Dean Sas

By the end of my first day in the Netherlands I’d ridden through an underground cycle tunnel beneath the River Maas, crossed a bridge built solely for cyclists and parked in a bike garage with space for 13,500 bicycles.

One of my guilty pleasures is reading accounts of other people’s long distance cycle tours. On a family holiday in Brittany last summer I’d watched cyclists rolling off the ferry with loaded touring bikes and heading straight out of town. With a sabbatical from work approaching, I decided it was finally time to stop reading about other people’s adventures and have one of my own.

Keen to make my first tour as easy as possible, I chose the Netherlands as a country famous for being bike friendly, and to travel by ferry rather than flying, avoiding the need to box up my bike. I also decided to stop in hotels and hostels, rather than faff with a tent.

After a relatively flat overnight there-and-back ride to Lincoln to check my packing and my legs, I decided I was ready.

Going Dutch

I set off for Chesterfield railway station early due to expected problems with the railway network caused by the heat. My originally planned train had already been cancelled and there were warnings about further disruption as the day warmed up. I was also worried about overcrowding as it hadn’t been possible to reserve any bike spaces. Thankfully I got to Sheffield and from there changed to Hull without trouble – albeit storing my bike in the disabled space because the intended spaces were full.

After leaving the railway station it was a simple flat 7km ride to the ferry port just outside the city centre. Even on this short ride I was initially stymied by bridges being closed for maintenance without a suitable diversion being posted. I ended up rattling along a cobbled back street to The Deep where I knew there was a foot/cycle bridge, crossed there, and then picked up the bike path along the seafront and docks.

There early, I waited in the cool of the terminal building until five minutes before boarding. Then it was a simple check-in before cycling up the ramp and onto the ship. There I followed the sailors waving, took some rope from them and tied my bike to the railing. My knot tying skills go as far as being able to tie my shoelaces, so I just made something up and hoped for the best. I got the overnight bits I needed out of my bag and found my cabin.

The ship was nice enough and thankfully the crossing was smooth. The sun was shining and it was nice to be out on the sundeck with some food and a drink as we pulled away along the Humber. Knowing I had a decent ride and an early start the next day, I didn’t stay up too late before retiring to my windowless room.

Entering the Netherlands

The next morning I went down to where I’d left my bike, and it was still there! Whatever kind of knot I’d tied, it had worked. I packed my overnight things back in my panniers and at the sailor’s signal rolled off the ramp – ahead of all of the cars, and into the Netherlands.

I cycled out of the port and turned onto the access road, eager to get into the Netherlands proper and see some of that famous cycling infrastructure. As soon as I turned left, I realised I’d already made my first mistake. There, directly across the road, was a segregated cycle path I’d completely missed. I double backed and joined it. It was actually a segregated bike path just for the ferry terminal and the 100 metres to the public road. My first Dutch path!

I cycled through the Europoort area entirely on segregated cycle paths. Apart from the odd cyclist, and a flow of lorries and cars, it almost felt deserted at times. No-one lives here, I saw no houses, just docks, storage, and petrochemical plants. It took about 30km until I finally saw a building that wasn’t somehow related to the port.

To reach Rotterdam proper I first needed to cross the river Maas. Rather than a bridge or a ferry, my route took me through the Maas tunnel. It felt weird to be cycling into the indoors and into what looked like the entrance to an underground railway station. I copied what the other cyclists were doing and descended the escalator into the tunnel, quietly ignoring the signs saying not to. At the bottom of the escalator was a long tunnel that was just for bikes – pedestrians had to go another level down. I zoomed through, and as I reached the other side I dismounted to go up. As I did, the lift doors opened and someone just came cycling straight out. It never occurred to me I could just stay on my bike and get in the lift.

After skirting Rotterdam’s centre I made my way out through leafy suburbs. With the roads quieter, I could finally pay attention to the people around me. There wasn’t a particular “type” of cyclist. There were parents on cargo e-bikes returning from the school run, teenagers cycling to school, older people with shopping bags hanging from their handlebars, and plenty of people who simply looked like they were on their way somewhere.

