BIKE ADVENTURES

Winter Zealand is not for beginners: cycling through fog, drizzle, and darkness

An exciting 100-kilometer round trip at +4°C on a zero-sun day

© All photos by Slava Shestopalov.

I bet you’ve heard of New Zealand — the land of volcanoes, kiwi birds, Māori culture, and “The Lord of the Rings” filming spots. But did you know the name “New Zealand” comes from explorer Abel Tasman, who named the newly discovered islands in the Pacific after the Dutch province of Zealand? Truth be told, Zeeland is nothing like its “New” counterpart.

My wife and I didn’t know much about it either, so we decided to explore Zeeland in winter at a brisk +4°C — a season many would call the absolute worst for cycling there.

We dressed in multiple layers and packed extra warm socks not to freeze after hours spent outdoors.

Zealand is the westernmost and least populated part of the country, made up of islands and peninsulas, with much of it below sea level. The province is connected to the mainland by just one train line, which Oksanka and I took to reach its capital, Middelburg. With hardly any people around, our journey felt almost intimate.

Midday fog blurred the church’s tower top.

Middelburg greeted us with salty and humid air. Fortunately, there was no rain or wind, which made cycling much more enjoyable. It’s always a relief when you don’t have to fight against all the elements at once! The first thing we noticed from a distance was the 90-meter-high Abbey Tower, built in the 14th century as part of a huge abbey complex. Its top was hidden in the fog and looked incredibly mysterious.

Middelburg’s Gothic town hall and the Abbey Tower.

Then, we briefly stopped at the 15th-century town hall, a stunning example of Late Gothic. Later, when we returned at night to catch our train back home, the town hall looked even more mesmerizing — believe me. What was interesting is that locals were strolling in the very center, but just three minutes down a side street, it was utterly deserted.

The “Hope,” an 18th-century corn and hulling mill, stands on the edge of the historical center.

We were mapping out our route to the next destination, the port town of Vlissingen, when one more old building caught my eye. St. George’s Shooting Range was a clearly Renaissance structure from 1582. While not particularly impressive on its own, it serves as a poignant reminder of the devastation Middelburg endured during the early days of World War II. Nazi Germany’s terror bombardment in May 1940 sparked a catastrophic fire, leaving the city in ruins.

A 1940 photo of the burned-out building vs. my capture of its current state. The red brick wings on either side were added to replace historic buildings that couldn’t be restored.

The current reconstruction of this and many other buildings quite literally rose from the ashes.

Meanwhile, the stretch to Vlissingen was the most relaxing part of the journey: seven kilometers of straight, flat bike path along the canal.

A gloomy bike “highway” between Middelburg and Vlissingen. The only railroad going through Zealand is on the opposite bank of the canal.

As expected, most of Vlissingen looked like many other Dutch towns, with its cute brick houses, narrow streets, and colorful window shutters.

Somewhere in Vlissingen.

But a truly unique spot in Vlissingen was the ensemble of four Belgian pilots’ villas (1910). These exquisite Art Nouveau houses were commissioned by maritime pilots residing in Vlissingen and carry the names of the pilots’ children: Louise, Maria, Blanche, and Yvonne. Just look at those fantastic geometric red patterns! This isn’t the kind of Art Nouveau you see every day, is it?

Pilots’ villas in after the early winter sunset.

Despite having ridden just a short distance, we felt it was the perfect time for a tea break to stay warm in the chilly weather, especially as we approached the seashore. While I was busy taking photos of the villas, Oksanka popped into a nearby Polish grocery store and found our favorite Ukrainian “bamboo” cookie sticks—a taste of childhood!

Our lovely tea break on the Vlissingen embankment. We didn’t get to see the sun through the clouds, but the view was still absolutely magnificent.

As darkness fell and the “blue hour” set in, we went to the pier through the 16th-century Emperor’s Bastion, the only intact historical gate in the town. It dates back to when the Netherlands was under Spanish imperial rule, hence the name.

A passage through the Emperor’s Bastion.

Then we went to the top of the bastion. It’s adorned by a functioning modern replica of the iconic red lighthouse from 1891. And I should say it was just the first of several unique lighthouses we would encounter that day — but probably the most adorable one.

