The Netherlands Tour Begins!
Our Backroads bike tour officially kicks off Friday, and while I’ve done trips like this before, there’s always that flutter of nervous energy when meeting your fellow travelers and guides. Will they like me? Will I like them? It’s a bit like the first day of school, only with more spandex and joint braces.
We arrived at the meeting point and Chad, scanning the crowd, whispered, “That must be our group over there—they’re old and wearing biking gear.” He wasn’t wrong. Then I glanced at Chad and had a moment of clarity: Yep, we’re old too. Acceptance is the first step.
Our day began with a shuttle ride to Keukenhof, the famous flower garden in Lisse. It’s home to over seven million blooming bulbs and opens for just a few short weeks each spring—kind of like a botanical Brigadoon. I was expecting to be greeted by endless fields of Technicolor tulips. Instead, we were welcomed by a spectacular display of… traffic. Rows of cars, caravans, and buses—like a floral Woodstock, but with more orthopedic shoes.
After delicately tiptoeing through the tulips (and tourists), we hopped on our bikes and pedaled off toward Voorburg, just outside The Hague, where we’d spend the next two nights.
Now, back to the tulips. I had visions of endless rainbow fields, but instead we rode past vast green stretches where all the flower heads had been decapitated. Apparently, when farmers grow tulips for bulbs, they let the flowers bloom just long enough to show off, and then—off with their heads! It’s like a floral version of the French Revolution. I thought I’d left guillotines behind in history books, but nope—here they’re mounted on tractors.
We did manage to find a few fields still in bloom, but honestly, if you want to catch tulip season in its full glory, you’ve got a window of about a week—and you’d better be quick on your pedals.
Next, we cycled toward the coast and through a stretch of sand dunes. It had a certain Myrtle Beach goes Dutch vibe, complete with a Ferris wheel, carnival rides, and families battling sunscreen-resistant toddlers.
In the final stretch of the day, we glided inland again, following a charming canal system flanked by storybook homes. It was all very House Hunters International: Dutch Dream Edition. I was tempted to pull over and ask to tour their gardens. (For research purposes, of course.)
We eventually rolled into Central Park Voorburg, our home for the next two nights. The best part? Dinner was downstairs. After a day in the saddle, a short commute is a beautiful thing.
The second day of the tour had a leisurely start time of 8:45 a.m.—which sounded generous at first, until my body decided to stage a morning mutiny. Honestly, I could’ve used another hour of sleep and possibly a small miracle. You know it’s a rough start when you order two cappuccinos at the same time, then turn to Chad and say, “What do you want?”
Our first stop of the day: a ride to Kaasboerderij de Vierhuizen, a charming, family-run Dutch cheese farm. The wife runs the dairy operation with about 50 cows—but when we rolled in, they were up to 51 thanks to the arrival of a brand-new calf. (Birth announcement still pending.) It’s an organic farm, which means calves get to stay with their moms and actually nurse—an arrangement that felt refreshingly humane. Still, cows always tug at my heartstrings… but not enough to break up with cheese. I’m loyal like that.
After cooing over the baby cows, we stepped next door into the cheese-making room—aka the husband’s domain. As he walked us through the process, I couldn’t help but chuckle. It sounded an awful lot like brewing beer: take some sweet water (in this case, milk), add some bacteria, let it bubble and transform. Artisan fermentation—choose your fighter.
Then it was time to saddle up again for more riding. I was feeling strong—I’d spent the past two weeks biking around the neighborhood to prep, convincing myself my butt would be battle-ready. We pedaled toward Gouda—yes, that Gouda. But let’s get one thing straight: Gouda is not just a cheese; it’s a whole mood. Medieval canals, cobbled streets, and a town square that looks like it’s been lifted straight from a Dutch Renaissance painting. Bonus: it was Saturday, which meant a full-blown market was in swing. The town was buzzing with locals, food stalls, and more cheese than even I could carry.
Afterward, we shuttled back to the hotel to freshen up before heading to The Hague. Why? Because Mauritshuis—the art museum home to several Vermeer paintings, including two I’d never seen. Small hitch: I didn’t have tickets. To be fair, once I’m on a Backroads trip, I tend to mentally clock out and let the guides do all the thinking. Unfortunately, it was both a Saturday and a Dutch holiday. Naturally, the museum was sold out.
Enter Chad, with a spark of brilliance: “Let’s ask the Backroads guides if they can work their magic.” I braced for a polite “bless your heart” response—maybe a pat on the shoulder and a reminder that Vermeer will still be there next year. But no! Fabrice, our guide, made a few calls and came back with a plan.
“Go to the information desk,” he said, “and tell them you’re Mr. and Mrs. Smith from Hotel des Indes.”
Now, this was either going to be a brilliant maneuver or the start of a very awkward conversation. We taxied into town, walked up to the desk, and, with full confidence, declared: “We’re Mr. and Mrs. Smith.” The man nodded, checked a Post-it note, and said, “Yes, but you still have to pay.”
Success! Vermeer was ours.
Backroads for the win.