The cycling speed was very leisurely, and I eventually realised that on this stretch at least, there was little point in racing ahead. I got to the traffic lights first, and then everyone else caught me up while waiting for the lights to change.

The houses were unlike anything I’d seen before. Nearly every one was surrounded by water, with its own little bridge providing access from the road. Some even had fountains in their miniature moats.

After about 50km I stopped for lunch on the edge of Gouda. One thing I noticed here is that as the cycle path ran in parallel (but separated) from the road, the cycle path had priority over every side road. Cars turning in and out had to give way, and this was supported by road markings. At first I slowed almost to a stop at every junction, instinctively expecting car traffic to move ahead of me. By the end of the day I was zipping over with barely a pause.

By mid-afternoon I could see the office towers of Utrecht – today’s destination, along with two tall, bright white bridge pylons. As I approached the city, the cycle route simply carried me through a confusing knot of car lanes and traffic lights where motorways and local traffic all came together. Instead of having to figure out how to safely cross the knot, I just sailed effortlessly along the path and into Utrecht.

The bridge piers I’d spotted earlier turned out to be the Dafne Schippersbrug , a bridge built exclusively for cyclists and pedestrians. I’d seen pictures of it before, so going over it excited my inner bike geek.

From there the cycle path grew busier as it approached the railway station, where it swooped down into a tunnel below the seventeen tracks. I whooped as I sped through it – hills had been rare today, it was nice to drop (slightly) downhill, and I knew that after 90km I was almost at the end of my days riding.

Immediately after the tunnel I turned into the world’s largest bike garage with space for 13500 bikes over multiple levels.

It was here that I ran into my first hiccup. The bike parking was only for people with a Netherlands transport pass – a chipkaart. As I was a tourist, acting confused, and only stopping for 24 hours, the attendant kindly let me in anyway, and I cycled up the ramp to find a parking space. A Dutch lady was wandering around the garage so I asked how it all worked and she gave me a pro-tip. Take a picture of the number on the floor. She’d forgotten where she had parked her bike and was still hunting around for her bike as I walked away

After a shower, a short nap and a meal of half a roast chicken and chips that my body was craving, I spent the evening wandering around Utrecht. It wasn’t a city of big landmark attractions, but I liked it anyway. Tree-lined canals, cafés spilling onto the waterfront and people enjoying the warm evening made it feel like somewhere that was pleasant simply to be. I finished the day with a supermarket breakfast run for the next morning before heading back for an early night.

Den Bosch

I woke up, packed my bags and was out on my bike by half eight, starting early to avoid the expected heat of the day. Before that though, I had to explain to a different parking attendant why I didn’t have a travel pass to scan. They were satisfied that I was a tourist and had been there less than 24 hours (first 24 hours are free), and so let me go rather than quibble.

I followed the dyke along until there was a ramp down to the chain ferry across the river. You don’t see many ferries in England, so this was to be an exciting novelty. Buying my ferry ticket was just 1.5 EUR paid via contactless. We crossed in less than five minutes, and then it was off slowly uphill – don’t forget to gear down before you get on a ferry.

As I reached Waardenburg I was confused by Dutch cycle lanes for the first time. Where I expected to find a path, there was a fence instead. Squinting at my cycle computer to find an alternative route didn’t help. Eventually I spotted a temporary track that could be reached by riding through a fire department’s yard. Hoping I wasn’t about to make a fool of myself, or leading the cyclists behind me astray, I gave it a go. Fortunately it got me exactly where I needed to be.

When I reached Den Bosch I went straight to the bike park under the station. Much smaller than in Utrecht, but it was easy to find space, and the staff were much more welcoming. “You don’t have a chipkaart? You’re a tourist? Well ok, it’s free for 24 hours, find a space…and welcome!”. Such a genuine, smiley person running it.

The only trouble with an early start, is that I couldn’t check into my hotel for another two hours, and I was rather sweaty. I went to the cafe underneath my hotel and ordered a cold coffee and Den Bosch’s signature dish – a Bossche bol from the Jan de Groot bakery, while I negotiated an early check-in. Turns out a Bossche bol is just a massive profiterole. I’m not usually keen on all of that cream, but I was hungry enough to devour it anyway.