I hope this tiny lighthouse performs its navigation function as well as it looks.

Our route took us northwest along the sea toward the tip of the peninsula. But before leaving Vlissingen behind, we stopped by the Prison Tower, the remaining part of a medieval city gate that once consisted of two towers with a passage in between. The tower closer to the sea still stands today, and its name reflects its later use after the gate lost its defensive role as the town expanded.

While I hadn’t known about the tower before the trip, the next stop was definitely on my “must-see” list. It’s a treat for architecture nerds — the post-war Modernist Maritime Academy building (1950–1953). Though it appeared to be undergoing renovation, I could still capture a shot of its signature turret and porthole windows.

The Maritime Academy stands proudly on the sea-facing boulevard. Once the renovation is complete, I look forward to seeing the other side, too.

Then, we plunged into darkness and wilderness. I love those moments when the well-lit cityscape fades away, and all you can see is the bicycle lamp and the lights on our helmets.

The crown of light above Vlissingen at night.

Last year, I bought helmet mounts for bike lights — just two simple plastic pieces attached with zip ties. But they let Oksanka and me ride through complete darkness in the dunes and forests. Now, I cannot imagine going on an adventure without them.

There were giant wind chimes nearby, but the air was still, and they remained silent.

We spotted numerous lights at sea — ships, windmills, and perhaps even some oil and gas rigs.

This vessel was the brightest object visible from the dunes. It definitely wasn’t taking any chances on someone accidentally crashing into it.

As we continued northwest, we entered a small forest and found a chain of “dragon’s teeth” — silent remnants of World War II fortifications designed to block tank movement. Our bike path cut through three lines of these barriers, and it was kinda symbolic that a peaceful road now passes freely through what was once built to halt war machines.

This place felt like getting into the jaws of a dragon.

As I mentioned earlier, most of Zealand lies below sea level, protected from flooding by a network of dams and dikes. At one point, the road veered inland, and we saw the hills stretching along the coast like a natural protective wall. Some houses, like the one in the photo below, stood on top of those dunes.

A house on a dune.

Soon, we arrived in Westkapelle, a village at the very tip of the peninsula. I recognized it immediately by the massive brick lighthouse, nicknamed the “High Light,” which I had read about before the trip. It unusually stands in the middle of the village rather than on the shore. The reason is simple — it used to be a 15th-century Late Gothic church tower but was repurposed as a lighthouse in 1818.

The beacon of Westkapelle cuts into the darkness with four rotating beams.

We stopped to take a closer look at the “High Light.” While it hasn’t always been a lighthouse, if we consider just its brick body, it can be regarded as the oldest lighthouse in the Netherlands.

The former St. Willibrordus Church was largely destroyed by religious conflicts, as well as Spanish plundering, and was subsequently repurposed as a lighthouse.

We headed toward the beach and came across an American “Sherman” tank. This World War II memorial symbolizes Westkapelle’s liberation during the Battle of the Scheldt River in 1944. There was also a small museum nearby with a landing craft from those times exhibited outdoors.

This tank model was originally equipped with minesweeping gear to break through Nazi Germany’s shore fortifications, but it was later removed from the tank.

Then, I noticed something unusual on a pole — it looked like an artwork from some street exhibition. Still wondering what it was.

An unexpected artwork on the pole.

And here’s another lighthouse! I told you there would be several along the route. This compact cast-iron red tower from 1875–1876 is called the “North Head” and stands just a few meters from the water. It was already dark, and since the nearby villages didn’t produce much light pollution, everything behind it appeared pitch black.

Impenetrable darkness behind the lighthouse.

After visiting Westkapelle, we headed to Domburg. I had marked a couple of interesting buildings there, both designed by Dutch architect Johannes van Nieukerken.

The view of Domburg from the dunes.

The first place was Villa Carmen Sylva (1885), a unique example of a summer house in an eclectic style with Mediterranean vibes. The villa has two floors, with an upper level directly extending onto the dike and a large wooden veranda overlooking the beach. I wouldn’t mind living in such a villa in my old age.

Villa Carmen Sylva at night. It’s private property, so unfortunately, you can’t see inside.

