Wanderlust: New Adventures in the Northern Sea E-Book

Katja Just

• Herausgeber: Eden Books - ein Verlag der Edel Verlagsgruppe
• Kategorie: Lebensstil
• Serie: Wanderlust
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Seitenzahl: 280

Beschreibung

With her debut memoir "A Tiny Isle in the Northern Sea" Katja Just excited many readers for Hallig Hooge, the tiny marsh island in the middle of the North Frisian Sea. Born in Munich and living and working on Hooge for almost twenty years, she is considered by many to be "the ambassador of Hallig Hooge" and is tirelessly working for her adopted home. What does the future have in the store for Hooge? Climate change, environmental pollution and structural changes in agriculture and tourism do not stop at the Hallig isles. And what will the upcoming mayoral election bring - should Katja Just really let herself be nominated? Once again, the author takes her readers to her haven in the rough sea, to her little piece of the world with the huge sky. The bestselling author tells very personal stories about challenges and new tasks, about saying goodbye and a new roommate, about traditions and searching for traces of lost heritages.

Leseprobe

Separated - And yet so often connected, It’s At once mudflat and surf And always the Wadden Sea Horst Fryderyk Arendt

Welcome to Hooge

“Remember?” laughed Sabine. “A few weeks ago we were walking barefoot along the summer dike with our shoes in our hands."

Of course I remembered. Today too we walked following the sun in the south of the Hallig, and this day too was beautiful. However, it was no longer a warm summer day, but a day in October. It already began to dawn, nevertheless it was noticeable how much longer it remained bright up here in the north than in the south.

Sabine and I strolled through the meanwhile mostly dark red and brown faded meadow on the dike, directly along the water. The Hallig appeared in her full autumn dress. The samphire in particular - now a trendy vegetable known in many places as the “asparagus of the sea", here on the Hallig a popular and versatile accompaniment to seafood, lamb and pasta dishes - had meanwhile swapped its rich green for a tired red. Now it was no longer edible. Also the color of the Hallig lilacs, which bloomed purple in summer, had turned into a dull brown tone.

We looked alternately to the right at the fens, where there were still a few cows with their calves that had grown up over the summer, and to the left at the water as far as the never-ending horizon, where the first soft pink and purple tones exapnded. The view reached far beyond the Hallig Norderoog. Over our heads flew once a seagull, once a few oystercatchers. Kinah, Sabine’s Ridgeback bitch, who obediently walked on the leash between us, watched the last feathered guests on the Hallig. Little by little they all made their way to southern climes. Surely Kinah would much rather run free. Not because she wanted to hunt the birds, but because she loved to run a few meters ahead and then come back around us in a big arc. But just because there were still some birds here, the frolicsome raving had to wait. Between April and October the Hallig is under “leash obligation”. In this time is the so-called rest and brood-time. Dog owners must take this into account at all costs. On the Warften, or terps – mounds on which our houses stand – the leash obligation applies all year round, out of consideration for residents and for our guests.

“Basically, the dike is a work of art.” Sabine put her arms to her hips and looked along the dike, in whose damp stones the evening sun broke sparkling. “A stone mosaic."

“Yes, and a very useful one,” I said and cuddled Kinah’s walnut brown forehead shining through the sun’s rays. “Without our summer dike, the Hallig shores would be exposed to waves and currents without protection, and the stormy sea would inexorably nibble away our habitat."

With a length of almost twelve kilometers, the summer dike encloses the almost six square kilometer Hallig like a protective band. Work on the coastal fortifications began between 1911 and 1914, when dike workers and stonemasons, some of them from Italy, came to the far north to painstakingly place stone on stone in and on top of one another, giving the Hallig its protective wall and its unmistakable appearance today. The stone settlements must be regularly repaired or even renewed. Coastal protection is a continuous cycle, because as we coastal people say: “The North Sea doesn’t sleep - it just waits."

We walked side by side in silence for a while. I enjoy the walks with Sabine and Kinah. We’ve known each other for almost ten years now. Sabine came the first time as a guest to me in the house at the Landsende, at that time still without Kinah. We became united by a deep friendship and love for the North Sea, especially the Wadden Sea. The tall, sporty woman is a few years older than me and visits me several times a year. Always at her side her lovely bitch. Our walks remind me of those with my Chico, the shepherd-collie mix that accompanied me for eleven years through my life on Hooge. If Sabine, Kinah and I go over the Hallig together, he accompanies us in our thoughts.

