Hazards of Beach Life
The Frisian Islands differ greatly in size and population, from North Holland’s Texel, with its 162 square miles and 13,000 residents, to uninhabited sandbanks. They all, however, share a vulnerability to the North Sea.
Whether through tide, flood, or steady erosion, the sea has antagonized Frisian islands residents for thousands of years. Pliny, a first century Roman historian, described their plight:
“There, two times in each period of a day and a night, the ocean with a fast tide submerges an immense plain…There this miserable race inhabits raised pieces ground or platforms, which they have moored by hand above the level of the highest known tide. Living in huts built on the chosen spots, they seem like sailors in ships if water covers the surrounding country, but like shipwrecked people when the tide has withdrawn itself, and around their huts they catch fish which tries to escape with the expiring tide…Their only drink comes from storing rain water in tanks front of their houses. And these are the races which, if they were now conquered by the Roman nation, say that they will fall into slavery! It is only too true: Destiny saves people as a punishment.”
Hardly flattering.
Eventually, Frisians figured out how to combat the sea, and rise above the levels of misery mentioned by Pliny. Initially, this meant building their settlements on terpen. A terp is an artificial mound of earth and clay that keeps settlements above the tide. They ranged from mounds only big enough for a couple huts, to massive earthen hills that held entire villages. These terpen were so common in the coastal regions that the term “terp” became synonymous with “village.”
The tallest terpen reached as high as 45 feet. Think what that must have looked like during a flood. I’m sure the village mothers shouted at their kids playing in the fields to run in this instant, because the rain was starting and the tide was going to sweep them away. The kids ran up the hill just as the rain poured heavy, some of the younger kids screaming. Everyone safely in, the fathers all close and latch the hut doors, and tell their sons to get the fishing nets ready. Outside, the sheets of rain mix with the billowing ocean into a briny heaving froth building on itself until it laps against the edges of the huts. If some sailors steered their boats past the flood basin, they would have stared at the village, now a collection of oblong dots poking out of the raging water, and wonder what enchantment made the land dwellings float like ships on the sea. When the storm finally dies, the fathers open the doors, lean against the frame, and toss their nets at the schools of fishing scampering just yards away at the foot of their hut which is—for the moment at least—beach-front property. A few hours later, and the water sinks back down, the skies clear, and the children go back to playing in the mudflats. Another day in the life….
Strange, to be sure. For most ancient Frisian communities, this only would have happened during severe floods. But for some along the coastal islands, it was routine. In the mornings, your house was on a hilltop overlooking a vast plain. By late afternoon, your house was an island surrounded by a new-risen sea. Same old, same old.
Around AD 1000, things started to change. Some clever Frisian hit upon the idea of dykes. These dykes are still an essential part of the Frisian landscape. In fact, if it wasn’t for them, there wouldn’t be much of a Frisian landscape. Today, over fifty percent of Friesland is below sea level.
Although modern innovations mean that Frisians no longer huddle on top of mud hills surrounded by flood water, much of Frisia is still vulnerable to the north sea. Despite engineers’ best efforts, many islands are constantly in flux. Throughout the centuries, dozens of islands have moved, appeared, split in two, rejoined, reconnected with the mainland, or been entirely swallowed in the Wadden Sea.
Some examples include the island of Jutje Horn. Between 1961 and 1999, it moved 600 meters to the east, and 150 meters to the south. That’s about 15 meters east and 4 meters south per year. Kachelotplate, a big sandbar off the German coast, was one of the few winners in the tidal battle. It just managed to keep enough of its dunes above the tide to officially become an island in 2003. Less fortunate was the Danish island of Jordsand. Records as far back as 1231 describe it as an island roughly twenty square kilometers, and with a substantial population of terpen. Alas, it eventually lost its centuries-long battle with the North Sea, slipping beneath the waves forever in 1999. We’ll miss you, Jordsand.
Whether through tide, flood, or steady erosion, the sea has antagonized Frisian islands residents for thousands of years. Pliny, a first century Roman historian, described their plight:
“There, two times in each period of a day and a night, the ocean with a fast tide submerges an immense plain…There this miserable race inhabits raised pieces ground or platforms, which they have moored by hand above the level of the highest known tide. Living in huts built on the chosen spots, they seem like sailors in ships if water covers the surrounding country, but like shipwrecked people when the tide has withdrawn itself, and around their huts they catch fish which tries to escape with the expiring tide…Their only drink comes from storing rain water in tanks front of their houses. And these are the races which, if they were now conquered by the Roman nation, say that they will fall into slavery! It is only too true: Destiny saves people as a punishment.”
Hardly flattering.
Eventually, Frisians figured out how to combat the sea, and rise above the levels of misery mentioned by Pliny. Initially, this meant building their settlements on terpen. A terp is an artificial mound of earth and clay that keeps settlements above the tide. They ranged from mounds only big enough for a couple huts, to massive earthen hills that held entire villages. These terpen were so common in the coastal regions that the term “terp” became synonymous with “village.”
The tallest terpen reached as high as 45 feet. Think what that must have looked like during a flood. I’m sure the village mothers shouted at their kids playing in the fields to run in this instant, because the rain was starting and the tide was going to sweep them away. The kids ran up the hill just as the rain poured heavy, some of the younger kids screaming. Everyone safely in, the fathers all close and latch the hut doors, and tell their sons to get the fishing nets ready. Outside, the sheets of rain mix with the billowing ocean into a briny heaving froth building on itself until it laps against the edges of the huts. If some sailors steered their boats past the flood basin, they would have stared at the village, now a collection of oblong dots poking out of the raging water, and wonder what enchantment made the land dwellings float like ships on the sea. When the storm finally dies, the fathers open the doors, lean against the frame, and toss their nets at the schools of fishing scampering just yards away at the foot of their hut which is—for the moment at least—beach-front property. A few hours later, and the water sinks back down, the skies clear, and the children go back to playing in the mudflats. Another day in the life….
Strange, to be sure. For most ancient Frisian communities, this only would have happened during severe floods. But for some along the coastal islands, it was routine. In the mornings, your house was on a hilltop overlooking a vast plain. By late afternoon, your house was an island surrounded by a new-risen sea. Same old, same old.
Around AD 1000, things started to change. Some clever Frisian hit upon the idea of dykes. These dykes are still an essential part of the Frisian landscape. In fact, if it wasn’t for them, there wouldn’t be much of a Frisian landscape. Today, over fifty percent of Friesland is below sea level.
Although modern innovations mean that Frisians no longer huddle on top of mud hills surrounded by flood water, much of Frisia is still vulnerable to the north sea. Despite engineers’ best efforts, many islands are constantly in flux. Throughout the centuries, dozens of islands have moved, appeared, split in two, rejoined, reconnected with the mainland, or been entirely swallowed in the Wadden Sea.
Some examples include the island of Jutje Horn. Between 1961 and 1999, it moved 600 meters to the east, and 150 meters to the south. That’s about 15 meters east and 4 meters south per year. Kachelotplate, a big sandbar off the German coast, was one of the few winners in the tidal battle. It just managed to keep enough of its dunes above the tide to officially become an island in 2003. Less fortunate was the Danish island of Jordsand. Records as far back as 1231 describe it as an island roughly twenty square kilometers, and with a substantial population of terpen. Alas, it eventually lost its centuries-long battle with the North Sea, slipping beneath the waves forever in 1999. We’ll miss you, Jordsand.