And here’s van Nieukerken’s second creation in Domburg — a coffee- and bathhouse (1889). This building has had a complicated history, with periods of thriving and decline. Currently, its hall is used as a restaurant, and the remaining area is divided into several private apartments.

An exquisite turret is the standout feature of this Neo-Renaissance building.

That was it for Domburg. We also took the opportunity to have some tea from our thermos with a couple of cereal and chocolate bars and enjoy the sea view from the elevated boulevard.

Nice Christmas decoration in the middle of nowhere.

Our route took us east, and we had a much longer distance to cover before reaching the next site I had planned to visit. There may have been interesting places along the way, but we couldn’t spot them in the dim light. Plus, the sky was foggy—no stars or moon in sight.

I’m still curious where that red light in the sky could have come from.

And finally, we arrived at our next stop. Ta-da! Below is a photo of the place. Can you guess what it is?

This barrier safeguards a significant portion of Zealand from North Sea flooding.

The storm surge barrier was built across the Eastern Scheldt River between 1976 and 1986 to protect the country from sea flooding. Stretching nine kilometers, it is the largest structure of its kind in the Netherlands! Its construction was driven by the catastrophic flood on a January night in 1953, which claimed over 1800 lives and destroyed thousands of homes and farms, with most of the casualties in Zeeland.

Interestingly, the government initially proposed building a dam to cut off the river estuary from the sea completely. However, ecologists and fishermen opposed this plan, as it would have turned the estuary into a freshwater lake, destroying the entire ecosystem. As a result, the barrier was designed to allow normal water flow most of the time, only closing during storms.

Passing cars created an interesting light effect as they approached, so of course, I took a picture.

Now, we were riding to Veere, the last town to visit before returning to Middelburg — just enough time to complete our plan and catch the last train. We were getting pretty tired and had run out of tea to keep warm in this insane humidity. I turned on the music on the portable speaker, and the ride felt much less monotonous.

The view of Veere across the moat. This strange white thing on the water turned out to be a floating model of the town’s cathedral.

Guess who greeted us in Veere? A cow! Well, to be precise, it was the “Cow” corn mill, standing on a former rampart. Its silhouette looked so sharp and was backlit from somewhere in the town center.

A few minutes later, we realized it was the medieval town hall (1474–1477) that was shining so brightly. It seemed a bit oversized for such a compact settlement, but I suppose Veere played a more significant role as a port in earlier centuries.

Veere’s town hall was so generously illuminated — locals must be very proud of it!

I was in a state of near-gambling thrill: my mind was still craving more, while my body longed for a soft pillow and a good night’s sleep. Since we would return home well past midnight anyway, I reluctantly had to leave the rest of Veere’s sights — the cathedral, Scottish merchant houses, port defenses, and an old water well — for next time.

I don’t remember much about the ride back to Middelburg; it was just seven kilometers, with no distractions. We entered the city from a different side than the one we had explored during the day, and that gave us the chance to spot something new: the East Church, an octagonal domed building in the Baroque style.

Middelburg was empty and quiet. Only a group of teens on bicycles chatted and loudly laughed near the East Church, but even they soon rode away.

I almost passed by but then decided to snap a photo of the red light in the church’s turret. Luckily, I also caught a matching red car in the frame — for a more striking shot.

Magnificent town hall of Middelburg at night. I like how the fog evenly scatters the light from the lamps, and there is no excessive glare.

We rode past the town hall on our way to the station, arriving less than 10 minutes before the last train was scheduled to depart. On one hand, it was a bit nerve-wracking, as we could have easily missed the train and been forced to spend the night somewhere. On the other hand, it meant we didn’t have to wait in the cold, especially since the passenger waiting room was closed for renovation.

Waiting for our train. There were only a couple of other people on the platform.

On the train, Oksanka reached into her backpack and pulled out a pack of Ukrainian sour cream and onion chips — our favorite. She had bought them, along with the ‘bamboo’ cookie sticks, at the Polish grocery store in Vlissingen. As we munched on the chips to keep ourselves awake, we swapped out our slightly wet socks and warmed our hands and feet on the radiator beneath the seat.

The pack of chips was such a timely find!