Albion
04-24-2011, 10:04 AM
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We're in search of a forgotten piece of Britain. But right now it feels as though we're on a fool's errand: stuck on an ageing passenger ferry, rolling side-to-side in the bleak North Sea and surrounded by hearty Germans tucking into herring sandwiches. A sea fret claimed the Lower Saxon coastline an hour ago and we're left staring at the endless choppy sea; the only apparent connection to the United Kingdom is the grey weather.
Things look up when the mist makes way for a clear blue sky. A stubby island emerges on the horizon, its sheer cliffs coloured a deep red, as though someone has positioned a small Uluru in the middle of the water. This is Heligoland, a tiny archipelago 29 miles off the German coast that has long attracted the attention of both holidaymakers and warring nations. From its seizure at the height of the Napoleonic Wars in 1807, until 1890, it was a British colony, dubbed the "Gibraltar of the North Sea" and considered of similar strategic importance as its Mediterranean equivalent.
Ruled directly from Whitehall and populated with British citizens, Heligoland boomed as trade complemented the traditional fishing industry. But foreign ownership of a territory so close to the German shoreline came to be viewed as an affront to German national pride. Despite Queen Victoria personally demanding its retention ("The people have been always very loyal… soon nothing will be secure") at the end of the 19th century the island was gifted to a delighted Kaiser Wilhelm II. In return, the British Empire gained Zanzibar and swathes of East Africa.
Not that anyone paused to ask the opinion of the ordinary Heligolanders, who simply got on with their lives. Despite the landscape being devastated by bombing during two world wars, the island's unique culture continues to flourish in the present day with its own distinct dialect, traditional dress and omnipresent flag. Once onshore we follow a row of colourful clapboard houses that lead the way towards the Unterland, the lower of the two settlements that are separated by a cliff and connected by a steep set of steps.
In the absence of motor vehicles the locals prefer to get around by push-scooters, whizzing along the harbour front and into narrow streets filled with quiet cafés and small cottages. In the summer the town is packed, but out of season it has the understated charm of a classic British seaside resort; a miniature Scarborough transplanted into the middle of the German Bight.
It was the promise of fresh air and artistic inspiration that first attracted the attention of mainlanders back in the Victorian age: liberal Germans who used Heligoland as a political retreat from the nationalist fervour of their homeland. The island's spa-like qualities and its air of mystery – constantly reshaped by both man and the sea – have given it a reputation as a creative muse, influencing everything from the words of the German national anthem to the most recent Massive Attack album.
Nowadays you're more likely to find daytrippers from nearby Hamburg and Bremen taking advantage of the island's duty-free status, but Heligoland is seeking to recapture its past allure with a new spa development, presenting itself as a pocket-sized alternative to the sandier Nordsee islands. Our hotel, the Rickmers Insulaner, faces out over the harbour and is perfect for a weekend getaway. It's still run by one of the oldest Heligoland families, a clan who took a leading role in repopulating the island after the Second World War and maintaining its traditions. As a result the walls are filled with mementos of past yacht races, top-hatted holidaymakers and royal visits.
Up above, in the more residential Oberland, the attraction of Heligoland becomes clearer. A thousand residents live in close proximity within a tight grid of sloping alleys that do their best to deflect the winter gales. The view is superb. Stand on the promenade, breathe in the air and you feel gloriously remote. Unable to see any other land, you are aware that you are stranded on an insignificant rock, well away from urban life.
"I came in 1967 for two years," says Hans Stuehmer, propping up the bar at an Oberland pub, "but I never considered going back. It's calm, quiet and the nature is just wonderful." Heligoland struggles to retain its young and many residents are outsiders who have bought into the island's ethos. "A lot of people feel really alone in a big city," he points out. "But you're never alone here."
The tight community means that there are few social boundaries: within hours of arriving we ask a local hotelier whether there is anyone able to show us around the island. His response is to put a call straight through to the mayor, who insists we visit Düne, the secluded sister island and nature reserve. Over there we walk along white beaches, deserted apart from basking seals.
