Having lived in the Netherlands for two years now, I’ve learned a simple rule of adventure: the farther you go from the capital, the more authentic everything feels. Province North Holland — where Amsterdam itself sits — illustrates this principle best. We first explored this region with friends and loved it so much that my wife and I later retraced the same route. Twice! Here’s how that journey unfolded.
Our acquaintance with North Holland began in Haarlem, where our friends live. The four of us set off from there toward the island of Marken. A straight cycling highway first brought us to Amsterdam, where we boarded a crowded ferry across the IJ River and made our way to the calmer northern bank.
We were riding through the village of Broek in Waterland, along a canal lined with floating houses on the opposite bank. In front of each house was a hand-operated ferry, pulled along a cable across the water.
I smiled because the village name Broek meant “pants” in Dutch. However, I would learn later that it actually comes from the Middle Dutch word bruec, meaning “marshland.”
But the charming canal houses were just the beginning. When we reached the village center, we were greeted by historic wooden houses painted in soft blues, deep greens, and creamy hues. My favorite was the “Small Whale” house from 1629.
Broek in Waterland was amazing, but more places waited ahead. The wind was at our backs, and clouds of all shapes drifted gently above us.
We hardly noticed how quickly we reached the spot where the Island of Marken came into view from the mainland.
A thin line of houses and trees appeared on the horizon, slicing the flawless blue expanse in half. We stopped to catch our breath and take a few pictures.
Oh, forgot to say, Marken isn’t technically an island anymore. In 1957, it was connected to the mainland by a causeway. Back in the day, Marken had sat in the Zuiderzee, a former inland sea. But the Dutch cut the Zuiderzee into several lakes, and many islands either became part of reclaimed land or were turned into peninsulas.
Unlike Broek’s blue and creamy architecture, Marken revealed a different palette — plenty of green and black with white frames and cornices.
We explored several hamlets of Marken, far from the crowded, touristy harbor. There were no streets in the usual sense — only narrow cobblestone paths winding between houses, making it feel as if we were walking through someone’s private world.
My favorite was the waterfront hamlet of Rozewerf, where most of the houses date back to the 18th and 19th centuries. Tall mallows grew along the black wooden walls, blooming in vivid shades of pink.
We rode to the island’s far end, where the “Horse of Marken” lighthouse (1839) stood quietly against the murky water. Yachts and small boats glided past, pushed along by the wind.
An interesting thing about the lighthouse is that drifting ice once pushed its tower several centimeters off its position — the winter of 1971 was that harsh. It’s hard to imagine now, when winters here barely bring snow and the water rarely freezes.
Soon, a drizzle began to fall, and after a short pause, we turned back to the village center. There, we hid beneath the umbrellas of a café and recharged with some food and warmth before heading on. One of the last things I photographed was a pair of dredging vessels near the shore — likely working to reinforce the dike and protect Marken’s coastline from erosion. A genuinely Dutch scene!
After Marken, we headed to the town of Monnickendam, just across the water on the mainland. When we arrived, the town center was lively; locals were chatting over beers at cafés.
Near the harbor, we came across an intriguing bronze sculpture — a man smoking eels. Created by artist Rob Cerneus, it honors Monnickendam’s long tradition of smoked fish: eel, mackerel, and herring. In the past, Monnickendam had over 30 smokehouses, but when the Zuiderzee was closed off by dams, fishing stopped in the area, and most of those smokehouses were closed.
We sat near the eel smoker, discussing what to do next. We could have joined the locals for a beer, but our stomachs were quite full after lunch on Marken. With the sun already sinking, we took only a short stroll around Monnickendam and decided to head back to Haarlem — this time along a different route to see something new. We spent most of it talking, so I barely took any pictures that day.
When I’m with other people, I try to hold back and not spend forty minutes at every beautiful spot chasing the perfect shot — I can imagine how annoying that must be. Naturally, after our group ride, as fun as it was, I felt a sense of incompleteness. So, a week later, I decided to continue the journey solo from where we’d left off. I took my bike on the train to Amsterdam and then quickly rode the 15 kilometers to Monnickendam, ready to explore it in more detail.
I returned just as the town was holding its fish festival. The fishermen were smoking mackerel and herring, each stall sending out its own cloud of scent. Still, none of them was selling anything on the spot — I was simply left wondering how to taste it fresh.
So I decided to capture a few scenes, confident I’d eventually find a way to taste the fish — and I did. One of the locals pointed me to the “De Boer Brothers” smokehouse just around the corner.
I stocked up on all kinds of fish treats and peeked through the open side door, where eels were being prepared for smoking and hung in several rows on a steel frame. I didn’t see the further process, but the rich, salty scent lingered in the air.
Details caught my eye as I wandered along Noordeinde Street, where most houses displayed charming art plates on their façades. One house from 1611 stood out: it featured the image of a cow and the name “In de Bonten Os,” which means “In the Spotted Ox.”
