It seems we got a winter after all.
Not enough for the Elfstedentocht to go through, but that’s such a traumatic decision for the Dutch that I won’t dwell much on it here. Suffice it to say that there was talk about whether ducks were quacking at night or what side of the moon would shine. One thing is sure: nature decides.
Now, I grew up skating rounds at the local ice rink to a soundtrack of Supertramp, eating sponge toffee during 15 minute breaks when the Zamboni cleared the ice, and I loved it. But I have to say that I discovered much too late in life that indoor skating, despite the dependable conditions of the ice, does not even begin to compare with skating on natural ice.
Once you get used to the pings and ricochets and the bizarre sounds rumbling under your feet, and trying to figure out how thick the ice actually is,
We were lucky enough to find virgin ice.
Others were not so lucky.
So, I’ll let the rest of this just be a bit of a photo essay, because the pictures speak for themselves, especially in a place where this only happens once every fifteen or twenty years.