like a strapping, sun-kissed, Dutch god of the water,
whereas I ammore like a dangerously overstuffed bin
bag. His heavily pregnant neighbour kindly takes a
picture as we shuffle our fetching pink fibreglass canoes
down the muddy banks of the Zeeburgerpad. “Rather
you than me!” she shouts encouragingly. And we’re off.
What hits me immediately is the serenity of being
down here, a metre or so below street level. The traffic is
practically inaudible and, in contrast to the Amsterdam
boats I’mmost used to – friends’ petrol-powered sloops
and the canal tour boats with their booming inanities
in seven languages – the canoe itself generates very little
in the way of noise.
the role of tanker, train and aeroplane, and it’s fair to say
that Coen has something of the buccaneer spirit of his
city’s illustrious seafaring forebears.
For instance, last summer, he paddled his canoe from
Amsterdam to the Lowlands music festival and ended
up a minor TV sensation. At some point this coming
summer, he intends to canoe the entire 200km of the
Elfstedentocht (the 11 cities tour), which is usually
navigated as a skating route along a natural ice path – the
mere remotest prospect of the winter version happening
gets Dutch folk wild-eyed and giddy. So, for him, a
Sunday spent splashing around the canals of the capital
is mere child’s play.
As we put on our wetsuits and life jackets in the porch
of his canal-side house, it strikes me that my guide looks
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