The fresh breeze that came up in the back was pleasant and we could watch how it moved over the Halligland and touched the still lush green grass almost tenderly. It moved gently, leaving behind a fine trail that ran time and again between the grass tips. Not only feeling and hearing the wind, but even observing it, that’s something you can do especially well during a walk on a Hallig, I thought to myself.

“Now a hand on heart, Katya. Did you expect this success of the book?” my friend asked me. She had been one of my first readers at the time and had accompanied me as an author from the beginning.

“Never in my life!” I replied briefly and concisely.

Neither I nor the publisher had expected the success of Barfuß auf dem Sommerdeich – Barefoot on the Summer Dike - the title of my first work, which was published in May 2017.

In the course of a review there was the well-meaning hint that the title was somewhat misleading. One would rather expect a tale in the style of Rosamunde Pilcher’s love stories than the life story of a young woman who moved from the big city of Munich to the manageable Hallig Hooge at the age of 25. In fact, I thought the same thing when I first read the publisher’s title proposal. I immediately had to think of schmaltzy-romantic people who frolic in beautiful English counties, who always walk along the same red thread and always end up with a happy ending. But pretty much the only thing that my story has in common with this old English idyll is the North Sea around the island on which the whole thing plays.

I finally let the publisher convince me, and my story found its way into the bookstores under the title Barfuß auf dem Sommerdeich. My initial rumblings of doubt subsided, and the longer I thought about the title, the more I could make friends with it. The first feedback reached me in different ways. Many people wrote me wonderful letters or e-mails after seeing me on television or listening to me on the radio. “Your book is so personal, you reveal so much about yourself.” I wasn’t aware of that at first. I just talked about my life, especially the 16 years I lived on Hooge at the time, and let my thoughts run wild. It was like talking to someone during a walk. And suddenly I realized. This title was just right! It revealed little of what I want to tell, but describes exactly how I felt at the moment of telling or writing. Completely free of constraints and worries - barefoot.

Barefoot on the summer dike around the Hallig I was allowed to invite the readers to accompany me. I can’t believe how many people walked with me, listened to me and immersed themselves in Hallig life with me. Some of these companions told me that this time together was too short and that they would like to accompany me again. They even expressed wishes I should tell them about. For example, the difference between a Hallig and an island. They want to know how it is with Schmusi, the cow that took my heart by storm, and what happened to my desire to open my own café. They want to do a mudflat hike with me and a lot more. Therefore, I extend another invitation:

Accompany me once again over the summer dike and through the Hallig world. Let the wind blow through you, feel the sodden mudflats under your feet, discover new sides of Hallig life and stand with me against the wind that doesn’t always blow from behind. I am pleased to have you at my side.

CHAPTER 1

End of Season - A Stormy Farewell

I can’t remember having looked forward to the end of the season as much as I did in the autumn of 2017, even though I’m not talking about high season and low season, because it’s always high season in my house. But it’s getting quieter outside. The days are getting shorter, and overall everything is going a little slower. More contemplative. The winter timetable for the ferry, which will come into force at the end of October, is just one of the reasons. Then there is no connection to the mainland on Mondays and Wednesdays, on the other days the ferry operates only once a day, and only on Thursdays you have the chance to spend a long day on the mainland. Then Hallig residents can go over in the morning and drive back again in the evening. There are hardly any excursion ships at this time and thus hardly any day guests who come to the Hallig for a few hours. The high season ends, peace returns. Everything seems to run slower, become less.

But before we can get there, there is still a lot to organize, such as the departure of our four-legged summer guests - in Bavaria we would call it the cattle drive. On Hooge there is no special expression for it, one speaks simply of the fact that the animals go back again to the mainland. At the end of the season, i.e. by the end of October at the latest, almost all cattle have to return to the mainland. Most of them go to the winter stables to come back to the Hallig next spring, others never come back. If the weather permits, the animals are allowed to run free on the Hallig for as long as possible. My friend Jan, on whose fens my cow Schmusi and her companions spend the summer months, planned the return journey of the four-legged ladies this year for mid-October. At the beginning of September we still expected a relaxed five weeks, both for the cows and for us. For us, because we could finally enjoy the quieter time again and be with the cows without deadline pressure. For the cows, because they were allowed to stay together with their calves in their familiar surroundings for a while.