Read full article... (http://www.guardian.co.uk/travel/2011/apr/24/heligoland-north-sea-hidden-gem)
We're in search of a forgotten piece of Britain. But right now it feels as though we're on a fool's errand: stuck on an ageing passenger ferry, rolling side-to-side in the bleak North Sea and surrounded by hearty Germans tucking into herring sandwiches. A sea fret claimed the Lower Saxon coastline an hour ago and we're left staring at the endless choppy sea; the only apparent connection to the United Kingdom is the grey weather.
Things look up when the mist makes way for a clear blue sky. A stubby island emerges on the horizon, its sheer cliffs coloured a deep red, as though someone has positioned a small Uluru in the middle of the water. This is Heligoland, a tiny archipelago 29 miles off the German coast that has long attracted the attention of both holidaymakers and warring nations. From its seizure at the height of the Napoleonic Wars in 1807, until 1890, it was a British colony, dubbed the "Gibraltar of the North Sea" and considered of similar strategic importance as its Mediterranean equivalent.
Ruled directly from Whitehall and populated with British citizens, Heligoland boomed as trade complemented the traditional fishing industry. But foreign ownership of a territory so close to the German shoreline came to be viewed as an affront to German national pride. Despite Queen Victoria personally demanding its retention ("The people have been always very loyal… soon nothing will be secure") at the end of the 19th century the island was gifted to a delighted Kaiser Wilhelm II. In return, the British Empire gained Zanzibar and swathes of East Africa.
Not that anyone paused to ask the opinion of the ordinary Heligolanders, who simply got on with their lives. Despite the landscape being devastated by bombing during two world wars, the island's unique culture continues to flourish in the present day with its own distinct dialect, traditional dress and omnipresent flag. Once onshore we follow a row of colourful clapboard houses that lead the way towards the Unterland, the lower of the two settlements that are separated by a cliff and connected by a steep set of steps.
In the absence of motor vehicles the locals prefer to get around by push-scooters, whizzing along the harbour front and into narrow streets filled with quiet cafés and small cottages. In the summer the town is packed, but out of season it has the understated charm of a classic British seaside resort; a miniature Scarborough transplanted into the middle of the German Bight.
It was the promise of fresh air and artistic inspiration that first attracted the attention of mainlanders back in the Victorian age: liberal Germans who used Heligoland as a political retreat from the nationalist fervour of their homeland. The island's spa-like qualities and its air of mystery – constantly reshaped by both man and the sea – have given it a reputation as a creative muse, influencing everything from the words of the German national anthem to the most recent Massive Attack album.
Nowadays you're more likely to find daytrippers from nearby Hamburg and Bremen taking advantage of the island's duty-free status, but Heligoland is seeking to recapture its past allure with a new spa development, presenting itself as a pocket-sized alternative to the sandier Nordsee islands. Our hotel, the Rickmers Insulaner, faces out over the harbour and is perfect for a weekend getaway. It's still run by one of the oldest Heligoland families, a clan who took a leading role in repopulating the island after the Second World War and maintaining its traditions. As a result the walls are filled with mementos of past yacht races, top-hatted holidaymakers and royal visits.
Up above, in the more residential Oberland, the attraction of Heligoland becomes clearer. A thousand residents live in close proximity within a tight grid of sloping alleys that do their best to deflect the winter gales. The view is superb. Stand on the promenade, breathe in the air and you feel gloriously remote. Unable to see any other land, you are aware that you are stranded on an insignificant rock, well away from urban life.
"I came in 1967 for two years," says Hans Stuehmer, propping up the bar at an Oberland pub, "but I never considered going back. It's calm, quiet and the nature is just wonderful." Heligoland struggles to retain its young and many residents are outsiders who have bought into the island's ethos. "A lot of people feel really alone in a big city," he points out. "But you're never alone here."
The tight community means that there are few social boundaries: within hours of arriving we ask a local hotelier whether there is anyone able to show us around the island. His response is to put a call straight through to the mayor, who insists we visit Düne, the secluded sister island and nature reserve. Over there we walk along white beaches, deserted apart from basking seals.
Read full article... (http://www.guardian.co.uk/travel/2011/apr/24/heligoland-north-sea-hidden-gem)