Utrecht, The Netherlands

With my unwieldy framed picture in tow I checked out of the hostel, saying my farewells to my dormmate who had arrived late last night and with whom I had passed the time before beddy-byes, yabbering away about our respective travels. He was a chap from mainland China, a polite, well-educated fellow (architect) with excellent English skills, and clearly well-off to boot. Whilst speaking with him, I had the distinct feeling that I was being given a glimpse of the future.

I sat for a while on a park bench down by the docks, enjoying the early morning sun and working away industriously on my laptop. Rotterdam hadn’t really made much of an immediate impact on me, but I reckoned it was the kind of place that grew on you. The city had been bombed flat during the Second World War, and like most post-war construction, it had been largely of the functional kind incorporating the overzealous use of concrete. Away from the huge cranes and containers of the docks, Rotterdam was renowned for its pockets of cutting edge architecture. I was too lazy to check out the Rotterdam cube houses, but around the centre there were visible touches of creative practices.

Later that afternoon I took a trein onwards to Utrecht for a more traditionally Dutch experience. It was an old university town, and so was full of students milling around on rickety, clanking bicycles with wide, looping handlebars and a basket on the front, the kind you only find on the continent or in the possession of British dinner ladies. The place also had one of those iconic Dutch contraptions: the canal.

I crossed the town to the hostel I had earmarked. It had a unique history. Apparently the building had been vacant for years and years, so a group of squatters moved in. They were fairly cultured and enterprising squatters by all accounts, turning the rooms of the squat into a film house, cafe and gig venue. Then, when finally threatened with eviction, they clubbed together and bought the building with the help of friends, family and housing associations, turning it into a hostel and cultural centre. Only in the Netherlands, eh?

The chap at reception – well, I call it a reception, but it was more like somebody’s lounge with a desk in the corner – was a typically great so-laid-back-he’s-almost-horizontal Dutchman, and one of the original legendary squatters. (He’d washed since, luckily). Checking in was like an extremely friendly job interview, sitting me down, asking if I wanted a cup of tea and asking me about my travels.

The general greatness of the place continued as I met one of my dormmates, a fascinating woman who worked as a safari tour guide in Africa – Namibia to be precise. She worked half of the year and travelled the other half, although on this occasion was here on business for a trade fair. I was itching to do my Afrikaans accent (altogether now: whaart brid, braawn brid) but held back in case I caused offence; despite her pleasant demeanour and diminutive stature, something about her indicated she could make a bearskin rug of you in seconds.

That evening I strolled the canals – or wharves, as they were referred to – which were incredibly pretty. They were lined with shops and cafes, even down inside the wharves at water’s level, where you could sit out by the water, although many were barricaded up in this baltic weather. After stroking my beard at a dozen or so menus featuring assorted tosties and staampots, I capitulated by strolling back to the McDonald’s for a kaasburger met frijtes and a late night working session courtesy of their wifi. No-one could ever accuse me of being a classy entrepreneur.