Opposite the house with the cow stood the Rococo-style town hall from the 18th century, featuring a striking railing shaped like giant eels. I suppose that wasn’t a coincidence, given Monnickendam’s fishing history.
As I rode toward the end of the street, I noticed a more modern house with an art tile. It depicted a flea market: two men standing by an outdoor stall piled with books. That little scene marked my goodbye to Monnickendam, and I let the wheels carry me further north.
My next stop wasn’t far — the villages of Volendam and Edam, which now blend seamlessly into one municipality. In the late 19th and early 20th centuries, Volendam became a magnet for artists. They would stay at Hotel “Spaander” and observe the villagers’ lifestyle and traditional costumes, seeking to capture a “disappearing world.” Nowadays, though, it’s probably the most touristy spot in the region. It reminded me of Montmartre in Paris: once a poor district where artists lived and worked in harsh conditions, it eventually gentrified and became overwhelmingly touristy. My Dutch colleagues had warned me never to go to Volendam — and oh boy, were they right.
I decided to cross through Volendam anyway. Its harbor was crawling with daytrippers and lined with shops selling tacky souvenirs. It felt more like a kitschy theme park than a quaint fishing village.
Then I reached the village of Edam, which lent its name to one of the most famous Dutch cheeses. I decided not to risk another tourist trap and stayed on the outskirts, and that’s where I found a true 19th-century architectural gem — “The House of Seagulls.”
Meanwhile, my route carried me further north toward the city of Hoorn. I wasn’t expecting much along this stretch, yet as I crossed a bridge in Schardam, a graceful unicorn-topped column made me pause. Little did I know how many more unicorns I’d spot that day. This one had stood here since 1761, marking Hoorn’s border; anyone expelled from the city was forbidden to cross it.
Near Hoorn, the clouds thickened and a gentle rain started. It wasn’t heavy yet, but the forecast promised a proper shower later. Luckily, I had my waterproof cycling jacket to keep me warm in the rain. Unlike bike racers, who speed along without a care for the cold, I make plenty of stops to document my journey and always need extra layers.
The rain had driven people away from the usually crowded city center, and I had the space to explore it and snap some photos. Of course, I started with Hoorn’s medieval tower that has been watching over the harbor since 1532. Ironically, just within a hundred years, guns and cannons had made all those medieval defenses useless. So, the tower found new life hosting guilds and trading societies.
City emblems appeared everywhere I looked: on façades, ships, and signboards. I first thought the red unicorn holding a shield with the horn of plenty was a reference to the city’s name, Hoorn. But its origin is hazy: some trace it to the harbor’s curved outline, others to an old tavern adorned with a post horn, and one legend tells of a prince named Hornus. Whatever the story, unicorns kept crossing my path all day.
I was already on my way out of the city when I came across what became my favorite spot here. The Bossuhuizen were a trio of 17th-century manors with remarkable reliefs, looking almost like a comic strip.
The reliefs show how the Dutch fleet of small, nimble ships triumphed over the Spanish armada under Admiral Bossu’s in a six-day battle. The outcome might have been very different without the heroic Hoorn sailor Jan Haring, who climbed the Spanish flagship’s mast and tore down its flag — the enemy thought they had been defeated and fled.
If you thought that was the end of my adventure — far from it. I still had one more destination in mind: Enkhuizen. By then, though, the rain had grown heavy. I waited for half an hour under the archway of some residential block, hoping it would pass. When it didn’t, I rode on through the downpour anyway, pedaling fast to keep warm. My sneakers were soaked through; however, I found some comfort in knowing I had a dry pair of socks in my bag.
As I approached Enkhuizen, the sky began to clear, shifting into purple hues. I came from the side of the railway station, noting its location so I’d know where to catch my train afterward. And then I saw the Drommedaris tower (1540), which once guarded the harbor.
The rain had emptied the city, and I felt like its only guest. Everything was mine to explore, and I ran back and forth, capturing every corner.
Unlike Hoorn, Enkhuizen had no unicorns here. Enkhuizen is nicknamed “Haringstad” (Herring City); its emblem shows three crowned herings. For centuries, it was a major fishing port until the Zuiderzee was closed off and later divided into lakes by dikes.
One area caught my attention in particular. Dozens of old houses stood neatly on green lawns, and I suddenly remembered a colleague had once told me this would be the best place to visit in the region. Of course — it was the Zuiderzee Museum, where the lore of the former inland sea has been preserved in time.
The rain had passed, leaving a sky painted in blues of every tone.
My alarm went off, a sharp reminder that I had only half an hour left to snap a few final photos and catch the last direct train.
To wrap up the journey, I pedaled to the start of the dam stretching across the former Zuiderzee, wanting a final view of the city. It was already quite dark — good thing I was finishing up.
