Cycling around Gaasterland I

Cycling in the southwestern part of Friesland

You expect flatness in Friesland: bare pastures, a solitary lake, a straight horizon, and the occasional white sail rising above the grass. That is the familiar image, but Gaasterland, in the south-west of the province, refuses the rule.

The forest smells of pine needles and dry wood. The road rolls gently over what locals call gaasten: glacial hills rising no more than ten metres above sea level. After hours across the flat polder, it feels like an un-Dutch, almost foreign landscape. It recalls Limburg, or the hills of France and Luxembourg, where we have cycled before.

Moments later, the dense deciduous canopy opens abruptly. There lies the IJsselmeer, almost as green as the adjacent pastures, under a sky heavy with clouds. This vast freshwater lake was once the turbulent Zuiderzee, sealed off from the North Sea by the Afsluitdijk.

A persistent north-westerly wind sweeps across the dike. After Walcheren, Den Helder and Texel, that same headwind strikes again. It is the familiar resistance of the Dutch coast, though here the landscape behind the dike offers an unexpected shelter.

Hills of boulder clay

What lies beneath the soil explains what rises above it. Boulders, sand and clay, dragged south by advancing ice and left behind when it melted, still shape the gaasten today, and, along the coast, the kliffen.

The Roode Klif near Warns is the highest. Rising over ten metres above the water, it consists of reddish boulder clay coloured by oxidised iron. At the summit stands a glacial erratic bearing the inscription ‘Leaver dea as slaef’ – rather dead than a slave.

In Mirns, another monument marks past violence. The local cemetery features a wooden belfry with a hip roof, not the original. That was destroyed when an American Liberator, struck by a German fighter, came down directly across the churchyard during the war. Rebuilt, the belfry now serves as a memorial.

In Laaksum, quiet settles over a harbour recorded as the smallest in Europe. Two or three houses sit behind the dike beside the motionless basin. A small nineteenth-century building once used for salting herring now stands quiet, its restaurant doors closed for the day.

Here lived fisherman Johannes Vogelenzang, head of what was once the village’s only Catholic family. He fished aboard the HL 71, a traditional Staverse jol, venturing onto the open Zuiderzee in all weather. Today, no fishermen remain; only the soft lapping of water against the stone quay breaks the silence.

Merchant fortunes and ripples

Further along, near Stavoren, a pause at the lock. In the harbour stands the statue of the Lady of Stavoren. Folklore tells of a lost gold ring and grain cast into the sea, but behind the legend lies a stark economic collapse. The statue depicts a tale that fails to explain the decline, yet preserves the memory of lost wealth.

Between Stavoren and Hindeloopen lies Molkwerum, once known as the Frisian Labyrinth. Straight streets never existed here; houses were built haphazardly to occupy every scrap of dry land. Many canals have since been filled, but the irregular pattern of the lanes still holds that original maze.

Approaching Hindeloopen, the wind remains squarely ahead. The harbour is crowded with yachts struggling to berth against the current. Cyclists navigate the narrow streets, and outdoor tables are full.

Near Koudum, the route passes Galamadammen. A tunnel leads beneath the Johan Friso Canal while sailing boats glide overhead.

Close to De Morra, a lake formed by the same glacial movement that shaped the cliffs, the road turns east. Passing through Bakhuizen after fifty kilometres around the coastline, the route heads back towards Harich, the wind finally behind. Above the pasture, a flock of geese moves overhead, effortless this time.

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