After cleaning up, I decided to head on over to the Jheronimus Bosch Art Center to see replicas of all of his works. The centre is in a surprisingly lovely church, and the staff were very helpful and informative. Seeing all of the works together reminded me of the amazing talent (and weird imagination) that Bosch had. Afterwards I had a stroll around the city, and went past Bosch’s former home on the markt. Den Bosch is bigger (and clearly wealthier) than Chesterfield but not the size of Utrecht and with a much more definable core.

The town centre was busy, it was almost impossible to walk down some of the side streets. I found a quiet backstreet bar for a drink. More people turned up, the music went up and the sleepy backstreet bar became the host of some kind of family celebration. I went back to the markt, found a table at a bar and ordered a drink and some bitterballen – essentially a thick stew rolled into breadcrumbs and deep-fried. They were delicious. After another drink, I walked back to the hotel, stopping to sit overlooking the canal with some takeaway goulash topped fries. I’d probably consumed thousands of calories more than normal, but spending hours every day cycling lets you get away with that.

Gouda

I found this morning that I didn’t have a spoon for the overnight oats I’d bought the previous evening, so breakfast was eaten using two wooden coffee stirrers as chopsticks. Going down to the parking garage, the same cheery person was there to greet me. It was nice to see a familiar and happy face. Despite text messages, group chats and a readymade topic to swap pleasantries with other tourers, it can be a bit lonely.

Much of the day was spent riding along the tops of lots of dykes. A dyke gives you a little bit of a view – you’re the highest thing for miles around but you also skim past the edge of villages rather than through them. I went past what looked like a kids adventure playground and as I looked down, admiring its size and variety, a goat clambered up one of the wooden structures. You can’t always “read” the physical world the same when you’re in a different context.

I used a tiny hand-operated chain ferry to cross the Linge. At my first ferry crossing payment was onboard, at the second it was before boarding, and this time I was told to pay at the house after disembarking. When the owner said she sold homemade cakes and cold drinks, I couldn’t refuse, especially with how much shade she’d created around the crossing.

By mid-afternoon I reached Gouda. After dropping the bike off at a private garage, I walked back through the market, having a good nosy and buying a giftbox of stroopwafel (which comes from Gouda). I made my way to the studio apartment, which was to be home for the next two nights.

After a nice welcome (and a lesson on how to pronounce Gouda), I showered, relaxed for a while and then set out to explore Gouda. The market was almost tidied away and people were starting to settle at the bars.

I picked a sunny bar terrace on the markt and enjoyed a couple of drinks. When a more sheltered table opened up, I ordered some food. Craving some vegetables I had a Gouda cheese fondue with crudités and a bag of bread. Delicious.

After a post-dinner coffee I strolled around town, eventually trying a back street pub. It was like going to a “local” pub at home. Regulars sat at the bar looking around at who the stranger is, and bar service that’s faintly bemused at your presence. Spotting a beer pump with the same name as the pub, and knowing Gouda used to be a big beer producer, I assumed they had their own beer brewed, so I asked for one. This brought laughter from the bar staff that spread along the bar as people repeated it. Apparently this was naive, they had a choice of Heineken or Hertog Jan. Two bog standard beers. I took my short pint of Hertog Jan outside and sat in a delightful spot overlooking the canal, where a great crested grebe was constantly diving for food. I supped my pint, and sketched as twilight set in.

I’d planned a rest day and booked myself into the spa. The trouble was that when I woke up, I wasn’t in need of a rest at all. My legs felt fresh and I had plenty of energy left. I briefly considered spending the afternoon back on the bike. Once I was in the spa all thoughts of cycling disappeared. I drifted between the saunas, plunge pool and the swimming baths, occasionally lounging outside with my nose in a book. Before I knew it, the afternoon had gone.

One thing different about Dutch spas is that saunas and pools are all done completely in the buff. This almost put me off booking beforehand, but after five minutes the awkwardness wears off. At one point I realised I was stood in the nude holding an entirely normal conversation.

As evening began, I wandered up to the IJssel so I could see where it met the town. Then back into town where I sat with my book outside a bar and ate as the sun set.

