Embarking on a bike-and-barge holiday across Europe with two kids — what could possibly go wrong?
We were cruising down a suburban street in Belgium on our bikes when my 11-year-old stuck out his elbow to give his nine-year-old brother a playful nudge.
“Watch out!” I shrieked, eyes glued on an oncoming car.
In what felt like slow motion, my younger son wobbled, then tipped — straight into his brother. They toppled like dominoes, crashing into a tangled heap of limbs and bicycles in the middle of the road, inches from the vehicle.
Some cyclists who were just behind us quickly dismounted and rushed over, visibly concerned.
Thankfully, everything was fine — my kids, the youngest riders in our group of 44 cyclists, were shaken but sustained only a few minor scratches.
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We were on the sixth — and second-to-last — day of our bike-and-barge adventure from Belgium to the Netherlands. The idea of cycling several hundred kilometres across Europe over a span of a week, enduring wedgies in the name of a holiday, had never quite appealed to me — unless, of course, it came with a floating hotel and a small army of staff to cook, clean, and store your bikes for you.
Bike-and-barge holidays — where you cycle from town to town by day, then dine and sleep aboard a comfortable barge by night — are hugely popular in this part of the world. With their flat terrain and extensive, well-maintained network of bike paths, both Belgium and the Netherlands are ideal for leisure cyclists. For this very civilised version of suffering, we paid over $8,000, excluding tips.
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A typical Dutch town en route to Amsterdam
I went on my first bike-and-barge holiday 16 years ago. Apart from the price, a lot has changed since then: Today’s boats are sleeker and more sustainable (our barge, De Holland, runs on biofuel), with interiors that are far more stylish and inviting, from cosy cabins to thoughtfully designed communal spaces; and riders navigate with GPS biking apps instead of relying solely on paper maps or guides.
Also, what was once a predominantly Caucasian pastime now includes a welcome sprinkling of Asian faces.
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An international affair
“Hello Louisa! I hear you’re from Singapore. We’re from Singapore too!”
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That cheerful greeting came from Sussan Teo, who bounced up to our family on day one, grinning from ear to ear. A youthful and energetic 58-year-old, she was travelling with a group of girlfriends and their university-age children, all trying bike-and-barge for the first time.
“It was recommended by our diving instructor,” she said. “He told us he loved every minute of it!”
After a three-course dinner prepared by the in-house chef, everyone gathered in the lounge for a briefing led by Karoline, our Belgian-born tour leader. Switching effortlessly between multiple languages, including English, Karoline outlined the next day’s route and highlights for the international group of participants, many of whom had flown in from across Europe and beyond.
She also gave us a crash course (pun intended) on local road rules, bike lane etiquette, and traffic signs in both Belgium and the Netherlands. To someone whose traffic knowledge begins and ends with stop signs, it was extremely intimidating. There were an alarming number of rules about who has right of way — especially at unmarked intersections. By the third slide, I was sweating like I was back in school.
As a tour leader, Karoline’s main role is to make sure that everyone returns safely to the barge at the end of the day. She cycles at the back of the group, acting as the designated “sweeper” — the one who ensures no rider gets left behind
Later, we set off on an 11km test ride through the fields and forests surrounding Bruges to try out our bikes. The blue steel-framed Dutch models — sturdy, practical, and made in the Netherlands — weren’t exactly built for long-haul comfort, but they got the job done. For those already second-guessing their cycling stamina, there were electric bikes waiting onboard — ready to offer a little extra boost when needed.
“You made a mistake at the traffic light,” Karoline told me matter-of-factly afterward, before launching into an impassioned explanation of what exactly I’d done wrong. She may as well have been speaking Klingon.
Stopping to admire the windmills of Kinderdijk
Surrendering to e-bikes
Nothing — not even that little lecture — quite prepared us for our first full day on the saddle. The 48km route to Ghent and the additional 10km to the barge was a scenic one, meandering past blooming fields and quiet residential pockets — but it was also long. Along the way, we paused at a wooden bench overlooking a peaceful paddock of horses, and later stumbled upon a strawberry farm, where we bought the sweetest, juiciest berries for just EUR4 ($6) — from a vending machine, no less.
We took a toilet break at a modest little café run by an elderly couple who served only drinks. With no hot food in sight, we sat outside nibbling on our packed lunches — miserable-looking ham-and-cheese sandwiches assembled onboard the barge that morning — while dreaming of something more substantial.
By the 40km mark, our legs were aching and our stomachs rumbling. Motivated by the promise of a proper meal, we pedalled furiously toward Ghent. After nearly five hours, the town finally loomed into view, prompting collective groans of relief — and a few silent prayers of thanks.
Ghent did not disappoint.
A small but spirited university town, it welcomed us with its magnificent 12th-century castle rising in the city centre, and grand baroque buildings lining the river Scheldt like something out of a Flemish fairytale.