When I reached the station, the irony hit me: I had miscalculated my alarm and missed the last direct train by a mere five minutes. Oops…
It was close to midnight, and my only option was a much longer journey with multiple connections. But the trains seemed cursed that night: in Amsterdam, several were canceled in a row. When one finally arrived, it only went as far as Leiden. From there, I cycled the final 20 km home, finally jumping into bed at 4 a.m.
Despite that exhausting solo ride, my craving for North Holland adventures hadn’t faded — it had only grown. So I decided to go back for a third time, accompanied by Oksanka. The following weekend, we took the train to Hoorn and rode from there on the bike. Last time I’d taken the dull straight route between Hoorn and Enkhuizen because of the rain, but now we chose the longer, coastal one instead.
We talked the whole way to Enkhuizen and didn’t even notice how quickly those 25 kilometers slipped by beneath our wheels. We’d long wanted to visit the Zuiderzee Museum, and it turned out to be the perfect day for it. A folk festival was taking place there, with craftspeople demonstrating old trades, singers performing fishermen’s songs, and the air filled with the scent of sea delicacies.
The idea for the Zuiderzee Museum first appeared in the 1930s, when Enkhuizen hosted a sea lore exhibition. Temporary cardboard houses were built, and real residents from coastal villages came dressed in their traditional clothes. Plans for a permanent museum were postponed by World War II, but the idea wasn’t forgotten. After peace returned, the museum officially came to life and now has over 140 historic buildings, including houses, a school, a church, and a shipyard.
We wandered from house to house, imagining what life must have been like for residents of a fishing village or town centuries ago. Some buildings were not super ancient, just a century or several decades old, while others were 3–4 centuries old.
Soon, we had wandered past many fishermen’s houses, but we kept wondering: where were all the fish? Then we stumbled upon a few smoking barns with real herring — not one of those plastic imitations you often see in indoor museums.
Apart from various houses, the museum had many ships moored in its harbor, including a dozen fishing boats, each shaped according to the traditions of its village of origin. One of the fancier boats had a great inscription at the stern:
“Nooit bent u verslagen zolang er een stem in u zegt: doorvechten”
It means: “You are never defeated, as long as a voice in you says: fight on.”
While watching the crafts, we could even try some ourselves — for instance, hammering fibers between the planks of a newly built boat to seal the hull. A crucial step in boatbuilding back in the day!
Oh, and there were animals too. I probably spent several minutes trying to get a good portrait of this magnificent rooster. Not only was it gorgeous, but also colored in the Dutch royal orange.
It was well past midday, and we got extremely hungry. We somehow felt what we wanted to eat — without exactly knowing what it would eventually be. And at the far end of the museum grounds, a kiosk offered freshly smoked mackerel, which we devoured instantly.
With our stomachs full, we had energy to keep exploring and stumbled upon another bit of coastal lore — domestic storage tanks for biogas, known in Dutch as moerasgas (“marsh gas”). Back then, having a reliable way to generate biogas on your property was a real stroke of fortune: it meant self-sufficient fuel for heating, cooking, and lighting before modern utilities reached scattered rural communities.
At last, we came across a local blacksmith, hammering out traditional iron nails and handing them to children.
Although the museum still had an hour or so before closing, we decided to leave. Our heads were buzzing with impressions, and we simply couldn’t take in any more. Besides, we had a 50-kilometer cycling plan ahead — half of it heading further northwest, and then looping back to Station Hoorn.
Nothing could top the Zuiderzee Museum, yet I couldn’t stop thinking about a few more spots still left to explore in the region. One of them was Radboud Castle in Medemblik. Its exact construction date is unknown, but the fortress was already standing before St. Lucia’s Sea Flood of 1287. This catastrophic flood claimed up to 80,000 lives and significantly contributed to the Zuiderzee formation: it enlarged the gap between the Frisian Islands and North Holland’s mainland. I couldn’t believe the Zuiderzee hadn’t always existed!
The evening sun and tall trees cast long shadows over the oldest medieval side of the castle, yet I found a certain beauty in that play of light and shade, more than in a plainly illuminated façade.
We walked through the castle grounds, enjoying the sunny calm. Willow trees were gently brushing the water.
After the castle, Oksanka was ready to head home and asked what the last place was that would make me agree to return. And it was a nerdy one: the Lely Pumping Station (1930). Unlike most industrial buildings of its time, it was designed to be visually appealing. The Hague architect Dirk Roosenburg managed to blend practicality with elegance.
This station is a key part of the Zuiderzee Works, the Netherlands’ massive land reclamation project, and one of the early examples of using electric pumps instead of traditional windmills.
Seeing that pumping station sparked ideas for a new adventure. It felt like a natural bridge to yet another province, whose history is deeply tied to the Zuiderzee — Flevoland. Meanwhile, we were on the train back to The Hague, trying not to give away to other passengers that the tempting smell of smoked fish was coming from our bike bag.
Leave a Reply