Gouda is a nice, fairly quiet town, similar in size to Chesterfield, but seemingly wealthier, with a thriving town centre during the day and a night life that is unsurprisingly more continental (read: less lairy). It’s surprisingly green in the centre, given how much of it is built or canal. Of all of the places I visited in the Netherlands, Gouda was the one that felt like it could be a (not forever) home.

I noticed that children seemed to have more independence across the Netherlands, but nowhere more so than Gouda. Teenagers jumping off bridges into the water. Younger children unsupervised on paddleboards on the town centre canal. I watched one school teacher move a class of five year olds across the town centre by herself, without even dressing the kids up as miniature builders.

Den Haag

After two nights in Gouda I headed west towards the coast, deciding to extend the day’s ride with a detour to Scheveningen.

Even the bike path through the forest was tarmac, and it intertwined with a natural, sandy path that I realised was intended for horses. It’s nice that even bikes and horses are separated in a setting like this, avoiding the awkward sharing we have at home.

Eventually I got to the sand dunes, and that rare thing in the Netherlands – hills! Nothing long, but occasionally a little bit steep. It was fun to be able to swoop up and down them.

I got to Scheveningen seafront at lunchtime and cycled slowly along the promenade – there are lots of people walking around here in holiday mode. Including myself as I stopped for some kibbling (battered salted cod). It was delicious.

After cycling into Den Haag, I checked-in, showered and eagerly headed out to explore. I meandered around china town, around the Binnenhof and the Mauritshuis, and then continued past palaces and embassies up to the Escher Palace.

I’d seen everything I wanted to see that was open. I wasn’t particularly taken by it. I walked back to the plein next to the Binnenhof, had a read of the building works. I was impressed that they’d got on with renovating their centre of government, while we were still discussing whether to renovate ours or not. With nothing left to do, and possibly feeling a bit lost and lonely, I sat down for some drinks and dinner.

The next day was due to be sightseeing in Den Haag, then a short return to Europoort via Delft. I decided over dinner to replan instead, get out of Den Haag, get more miles in on the bike and see the Hook of Holland.

I can’t even remember what I ate. I went back to my hotel room fairly early and laid reading.

Getting back

I rode out of Den Haag using a canal-side path that brought me to the other side of Scheveningen, then followed the dedicated tarmac bike path through the dunes. I saw a different kind of riding to the rest of my trip, nearly all people cycling for leisure, heading for the beach rather than commuting.

To my right was a wilderness of sand dunes and occasionally the sea. To my left the view fluctuated more, sometimes sand dunes, sometimes towns or villages, and sometimes seas of greenhouses as far as you could see. The one constant was the distant sight of Europoort ahead, and its petrochemical industry and storage tanks.

Eventually I ran out of sea coast as I got to the Hook of Holland. I stopped here for some lunch, people watching. There were plenty of people arriving by bike, but also a huge car park a short walk away, and the metro disgorging dozens of people every 15ish minutes. I found a shady spot and sat for a while having a long lazy lunch, reading and watching the world go by.

After the hectic seafront I rode down a quiet path to the Rozenburg ferry crossing. The nice thing about ferry crossings is that they gather people up, and they sit and wait together, you can strike up a conversation and know that there’s a hard end to it. I’d swapped sweets with old ladies out for a jaunt, and compared notes with other bike packers.

By the time I reached the ferry port I was hot and sweaty, but very satisfied. I’d ridden around 60km rather than the 35km I’d originally planned, simply because I was enjoying myself and didn’t particularly want to spend another day sightseeing in Den Haag.

I grabbed a shower as soon as I boarded, changed into clean clothes and sat down with a drink as Rotterdam disappeared behind me. The next morning was almost anticlimactic: a short ride back to Hull station, then the train home.

I went away unsure how much I’d enjoy cycle touring: moving on every day and living out of bags. There were plenty of things I wasn’t sure about – how much distance to cover, whether I’d enjoy the rhythm of it, even how you actually got a bike on and off a ferry. It all worked out, though. I had an amazing time, had loads of new experiences, and came home eager to do more.