But then “Sebastian” was announced. The first severe autumn storm still raged over Great Britain. When a storm tide warning was issued for Wednesday, 13 September 2017, because of “Sebastian", we already had to make extensive preparations on Tuesday. Mobile fence elements were driven onto the terps and the first barriers were built. Many a herd of sheep or cows was already driven to the vicinity of the owner’s mound. Community workers caught up with the blue and white beach chairs from the bathing areas along the dike, and others watched as they tied up or cleared away garden furniture, wheelbarrows and other equipment that could easily have been picked up by the wind.

On the parking lot of our Hallig grocery store there was a lot of traffic, because some were doing a quick bulk shopping. It was to be foreseen that the next shopping would be delayed, because once the storm had picked up speed, nobody would dare to go outside. A slight tension could already be felt everywhere, although the storm’s climax was only announced for the next day. The first reports from the mainland made it clear that something was brewing there. “Sebastian” was early for this time of year. Even the last swallows who hadn’t made their way south had already had their difficulties with the harbingers of the storm. The offspring in particular, which were only a few weeks old, fought against the violent gusts. The upcoming night, when “Sebastian” would meet the German coast, was supposed to show what would really come up to us and what would have to be done.

“Have you ever experienced a real storm on the Hallig yourself?” I was often asked about my first book at a number of events. Sure. I took part in my first storm surge as a child when we were on holiday on Hooge for the first time in 1981. However, you perceive this scenario quite differently as a child. I can well remember the hustle and bustle at Ipkenswarft, where we were guests at the time. On the neighbouring campground there was a youth group from France who had to dismantle their tents very quickly and moved together with us. I don’t even remember the storm that raged outside, but I do remember that my mother took over as an interpreter and suddenly a lot of people were sitting in the big garage where we spent a very sociable evening.

“Are you afraid of a storm today?” That’s also a popular question for me. No! Fear is the last feeling that creeps in. The last feeling that can sneak in! Fortunately it hasn’t come to that yet. Tension, yes, worry about whether everything around the house is really firmly nailed down, and respect for the forces of nature are the feelings that creep in. But I have never been afraid before, especially because we all know what to do and that we can rely on each other in any case.

This time, everything went exactly as planned. The reports in the news were overturned: there was a warning of hurricane gusts, the first trees were uprooted and had buried cars under them or blocked roads. Bridges could no longer be used by vehicles with trailers and empty trucks, and rail transport was discontinued. There were no more flights from Hamburg Airport. These are all the consequences of a storm that do not affect us on the Halligen - we only get ferry traffic - but if we can feel such a large amount of traffic on the mainland, it is obvious that the wind is blowing unchecked on the Halligen. Not only do we have to be careful of flying objects. In addition, there is the rising water, which sooner or later creeps over the dike to the Hallig during a storm like “Sebastian” and reduces our habitat to a third of itself within a very short time.

Before that happened, everything had to be done very quickly. All animals had to be distributed on the terps when “Sebastian” arrived. All animals were collected: a few hundred cows and sheep, we are talking here about four hundred animals loosely. Everywhere small groups of people could be seen gathering their animals on the fens. If we could usually call them from far away or attract them with tasty concentrated feed, that was impossible this time. Yelling at a strong wind only wastes energy and does nothing.

There were four of us to get the animals from Jan’s fen. Nico and Sören waited at the entrance to the fen, Jan and I walked a good ten minutes to the other end of the area, where the animals still grazed in peace. Both of us were wrapped in rain gear and wore rubber boots. The wind ripped noisily at our jackets, our trousers fluttered, and our shoes became heavier and heavier with our long and fast steps. But there was no time for a break, time was against us. When we reached the top, the animals seemed to suspect our tension and anxiety as they approached us the last meters and then trotted down to the gate in a closed group. That was at least a small relief for both of us, because now we had the wind at our backs.

