I say in the small gap between an intense coughing spell. Johan laughs, one of those chuckles he delivers when he suspects I'm exaggerating again. But I don't think I'm going to die, at least not yet. It's just that this cough is relentless, starting with a tiny tickle in the throat that grows and grows until there's no stopping the cascade of hacking coughs, deep in the chest, spinning out of control until you feel like you can't get your breath any longer. I have a fairly robust immune system and I know how to mentally calm the anxiety that goes along with such intense physical trauma. I resist and resist, let-go and let-go -- and eventually it subsides and I can lean back and relax again, try to sleep. A mantra I learned during a meditation retreat -- Recognize, Relax (let go), Smile, Rest -- helps enormously with this current challenge to my health.

Riet, our Vrienden op de Fiets host, is an angel in human disguise. She rings mid-morning and asks if we'd like some hot food delivered for lunch. The body sort of melts with gratitude. Yes please! The small apartment has a kitchenette but no cooking facilities so it's either survive on bread and cheese or cycle into Den Oever to get a hot meal. Right on noon she knocks on the door and calls out that she'll leave the food on the table just outside our door. Two bowls of hot and hearty vegetable soup and a pot of rice casserole. We happily consume the soup for lunch and wrap up the casserole to keep warm until dinner time.

Our second Covid tests this morning deliver the same results as yesterday: Sui positive, Johan negative. Still, his 'flu is pretty bad and we both hang out in bed for the bulk of the day.

Late in the afternoon, just as the weather is turning a darker grey, we don our rain gear and go for a walk. Be good to get some fresh air. The farmhouse is on the edge of a tiny village, Oosterland, a km west of Den Oever.

After wandering through the few streets that surround an imposing church, we hike up the dike to see the vast shallow Wadden Zee. It's raining lightly and the distant horizon is a thin line between the heavy sky and the grey morass of the wild sea.

On the walk back, two lugubrious-looking donkeys mimic how we feel.

We spend another quiet evening, reading and internetting. Near 8 o'clock our guardian angel is on the phone again: she made an apple cake this afternoon. Would we like a couple of slices? It's still warm. Again, the body melts.

Ik wil proberen om wat indrukken van onze e-bike reis in’t Nederlands weer te geven. Ik heb geen idee of dit gaat lukken. De Nederlandse taal is een beetje roestig. En ik weet niet of ik het geduld zal hebben om van de vele ervaringen ik er een paar uit kan kiezen en die op een juiste manier kan weergeven. So, here goes..
 
Een ervaring die me nog steeds kippenvel op m’n armen geeft was in het Zuiderzee Museum in Enkhuizen. Men heeft een heel realistisch dorpje opgebouwd met oude huizen, straatjes, winkeltjes en zelfs een echte kerk van, ik weet niet, misschien 1500 die in Den Oever stond. Steen bij steen werd de kerk afgebroken en later weer opgebouwd in dit museum dorpje. Zo zijn er boerenhoeven waar het daadwerkelijk naar koeien mest ruikt, echte groente tuintjes waarvan men door de eeuwen van eten werd voorzien, huisjes gelegen juist beneden en ten dele in de dijk, slootjes, enz. In een van die armoedige piepkleine huisjes was een geluid productie die heel reeel het geluid van een daverende storm buiten aangaf. Er was een vrouwen stem en een angstig kind. Waren ze veilig? Zou de dijk het houden? Wat als er een dijkdoorbraak komt? De golven en de wind en het kraken van het dak!

Kippenvel op m’n armen! Ik was terug naar 1953 alhoewel ik slechts vage herinneringen heb aan die watersnoodramp. Maar een diepere herinnering kwam bovendrijven. Ik voelde me bedreigd, er is daadwerkelijk gevaar hier. Het maakte een sterke indruk. Ik vraag me af of deze verre en vage herinneringen de reden is dat ik vaak gespannen en angstig raakt gedurende huidige hevige stormen.
 
