To the little fishing village of Volendain, paradise of quaint costumes and gay prettinesses, artists invariably resort.  Like much of Monnickendam, and indeed almost all Dutch seaside settlements, the village is, if not below sea-level, almost invisible from the water, on account of an obliterating dyke.  At the Helder one can consider the rampart reasonable, but here, where there is no foe but the Zuyder Zee, it may seem fantastic.  If we lived there in winter, however, the precaution would soon be justified, for the Zuyder Zee can on occasion roar like a lion.  It is odd to reflect that Volendam, Monnickendam and Marken may become ordinary inland hamlets in the midst of green fields if the great scheme for draining the Zuyder Zee is carried through.

If the people and village of Volendam are to be described in a phrase, they may be called better Markeners in a better Marken.  The decoration of the pointed red-roofed houses is similar; there is the same prevailing and very ingratiating passion for blue Delft—­and a very beautiful blue too; the clothes of the men and women have a family resemblance.  But Volendam is in every way better—­although its open drain is a sore trial:  it is more human, more natural.  The men hold the record for Dutch taciturnity.  They also smoke more persistently and wear larger sabots than I saw anywhere else, leaving them outside their doors with a religious exactitude that suggests that the good-wives of Volendam know how to be obeyed.  The women discard the Marken ringlets and richness of embroidery, but in the matter of petticoats they approach the Scheveningen and Huizen standards.  Their jewellery resolves itself into a coral necklace, while the men wear silver buttons—­both coming down from mother to daughter, and father to son.

The fishing fleet of Volendam sails as far as the North Sea, but it is always in Volendam by Saturday morning.  Hence if you would see the Volendam fishermen in their greatest strength the time to visit the little town is at the end of the week or on Sunday.

The day for Purmerend is Tuesday, because then the market is held, in the castle plein, among mediaeval surroundings.  To this market the neighbourhood seems to send its whole population, by road and water, in gay cart and comfortable wherry.  According to my unfailing informant in these regions, the Purmerend stadhuis, in order “to aggrandise the cheese market,” was in 1633 “set back a few meters by screwing-force”.

The excursion to Marken and the excursion to Edam and its neighbourhood take each a day; but between Amsterdam and Zaandam, just off the great North Canal, steamers ply continually, and one may be there in half an hour.  The journey must be made, because Zaandam is superficially the gayest town in Holland and the capital of windmill land.  In an hour’s drive (obviously no excursion for Don Quixote) one may pass hundreds.  These mills do everything except grind corn.  For the most part the Dutch