The storm-tested mother cows were still relatively calm, but the calves did not know this situation and were visibly nervous. And so it came as it had to. Susi’s calf, the little Solveig, suddenly panicked and ran in the opposite direction, directly past Jan and me. Nico and Sören, who stood patiently at the gate to receive the herd, so that we - the two ahead, then the cows and Jan and I behind - could have quickly walked on to the mound, just shook their heads. The little Solveig ran back to the other end of the fen, from where we had just come.

“Damminomolto!” Jan cast out the North Frisian curse from the bottom of his heart, and we ran after the calf. Halfway through, Solveig had taken a breather so we could catch up with the calf and get her to run back to the other cows. The nervousness was there for her to see. The small ears stood straight as an arrow upwards, the tail was stretched and also erect. She didn’t know what was going on. How could she? She had never experienced a storm in the five months of her life. A quarter of the way was done, when she, for whatever reason, took a sudden notion and ran off. Actually, she should only have walked a few meters to the right, because her mother, aunts and half siblings stood there and watched her actions with North German composure. Unfortunately, Solveig didn’t show any of that at all. The little calf turned suddenly to the left, took a running jump and jumped like a deer over the ditch to the next fen and ran there cross-country. We were close to despair, for in the meantime more than half an hour had passed and we did not know how to catch a single nervous calf again. And on top of that a hailstorm set in, and hard ice balls the size of two-euro pieces pelted down on us and made our project even more difficult.

In the meantime Nico and Sören had organized a meter-long rope and unlocked it to us. We stretched it between us four and walked slowly in a large arch behind the little one. We were worried she’d take the trench to the next fennel. We hadn’t completely circumnavigated her yet, when she remembered, hit a hook and ran again in the right direction, back to the first ditch.

The other cows still stood patiently waiting at the gate and watched the chewing back and forth in a relaxed manner. I still wonder where little Solveig got this energy from, I had never seen her run so much before. Back at the ditch, she stopped and looked in our direction. Still, or more precisely, again, we followed over a considerable distance, visibly tired and increasingly annoyed and out of ideas.

“What are we going to do?” I shouted at Jan desperately. “We can’t leave her here alone! She won’t survive!"

Jan was equally worried and helpless.

“In the worst case, we’ll have to do it!” was his sober answer. Whatever was going on in Solveig’s little head - maybe she had heard Jan’s words, too - she made a dash across the moat and was back on the fence where we had started this rodeo over three quarters of an hour ago. There she stopped and seemed to think about what she could do next. We dragged ourselves after her, and then we couldn’t believe our eyes. Susi, the mother of the crazy little creature, came out of the group of waiting cows and trotted calmly towards her calf. Solveig remained motionless for her part. Susi reached her calf, licked her a few times over the face, looked in our direction, and then she turned around and trotted together with her obedient little one back to the others.

“What’s the fuss?” she seemed to ask us when she turned around to us again while walking.

We, on the other hand, remained rooted to the ground and could not believe our eyes.

“That’s not true now, is it?” Nico called over to us.

Sören first scolded a lot, but then started to laugh.

“One of you, understand the women,” he just exclaimed and held his stomach with laughter.

Jan stood next to me, his arms raised to his hips, panting irritably and wonderingly at the same time.

“All we need now is for Susi to ask if we can finally get going."

I stood there, just shook my head and shouted angrily against the wind: “If she does that, she will get to know me from another side!”

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, I was just worn out by the running and the concern for the little calf, which was now calm and sheltered from the wind in the middle of the herd.

We had to hurry, time was pressing. Without any problems we could drive the herd towards Hanswarft and up the driveway to Jan’s home as if nothing had happened.

Unfortunately there are no more stables on Hooge where the animals are brought and where they could stand during a storm or even over the winter. The areas on the terps are almost all built-up or simply too small to rebuild the old stables according to today’s requirements. During the winter months the animals are not allowed to stay out on the Hallig landscape because it is too wet. Big cattle would leave damage in the sward. So the cattle have to move to the mainland during the winter. If a storm comes up beforehand, the animals stand on the pitches, some of which still exist in front of the old stables or on the driveway. These areas are concreted, so the cows stand dry on the farmer’s property. This is no great pleasure for the animals, because they do not have a soft ground or much space to run. The advantage, however, is that you get hay bales delivered directly to your nose. Little by little they spread the hay and the ground is not so uncomfortable anymore. Jan then has nine four-legged ladies, a couple of calves and the gentleman and father of the gang, the bull, standing right in front of the door, which Jan’s guests always follow with great interest from above out of the window of the holiday apartment. Besides what happens during a storm on the Hallig.