En daarnaast zijn er ook heel andere ervaringen. De vele vogels die we horen als we door het landschap fietsen. Plotseling weet ik hun namen. Kieviet, fuut, lijster. En de landelijk geuren en die van het water. En koffie en koek. De prachtige vergezichten. Het licht van de zon op het water. Een zeilbootje in de verte. Slootjes in het groene graslandschap. Wij beiden genieten ervan en ik ben blij dat ik dit kan delen met Sui. Er is geen heimwee naar deze dingen, meer een herinnering die me raakt en blij maakt, een soort erkennen. Dit land, vooral dit polderland is waar mijn leven begon. Dat zit in me en past bij me. Ik ben hier deel van. Vandaag bezocht ik Hennie, Gerrit en hun twee dochters Joke en Fiona met hun mannen. We hadden elkaar voor een lange tijd niet gezien maar de herkenning was direct. We praatten over de laatste tien, vijftien, dertig jaar. Zij allen wonen op dezelfde plek in hetzelfde dorp voor ik weet niet hoeveel jaren. En ik kan me indenken dat zoiets werkelijk heel fijn zal zijn. Zij zijn daar waar ze “gevormd” zijn. Het is anders voor mij en voor ons; dat is het enige dat ik er van zeggen kan.

Wel, dit schrijven op m’n phone nam een lange tijd in beslag. Maar voor vandaag in ieder geval hadden we geen andere plannen dan snel over dit gevoel van ziek zijn te komen.

In English:

I want to try to give some impressions in Dutch. I have no idea if this will work. The Dutch language is a bit rusty. And I don't know if I'll have the patience to be able to choose a few of the many experiences and display them correctly. So, here goes..
 
An experience that still gives me goosebumps on my arms was in the Zuiderzee Museum in Enkhuizen. They have built a very realistic village with old houses, streets, shops and even a real church of, I do not know, maybe 1500 that stood in Den Oever. Stone by stone the church was demolished and later rebuilt in this museum village. There are farmhouses where it actually smells like cow manure, real vegetable gardens that people used to have over the centuries, houses located just below and partly in the dike, small water ditches that drains the land, etc. In one of those shabby tiny houses was a sound production that very realistically indicated the sound of a thunderous storm outside. There was a female voice and a frightened child. Were they safe? Would the dike hold up? What if there is a dike breach? The waves and the wind and the creaking of the roof!
 
Goosebumps on my arms! I was back to 1953 although I have only vague memories of that flood disaster. But a deeper memory surfaced. It made a strong impression. I wonder if these distant and vague memories are the reason I often get tense and anxious during current violent storms.
 
And in addition there are also many more benign experiences. The many birds we hear when we cycle through the landscape. Suddenly I know their names. Kieviet, flute, ekster. And the rural smells and those of the water. And the aroma of coffee and cake. The beautiful views. The light of the sun on the water. A sailboat in the distance. Ditches in the green grassy landscape. We both enjoy it and I'm glad I can share this with Sui. There is no nostalgia for these things, more a memory that makes me happy, a reliving of something so familiar. This country, especially this polderland is where my life began. It’s inside me, part of me and it suits me. This watery lowland is who I am in. Today I visited Hennie, Gerrit and their two daughters Joke and Fiona with their husbands. We hadn't seen each other for a long time but the recognition was instant. We talked about the last ten, fifteen, thirty years. They all live in the same place in the same village for I don't know how many years. I can imagine that being of a place and remaining closely connected with that place can be a real comfort and pleasure. They are where they are "formed". It's different for me and for us; that's all I can say about it.
 
Well, writing this on my phone took a long time. But for today at least we had no plans but to get over this feeling of being sick as quick as possible. May as well use the time for some musings.

The chimes from the church steeple carry me through the night. I hear them every hour, then the bright calls of early morning birds and the first hints of daybreak. Finally, just before 5am I fall asleep. What kept me awake for the better part of the night? The espresso I had to pick up my energy? Or a growing feeling of dis-ease in my body.

Johan feels it too, though he sleeps better. Something’s not right. Our throats are scratchy and for me, a persistent cough that digs deep into my chest.

The breakfast at this B&B is probably one of the best we’ve had but my taste-buds have grown listless and I struggle to keep from disturbing the other guests with my coughing. When we’re finished we walk to a nearby pharmacy for some cold medicine and Covid tests. The results of the tests are disturbing: I’m positive; Johan’s negative. How can this be? With similar symptoms and starting points, shouldn’t we have the same diagnosis?

And where does one stay in a foreign land when one gets Covid? I feel a sense of panic: no one will want us to stay in their inn if they know we’ve got Covid. Johan rings the host of the Vrienden op de Fiets place we’re meant to spend the next two days. Miraculously she is easy about the positive test and is happy for us to stay there as long as we need. My guardian angel! The room is a self-contained apartment in their former horse stables out the back. We can stay out there without having any contact with them.

The 20kms ride in heavy wind is straight as an arrow up the coastline from Medemblik to Den Oevre, the gateway to the Afsluitdijk. The mighty dike is under re-construction and closed to bicyclists, but we can put our bikes on a free bus ride across the 30 mile expanse, which will do in two days time.

