Easter 2015 was fast approaching and I hadn’t planned a thing. After four hours of searching flights, Moscow won, until the word “visa” put an end to that. A £35 cancellation fee later, I was back at square one, and 24 hours after that, on Good Friday, I was cycling through London to catch a train to Harwich and a night ferry to the Netherlands.

I arrived at Hook of Holland at 8am to a torrent of spring rain that the Met Office had definitely not mentioned. Over three days and 173 miles, with barely any climbing, I took five ferries through three countries on a route of endless canal paths. Cycling in the Netherlands was a revelation: proper, segregated cycle roads, with cyclists given priority at every junction, and hardly any other traffic on the first day. My mesh trainers, wet socks and numb toes were a lesson in what not to wear, until a hot chocolate in a trendy beach café and a burst of blue sky turned things around. Day two took me away from the coast to Brussels, and day three carried me into France, where the cycle lanes vanished and endless industrial estates took their place. As I neared Calais I realised a French police car was shadowing me, making sure I reached the port safely. They peeled away at the gates, and I gave them a friendly wave of thanks.

I finished the trip with a £5 upgrade to the first class lounge on the ferry home, which meant free champagne and food, much to the disdain of guests who weren’t used to a lycra-clad cyclist among them. It was one of my first adventures, and a good one: a last-minute plan, a lot of canals, a little too much rain and a new respect for how the Dutch do cycling.