With a wind speed of up to 140 kilometers per hour, “Sebastian” roared across the Hallig on 13 September and brought a lot of sea water with him. Already in the early afternoon the first big waves sloshed over the dike. Thick foam crowns already gave a hint from afar what kind of pressure had built up in the meantime. There should be more coming soon. After we had kept the animals well and safely on the mound, Jan and I drove my car to the ferry dock. Jan actually wanted to query the current water level again, which is automatically recorded there. In a small house that can be reached by a good five-meter climb up a spiral staircase, the receiver stands for the corresponding measurements. Jan reads these at regular intervals and then forwards them to his employer, the State Organization for Coastal Protection, National Parks and Sea Protection of Schleswig-Holstein. But this was no longer possible, because the area around the stairs was already under water. The spray splashed in a high arc over the dike, so that we watched to get away as soon as possible.

We turned around, and the narrow road that we had just driven along two or three minutes ago was already touched on the right and left by the water that had spread over the Hallig, at least in the flatter places, i.e. in the west and in the area of the ferry dock. Next thing you know, the east might be flooded where the Ockenswarft is. Haste was necessary, because shortly before the Backenswarft, where we had to pass first, is a depression. If it was already underwater, we’d be stranded. I stepped on it. The webcam archive of the municipality’s website later showed us that the sink was full five minutes later and the entire pier area another five minutes later. So we arrived just in time at the Hanswarft, I let Jan get out of my car quickly and drove straight home to the Ockenswarft.

Only about 15 minutes later, I was just doing my inspection walk over the mound, I saw a small red car coming from the Hanswarft driving in my direction. It was my neighbor’s car. He wouldn’t...?! The water was already running in a thin, but steady film across the road to the Ockenswarft, and where there was a depression already completely under water. At top speed, so that the water splashed high, my neighbour drove towards the valley. I couldn’t believe it! Shortly before the mound he remembered and stepped on the brake. He engaged reverse gear and drove back to Hanswarft, because the way through the deep water would not only have been careless, but also mechanically disastrous for the small car. My neighbour then had to spend two nights with his friends at the Hanswarft, because there was no getting through till after that. The Halligen reported themselves underwater.

Besides sea water and hailstorms the wild “Sebastian” also had a lot of water from above in his arsenal. From the low hanging heavy clouds, which moved fast over the North Sea, heavy downpours came down again and again. As if the wind wasn’t enough on its own. Also it grumbled from time to time on the horizon, but on the Hooge we were spared a thunderstorm. And suddenly it was here. Autumn.

When “Sebastian” moved on again, he left stripped-bare trees. The leaves, which had been hanging from the branches the day before, were now spread all over the gardens and terps. Much too soon, I thought. It’s just not nice to be surrounded by naked trees by mid-September. Apart from that, however, there were no significant losses to report from the Halligen. Neither houses, cattle, sheep nor people had been damaged. The latter complained about heavy feet and sore muscles for only a few days. Running in rubber boots, which are partly equipped with steel caps, because they are safety shoes for working with cattle, had cost a lot of effort from everyone. I say it again and again: active Hallig life is better than any gym routine.

The day after the storm, when the wind had died down, I found some dead young swallows in my garden. On the one hand they had probably found nothing to eat anymore, because in such a storm even the insects crawl away, and on the other hand they simply had no strength left to muster and some of them died sitting in the middle of the meadow or in the flower bed on the ground. That was one of the sad tracks Sebastian left behind.

By the weekend everything was as it should be. The swallows flew again in wide circles around the terps and found sufficient food. Just in time, because they really had to hurry. Gather their strength and head south. The cows went free again on the fens, although they had it a bit more difficult now with the foraging. The grass was still very wet and salty, and there were some puddles left. But the sun came out again. So at least the last two or three weeks remained relaxed, before it went for mainland in one direction, Africa in the other direction, and for us in the autumn time.

