Early the next day under leaden skies we sailed from Oudeschild to Den Oever. Here is the beginning of the Afsluitdijk which connects North Holland to Friesland. The dike, about twenty miles long, was closed in 1932, creating the Ijsselmeer, the largest freshwater lake in the Netherlands. Before the closing of the dike, this was the Zuiderzee. The Madeleine passed through the lock, and we walked out on the dike a short distance and enjoyed the sky and the sea. On the way back to the boat, we saw a biker from another boat try to ride down a 45º cobbled slope and tumble about twenty feet to the bottom. “Never mind,” his wife said, “he knows how to fall.” When we saw him later—their boat was tied to ours—he was scraped and embarrassed.

We set off biking through the IJsselmeer polders, passing more colorful fields of tulips. In one field, we saw a machine just beginning to cut the tops off the flowers. The machine left a swath of decapitated stems. I understand that this massacre is necessary to encourage growth of the bulb. If we had been just a few days later, we would have seen fields of green stubs rather than riots of color.

We had lunch in the pretty little seaside town of Medemblik. The café looked out on a secluded harbor crowded with a forest of sailboat masts. The town at one time was an important seaport, but now is a pleasure boating center. We strolled around the quay to the thirteenth-century castle.

Leaving Medemblik, we cycled along narrow canals to the picturesque  village of Twisk. We rode along the quiet lanes of neat old houses and shops. Carol and I stopped and watched an interesting procession. A man walked behind a horse, holding long reins, and another man followed, pulling a sulky. I wondered who was training whom. Further on, we stopped at a working windmill where the operator explained the process in operation, grinding grain to flour.

From here, Carol and I fell behind as we stopped frequently for pictures and rest. Another member of our group dropped behind to help keep us on the route, and we soon lost sight of the group. So the three of us rode together, unhurried, cycling to and fro, but always in the general direction of the sea and finally arrived in Enkhuizen, which is not to say at the Madeleine. We asked a half dozen people the direction to the waterfront, received conflicting directions, and after a few zigzags, found the quay. We saw some Cycletours bicycles at the folk museum at the waterfront, but we continued to the boat. We walked the last hundred yards or so, looking at the sights, stretching and easing our aching bones.

Enkhuizen is a pretty little seaside town dating from the fourteenth century. Its harbor was once one of Holland’s busiest, and the houses and buildings are the result of that thriving international commerce. Today the town is a popular destination for Dutch and foreign visitors.

The next day the group rode along the IJsselmeer coast to Hoorn. Like other seaside towns on the old Zuiderzee, Hoorn was a flourishing seaport, sending out ships to the Dutch East Indies, the Mediterranean, and the Americas. The bikers continued down the coast to Schardam, then turned inland to ride around the huge Eilandspolder, en route visiting the seventeenth-century villages of Graft and De Rijp. Continuing, the group bicycled eastward to Edam, a pretty village whose round cheeses are known to cheese lovers the world over, and thence to Volendam.

Alas, I was not among the bikers on this day. An old eye problem, dating from the days when I wore contact lenses, erupted and I decided to find other entertainment. Carol was happy to keep me company.

We mapped out a day that would end in Volendam. Joined by two women who were not biking, we took the train from Enkhuizen to Hoorn. We walked through the busy but pleasant streets and had tea and pastries at an outside café. I also bought an eye bandage and medication at a pharmacy and was pleased to find an optician where I bought some clipon sunglasses. I had lost my sunglasses in England where we had spent a few days in Kent, en route to Holland. We were surprised to see a number of members of our group who were walking their bikes and sightseeing.

Leaving Hoorn, we took a bus to Edam. We walked about the town center, sampled some cheeses, and ate our sack lunches beside a canal. Afterward, we boarded another bus for Volendam. This is a picturesque little seaside town, marred only by the abundance of visitors. As that erudite philosopher Pogo once said, “we have met the enemy, and he is us.” We became part of the crowd and enjoyed it anyway. We found the Madeleine and deposited water bottles, purchases and other superfluous gear, then Carol and I walked back to a little seaside café I had spotted earlier. We took an outside table overlooking the harbor. We sat down, I ordered tea and exhaled. We watched the passing boats and people. This is the best part of traveling. Tea at a sidewalk café with a pleasant view at the end of a satisfying day.

The night was not so restful. Shortly after midnight, a piercing alarm sounded in the passageway. Everyone was out of their cabin in an instant. I rushed down the hall and up the ladder to the deck. I expected to see the crew and guide, but no one was in sight. I ran forward in the darkness to try to find the hatch to Ilja’s cabin, but could not locate it. I didn’t know the location of the crew’s cabin. Returning to the ladder, I met Winfred who informed me that the fire alarm does not sound in his quarters, and apparently not in the guide’s quarters. This is a serious design flaw. The problem seemed to have something to do with a generator smoking. 

On Friday, my eye was still bothering me a bit, but I was determined to ride this last day. We left the boat early and biked across the causeway road to Marken, a pretty village that is worth a visit in spite of its obvious tourist orientation. At least the inhabitants were not all dressed in ancient garb as they were when I visited many years ago.

Leaving the town, we rode a circuitous route on a path atop a dike, bound for the causeway. The narrow path dropped off sharply on each side. A misstep, or a mispedal in this case, gave one the option of rolling fifteen feet down the right side into a drainage canal, or on the left side into the sea. When the path narrowed to about twelve inches, I became a bit anxious. Carol later called it nerve-wracking. I breathed much easier when we reached the road.