A paddleboard odyssey in the heart of the city

Ruth Cox,

This week’s winner, reflects on how a chance meeting in Asia led to a Dutch adventure

It is a balmy Saturday morning in Delft and I am embracing an unconventional mode of sightseeing. My enthusiastic Dutch hosts, a family befriended on a cycling trip in Vietnam, have convinced me that stand-up paddleboarding is an excellent way to experience their city’s historic and beautiful canal system. A visit to a favourite chocolaterie will be our reward for this navigation of the urban waterways.

We mount the boards on shimmering, placid water. Its late-summer stillness is a mirror studded with blooming lilies. Verdant weeds sway just under the surface. Wobbling slightly as I accustom to the rhythm of paddling, I notice a heron standing to attention calmly on the bank. It ignores us, despite my exclamation.

A lack of traffic and pollution in Delft’s urban environs creates conditions in which wildlife flourishes. Geese, ducks and grebes bustle around us as we manoeuvre through the Buitenwatersloot.

Pretty red brick and pastel-painted buildings flank this part of the canal. They are mostly residential, with small gables and large windows. Several locals sit on benches outside their homes, reading a paper or

enjoying a coffee. They greet us with raised hands and surprised smiles as we pass.

Turning sharp right and paddling through a gloomy tunnel, the urban action ramps up. The murky water of the Zuidkolk, a transport hub whose forks lead to Rotterdam and The Hague, is crowded with sputtering speedboats and brightly painted tourist barges.

Maite, the family’s 10-yearold daughter, dives like a seal pup from her father’s board and splutters to the surface. Bright blonde hair plastered to her head, she begs me to join her in the soupy water.

The Oude Kerk’s 14th-century tower looms large and crooked

I promise to buy her the ice cream of her dreams when we reach our destination, but decline the invitation.

Soon we are in the ancient heart of Delft, most of which Johannes Vermeer, the city’s most famous son, would still recognise. The Oude Kerk’s 14th-century tower looms large, rendered crooked by foundations that sank into the soft canal mud long ago.

Silently we pass the beautiful, abandoned artillery depot. Our boards facilitate a waterside peek through the dusty, baroquestyle windows, but clamours for treats from the younger members of the party mean we push swiftly on.

Finally we reach a modern shopping precinct and cease paddling almost directly outside the door of the feted chocolate shop. Armed with delicious cones of gelato, we sit on steps descending into the water and ruminate on our afternoon plans.

Eyed by a moorhen, bathed in the weak August sun, I reflect for a moment on how a chance meeting in south-east Asia ultimately led me to a fantastic morning of exploration much closer to home.