“The next storm will certainly come,” I said to Jan when we met the next time in peace with the cows.

“But this year there doesn’t have to be any more,” he just whispered to me.

“Hopefully not,” I agreed with him and spoke with it for the four-legged friends and the feathered friends who still flew around us occasionally. “This season’s finale was stormy enough!"

CHAPTER 2

Aunt Magda’s Costume - Another Goodbye

A very different kind of farewell also took place in 2017. It was clear that it would happen someday, but when it did happen, I was surprised.

“After 15 years I would like to bring the traditional costume back into the family,” so went the wording of the e-mail, which reached me at the end of 2017 one morning completely unexpectedly. In a three-liner this wish was formulated to me. At first I was very scared, couldn’t believe my eyes, read the lines over and over again and asked myself what I had possibly done wrong. Little by little, uncertainty arose in me, and I wondered whether it might be due to a statement I had made on television, with which I had come too close to the family from whom Aunt Magda’s traditional costume came. Or had I written something in my book that had led to that decision? I hoped to get an answer to the question that tortured me, but I couldn’t find out any more. Aunt Magda’s only granddaughter, the sender of the e-mail and heiress of the traditional costume, assured me in brief words that it was simply her personal wish and had private reasons. That’s their right. Magda’s granddaughter doesn’t live on the Hallig, not even close by. We’ve only seen each other two or three times in all. Otherwise we might have been able to meet for coffee or tea and talk about the situation. Not about whether I could have kept the costume in my care for any longer, but about how valuable this garment is for Hooge. Perhaps there would have been the possibility to make a loan for the local cultural association out of it. The chairwoman is looking after some of the garments that were made by Hooge women at that time. She also knows a story or two. Priceless for the chronicle of Hooge. I had this idea in my head, but I didn’t dare speak it out openly. Even though there were only three lines from a woman who was a mystery to me and asked me to separate myself from the costume, they sounded determined and final.

It took a good two weeks to say goodbye to a traditional costume that had become dear to my heart over the years. A traditional Hallig dress of an old Hooge woman, whom I was allowed to get to know still personally. A small, tender woman with snow-white, fine hair and a proportionally huge pair of glasses on her nose. At their time, there were no small, almost invisible reading glasses. Aunt Magda, as she is still affectionately called today by the Hoogers, wore it when she had to read small print. A phone number, an instruction leaflet or the like. She was a humorous woman who liked the people around her. She was radiant when you came into conversation, and she always had something to tell, because she lived with body and soul on and for the Hallig. She and some other women tailored their own costumes according to old models and thus kept alive a tradition that had almost died out. The costume I was allowed to wear must have been from the 1960s or 70s. After Magda’s death the traditional costume passed into the hands of her granddaughter, who was even the only one in this case. But she didn’t want the costume to hang uselessly in her closet at that time, so she made it available to me. I was allowed to wear it and always did so with pride and with the feeling of being accompanied by the little, tender woman who once made this piece of jewellery with her own hands. For example, at the biennial summer costume festival on Hooge. I am sure that Magda would have been enthusiastic about the sight of the many people in the most different costumes from all directions of Germany. Even a group from France was once there. I imagine how Aunt Magda would have been among them without speaking a word of French. She with her cheerful and open nature would have understood herself even without a common language with the guests from the south. I had this suspicion especially when we, the Hooge Traditional Dance Group, stood at the jetty with the guest groups after the official conclusion of the day’s event and waited for the ships with which they were to sail to the mainland again. The French invited all the people around to a last dance together. They explained the procedures, and it wasn’t just me who didn’t understand a word. At that moment Magda occurred to me and I imagined how relaxed she would be with the situation. And already it was easy for me to get carried away. Thank God! This final dance, with all the different people, spread for a short moment a unity and happiness at the jetty of the small Hallig in the middle of the North Sea, which could still be felt days later. As a final dance, we danced it three times in a row. It was really a lasting experience. Just like every moment I experienced with and in Magda’s costume.

It was difficult for me to say goodbye, and the thought of having to give them up made me very sad. Although it was of course clear that it was only a loan and I had no claim to the good piece. At no time did I feel that or expect that. All I ever wanted was to know this costume alive.