From the Log of the Velsa. Arnold Bennett

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       Arnold Bennett

      From the Log of the Velsa

      Published by Good Press, 2019

       [email protected]

      EAN 4064066247683

Table of Contents

       PART I HOLLAND

       CHAPTER I—VOYAGING ON THE CANALS

       CHAPTER II—DUTCH LEISURE

       CHAPTER III—DUTCH WORK

       CHAPTER IV—THE ZUYDER ZEE

       CHAPTER V—SOME TOWNS

       CHAPTER VI—MUSEUMS

       PART II—THE BALTIC

       CHAPTER VII—THE YACHT I LOST

       CHAPTER VIII—BALTIC COMMUNITIES

       CHAPTER IX—A day’s SAIL

       PART III COPENHAGEN

       CHAPTER X—THE DANISH CAPITAL

       CHAPTER XI—CAFÉS AND RESTAURANTS

       CHAPTER XII—ARISTOCRACY AND ART

       CHAPTER XIII—THE RETURN

       PART IV—ON THE FRENCH AND FLEMISH COAST

       CHAPTER XIV—FOLKESTONE TO BOULOGNE

       CHAPTER XV—TO BELGIUM

       CHAPTER XVI—BRUGES

       PART V—EAST ANGLIAN ESTUARIES

       CHAPTER XVII EAST ANGLIA

       CHAPTER XVIII—IN SUFFOLK

       CHAPTER XIX—THE INCOMPARABLE BLACKWATER

       THE END

PART I HOLLAND

       Table of Contents

CHAPTER I—VOYAGING ON THE CANALS

       Table of Contents

      THE skipper, who, in addition to being a yachtsman, is a Dutchman, smiled with calm assurance as we approached the Dutch frontier in the August evening over the populous water of the canal which leads from Ghent to Terneuzen. He could not abide Belgium, possibly because it is rather like Holland in some ways. In his opinion the bureaucrats of Belgium did not understand yachts and the respect due to them, whereas the bureaucrats of Holland did. Holland was pictured for me as a paradise where a yacht with a seventy-foot mast never had to wait a single moment for a bridge to be swung open. When I inquired about custom-house formalities, I learned that a Dutch custom-house did not exist for a craft flying the sacred blue ensign of the British Naval Reserve. And it was so. Merely depositing a ticket and a tip into the long-handled butterfly-net dangled over our deck by the bridge-man as we passed, we sailed straight into Holland, and no word said! But we knew immediately that we were in another country—a country cleaner and neater and more garnished even than Belgium. The Terneuzen Canal, with its brickwork banks and its villages “finished” to the last tile, reminded me of the extravagant, oily perfection of the main tracks of those dandiacal railroads, the North Western in England and the Pennsylvania in America. The stiff sailing breeze was at length favorable. We set the mainsail unexceptionably; and at once, with the falling dusk, the wind fell, and the rain too. We had to depend again on our erratic motor, with all Holland gazing at us. Suddenly the whole canal was lit up on both sides by electricity. We responded with our lights. The exceedingly heavy rain drove me into the saloon to read Dostoyevsky.

      

      At eight P. M. I was dug up out of the depths of Dostoyevsky in order to see my first Dutch harbor. Rain poured through the black night. There was a plashing of invisible wavelets below, utter darkness above, and a few forlorn lights winking at vast distances. I was informed that we were moored in the yacht-basin of Terneuzen. I remained calm. Had we been moored in the yacht-basin of Kamchatka, the smell of dinner would still have been issuing from the forecastle-hatch, the open page of Dostoyevsky would still have invited me through the saloon skylight, and the amiable ray of the saloon lamp would still have glinted on the piano and on the binnacle with impartial affection. Herein lies an advantage of yachting over motoring. I redescended without a regret, without an apprehension. Already the cook was displacing Dostoyevsky in favor of a white table-cloth and cutlery.

      The next morning we were at large on the billow’s of the West Schelde, a majestic and enraged stream, of which Flushing is the guardian and Antwerp the mistress. The rain had in no wise lost heart. With a contrary wind and a choppy sea, the yacht had a chance to show her qualities and defects. She has both. Built to the order of a Dutch baron rather less than twenty years ago, she is flat-bottomed, with lee-boards, and follows closely the lines of certain very picturesque Dutch fishing-smacks. She has a length of just over fifty-five feet and a beam of just over fifteen feet. Her tonnage is fifty-one, except when dues have to be paid, on which serious occasions it mysteriously shrinks to twenty-one net. Yachtsmen are always thus modest. Her rig is, roughly, that of a cutter, with a deliciously curved gaff that is the secret envy