By the second day, my legs were screaming. We had just completed a 40km ride along the river Scheldt and arrived the quaint Belgian town of Dendermonde when, much to my children’s amusement and the waiter’s disdain, I collapsed into the chair of the nearest restaurant, convinced I was on the verge of rhabdomyolysis — that ominous condition that strikes overly ambitious spin cyclists when their muscles start breaking down.
I don’t remember it being this hard on my legs all those years ago, but then again, it’s highly likely my body is now a shadow of its former glory. Sixteen years is a long time.
By the end of that ride, I had to swallow my pride and request an e-bike — through gritted teeth. The next morning, Peter the bike porter appeared with my new ride: another Dutch model outfitted with a glorious Bosch battery pack. I was instantly converted. Zooming through the postcard-perfect countryside, squealing with glee, I left my husband and children in a trail of quiet envy.
One by one, the other cyclists’ willpower began to waver too, and soon, e-bikes became the unofficial vehicle of the tour.
The days that followed passed in a pleasant blur. We’d wake around 7am, fuel up with breakfast, pack our lunches and set off on our bikes, cycling from town to town beneath soft flurries of summer-season poplar seeds. With frequent pauses to take in hidden countryside corners, we found ourselves exploring a quieter, more authentic side of Europe, well off the typical tourist trail.
By evening, we’d roll into the next town, where — almost like magic — our floating hotel would be docked and waiting. A hot dinner (often mysteriously drenched in mayonnaise), a freshly made bed, and a nightly briefing on the next day’s route rounded out our routine. After a bit of chitchat on the deck under the fading sun, we’d all but collapsed into bed, lulled to sleep by the gentle sway of the barge.
Highlights and mishaps
One of the more unexpected highlights of the trip was a delightfully eccentric gallery tucked away in the quiet Belgian village of Puurs-Sint-Amands. Called Sahara Art Stones, it was the brainchild of Joris Maes — a wildly imaginative artist who travels to Morocco in a van each year to collect ancient stones and fossils, some millions of years old, which he transforms into stunning works of art. The space itself felt like a touch of Gaudí had landed in rural Belgium, with undulating lines, swirling staircases, towering stone sculptures, and glittering glass jewellery displayed throughout.
Joris, with his shaggy hair, frayed clothing, and undeniable rock-star energy, was as much a part of the attraction as his art. And in true eccentric-artist fashion, a naked mannequin in his toilet reminded us that this was no ordinary gallery.
We also stumbled upon a newly opened pizza joint in Rupelmonde, a sleepy, off-the-radar town in Belgium, after a desperate search for a restaurant that didn’t serve sandwiches, which seemed to be a lunch staple in this part of the world. The place was run by an Afghan uncle-and-niece duo, with Nita Muradi — the niece, who has lived in Belgium for the past eight years — cheerfully informing us we were their second-ever customers. To celebrate, they threw in a free pizza as part of their opening special. After days of craving spice, their spice-laden creations were nothing short of heavenly.
Things mostly went off without a hitch — until the day my two children took a tumble and had to nurse their wounded egos on a cheese farm, armed with an ice pack and generous sticks of creamy Gouda.
It wouldn’t be the only mishap. One cyclist injured her thumb and opted to spend the rest of the trip aboard the barge. The Singaporean group got lost, prompting our usually patient tour leader Karoline to yell through the phone.
Rising to the challenge
By the end of the trip, the English-speaking cyclists felt like family. The Singaporean group shared some farm-fresh carrots they’d picked up and, in a moment of true solidarity, smuggled us a couple of instant noodle cups when our kids started craving something familiar and comforting.
There were also Clare and Mark Brown, a spirited Kiwi couple in their seventies from Dunedin who regaled us with colourful stories from their life and travels. Clare even suffered a punctured tyre on one of the rides, but a friendly local appeared and helped her fix it in true Dutch fashion.
Sleepy Belgian neighbourhoods eventually gave way to more prosperous-looking Dutch towns — canal-laced and windmill-dotted, with rows of tidy brick houses and perfectly pruned gardens. It was a visual shift, subtle but unmistakable. We were in the Netherlands now.
There’s something deeply satisfying about arriving somewhere under your own power, even if you’ve outsourced some of that to a Bosch battery.
But it was my children who surprised me the most. I had started the trip feeling a little crazy — maybe even a bit irresponsible — for bringing an 11- and nine-year-old on a physically demanding cycling holiday. Yet day after day, I watched them rise to the challenge. They pedalled through wind and drizzle, scraped knees and all, with resilience and humour.
They were far tougher — physically and mentally — than I had given them credit for.
That simple realisation shifted something in our family. We had arrived as cautious, city-dwelling parents with two kids who had never cycled more than a few blocks at a time. But somewhere along the way, we developed an unspoken trust and deeper appreciation for one another.
We set out hoping to see Europe from a different perspective, and we did. But we also learnt to see one another in a new light — stronger, steadier, and a little more ready for the next adventure.