Last night’s accommodation was a peak in luxury for us, so the converted horse stable apartment is a deep dive – a piecemeal apartment of mismatched furnishing that could use a good tidy up. But it’s got everything we need for a two night’s stay while we get to the other side of Covid, including a washing machine and kitchen. Our host is pragmatic and prudent, but with an obvious big heart; why would she be so accommodating to sick guests otherwise?

Johan rides off to Hippolytushoef, 6kms down the road, to visit his long-time friends Henny and Gerrit while I stay home and nurse a stubborn cough.

The Netherlands is truly a technological marvel. Bicycling up on the dikes gives one the unique perspective of the land that sits below the surface of the sea. To one side is the vast expanse of the IJsselmeer, waves licking the shores about halfway up the dike. On the other side, far below, are the farmlands and houses. Place a reasonably shallow bowl in a pool of water and see how the lip of the bowl keeps the water from pouring into its interior, a space that rests below the surface of the water. That’s what the dikes do for Holland: keep it from getting inundated by the waters of the North Sea.

The Zuidersee Museum in Enkhuizen was created in the mid-20th century as a hallmark of the seafaring life that existed on the periphery of this inland sea, a pocket of the North Sea jutting down through the marshy lowlands. As the outdoor museum shows, life was hard for Zuidersee fishing communities who lived in tiny houses and sparse conditions, always under threat of flooding if the sea grew wild and threatened the stability of the dikes. Several catastrophic floods breaking through the dikes killed thousands of people over the centuries.

Eventually the Dutch had had enough of living at the mercy of nature. An enterprising Dutchman, Cornelis Lely, a civil engineer, designed what would become the grandest marvels of human engineering, the Afsluitdijk, the world’s largest dike that separated the Zuidersee from the North Sea, and eventually calmed the tempestuous waters that were a constant threat to seaside villages. The waters of the new IJsselmeer (IJsseel Lake) gradually turned from salty to sweet as the inflow of rivers flushed it out. The wild waters had been tamed.

But that doesn’t mean the threat is over for the Dutch. Rising sea levels due to climate change still threaten the fortress of the dikes, especially on the west coast of the North Sea. Most of the dikes in Holland are in the process of being renovated, heightened and reinforced in line with scientific projections for sea level rise in the next 100 years. Even the Afsluitdijk is undergoing major renovations, less than 100 years after it was built.

Enkhuizen and Medemblik are two seaside towns that benefit from the taming of the inland sea. Both are steeped in history but vibrant with modern life, including ubiquitous outdoor dining and thriving shopping. As we cycle into Medemblik at the end of the day, we pass a sign reading “Watersport Capital of the World.” An array of brightly colored kite surfers brave the heavy winds in the bay.

Our destination is the Bed & Breakfast Westerhaven, an elegantly appointed B&B on a picturesque canal not far from the city center. For some reason we are both exhausted when we arrive, though we have not travelled far. We take an evening stroll through the town, then prop ourselves up in bed to watch a Friday night movie in the quiet of our room. The late setting sun creates a silhouette of the towering steeple of Sint-Martinuskerk, the view through our large picture window.

Ans and Andre have lived in Warder for 40 years, raising six kids. They’re deeply embedded in the community, from writing the local newsletter to making sure the community swimming pool is locked each night. They seem to love the buzz of social interaction and even after an hour of chatting over coffee when we first arrive, they invite us downstairs after dinner for a beer and another hour and a half of getting to know each other. They’re around our age, big bike enthusiasts, but rarely travel outside of Holland. Next morning the breakfast table is set for four and we spend another hour or two in easy chit-chat, mostly in Dutch but Ans does her best to speak in a labored English when she can.

Hoorn is an easy ride over the waterside dike and we spend the afternoon exploring the ancient seaside port with its many sagging buildings, their front facades leaning into the streets as though the weariness of standing upright for four centuries has gotten to be too much. The Westfries Museum is housed in one of these aged beauties, taking visitors up and down narrow wooden stairwells to exhibits that tell of the rich and sometimes controversial history of Holland’s seafaring imperialism, particularly its Golden Age of 17th century scientific, cultural and artistic expansion.

The wind has picked up and we’re grateful for our pedal assist as we head west into the wind towards our next overnight, Beleef ‘t Bed en Brood in Wijdenes. George and Arda have created a lovely, homey but elegant B&B upstairs. Both are avid gardeners and their backyard is a delightful place to sit and enjoy the early evening sun with a glass of red and a fresh baguette with aged Gouda.