Picture a moving silver stripe of water and a pearly slice of sky. Between the two, the scene changes – sometimes a panel of solid green – a dyke – with a tractor, a cyclist, or some sheep with springy, happy lambs on top. Occasionally the vertical spike of a church spire, a water tower or a town clock shifts the eye up from the flat, quiet land. Black-limbed trees scribble against the sky. An old stone barn, a solid square cottage with steeply sloping roof, honey-coloured ponies, and a couple walking a dog come and go.

This mellow, soothing movie, with its soundtrack of low-key motor noise, is called A River Cruise From Antwerp to Amsterdam, starring around 150 guests, including me, with supporting acts by various hard-working Uniworld River Empress crew members. And, while it had its moments of serenity verging on torpor, it also had drama, humour and, ultimately, revelation.

The revelation? The hands-down best possible way to tour this watery territory is by water.

We joined the ship in Antwerp, dragging our poor wheely bags along ancient bumpy paths past a massive inner-city cathedral and tall, shoulder-to-shoulder canal houses, their roofs spiked with gilded shapes and figures. We passed shop windows blousy with lace, incredible chocolate emporiums and cafés slick with Belgium’s famous amber beer. Hasidic Jews in black coats and black hats passed us. Once we’d dumped our luggage, we followed them back toward the Diamond Quarter – then swerved off to see some of Antwerp’s other brilliant spots, highlighting art and fashion.

Galleries of old and new art, museums and sparkling, edgy shops pulled us further and further away from the old port and our waiting ship. It’s a walkable, fascinating city which introduced us effectively to multi-cultural, multi-lingual Belgium. Each place we stopped, we’d join the ship-organised tour guides for an introduction to where we were.

In Bruges – a 14th-century city with a diamond history, labyrinthine cobbled streets, church bells and thousands of tourists – having a guide meant we could avoid queues for a canal tour, too. Once we had our bearings, we ducked back over a brick bridge, took a turn signalled by brutally clipped linden trees and, at a Sunday flea market, were tempted by brass and glass and other impossibly heavy treasures.

In a complete scene change, we visited the Delta Project, a super-impressive mission to keep the North Sea at bay. It was built in response to a deadly flood in 1953 when dykes, in disrepair after the war, failed against a king tide in a big storm. Almost 2000 people died, many on the cold roofs of their homes. Apparently, some Dutch people keep cognac in the ceiling in case it happens again, but the government took considerable action. In a massive project over several decades, the sea arms between the islands of Zeeland were closed with dams – all solid except the North Sea storm barrier, which is an engineering wonder of concrete piers and iron gates able to open and close as nature dictates.canal P

Other days, other eras, other extremes: an afternoon poking around muted, sleepy Veere; another spent cycling along canal paths, past farms, through birdsong forest. We stopped for a breather in a tiny village consisting of a church, plus a dozen homes. A barn, its doors flung open to early spring, reeked of bucolic cliché. Two farmers returned our greetings and, having navigated the language barrier sufficiently, we edged our careful way in. Shadowy and pungent shapes in wooden pens shifted and snorted. A great flank of bull rippled. Sheep skittered. Bitsy, seedy, filtered light relaxed to reveal cows, heifers, pigs and goats, living in a warm world of hay and feed and mess, with chooks and barn cats in the wings. The farmers, no doubt bemused by our fascination with indoor farm animals, encouraged the lambs closer to our cameras with handfuls of bread.

One morning we woke to a rose-tinted scene, in Rotterdam. The captain waited for sunrise, then cruised up into the harbour to show us Europe’s largest port. It was a mass of busy, buzzing action. Among the huge hulls of international ships sat multi-coloured containers, cranes, slips and dry docks, while barges, pilot boats, tugs and ferries plied on pink reflections. On the fringes, back toward the city centre, apartments and office blocks rose high over boulevards, wharves and cycle paths busy with morning commuters.

Rotterdam was badly damaged in the Second World War so has relatively new architecture, some of it quite radical. From half a day spent wandering its core, it seemed a vital and inviting city. We could happily have kept shopping, but needed to get back to the ship to trip downriver to Kinderdijk, where a scatter of 700-year-old windmills are protected as World Heritage objects. Nineteen of these beautiful, clever, astounding things stand sentinel in the watery landscape, their sails roaring powerfully and majestically. We climbed into one to see its workings and its cosy interior, and to learn its story.

The history of The Netherlands is, like anywhere, shared with stories and songs. Various performers boarded the ship in the evenings to pass precious snippets on to us. One night, a trio performed classical and gypsy music; another evening featured a local choir singing Dutch folk songs. Before we reached Amsterdam and its wealth of art museums, an art historian boarded for a preparatory lecture.

It was the visit to Nuenen, where Vincent Van Gogh was born, that most effectively prepared me for a decent dose of his art, though. None of his paintings are in Nuenen, but the landscape is familiar and some buildings from his work – including St Clemens church – survive, as does his family home. An excellent museum and tourist talking posts around the small town reveal much of this highly significant artist’s terribly sad life.

I carried this insight to the satellite Hermitage in Amsterdam which was hosting Van Gogh’s art while the city’s museum dedicated to him is being renovated. His rich, exuberant works sing eloquently of an era and geography naturally associated with him and I felt I knew him, a little, having been to his home town. As a visit to Hoorn revealed something of the national character.

Each place we stopped, we'd join the ship-organised tour guides for an introduction to where we were.

Again we joined a local guide organised by Uniworld and wandered Hoorn's old centre, hearing of its 16th-century golden age when international shipping to the East and West Indies was launched from its piers. Understandably, considering the importance of the industry, some churches have gilded ships decorating their highest peaks – crafted in elegant, graphic style. Other churches feature golden roosters, as a sign of reawakening, marking them as Dutch Reformed Churches. Others, being Lutheran, carry a swan as their flag.

The guide that day, the convivial and knowledgeable Claude, also explained the ‘coffee house culture’, the Dutch attitude toward various social issues, the shifting contemporary mood of his country. It readied us for our arrival in cosmopolitan Amsterdam, which could have been a shock after days spent gliding with languor through easy, gentle beauty!

But Amsterdam – a colourful, happy, engaging city – was also easy. We wandered, shopped and soaked up the city’s youthfulness and extreme prettiness. We took a free ferry to a former industrial site used by artists, houseboat owners and boat restorers, sharing the ride with families out for the day. Parents pushed their bikes on to the deck. Typically, women had small passenger seats on their bikes, carrying the youngest in front and an older child, too young to ride their own bike, clinging on behind. The family men pushed barrow-like extensions in front of their bikes, carrying the picnic and paraphernalia for the excursion; in some cases, a child was in there, too.

Having looked around, we caught the boat back to the city, but not before buying excellent coffee and delicious spicy buns to eat on the 10-minute trip. The ferry docked and the crowd tumbled out directly into the metro station for trains and buses, or past it to paths designated for walkers and cyclists. Those who needed to ditch their bikes parked them in a floating, multi-tiered bike park right there.

That morning’s excursion spoke volumes of how well the city works, how clever and manageable and hospitable and inclusive it is. It’s a brilliant city – it’s the star of the show, in a way. But the real poetry, the depth of character and the lasting, technicolour images lie in the journey taken to get there.

Reported by Kathryn Webster for our AA Directions Winter 2013 issue

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