CUMBERLIDGE ON CRUISING
PETER CUMBERLIDGE: A yacht etched with an island’s name prompts a shared reverie on the strange charm and history of Helgoland, a classic North Sea bolthole
One balmy afternoon a month or so ago, I was wandering along Dartmouth embankment, boat watching. Moored at the town jetty was a sleek sailing yacht maybe 45ft long, with a German ensign wafting in the light breeze. I was intrigued to see a very unusual home port stencilled on her stern – Helgoland. This small, rather eerie island lies in the south-east corner of the North Sea off the mouth of the great Elbe River.
I chatted with the yacht’s owner for a while. He was heading home after a family cruise, now with only his brother-in-law as delivery crew. An interesting chap, with a glinting sense of humour about Brexit, he reminded me that Helgoland was actually once British.
I have called at Helgoland several times on the way back from the Baltic. The Elbe is a long tricky estuary, with powerful streams and copious sandbanks. Most boats come out with a favourable ebb tide, which in fair-weather north-westerlies can create a devilish chop. Having cleared the mouth, you often need somewhere to recover, and Helgoland harbour is barely 20 miles from the outer buoys.
One of nature’s quirks, Helgoland is a stark plateau of red sandstone rising sheer from a sea area whose coasts show no hint of a modest hill, let alone a cliff. In summer haze, the high, straight profile looks like a massive container ship, until you pick out the foursquare lighthouse on the summit and a clustered town on its south-east side.
East of the main island is a flat expanse of dunes and marram grass, completely different from its gaunt neighbour. The roadstead between the two is the only safe storm refuge in the German Bight, particularly valuable in the days of sail and steamships. Britain owned Helgoland for nearly a century until 1890 when, in one of those preposterous horse-trading sessions between colonial powers, the island was handed over to Germany in exchange for mining rights in Zanzibar.
Helgoland was a crucial German naval base in both World Wars and after 1945 the British took control again. In 1947 we actually tried to blow the place up and wipe it off the map, but the rock that had withstood so many bombs and winter storms remained standing and was returned to Germany in 1952.
It’s a fascinating historic haven with a snug marina, and this quietly spoken German skipper was about to voyage there, probably in two legs via Ramsgate. In a spirit of European entente, he produced three bottles of excellent Löwenbräu beer and shot glasses of cold schnapps chasers. We drank to the solidarity of seafarers, a reliably safe toast in the circumstances.
One of nature’s quirks, Helgoland is a stark plateau of red sandstone rising sheer from a sea area whose coasts show no hint of a modest hill, let alone a cliff