“You’re at the wrong lock.”, instructed the Continentally accented voice of the lock-master/traffic controller; “At weekends, we only have the big lock in operation.” This: whilst my sight was filled with the vision of the biggest lock-gate I had ever beheld!!!

Lyn and I had pushed through frustration; high winds, recalcitrant Belgian lock engineering; stubbornly closed lifting, hinging, swinging, turning bridges of greatly varied design and construction; all totally deficient of bollard or mooring-ring: all manner of hindrances; taking twenty-eight cruising hours to traverse from Dunkerque to Zeebrugge, via Oostend and Brugges.

We waited 2 hours for this (pedestrian) bridge to allow us through. During that time one gentleman cycled across!!!

This 'rocking' bridge was easily the most spectacular we passed.

A journey which, in more benign circumstances, might have taken less than fourteen hours. Now; finally; we were at Zeebrugge … but not IN Zeebrugge! Though we were behind our self-imposed schedule of arriving on Friday, in time to avail ourselves of the Wednesday sailing (two per week: Wednesday and Friday) of the Zeebrugge to Dublin ‘freight’ ferry, but we had achieved our objective … or so we supposed!

“Make your way back along the canal, turn to Port at the first opportunity, and come down to the gate of the ‘big’ lock. I will let you through there, into the outer harbour.”; intoned our unseen controller.

Casting off again, we proceed to back-track and turn as instructed to be confronted with a craft, similar in size and construction to the (Suez Canal blocking) Evergiven!

This vessel was being pushed and pulled by a pair of attendant tugs. Like a zealous collie: on sighting our tiny craft: one of these dropped her lines and rushed in our direction, to shepherd us away from her charge: so we made an inelegant manoeuvre and did our best to make ourselves inconspicuous, until the behemoth was safe from our predations!

On looking around for a lock gate, none appeared to be within sight, so we kept proceeding about a kilometre, in a Westerly direction, along a quarter kilometre wide waterway. Being, finally, stopped by a black, steel construction: stretched between the quarter kilometre-wide walls of the dockland: we contacted our invisible, Belgian patron. “We are ready to enter the lock.” we announced. “ You are IN the lock.”came the response: “There is another craft mooring behind you, and then I will open the gate for you.”

For about five minutes, we had been traversing the length of a GIANT lock, and bearing down upon us, was the previous gargantuan vessel’s even bigger sibling!

Though our pulses were discernibly elevated: the presence, again, of a pair of marshalling tugs gave us some degree of reassurance that we would not be squashed, unnoticed, like a bug! Once the huge black wall slid into its recess, we came to the realisation that we had been moored in what may well be the biggest lock in the world! Thankfully: we were instructed to vacate the lock ahead of the larger occupant, and we scuttled – with as much dignity as we could muster – into the outer harbour, in the shadow of the lifting device which would hoist us from the water onto the boat-transporting trailer.

After yet another in the inevitable series of delays, we were informed that the hoist would not now take place until the Tuesday mid-morning. Though we were keen to observe the procedure, we had plans to take advantage of our (relative) proximity to Amsterdam: wherein reside a couple of dear friends:  whom we were determined to visit. This prevented our presence at the lifting operation, and kept us unaware – until a couple of days thereafter – that the weight stated on VDN’s papers was a wild underestimate … nearly twenty-five tons, rather than our assumption of under twenty tons!!! This misapprehension was to cost us dear, in both time and finances … but that’s just part of ‘life’s rich tapestry’!

A successful, flying visit to both our American and Dutch friends in Amsterdam was followed by a rail odyssey back to our car in St. Jean de Losne, via Paris and Dijon. After one, final, night of great social cheer with our new-found (but dearly appreciated), multi-national boating community, we departed, en-route Cherbourg and the ferry to Dublin.

That extra weight engendered further delays in delivery but finally … FINALLY … we are safely and comfortably ensconced in our mooring at Tara Marina.

It's been the journey, and adventure, of a lifetime. The 'year of the plague’ will forever be the year we found Vent Du Nord, and cruised her through France!